Phantom Shift

6:13 am, Jason waiting for his bus. Ugh, another Tuesday morning, another cup of cheap coffee from Carlo. It’s not as terrible as I make it sound. I just wish I could treat myself to something from The Bean. I will never understand why Rebecca left the way she did. She knew I loved her with all my heart. And the kids, god, the kids. Why is it she ran off, but I’m stuck with only seeing them one weekend a month? How is it that a court can look at her and say that I am incapable of providing a stable home? The school loans were almost paid off, and the agency was taking care of law school. Now, here I am stuck paying minimum balances, funding her and Meredith’s best life off in who-knows where their so-called “influencer” life takes them. At least the kids are with Rebecca’s mother now, even if that means they’re two hours outside the beltway.

I suppose I should be glad that Freddy helped me handle it the way we did. He was right. While I loved Rebecca, she could never understand I did. She would only see what I do as continuing the cycle that “has kept Colombia from reaching its full potential.” She never once saw the hypocrisy in her vision of Colombia’s success.

We spent hours debating the validity of Grand Colombia’s reemergence. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to settle that argument. She might be right about creating greater regional stability, but her vision amounted to nothing more than an outdated irredentist’s dream. As I often pointed out, what she was suggesting is a disruption of the entire international order. Because, while Latin America may not be at the forefront of the world’s mind, disruption of one of the world’s major shipping lanes would elicit a response from the tentacles that have suctioned on to whoever wears the sash for now.

But those days are long gone. Now it’s lonely nights, eating curry far too often, Facetiming with Símon and Mara when they’re not busy with their lives. At least there’s my lonely wandering the aisles of Haberdasher’s on Wednesdays. Still an odd name for a bookstore, but I get to see Mariam at our weekly book club meeting. Whoever came up with Semi-Public Introverts as the name of a spy fiction book club was a genius. And I can always use more time to work myself up to and back out of finally asking out Mariam. Maybe tomorrow it will happen. Then again, it’s always “I’ll do it next time.”

Wednesday, 6:08 pm, Mariam calls to Jason, “Hey Jason, are you going to join us!?”

“Uh, oh, yeah. I’ll be right there,” Jason stammered. He could feel the temperature rise in his chest, making him blush at the sound of Mariam’s Persian-infused English. It was one of his traits he liked least that he got from his mother. But what was he to do? “Just let me put this back,” he said, sliding the mysterious little black book back into place, but upside down to ease finding it later.

8:25, Jason slips back over to the aisle where he had found the book. He could not help but notice the odd construction. Fine leather, that bent with ease, much like a bible. But inside it has pages like a common paperback.

Weird, there’s no official title or publisher’s information. Just, what I presume is the author’s name “Raul,” a working title “Current Progress on Localized Phantom Time Fieldcraft,” and a date March 2, 1724. What a weird title for such an old book? I’m sure it’s a reprint. How else could it be printed like this, much less last in near new condition this long? Oh well, time to take you home.

“Jason, I hate to rush you but are you going to come back to reality, and buy that thing? I would like to get home at a decent time tonight,” Mariam teasingly called to Jason, as she began to close out the register.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I just got caught up in how weird this book looks. Have you ever heard of it?” Jason asked as he laid the book on the counter.

“No, what’s it called?” Mariam asked as she picked up the book to scan it.

“‘Current Progress on Localized Phantom Time Fieldcraft’ is written in the front,” Jason responds in a confused tone.

“Weird, I take it that it’s nonfiction?” Mariam asked.

“Honestly, I have no idea. There’s no publisher or description, the author just wrote his first name. It looks like someone took their journal, and published photocopies. I’m honestly buying it on the weirdness factor alone. Also, it has these hand-drawn schematics for what I think is a radio,” he said pointing at the strange object on the page.

“That is strange. I’ve never seen anything like it, here or in the Navy. I wonder if it's one of the projects from the Cold War. Anyway, let me get you rung out. There’s no barcode sticker, how does ten bucks sound?” Mariam asked, as she surreptitiously slipped her note for Jason in between the pages.

“That’s fair, at least until I figure out what this thing is,” Jason said pulling his wallet out. Handing her a twenty, “you might want it back after that,” Jason said through a sheepish smile, hoping she'd laugh at his awkward attempt at humor. It was always moments like this, on the precipice of asking her for coffee that he folded like a cheap chair. Oh, well there’s always next time, he told himself as he turned the knob to leave. The bus ride home was short, or at least it always felt short on S.P.I. club nights.

Saturday, 10:23 am, Jason lying in his bed, the book next to him. He hasn’t let the thing out of sight, much less showered. Awaking to four missed calls, he listens to the voicemail. Martha, Jason’s ex-mother-in-law, “Good morning, Ya-son, Símon and Mara were expecting you. Please call me back when you get this.”

Jason immediately calls Símon’s phone, it rings twice and hangs up. He tries again, no answer. Calling Martha’s house phone, “‘ello, Ya-son,” Martha answering in a thick Colombian accent.

“Buenos Dias, Martha. How are the kids?” Jason asks.

“They’re fine. Símon is upset. Are you coming this weekend?” Martha asked with concern. It was unusual for Jason to not answer his phone, and he usually arrived early enough to have breakfast.

“Unfortunately, I am not. We had to let someone go, and I’ve been picking up the slack. Please have Símon call me when he’s ready. I’m not sure when this workload will let up,” Jason hated lying, but the book was too engrossing. He couldn’t help but begin to see himself in it. It’s like reading a bizarre autobiography, where every character has a slightly different name. Except, the character of Raul was far more bizarre than he expected. And then there’s the cash under the bridge.

Who leaves $20,000 in a park for three years? Especially one frequented by spooks of all kinds. How is it that Raul’s time in the Kingdom of Araucanía and Patagonia mirrors my time in Buenos Aires? And the capital is named for the mad Frenchman Tounens? Well, at least it’s interesting. Even if it reads like some kind of alternate history, anachronistically set in the 18th century.

Thursday, three weeks later. Jason’s phone vibrates towards the edge of his nightstand. He answers in a stupor, “h-h-hello?”

“Where are you!? We’re briefing the director in fifteen,” Freddy screamed over the phone.

Jason, “I have no excuse. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Definitely, I’ve sent Marc to get you. New target or not,” Freddy said furiously hanging up.

How do I explain that my life for the last month has revolved around a strange book, not recruiting a new target? Oh well, I’m sure we’ll work it out. Perhaps, over some chili and salsa. Who doesn’t love the Fire Festival? Our collective indulgence will smooth things over, hopefully. It doesn’t matter, either way, the festival provides cover to retrieve the package.

Later that night, “Alright, I’m heading out,” Freddy said in a jovial tone as he shut the lid of his leftovers, “does anyone want to finish this off, or am I going to have to hear more about my ever-expanding midsection from Elijah?”

“I think I speak for everyone; we’re stuffed. I might be late if I can’t sleep off this food coma,” Jason said jokingly.

“You better not be,” Freddy said in a snarky tone. After clearing their table, the group begins to separate. Just as Jason tuns to walk to the cash drop, Marc runs up behind him.

“Hey man, sorry I got caught up at the wing stand. You want a ride home?” Marc said panting.

“Naw, I’m fine. I need to clear my head. Running that new target has me ragged. I’m not used to these long nights anymore.” Jason responded in a self-deprecating tone. “Freddy said to have something more substantial by Monday, or he’s running my source,” Jason continued to assuage Marc’s concerns while throwing him off the scent of anything the agency would find suspicious. Jason continued down the sidewalk until he found the bridge from the book.

How the hell would someone from the 18th century know this is here? I know it’s old, but I don’t think it’s that old. Either way, this is going to ease some of my pain, Jason told himself as he slid down the riverbank. Squatting like a troll, Jason reached up under the bridge. It’s there, it’s really there, holy shit! Shoving the package into his bag, Jason runs off making his way to the 8:05 bus.

That had to be one of the longest bus rides, after the Curitiba incident, Jason thought as he made his way into his humble two-bedroom apartment. Hopefully, after this, I can move into a place the court recognizes as suitable for having two kids.

Jason walks over to the mediocre table that functions as his dining room table and home office. He begins to cut at the packaging. As he does, odd-looking bills start to fall out. Perhaps I should be more careful. Then again, maybe not. What the hell kind of bills are these? Fuck, they’re forgeries!

“Who the hell makes red Benjamins!?” As Jason expelled the thought, a sniper’s bullet ripped through his window. Splaying what remained of his gray matter across the table, as Jason’s body slumps to the floor.

The sniper radios in, “GTSHADOW is no longer in play. Do you want the documents?”

“Roger. Negative. Control says they’re of no value in this timeline,” the voice on the other end of the radio responds. The sniper slides the cover back over his scope, taking his eyes off the apartment. A few moments later, a man enters the apartment. Crawling along the couch, the man rises to a squat, stretching as best he can, he slides the book from the table and into his coat pocket.

Two days later, the man enters the bookstore, making his way to the third shelf, on the second to last bookcase from the back, he slides the book back into place. Texting on his burner, “the hen has laid an egg.”

As the man reaches for the door Mariam calls to him, “Jason, Jason, where have you been? I haven't seen you in a month. Did you get my note?”

“I think you’re confused, uh, Mariam,” the man says reading her name tag.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” Mariam responded in a perturbed tone.

“I’m sorry, I am not this Jason you speak of. Call me what you like, but they call me Raul,” the man said pushing past her.

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