Post by The Evil Biscuit on Oct 11, 2013 15:49:52 GMT -5
Souq Waqif, Doha, Qatar - July 2008
One did not see many pressed, dark suits in the souq, one of the oldest still-standing markets in the Middle East; to see two such suits together at one time was rare to the point of becoming mythic. Despite this oddity, no one seemed to pay the suits (or their wearers) any mind, as throngs of linen-clad men and darkly shrouded women moved briskly through the close quarters of the open-air café in which they sat. The shouts and hollers of the Arab marketplace drowned out everything around, making for an ideal location for having conversations in confidence - and in English. The first suit, a neatly pressed affair that broke at the joints in angles severe enough to seem dangerous, belonged to a man nearly as pointed; dark, piercing eyes scrutinized the dossier on the table from beneath his sloped European brow and caterpillar eyebrows. He tapped at a photo, a grainy, digitized mess of white and gray, with a single neatly manicured fingernail.
“How can you be sure this is him? This could be a picture of anything. A horse, a rock. Your Rorschachs are more specific than this.” His accent was faint, but present. He had spent many years trying to mask it, but it never truly disappeared; the infectious legacy of an impoverished Slavic pedigree. “This tells me nothing. What else do you have to corroborate this?”
The other suit, a mismatched collaboration of brown, black, and faded blue smacked of having been thrown together in the last few minutes before a late flight. The wrinkles, almost permanently etched into the weathered fabric of the coat, crisscrossed each other like the outlines of some old map, stretching across the American’s broad shoulders in rivers of beleaguered cotton. He scratched his stubble, nearly two days old at this point, patchy and unruly and dirty with the red dust of the northeastern mountains. He hid his eyes behind a pair of bent aviators, the cheap plastic lenses reflecting a harsh caricature of the Slav across the table. He chuckled.
“Three witnesses say they saw your man in Istanbul – three. We’re usually lucky if we get one witness for every three countries he visits. Two more confirmed when he crossed again, at the northern border. That’s highly unusual - no, that's a goddamn miracle. He’s very distinct – people know him when they see him, which is why most people that see him end up dead. If five people say they saw a Negro scarecrow with feathers in his hair walking down the street, I’m calling that irrefutable proof. This is him. Same guy we profiled here, in Qatar, dead to rights, before your men showed up and tried to flush him out. Job well done there, by the way. Six dead, right? Or seven?"
The Slav did not acknowledge this, choosing instead to sip at his coffee while spreading the contents of the dossier with his free hand. “Did he encounter any mutants?”
“Christ, you’re still calling them that? The United Nation convention’s been what, two years ago now? They’re Powers now. It’s not all genetics. And no, so far as we can tell he hasn’t come across any ‘mutants’. The evidence seems to suggest that he’s heading north into Russia. We have reason to suspect he may be heading west to Japan; to the Archipelago. If he truly does possess the abilities you claim, then it’s likely he’ll seek out the same safe haven as the other Powers who have fled there since the Tolerance Mandate was signed into law.” The American pulled out a crinkled cigarette and busied himself with lighting it. The Slav reached into his breast pocket and produced his own lighter; the American took it with a slight gesture of thanks.
“Where do your people have him now?”
The American smirked. “We don’t. That intelligence was three days old when I got it, which dates it to nearly a week. He’s proven capable of covering considerable distances in a short period of time. He could very well be in Japan now.”
“But he isn’t.”
“No.” The American took a drag on his cigarette and leaned back against the bistro chair. “If you want my guess, he’s made it as far as Georgia. At least, you need to hope he made it as far as Georgia. Russia is a black hole – if he were wearing a rainbow afro and road flares on his boots, we’d still never find him there. So regardless of where he is, Georgia is your best bet. And if he is in Russia… then you’ll be sitting on your thumbs waiting, HOPING that he surfaces again in the next decade, and that you’re paying close enough attention to catch it.”
“How will we find him in Georgia?”
The American sighed. “He’s gotten predictable in his old age. War seems to be the only thing he knows – he gravitates to it like moths to a lightbulb, except this moth has the unique ability to put the light out once he touches it. Keep your eye on the papers. He eventually shows up; you just have to know where to look.’
Tskhinvali, South Ossetia - August 8, 2008
The shells had been raining down on Tskhinvali since before midnight. They had begun as smoke canisters, their signature plunk-plunk-ksss warning the Ossetian civilians of the devastation to come, offering them a small window in which to gather their loved ones and evacuate the city – to where, no one could say; the Georgians’ capacity for compassion was tenuous at best, their capacity for foresight even more restricted. The smoke bombs gave way to the dull thump of heavy 152mm guns, and the larger BM-21 Grad rockets, so close to the city that the hissing of the missiles could be heard as they launched from their truck-mounted tube arrays. Each new barrage blew out walls, collapsed foundations, started new fires. The cluster bombs, whistling into the narrow streets, pocked the concrete with lethal shrapnel that ricocheted wildly off any hard surface it hit until finally burying itself into soft wood or softer flesh. Acrid black smoke mingled with the morning dew and the yellow clouds of deterrent to bathe the streets and alleys in thick, choking fog.
The sun had not yet risen on Tskhinvali on that warm August morning, but the Georgian forces camped to the south and west had made their message clear: they were taking the city today, before the Russians could have a chance to intervene, and as the low, booming sounds of artillery bombardment faded into the whistling cracks of rifles and small arms, it seemed they were well on their way.
One did not see many pressed, dark suits in the souq, one of the oldest still-standing markets in the Middle East; to see two such suits together at one time was rare to the point of becoming mythic. Despite this oddity, no one seemed to pay the suits (or their wearers) any mind, as throngs of linen-clad men and darkly shrouded women moved briskly through the close quarters of the open-air café in which they sat. The shouts and hollers of the Arab marketplace drowned out everything around, making for an ideal location for having conversations in confidence - and in English. The first suit, a neatly pressed affair that broke at the joints in angles severe enough to seem dangerous, belonged to a man nearly as pointed; dark, piercing eyes scrutinized the dossier on the table from beneath his sloped European brow and caterpillar eyebrows. He tapped at a photo, a grainy, digitized mess of white and gray, with a single neatly manicured fingernail.
“How can you be sure this is him? This could be a picture of anything. A horse, a rock. Your Rorschachs are more specific than this.” His accent was faint, but present. He had spent many years trying to mask it, but it never truly disappeared; the infectious legacy of an impoverished Slavic pedigree. “This tells me nothing. What else do you have to corroborate this?”
The other suit, a mismatched collaboration of brown, black, and faded blue smacked of having been thrown together in the last few minutes before a late flight. The wrinkles, almost permanently etched into the weathered fabric of the coat, crisscrossed each other like the outlines of some old map, stretching across the American’s broad shoulders in rivers of beleaguered cotton. He scratched his stubble, nearly two days old at this point, patchy and unruly and dirty with the red dust of the northeastern mountains. He hid his eyes behind a pair of bent aviators, the cheap plastic lenses reflecting a harsh caricature of the Slav across the table. He chuckled.
“Three witnesses say they saw your man in Istanbul – three. We’re usually lucky if we get one witness for every three countries he visits. Two more confirmed when he crossed again, at the northern border. That’s highly unusual - no, that's a goddamn miracle. He’s very distinct – people know him when they see him, which is why most people that see him end up dead. If five people say they saw a Negro scarecrow with feathers in his hair walking down the street, I’m calling that irrefutable proof. This is him. Same guy we profiled here, in Qatar, dead to rights, before your men showed up and tried to flush him out. Job well done there, by the way. Six dead, right? Or seven?"
The Slav did not acknowledge this, choosing instead to sip at his coffee while spreading the contents of the dossier with his free hand. “Did he encounter any mutants?”
“Christ, you’re still calling them that? The United Nation convention’s been what, two years ago now? They’re Powers now. It’s not all genetics. And no, so far as we can tell he hasn’t come across any ‘mutants’. The evidence seems to suggest that he’s heading north into Russia. We have reason to suspect he may be heading west to Japan; to the Archipelago. If he truly does possess the abilities you claim, then it’s likely he’ll seek out the same safe haven as the other Powers who have fled there since the Tolerance Mandate was signed into law.” The American pulled out a crinkled cigarette and busied himself with lighting it. The Slav reached into his breast pocket and produced his own lighter; the American took it with a slight gesture of thanks.
“Where do your people have him now?”
The American smirked. “We don’t. That intelligence was three days old when I got it, which dates it to nearly a week. He’s proven capable of covering considerable distances in a short period of time. He could very well be in Japan now.”
“But he isn’t.”
“No.” The American took a drag on his cigarette and leaned back against the bistro chair. “If you want my guess, he’s made it as far as Georgia. At least, you need to hope he made it as far as Georgia. Russia is a black hole – if he were wearing a rainbow afro and road flares on his boots, we’d still never find him there. So regardless of where he is, Georgia is your best bet. And if he is in Russia… then you’ll be sitting on your thumbs waiting, HOPING that he surfaces again in the next decade, and that you’re paying close enough attention to catch it.”
“How will we find him in Georgia?”
The American sighed. “He’s gotten predictable in his old age. War seems to be the only thing he knows – he gravitates to it like moths to a lightbulb, except this moth has the unique ability to put the light out once he touches it. Keep your eye on the papers. He eventually shows up; you just have to know where to look.’
MAKING ASHES
Tskhinvali, South Ossetia - August 8, 2008
The shells had been raining down on Tskhinvali since before midnight. They had begun as smoke canisters, their signature plunk-plunk-ksss warning the Ossetian civilians of the devastation to come, offering them a small window in which to gather their loved ones and evacuate the city – to where, no one could say; the Georgians’ capacity for compassion was tenuous at best, their capacity for foresight even more restricted. The smoke bombs gave way to the dull thump of heavy 152mm guns, and the larger BM-21 Grad rockets, so close to the city that the hissing of the missiles could be heard as they launched from their truck-mounted tube arrays. Each new barrage blew out walls, collapsed foundations, started new fires. The cluster bombs, whistling into the narrow streets, pocked the concrete with lethal shrapnel that ricocheted wildly off any hard surface it hit until finally burying itself into soft wood or softer flesh. Acrid black smoke mingled with the morning dew and the yellow clouds of deterrent to bathe the streets and alleys in thick, choking fog.
The sun had not yet risen on Tskhinvali on that warm August morning, but the Georgian forces camped to the south and west had made their message clear: they were taking the city today, before the Russians could have a chance to intervene, and as the low, booming sounds of artillery bombardment faded into the whistling cracks of rifles and small arms, it seemed they were well on their way.