Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera
The Fugitive
The search hit the 46 hour mark. I had been sitting on a metallic chair, in that deserted office, flipping though page after page of the remarkable work this fugitive had done.
He was a brilliant microbiologist, with what appeared to be a very strong background in organic chemistry. The man had graduated from three IV League schools with honors. He had more acronyms following his name then I had seen before. All in all, he did not fit any possible criminal profile, especially looking like that.
What is that clichéd saying? Oh yes, "don't judge a book by its cover." I must tell you, that that is a load of bullshit. You can tell everything about a man by one glance. At least I can. And the photo of the man in that file was as much of a criminal as I an astronaut. He was a thin man, the kind you can snap like a twig. He was standing, by a strange looking machine, a clipboard in his hands. His hair resembled a bush, and large glasses rested on his rather large nose. He was looking straight at the camera: no smile, but nervous. The man was a stereotypical geek.
The case made no sense what so ever. The reason he was declared a criminal was still a mystery to me. Putting the folder down, I waited for the army man to return and let me out of the white cage. If I was going to work on this case, I needed to be somewhere I could breathe fresh oxygen, and not that crap that was coming out of the vents on the ceiling.
I scanned the room. Well, there wasn't much to look at, but as I did my eyes landed on a small black circle that had been plastered on the ceiling. I knew what it was. We used that same camera at the NSA for household surveillance.
I looked up at the camera, and smiled. The bastards needed to know that there was no way in hell anything could get passed me. Authority must be established in the beginning; otherwise you'll end up following orders instead of giving them.
Seconds later the door behind me opened. The man in the green uniform entered with his hat sandwiched between his arm and body. He did not look happy to see me.
"I take it you are done with the file, Agent Dawson."
Rising from my seat, I nodded. I left the file on the desk, knowing that the man would not let the information in that folder leave his office.
"I will need to speak to a few of his co-workers in ord—"
"Not possible." His voice left no room for arguments, but that most certainly did not stop me.
"You expect me to lead a search based on a photo, which was clearly taken quite a long time ago, and information regarding his many accomplishments? I doubt he'll be hiding out in a lab, working on synthesizing carbon compounds."
The man seemed to pale a bit. Military men never, with a huge emphasis on never, show any sort of emotion that relates to fear, pain, or sadness. The innocent comment I had made about the carbon synthesizing must had triggered something.
"I know nothing about his character. I need—"
"His co-workers have already been interrogated. They had no information regarding Dr. Jansen."
"It does not—"
"I have been more than compliant with your requests, Agent Dawson. Nothing else will be given to you. Find the man; get him back; unless the task is too difficult for you."
"Well it certainly is difficult given that you yourself have been unable to find him," I spat back. "Co-workers, or I walk.'
His head dropped to the floor. His eyes rose to look at me in clear hatred. I bet he would have given anything to punch the crap out of me. I get that reaction from many people.
"One co-worker. Two of my men must be present during the interview."
"No."
"Not negotiable," he spat back. His eyes were burning now, his fingers clutched into two balls. I could even see the blue veins that had enlarged on the surface of his fists.
"Fine.'
I am notorious for pushing people to their limits. If I had pushed him any further, I don't think I would be alive today. Sometimes you just have to settle.
--------------------------------------------
I sat in yet another white cage. The artificial light from the ceiling was beginning to aggravate me. And there was one neon light that had been buzzing for the past 30 minutes. We were wasting time.
The large metal door behind me opened. Heavy footsteps were followed by the squeaking of sneakers against the tiles. It seemed that the co-worker had been finally delivered.
"Agent Dawson," said one of the men in uniform. "This is Dr. Patrovsky."
I nodded in his direction. The poor man seemed terrified. His eyes jumped from side to side, scanning the small room. His breaths came in short, loud gasps, as if he had been running a marathon.
"Please sit, Dr. Patrovsky."
The man walked to the chair across from mine. He did not look at me. His dark eyes faced south, studying the black table that stood between us.
"I am guessing you know about Steward Jansen."
"I know nothing," he replied in a thick Russian accent.
"That's for me to decide. Now, you worked with him, correct?"
The man said nothing. Instead his eyes rose from the table and traveled to one of the two soldiers that stood behind me. The doctor blinked twice before returning to look at the table.
"Answer the question," I ordered.
"I know nothing," he said again.
"Did he have any family?"
"I know nothing," he said yet again.
"If you say that again, I will bash your head on the table," I hissed. "Understood?" I am not known for being a patient person. The last few hours had drained me of whatever little patience I possessed.
The man's eyes rose to meet mine. They shone in fear, in despair. The bastards that stood behind me kept the man from revealing whatever he knew about the fugitive. The military had its secrets, that was known, but whatever they were hiding on that base must have been one hell of a secret.
"He spoke a lot about home, about returning home."
"Home? Where is that?"
"I do not know. But he said something about sun. He was strange man. He muttered while worked. He talked of religion, and birthplace of the one God." He stared at me, and then his eyes began to move frantically from side to side. "I know nothing else. Please. I only want to work. I know nothing else."
The metal door opened once again. His highness strode in with more of his pets. I turned to look at him, a sarcastic smile overtaking my features.
"Glad you could join us, Sir. Take a seat. Things are getting good."
"I said all I know," yelled the doctor. "Please. I wish to go."
The man in charge nodded to one of his men in green. The doctor was soon escorted out the interrogation room. The man in charge took the seat that had been just seconds ago occupied by the doctor. The rest of the men in uniform exited, closing the metal door behind them.
"I hope you have made some headway, Agent Dawson," he hissed as he placed his hat on the table.
"Plenty." Well, as much headway one could make from a three minute long interrogation.
"Why don't you share you findings with me?"
"I've never liked to share." I knew what he had said was a command, not a question.
"I've worked with people from your little organization. None of them have shown this much disrespect. I warned you before, Agent Dawson, choose your words carefully."
I must tell you, I had not been listening to a word that was coming out of those dry, cracked lips of his. Instead what that scientist had said continued to repeat in my head. Suddenly, like forked lighting in the night sky, the answer became clear as Vodka.
"International flights," I said out of the blue. "Have you checked passenger lists for international flights?"
"Of course. That was one of the first things we did."
"Check them again."
"That is a waste—"
"Check them again," I ordered. "Check for a ticket under the name of anyone that works on this base. Check only flights to Egypt."
"What?!"
"And I thought you people were smarter than gutter rats. 'One God.' He said he was to return to the birthplace of monotheism."
"Egypt is not the birthplace of monotheism.'
"You know nothing of ancient civilizations do you?" I asked as I rolled my eyes in frustration. "Monotheism was first practiced during the 18th Dynasty in Ancient Egypt, under the rule of Akhenaten and Nefertit. They banished all other gods and instated a single God: the Aten. You're boy was in Egypt for three years, according to those useless files of yours."
"That is pure lunacy,' he screamed. "He wouldn't leave the country. He wouldn't be able to."
"Who is in charge of this investigation?"
"You'd—"
"Get the flight manifests. Look them over. If you don't find anything, then you look again." I rose from the metallic chair.
"You're talking about thousands of names."
"Then why are you still here?" I asked. One of my eye brows had risen high on my forehead as I waited for him to get up and carry out my instructions.
The man rose from his seat. As he walked by me, his dark, hate filled pools starred at me. Deep wrinkles emerged on the surface of his already aged forehead. He challenged my authority, my capabilities as an agent.
"You will not always have the NSA's backing," he hissed.
"Keep this up, and trust me, in the end you'll be wishing I never leave the NSA."
I hated military personnel. Always have. The only thing that was keeping me from giving the man a few swollen bruises were NSA regulations. I had taken an oath before joining the organization. I vowed before my superiors to always follow orders and protocols. The NSA was my life, my family, my every breath. Nothing and no one would make me break that oath.
Now…let' just say all those years I spent working for them seem a complete waste. And that oath…I still remember it. But now, it is nothing but words, words that when strung together force me to relive the betrayal that tore my world apart.