2-19-98
Heathrow Airport, London, England
No one trusts an employee who doesn't take his vacation time. Neo had lost a week of it to 'sick' days, thanks to that goddamned post-it. He'd read it, flipped out, and stayed at home trying to decipher the only clue he had: Matrix. He'd also slept and talked himself into going back to Metacortex. That left him one more week, which he planned to spend in front of his computer eating cereal without milk because that was all he had. Stocked up on Kix, Honey-Nut Cheerios, and Lucky Charms, locked in his apartment, declared 'gone for the week' while he sat at his computer station until his eyes fell closed on their own. Choi would need a week's notice of his 'departure,' so he'd give him one. Then the week was his.
Only Choi hadn't needed a week. He'd shown up two weeks earlier than previously arranged. When Choi was early, it meant he had company, who wanted to be elsewhere during their business hours, or an emergency. Neo never opened the door the whole way when he had company. The fewer of Choi's friends who knew him, the better. This time all he had was a plane ticket for London. His form of payment instead of three grand.
"The fuck good does that do me?" He remembered looking at the ticket as if it were insulting him. One round-trip to England did not come anywhere near three grand, and Choi had gotten a particularly nice favor this time.
"Get out of town, man."
"I appreciate your attempts to improve my social life, but I prefer cash."
"No, no, I mean get out of town." This had temporarily caught him off guard. Shit. Choi, smug but earnest, nodded slowly. "Nothing serious, just making sure things are still on the level with a few pals of mine."
"Goddamnit, you are not supposed to involve me in your shi-"
Choi hadn't waited for the full tirade. He pocketed the disk he'd come for, and in the process come up with a wad of twenties. "That's four all together. Get lost. Don't you have vacation time or something coming up?" As a matter of fact... "First class. Departure date non-negotiable." He had nodded at the ticket. Neo opened it and passport fell out of the folder. Choi nodded again. "Just in case." A clay passport, one that, with careful modifications, worked for just about anyone--something Neo was accustomed to providing, not receiving. Neo had looked him in the eye, and Choi grinned. "I keep my word, Tommy-boy. You're not involved. I take care of you if you take care of me. You get back from Jolly Ol'England, and it's happy family time again, promise."
Neo had handed him back the extra money. "I'm going to have to trust you, I guess."
Choi paused, looking him over as he took the roll back. "I'm serious, man, don't just stay here. It ain't the police you gotta worry about. Don't you fucking dare stay here in front of those goddamned...things"--Choi's distrust for computers never failed to amuse him--"and waste this. Get out, and don't come back for a while. A week ought to do it."
"Yeah, I guess." He had planned on just junking the ticket and laying low in his apartment. But Choi was never unnecessarily paranoid--not like he was; if Choi said run, he had better keep up.
"That's my boy," Choi grinned, all ease and friendliness again. His usual self with only a hint of underlying tension. "Have fun. See the sights. Get laid." Choi put significant emphasis on the last two words. He had then spun on his heel then and strode off down the hall. Singing, badly, "Tommy, can you hear me? Can you feel me near you? Tommy, can you see me? Can I help to cheer you--Oh, hey Mrs. C!"
When drug dealers are on nick-name basis with your landlady, it's time for a vacation. Heathrow. Arriving at seven in the morning played hell with his inner clock, especially since he'd been awake for the whole flight. Choi's going away package hadn't included sedatives. Hewouldn't have taken them if he'd had them, either. Weird dreams. He preferred his blurred reality to his subconscious. So, instead of sleep, he dreamt awake, mostly of falling from the sky. Heights, flying, none of this was his thing. He hadn't been on a plane in ten years.
Which, thanks to Murphy's Law, was exactly why his luggage never made it off the plane. Well, to be fair to the good throwers working for British Airways, his luggage had never made it on to his plane in the first place. An overly perky brunette had batted her eyes at him, looked sympathetic, took his hotel information in exchange for two other phone numbers; one was the number to call to check on his luggage, one was hers.
"Call me," she winked at him, "I would love to show you around."Her flirtation caught him off guard. Without exception, people taking an interest in him made him nervous, women more so because he didn't quite understand them. And, unfortunately, they always took his stupefied silence as honest or intentional coyness. This woman--Barbara, according to her name tag--wasn't any different. "Least I can do to make up for this, this inconvenience," she purred.
"Thanks," he managed, attempting a swaggering eyebrow move that was apparently successful. Though he felt more than a little goofy, she smiled, winked, and turned to help another customer. On his mental to do list, he crossed off: Get laid. Other than that, he had to 'see the sights,' and that required reading material. The blessing of airports was that people in them wanted to know about everywhere just in case they were going there. He grabbed a coffee in a to-go cup and walked toward a travel shop.
"Good morning, how are you, sir?" Another morning person, terrific. He smiled for the girl behind the counter, pausing momentarily to consider moving on, finding another shop. Being around another happy-go-lucky face at this hour would ruin his temporary high. Luckily, she returned to helping her customer, a bald, dark man who was purchasing a pack of mints. Neo ducked around inflatable neck pillows, universal AC adaptors for laptops, and the like. Looking down at his watch--was it really only nine-thirty?--was his undoing, however, as he ended up jostling the guy at the counter en route to the travel books.
"Sorry," he mumbled without looking up.
"Do not trouble yourself," the man replied, his voice a rich bass. The formal speech, the American accent, both were out of place, and he turned, surprised. But the man was leaving, the flaps of his dress coat moving as though he carried his own personal wind; his gait suggested he, if anyone, could possess the power to have such a thing.
Apparently, the salesgirl thought so, too. It took her until he was out of sight to exclaim, "Have a nice day!" before focusing on Neo. "What a pleasant fellow he was." Shrugging perfunctorily, he plucked out a pocket guide to London to flip through. He buried his nose in it so as to effectively end this attempt to draw him into conversation. It took time and a few other early morning travelers for her to take the hint. Midway through the 'Places to Eat' chapter, he looked up to see if she was upset by him reading in the store. That didn't appear to be the case, and he'd only been there ten minutes anyway. Maybe he could glean a bit more information before putting the book down and heading off to an internet café in the city for the meat of his research. No way he was paying airport internet prices, and no way was he going to tempt fate and cheat a little free time. Not with airport security being what it was.
"Attention, Attention, Paging Mr. Jones. Paging Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones, will you please report to Terminal Four information desk. Attention, Mr. Jones, please report to the information desk in Terminal Four. Thank you." Neo listened to the broadcast announcement with only half an ear, absorbed in trying to decipher where his guide book said was the best Thai restaurant near his hotel. In fact, the quest for Thai food distracted him for a good thirty seconds before the announcement gave him pause. Mr. Jones? Aren't there like millions of people named 'Jones'? Maybe not in England, maybe. Still...weird.
Halfway through the second repeat of the page for Mr. Jones, the PA system switched over to a different voice. A man was saying something about not panicking, that there was a situation. Neo didn't hear any of that message. He'd raised his head to listen to the repeat of the first message only to catch sight of a troop of men in black suits running past the travel shop, some pulling their sidearms. Oh God. An afternoon of waiting for the stewardess to get off work, noodles for lunch, all of it gone in that instant. Jesus. Shock, then denial. No.
Some self-preservation instinct formulated escape routes in the back of his head, mapping out the shortest route to bathrooms--good place to lose them, ducking into stalls--and exits--which ones would be wired to an alarm? The salesgirl whimpered and ducked behind her counter when the emergency broadcast repeated instructions for everyone to remain calm and stay where they were. He couldn't do that. He couldn't do that. He couldn't do that. He'd be caught, off to jail because he let some pusher convince him to go abroad with a fake passport and what if the ticket wasn't any good in the first place...?
A second group thundered past the store, one man shouting into his walkie-talkie, "Terminal Four! We've got a situation in Terminal Four! Suspect cornered by the public phone bank next to Gate 7!" They were there and gone, leaving him frozen and twitching, unsure how to calm himself down. They aren't after you, idiot, breathe, breathe, breathe...
Wait a minute. He jerked his legs forward, forcing himself to move, dropping the travel guide to the floor. A sign just outside the shop listed various directions passengers could remove themselves to, the same ones he'd been running over in his head in those short seconds he though his life as a free man was over. Toilets. Baggage Claim. Customs. Help Desk. Terminals One, Two, Three. And the last, Gates 1-19, thataway. Where Security was running, where he'd disembarked. Where that guy with the expensive clothes and American accent had gone.
Outside the confining glass of the store, Neo stared down the length of the hall. The second team disappeared left, down towards the first ten gates in the terminal. People coweredunder airport lounge chairs. He saw a mother throw her body over her children, both of whom were screaming, alarmed by the sirens and the men shouting. Chaos. People were running, too, unmindful the warning to stay put. In the middle of a wide hall, they collided with him in their frenzy to escape.
Neo walked forward. Towards the problem, towards the unknown danger. Maybe my luggage arrived, a nonsensical part of his brain offered. Maybe Barbara will come this way and we can leave together. Wouldn't that be lovely? His inner monologue was using words like 'lovely.' Things were worse than he thought. Yet, it didn't feel like danger. It felt like coiling, storing up potential energy that he could finally release once he knew what was happening. Excitement like the promise of sex later this evening, relief like the landing only a couple of hours before. Neo's mind floated while his legs took heavy, certain steps forward.
Then it shattered. A horde of armed men, some in suit and tie, some in black fatigues, all of them armed, flew past him. A minute later, one man followed. He wore a black suit, like the rest of the regular security personnel, but he had an earpiece, against which he cupped his hand. Otherwise, the most apt description of the man was nondescript. Middle-aged, mid-height, mid-weight, brown hair.
"What's going on?"
His question appeared to annoy this officer. "Pardon me, sir, this is a security manner. Please step aside." He spoke in perfect placeless English. No accent to it to give him away as a Cockney or Beatles-esque Liverpudlian. Blandly British, as featureless as the rest of him. Neo watched him round a corner, counted to ten, then sprinted for the end of the branching terminal. He saw people starting to rise, to ask themselves and strangers 'was it over?' knowing none of them had the answer. Kept going, past the BA help desk where Barbara had held his hand over lost luggage, now forgotten. On, on towards the phones. Gate 9, Gate 8, Gate 7...There! There! The phone bank.
One of the receivers dangled by its cord.