Icebergs.
By Braz King.
Julia Saberhagen is soaked with sweat. In silent darkness she takes in a slow deep breath, sending it down her back and into her legs to relieve the strain of stillness. She has been in the narrow air duct above the main gallery room of the McMichael Art Gallery for eight hours now and has barely moved. Only twice, when the pain became excruciating, did she roll slowly onto her side to shift the weight to different muscles and let the blood circulate to the aching places. She arrived at the Gallery yesterday, blending into the small crowd of art lovers, then hid in the basement store room at closing time. At 8 p.m. she picked a precise route into the duct over the entry way.
She chose this spot carefully. Inside the duct, even at the lowered off-hours temperature, it is warm enough to mask most of her heat signature. There are two load-bearing walls near so the ceiling is unlikely to collapse if a heavy battle breaks out. She is close to two windows and the main entrance if she needs a running exit and from here she can also access deeper cover in the attic-like space directly under the outer roof. She feels with her right hand and finds her small black backpack. She knows it is there but occasionally feels for it. Feeling it there beside gives her a sense of companionship. She checks the gun in her shoulder holster, the cell phone clipped to the front of her belt, and the detonator in her jacket pocket. Everything is in place.
From the vent near her face she can see all of the entry way. There is a long mirror on the wall to the right of the door and in its reflection she can make out ¾ of the front parking lot. She knows that her allies, Baker, Zeng, and Tommy are in the garage across the street. Tommy knew the owners from a Hong Kong business connection and worked things out. Julia will signal them if and when they are needed and they’ll charge across the road in Baker’s RAM pickup, the toughest vehicle they have. She has to trust their restraint and though she has known them and fought with them through many battles, she has a backup plan if they let her down.
Julia fights for a resistance force called The Dragons and they are here to seize control of the gallery. The McMichael is home to the world’s largest collection of Group of Seven paintings. It is also a Feng Shui Site, a location of great geomantic significance, a focus of natural power. The gallery is currently controlled by The Guiding Hand, a faction of fierce Confucian traditionalists and rigid Shaolin Monks that believe the world is falling into moral decadence and decay. Julia sympathizes with some of their beliefs, but is dead against their compassionless discipline and fanatical vision of a uniform world of obedience to their dictates. A world like that would have no place in it for her.
The Guiding Hand was founded in 19th Century China but has become a powerful threat under the leadership of kung fu legend, Master Leung. He and his followers had maintained a token presence for The Guiding Hand for many years but, over recent months, have quietly gained control of several lesser-known Feng Shui Sites. As they did so, fate began to shift in their favour.
Julia expected students of Master Leung to arrive in the middle of the night and she knew that surveillance operatives would be scoping the Gallery at least from midnight on. The surveillance operatives work for a third faction, The Ascended. The Ascended control everything: global corporations, the media, the police, the army. They are the shadow government, the expansive unseen cadre that manipulate the world on marionette strings.
*****
Six black Humvee H1 Alphas roar up Islington Avenue in a wintry pre-dawn haze. The light layer of December snow lays silent and still ahead of them but is churned and whipped as they pass and thrown out behind the caravan in a billowing cloud. The heavy trucks don’t slow a bit as they pass the town sign, “Kleinberg”. Two BK117 helicopters tilt ahead of the caravan, their modified engines remarkably quiet, passing over the slumbering residents leaving them asleep and unaware.
Ascended Agent Neil North commands this operation from the shotgun seat of the second Humvee. He glances at the passing houses, where families sleep soundly all around him.
He flicks a switch on his belt and speaks into his throat mic, “Last reminder team. We are going to take control of this site regardless of the opposition. Leaders, review the entry plan with your squads.”
North leans towards the windshield and sights the choppers’ lights in the distance. “Azure One report.” The response comes immediately over the dashboard speaker.
“Azure One reporting. Your approach is clear. No activity within operating perimeter.”
“Roger. Increase altitude to observation level and monitor this channel,” he instructs while tapping on a data pad with his leather-gloved finger. Azure One replies with a ‘roger wilco’ then North continues calmly. “Overwatch report.”
“Overwatch reporting,” a woman’s whispery voice replies and Neil nods to his driver, who turns up the volume on the steering wheel control. She continues her susurrous report. “Zero targets within operating perimeter. Thermal and infrared are flat. That is an empty building.”
North’s brow furrows. He turns his head again and watches the well-kept homes go by out the side window. “Roger Overwatch. Keep that Tac-50 trained on the building. You’ll have targets before this is over.” His gaze falls on the image of a large Christmas tree against closed living room window sheers and he watches it pass by.
*****
Julia is lying in the darkness, reviewing the plan. When she first formulated this plan with her fellow Dragons, the loosely-knit alliance of free-thinking secret warriors, it was agreed that she would take point on this mission. Julia is a former art thief, recruited to The Dragons by Adam Hightower four years back, just before he was killed. She knew the art world intimately and was the perfect person to case the gallery.
She visited the McMichael in a simple disguise. Elongated posture, couture outfit, hair changed to blonde, elegant makeup and monogrammed cigarette case. Entering and walking through the gallery she avoided every security camera and did so without moving in an unnatural way. Living all of her adult life as an art thief, this was Julia’s instinct.
She had been to the McMichael dozens of times but this visit was for a different kind of business. She memorized the building as she walked and watched – large front entrance that leads into the main gallery room. Two large hallways that lead to the back of the gallery from the main room, one on the north end, one on the south. Smaller gallery rooms opening from those halls as they lead towards the back entrance and the parking lot behind the building. She noted all of the structural details and the locations of the heating vents, memorized details about the security system and placement of windows and mirrors.
She did it all in a detached and professional manner. Until she saw a painting that made her stop dead still. Her favourite painting in the world: “Icebergs ~ Davis Strait” by Lawren Harris. She was struck by the beautiful rippled loneliness of the painting and was held in motionless concentration, absorbed in the icy blue image. Then, Neil North walked in.
He was walking towards her slowly and his movement in her peripheral vision brought her back from her private thoughts. She stood still as he walked up behind her, raised his strong right hand and placed it gently on her shoulder, squeezed then drew it down along her arm til, at the end, his hand covered hers and they let their fingers interlace. Julia smiled, happy at his sudden presence and let him press in close behind her. She knew they were in a blind spot and the security cams, and the eyes behind them, would not see. She heard Neil inhale deeply as he kissed the top of her head. He always loved the lavender scent of her.
Julia knew the Ascended would be interested in the Gallery, knew they would be casing it. But she was pleasantly surprised to find Neil here. They had been lovers for almost a year then but they did not discuss business. They wanted to protect each other from any knowledge that could be used to harm them.
She looked up at him over her shoulder, “Tell me you are here for the ‘Myth and Reality’ show Neil.”
He smiled and his strong cheekbones rose, his bottomless dark eyes drawing her in. “I’m sure we are here for the same reason Julia.”
“A life-long passion for Lawren Harris?”
Neil smiled warmly, “Yes, love. That is why I am here. For Lawren Harris.”
*****
Across the main street, opposite the Gallery, three veteran Dragons sit in the cab of a huge red pickup truck: Baker’s Dodge RAM with the king cab and Viper engine. Baker rubs the stubble of his beard’s overnight growth which is about the same length now as his marine’s haircut. Then he takes a gulp of steaming coffee from an extra large stainless steel travel mug. A well-worn black hockey bag sits on the seat beside him.
“Christ Zeng, I am not saying I don’t trust Julia. I trust her as much as you do so can you stop giving me speeches about her ‘honourable nature’ and your ‘sense of her loyalty’! Please. We’re all on the same team here.”
Zeng’s serene expression does not change. He wraps his heavy cloak-like winter coat a bit tighter and his right hand falls habitually onto the pommel of his grandfather’s sword, resting in Zeng’s belt scabbard and hanging down between the seat and the passenger door. He slowly releases a breath before replying, “I mean you no offence Baker. Indeed, we are comrades. Team mates. However, you did speak at great length just now about Julia and Neil’s relationship and your concerns about this mission.”
Tommy Chen sits behind them in the middle of the backseat, intently focussed on several small piles of ground minerals, prepared pieces of preserved animal organs, and a small braid of human hair that rest on a wooden tray on his lap. He is wrapping the various materials into small silk bundles then carefully placing them in a leather satchel.
Baker sips coffee, impatiently staring at Zeng over the rim of the mug, “I have serious concerns about this mission Zeng and you should too! We had a deal with North. We stood with him in the Rouge Valley battle to defend their asset. And in exchange he pledged Ascended support to help us take the McMichael Gallery from the Guiding Hand. But did Julia ever get the final plans from him? Did she even get a firm commitment that he was going to follow through on his promise to us? What the hell are we getting into here? I don’t even fucking know who my targets are! Am I shooting at North’s unit or are they backing me up? Who the fuck are my targets? I need some kind of certainty here Zeng!”
Tommy grabs the wooden tray when Baker shifts suddenly and the seat back bumps the tray. “Easy big fella,” he mumbles.
Zeng speaks slowly, “Baker. I believe it is in our best interest to remain quiet. Our position here is most likely unexpected but far from secure.”
“Answer the fucking question Zeng!”
“I am uncertain which question you want me to answer. It is my impression you are asking… how do you say… rhetorical questions. No?”
Baker rubs his hand over his precise hair and shakes his head. “Zeng, who do I shoot?”
“I believe it is best to assume that our deal is not in force as we have not received final plans from Neil North. The Ascended control of government, police, media, is vast and complex. We know that North has honour, but should his superiors sense a hint of betrayal, they will eliminate him. However, Julia trusts him and I trust her. I believe North desires to honour his word but was unable to secure complete support from his superiors. This is my sense of things.”
“That’s great Zeng. Well here’s my sense of things amigo. When this goes down, I’m shooting everybody that I didn’t see around the dinner table last night. Clear?”
Tommy, still bent over his components, glances up at Baker. “I ate out last night, B.”
“You know what I mean Tommy. And you Zeng? D’you know what I mean?”
Zeng turns and looks straight at Baker, “I understand, my friend. I only counsel you to remain open to the emergence of new possibilities.”
Baker rolls his eyes and reaches into the duffle bag to begin the final field check of his guns, starting with the M-14.
*****
Like a giant black snake, the column of Humvees follows its head into the parking lot and around the side of the Gallery. At the back of the building it comes to a quick stop, in a hard line with less than a metre between bumpers. North barks into his throat mic, “Move out!” and the right side doors open simultaneously. Six shooters in heavy body armour stand up on the side rails and brace their assault rifles on the roofs of the Humvees. They quickly scan down from rooftop to second floor windows to the ground floor and one after the other they stomp three times on the side rail.
When each has given the ‘clear’ signal, the left side doors open and three operatives leap out of each truck and charge for the back of the gallery in short columns. Six agents fall against the wall on either side of the decorative double doors. They scan adjacent buildings and the parking lot area behind the gallery. The other nine agents form a line and run straight for the glass doors. The leader runs directly toward the doors and releases short bursts from her SMG that shatters the glass in front of them. They leap into the openings and their Kevlar armour takes out any shards of glass that would have impeded them. The remaining agents pour into the building and split into predetermined squads for a room-to-room search.
*****
Julia saw the signature black Humvees roar into the lot and around the side of the building and made a quick decision to back deeper into the duct and lie alongside the load bearing wall, where she would be safest from stray fire. As Master Leung had not shown up, it appeared there may not be a battle and she had only her private faith in Neil North to go on. Last month Neil had offered the Dragons a secret deal – if they helped him defend the Rouge Valley site from Master Leung, he would support them in taking the McMichael Gallery. The Dragons delivered and now it is his turn. But Neil is a dancer in a straightjacket. He can do amazing things but has no room to move.
She hoped they wouldn’t have to fight but beneath that, her more harshly honest voice told her they would.
Now she can hear the hard boots of Ascended agents echoing against the ceramic floors. She hears no voices but knows they are searching rooms and using only hand signals to communicate. Their presence is rarely a secret but their exact intentions always are.
A beam of bright light bursts into the duct through the vents of the main gallery room. Julia is so startled by this she almost bangs her head on the top of the duct, but quickly takes control of her reactions, settles back against the duct bottom and listens intently. Her right hand slowly pulls her pistol from its shoulder holster. She hears soft-soled shoes hitting the floor in the room below her, one pair after another, and another, and they keep dropping. But dropping from where? They can’t be in the ducts.
Julia shimmies backwards inside the duct and has to pass her body over a vent to get a look into the room below. Her eyes widen as she see a steady stream of Master Leung’s kung fu students leaping out of a huge Tom Thompson painting. The painting is barely visible as sharp white light pours out of it and weapon-wielding warriors leap out of its frame, landing on the floor of the gallery.
Julia hears a clear “shink” of glass breaking and sees a warrior, then the one right beside him, slump to the ground, blood soaking their simple brown garments. There are two dozen in the main gallery room now and those closest to the casualties call out a warning in Cantonese. The warriors frantically search the room for a shooter but find nothing. Another “shink” and a warrior near the front window crumples to the floor, blood seeping out of a fifty calibre hole in his forehead. Julia has heard no gunfire but knows there is a Ascended sniper with a silencer outside. Somewhere.
Master Leung’s warriors drop to the floor, those closest to the front of the room shoulder up against the front wall keeping below the windows and the others pour into the two wide hallways that lead back into the rest of the building. They run into a barrage of SMG fire in both hallways from Ascended operatives lining the walls, alerted by the sounds from the main gallery. The first few martial artists fall under the gunfire but those behind them leap and cartwheel into battle and the large hallways become a chaotic melee of black-clad SMG-firing operatives against Chinese kung fu acrobats.
As bullets fly in the gallery Julia strains to get a look at the “Icebergs” painting. From her current angle she can only see a corner of it and so far it is undamaged. She wants to steal that painting, to make sure it isn’t damaged. How would the greater good be served by letting this beautiful painting be pointlessly destroyed? She moves backwards to a junction in the ductwork, crunches up and shimmies around and is now crawling forward towards “Icebergs”. She tells herself that the battle is going fine and there is no need for her to intervene yet. And when she imagines Adam Hightower and how he turned her away from a life of theft she shakes that image from her mind. This isn’t stealing, it is preservation.
*****
Agent North steps into one of the hallways in which his operatives are battling Master Leung’s students. The students are falling quickly and his losses are minimal. He recognizes this as a probe by Master Leung. There will be more. He raises a flat-black non-reflective heavy pistol and in quick succession picks four warriors out of mid-air manoeuvres then moves his pieces around the board.
“Red One and Red Two secure the main gallery room. All others pull back to station B.”
Three operatives move forward in each hallway toward the front of the building. The remainder slowly pull back towards Agent North. He gives the forward units ten seconds before ordering, “Red One report.”
*****
Julia is at the vent closest to “Icebergs”. Most of Master Leung’s students have run into the hallways to join those battles and the sniper has taken down the remainder. She reviews the locations of the explosive charges she placed throughout the building. There isn’t anything close enough to be useful with the painting and besides it is best to keep them up her sleeve as long as possible. She wants to get the painting somewhere safe, inside the building but out of harm’s way. She knows the dimensions of the painting. It will just fit inside the duct if she angles it corner to corner. But even that doesn’t feel secure enough. She thinks about the attic space above her. That is where it needs to go. She reaches into her small black backpack and pulls out a battery powered electric saw. A click of the blade lock extends it to six inches then Julia checks that the room is still clear before cutting into the top of the vent. The saw is almost silent as she pushes the sharp blade about 20 inches along before she hears someone enter the main gallery room. She silently rolls to her side and looks down through the vent.
Six agents move carefully into the main gallery room, each searching the room across the sight of his gun. They check each body until they are confident none of Master Leung’s students are a threat. Directly beneath Julia, a woman’s voice speaks clearly but quietly, “Red One reporting. Main Gallery Room clear.” A subtle movement near the wall catches Julia’s eye. At first she sees nothing then there is the shape of a person somehow blending in with the colours of the wall and the paintings mounted there. Two arms dart out and grab Red One’s head and crank it violently. Red One drops to the ground, broken.
“Red Two reporting. Unseen enemy in…” is all the agent can say before he meets his death. The last four agents in the room move to its centre, back to back talking to each other, “Eyes open boys,” “Be alert now,” when a shock of light floods the room and another wave of martial artists flows out of the huge Tom Thompson painting. Julia notes that these ones are older than the first group, are armed with swords and wear the rubbed wooden beads of monks. The agents spin and fire at this new threat but are quickly swarmed and hacked. Sniper fire begins but the monks remain in motion and instead of dropping their intended targets, the TAC-50 bullets burst huge holes in paintings along the wall opposite the front windows.
Julia feels a blast of cold air as someone opens the front door. She shifts and looks out the front window but can see no one. She wants to warn the sniper of impending company but can’t. She thinks of contacting the RAM cavalry but communicating enough information isn’t possible now. She’ll hold off until she absolutely needs them.
The monks, now numbering a dozen, split in two groups with six charging into each hall leading back into the building. Julia reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a small black box with a rotating knob and a small red button. She quickly turns the knob to “3” and presses the button. The entire building shakes as the right hallway collapses in an explosion that takes out the floor beneath six monks. Julia can not see if she took them all but hopes this is contribution enough and that Neil’s group can take the rest. She returns the box to her pocket, picks up the saw and returns to cutting.
*****
Baker is observing the Gallery through a small window in the garage door and giving play-by-play reports to Zeng and Tommy. Zeng paces slowly beside the truck and Tommy sits on its hood, with the fuzzy cowl of his parka pulled tight around his face. Baker’s breath comes out in frosty clouds as he reports what he can see in the Main Gallery room. He sees the second flash and more of Master Leung’s forces in the room. He reports the door opening but no one coming out. Then there is the explosion.
“Shit. That’s gotta be Julia. Let’s get over there.” He turns towards the truck and Zeng interposes with his words.
“She has not called us Baker. We will go when she calls. This is the plan.”
Baker sneers at Zeng. He looks at Tommy, buried inside his parka, for his opinion. Tommy looks like the Inuit spirit of death, his eyes the only feature visible in his dark cowl. He says, “this is the plan, B.”
Baker throws up his hands and returns to the window. He squints to see the Gallery more clearly and mumbles, “Call Julia. Right fucking now.”
*****
Agent North steps back when the explosion rocks the building. He glances towards the ceiling, scans the vents and briefly, a warm smile softens his serious, chiselled face. Dust and smoke pour out from one hall while six sword-wielding monks pour out of the other. North instantly fires on the lead monk and the bullet rips open the tunic and spins the monk around. The others race past and the injured monk stops, takes a quick but deep breath and rejoins the charge, blood pouring out of the wound. North’s force opens fire and each monk is hit several times but continues to charge. North unloads five more bullets into his first target, finally taking him down. He smoothly ejects the spent cartridge and smacks a full one inside the grip of his pistol. This is more than a probe.
The remaining five monks cut into the formation of black-clad agents and quickly force a fighting retreat. North orders his men back towards the rear entrance, emptying another clip and taking down another monk. He walks behind his line of troops like a quarterback facing an imminent sack. Despite outnumbering the monks, his troops are overmatched. His defensive line is collapsing. He clicks on his mic and orders “Gold Team move in.”
*****
Julia blinks the dust from her eyes and looks up through the perfect rectangular opening then down through the matching opening. She unclips the cover on her backpack and reaches in for a coil of thin line. At its end is a black mechanical claw. She examines the claw and pushes its digits open until they click. She rolls onto her shoulder, lifts the vent cover out and lowers the claw. It zips between her fingers till she pinches it to a stop. She gets it swinging back and forth, increasing the arc and directing the claw towards the middle of the top of the frame.
The room beneath her fills with light. “Not now!” she whispers through clenched teeth and yanks the line straight up, hand over hand as quickly as she can in this tight spot. The claw, still swinging, thunks against the ceiling twice before she secures it back inside. She leans away from the opening, slows her frantic heartbeat and silences her breathing. She listens but can only hear the cries and gunfire from far back in the building.
Then she is hit from below with a crushing blow that crumples her aluminium cocoon and jams her head up against the top side of the duct. Sharp crumpled metal cuts into her scalp and her vision falls into a soupy blackness. Her mind tells her body, “move, move, move,” and with her eyes still closed she pulls her head out of the wedge and shimmies quickly, feet first further into the duct. Bam! The place she just was crunches upwards. Julia makes out two steaming fist prints in the crumpled ductwork. She keeps shimmying while pressing a speed dial button on the cell phone clipped to the front of her belt.
*****
Baker was already in the truck with the engine roaring. He had seen the third blinding light then the ominous figure of Shi Ho Kuai moving through the Main Gallery Room.
“Are you certain Baker?” Zeng had questioned.
“As sure as I just shit my shorts!” Baker roared as he leapt into the truck.
Ten years ago Baker watched Shi Ho Kuai, through his rifle scope, walk into a Kowloon restaurant packed with gun-toting thugs of some renown, take at least 35 bullets, six from Baker’s own fifty calibre gun, rip apart that building full of heavies with his bare smoking hands, pause at the bar and pour himself a glass of premium bottled water then walk out the front door. Now Shi is about to tear Julia from her hiding place like a grizzly ripping grubs from a rotted log.
The garage door is barely open as the massive pickup tears across the driveway, the road, the parking lot and smashes through the double glass doors of the Gallery, with the phone ringing and vibrating in its dashboard holster. Zeng draws his sword fluidly, an oasis of grace in a roaring, spinning world. Baker grabs his M-14 and is firing before he is out of the truck.
Tommy slips back his hood and speaks with sudden authority,
“Let this place be our kindred
Our fortunes entwined.”
He squeezes the small braid of hair in his palm. A breeze blows through the smashed door and through his black hair.
Julia is dizzy. She blinks hard and thick drops of blood flick off her eyelashes. She has reached a T-shaped intersection in the ducts and is trying to turn the corner when the firmness beneath her back is torn away and she is falling into open air, exposed. She takes one quick breath while pulling her pistol out. Suddenly there is the immediacy of the gunfire, the broken glass, the growling truck, the hateful dark eyes of Shi Ho Kuai, the bodies below – her head throbs like a gong and she struggles to stay conscious.
Spent shell casing are streaming out the side of Baker’s M-14 and profanity streaming out of his mouth. He is braced against the side of the truck and blasting at the mystical martial artist. Many bullets turn to smoke before penetrating but many more are tearing through the robes and into the flesh of his target.
Zeng is moving through the air towards Julia’s falling body. Shi is reaching for her, wisps of smoke pouring from his fingertips. The three bodies meet in a thunderous collision. Zeng manages to reach out his free hand and touch Julia’s body just enough to redirect her fall. He lets himself slam into Shi , the smoking hands smashing into Zeng’s chest, burning through layers of fabric then layers of skin. Zeng is silent as his face contorts with pain.
As Julia hits the ground, her years of rigorous training override the blinding pain and she tumbles into a rolling breakfall, groggily executed but enough to keep her alive. She takes the brunt of the fall on her left arm and feels her shoulder give under the force of the fall. She rolls forward onto the bodies of Master Leung’s students then sprawls to a stop.
Zeng slips away from Shi ’s searing grasp and launches retreating sword strikes, catching the ancient master in the arms and shoulders. Shi continues to take a barrage of fire from Baker but shows little effect. Blood pours out of dozens of wounds yet he retains his heartless grim stare, moves after Zeng, taking more wounds but backing him to the wall. There they weave together like two snakes staring, feinting, looking for the advantage. They attack together, Zeng’s sword piercing the palm of Shi ’s left hand and on into his chest. Shi grabs Zeng’s trachea in a dragon claw grip and burns into his airway.
There is a brief pause in the machine gun fire as Baker pulls a fresh cartridge from his belt and smacks it into his M-14. His last barrage is still echoing in the gallery he pulls back on the trigger and unleashes another stream of metallic death, and starts walking towards Shi yelling, “Die you fucker! Die Goddammit!” Shi tries to use Zeng’s body to shield himself from the M-14 fire, but Baker expertly pulls the gun off target every time, avoiding his comrade while destroying the artwork.
Julia, lying on her back straightens her right arm, tilts her head back against the blood-soaked floor and fires at Shi until the cartridge is empty. She wants to wipe the blood out of her eyes but her left hand won’t answer the call.
Zeng drops his chin against the hard, searing grip on his throat, tightens his muscles and tries to hold on. But Shi is burning right into his airway and airy bubbles appear around his fingertips and Zeng’s breath begins escaping through paper-thin flesh. Zeng’s restraint wavers and he cries out in agony. He raises his right leg and presses his sole against the wall then launches himself with a powerful push and drops all of his weight against his grandfather’s sword. Shi staggers backwards, the sword ripping the palm out of his hand and cutting down eight inches through his torso.
Shi ’s body is now functioning only because he wills it to. There is not enough blood in it to be alive. And now, even his will is succumbing to the extensive wounds. He seems to momentarily block the battle from his mind, breathes deeply and summons the chi from the air around him. He releases Zeng and reaches his hands out to entwine the natural energies of this place and pull them into himself to heal. But he meets resistance. The energies are there but he can not absorb them.
His eyes snap open and he screams, “Who defiles this place with sorcery?”
He falls to his knees, his body convulsing. Tommy Chen steps forward from behind the truck, holding tightly to the braid, staring solemnly at the fallen legend. “There is wisdom in this place, Old One. You cannot deceive it.”
Zeng holds his torn throat with one hand and with the other he makes a graceful arc with the ancient sword and severs the head of Shi Ho Kuai.
*****
Neil North has backed almost to the rear door of the gallery. He and his troops are holding the monks back with a wall of automatic fire. But the monks spin and flip and seem to fly around the halls and rooms seeking cover at the right moment, leaping forward for an opportune strike, evading back again. They are gradually chipping away at his line. North follows one in his sights for a few moments then quickly unloads another clip, and another monk falls.
Hard boots run over glass behind him. Gold team, the six shooters in heavy body armour that first emerged from the Humvees, moves into the building. North waves them forward and they fan out, six across the hall and push forward through their exhausted comrades. Gold team carry big C7 Assault Rifles with tactical data interfaces and 40mm underbarrel grenade launchers. Their black Kevlar body armour, full black helmets and tinted visors make them look more like machines than people.
The attacking monks are hit with precisely aimed heavy ordinance and back away from the advancing line. They miraculously redirect many bullets with the palms of their hands and artwork all around them is punctured and ripped. The last three monks leap and evade and begin flipping their swords back and forth through the air and for moments Gold Team can’t land a shot. The monks’ bizarre dance reaches a climax as they chant deep guttural sounds and in a frozen moment each monk is in mid air and each sword is wheeling in mid air when suddenly each monk grabs a sword and lands violently on a Ascended shooter. The monks take full fire from the C7s and their last breaths come out in sighing chants as each one lands the identical, fatal sword blow into the solar plexus of their matched opponent.
North watches his veteran agents fall with deep, unblinking eyes.
He clicks a button and barks, “Overwatch report. Status of the main gallery room now.” He receives no reply. Then the familiar Tac-50 sniper rifle skids across the tile of the floor in front of him. “Everybody alert,” he commands and the remnants of Gold and Red shoulder their guns and search the room. Two agents near the left-hand wall gurgle and fall as they are hit with unseen blows to the throat. The remaining Red Team agents finally lose their composure and start shooting into space. Gold leader pulls off his helmet and curses them, “Wait till you have a target, you maggots!” then his head snaps back and he falls to the ground, silent.
“Master Leung. I knew you’d come,” North says quietly as he sees the old man moving like a ghostly image in a film slowed down and viewed frame by frame. North had to slow his mind way down to see him. “Shoot ahead of the blood stream,” North barks and while his last agents struggle to comprehend the order he pulls off five shots, two of which find their target. The agents see a stream of blood moving along the far wall and they open fire just ahead of it. The stream changes location quickly and they can not see their target but they follow North’s order and keep firing.
North watches the faint image of the Master blend into a wall and commands, “Hold your fire. He’s… not here now. I’m going to the Main Gallery Room. Reload and follow me into the hallway. Hold the hall and make sure nobody follows me into that room. Let’s go.” He walks forward and clicks his mic on. “Azure One, Azure Two, move to combat range. Ready Hellfires and prepare to level this building on my command.” He reloads his pistol and after hearing confirmation from the helicopter pilots he strides into the wide hallway, backed up by a handful of exhausted agents. He walks carefully like he is crossing a deep frozen lake on a translucent layer of ice and yells out “Saberhagen, if you can hear me, do not blow the north hallway. I repeat DO NOT blow the north hallway!”
*****
Julia’s head is resting on the chest of a fallen warrior and she is gently rotating her injured shoulder, functioning now, after a quick treatment from Tommy. Tommy is leaning over her, rubbing her torn scalp with a black oily goo. She coughs at the harsh smell, like old dishwater and smoke from a tire fire. She squints up through one eye at Tommy. “Do I want to know?” Tommy continues to work and mutters absently, “Epidermic infusion…for regenerative properties. Salamander, really. Modena, 1780. Spallanzani wrote this pamphlet…”
Julia just smiles and nods. She doesn’t have the energy to protest the salamander ointment but struggles to sit up. She takes stock of her gear, locates her backpack a few feet away and Tommy reaches it for her.
Zeng is sitting on a broken-backed chair, quiet and still, breathing deeply, eyes not open, not closed. His throat wounds are horrific but he directs his breath straight up and down his trachea and minimizes strain on the paper-thin tissue. Julia sees him sitting quietly then is struck by the severity of his injuries. “I’m okay now Tommy. Zeng needs you.” Tommy quickly moves to Zeng’s chair and winces at the appearance of his throat. “Oh shit Z. Let me help you.”
Baker comes back from the collapsed south-side corridor and notes, “Those guys are dead,” then moves to the north-side corridor. He pauses at the corner and peeks around, M-14 at the ready. “Oh Christ. Fuck off, North.”
Julia’s head spins at the mention of Neil’s name. She catches her reflection in the cracked glass over a ruined A.J. Casson watercolour and sighs. The painting is a total mess and so is she.
Baker and North exchange quiet unpleasantries in the hall then both turn the corner into the Main Gallery Room. Neil and Julia make eye contact, search each others face, bodies, assessing, hopeful. But they don’t indulge themselves further. Neil looks over at “Icebergs ~ Davis Strait”. It is intact and he looks back to Julia tilts his head, gesturing at it. She smiles and nods.
Baker is watching the two of them like a cynical tennis critic, head moving left to right to left to right, sneering.
North addresses them firmly, “Master Leung is here. In the building,”
Tommy is concentrating on a healing spell and Zeng is still and quiet. Baker continues to stare down North but Julia looks around very carefully. She wonders if they will survive a face off with Master Leung given their injuries, then turns to Neil formally, “We heard your units firing. How much back up do you have?”
“Negligible at this point.” North doesn’t look at her.
“So, is the deal on or not?” Baker scowls.
“I’m doing my best, but it is complicated.”
“Is the fucking deal on or not?” Baker yells.
“Keep your voice down Baker. My men can’t know about this. It’ll mean their lives. And mine.”
“Well, too bad for you. You work for the devil. Boofuckinghoo.”
The two men sneer at each other and North takes a step towards Baker and hisses quietly, “We don’t all have the luxury of being loudmouthed assholes, Baker. If you want my help then shut the hell up.”
Baker smiles darkly, close to North’s face. “I’d kill you in a heartbeat.”
“That’s enough Nick!” Julia bursts. “He’s doing what he thinks is right, just like we are. Leave him alone.” All eyes are on her now and she wishes she could have kept her mouth shut.
Tommy’s magic hands move away from Zeng’s throat and it is partially restored. He can breathe normally, but the wounds are still obvious. Zeng coughs gently to clear out the blood and mucous then speaks. “Let us prepare for Master Leung. Mr. North, we fight for freedom. You fight to give people the illusion of freedom. We will never reconcile. But you did give us your word on the immediate matter.”
North speaks very quietly but clearly. “I will do everything I can to help defeat Master Leung. After that…” SMG and C-7 fire erupts in the hallway but abruptly ends. Everyone moves towards the hall. North is closest and, leading with his flat-black pistol, sees the last of his men motionless on the hall floor. His left eye twitches and he quickly reaches up and rubs that eye. He speaks quietly, “At least when I go down I won’t leave a heartbroken son to find his own way.”
Julia can not believe this. Here? Now, he says something like this? So deeply personal. What does that mean exactly? Is he talking about himself? His father?
“The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials,” Zeng speaks quietly, searching the hallway.
“Oh please,” Baker grumbles then his eyes go wide, finger pulls and a stream of bullets fly into the hallway. “Here he comes!” Baker yells then is hit by a hurricane force that lifts him into the air, throws him clear across the big room and slams him backwards against a marble column. Baker’s bullets arc up and rip up the ceiling as he flies. Before Baker lands, Tommy’s parka bunches at the neck as an invisible hand grabs him and hurls him down the hallway towards the back of the building. He is startled and struggles to get a spell out to slow his flight but too soon he smashes into the wall where the hallway turns and he falls to the ground. Baker and Tommy are both airborne when Zeng’s sword arm is cranked and cracked then Zeng is hurled outside through a large glass window that shatters against his body and he disappears into the snowy outdoors.
Julia and North run towards each other, both searching the room, struggling to catch a glimpse of their phenomenal foe.
“Guys! Is everybody okay?” Julia calls out and only painful moans answer her. She suddenly wants to thank the boys for being here, for trusting her, for everything. When this is over she’ll sit down with them, make them dinner. Tell them thank you. She steps backwards, up against Neil’s broad back.
North is listening with great effort, watching, trying to slow himself down, find Master Leung. He speaks quietly to his secret lover, “Julia, if we can’t take him out, I’m blowing this place. When I say run, you run.”
“But… the paintings,” Julia’s voice is so authentically sad that he turns to her, his face hard set and determined.
“I’m sorry Julia.”
*****
Late in the evening, after they have had met each other assessing the McMichael Gallery, they reconnected at Julia’s Lakeshore condo. Julia had cooked, which she almost never did; she preferred to be cooked for. And she had cooked two perfect peppercorn steaks, baked potatoes, made an organic green salad with fresh herbs and had picked two bottles of Shiraz that she knew Neil would like. She set out the meal like she was expressing her deepest thoughts to him. The placement of the glasses, the arrangement of candles, she poured herself into every act, sharing herself with an honesty that never seemed possible in their talks. As much as she craved to reveal herself to him, most of her was always hidden.
They were both secretive. She had lived the life of a thief, always alone, always at risk. Secrecy was her most powerful tool, her key to staying alive and free. Neil was the top covert operative of the clandestine shadow government, living his life by code and cipher. She could feel his love, read it in his face. But his life, his past, his dreams, his deeper feelings, everything was far below the surface.
They sat across the antique walnut table beside the window. The moon was a sharp crescent, its face shadowed from the sun, and the lake was dark, still, and beautiful. They hardly spoke as they ate. Neil told her the meal was perfect and when he did, his eyes looked so deep and dark and lonesome that Julia saw her self in him, saw her own eyes, her own solitary life and understood completely why they were do drawn to one another.
They drank both bottles together on the couch and slowly undressed each other, their bodies in shadow. They touched each other slowly, bringing their skin to life. It took them time to let go but they knew each other well in this regard, and let touch do the work that words could not. They gradually unwound each other, relaxing, slowly losing the control that made them who they were. And when they finally let themselves release against each other they kissed so hard that their lips cut against their teeth and that bit of pain and the mingling of blood brought them fully into their bodies, fully awake, alive and revealed.
Later, wrapped in a soft fleece blanket on the thick rug, Julia told Neil about the first time she saw “Icebergs”. She was with her mother, a wealthy women by an inheritance that had built over generations like a snow boulder tumbling down a mountainside. Her mother had become an art critic and patron and wielded her power over people like they were her puppets. She proudly displayed her endless parade of commissioned works and boasted endlessly about the unrivalled modernity of her collection. But in those paintings Julia saw only the artists’ contempt for her mother.
At a gallery opening when Julia was 14 years old, feeling awkward and lost in her cold life of privilege, she saw Lawren Harris’ “Icebergs”. And she cried. She stood alone in front of the beautiful cold image like it was a mirror. Her mother sashayed past, monogrammed cigarette case in one hand, flute of champagne in the other, and she laughed. Julia recited her mother’s words to Neil, “Oh Harris and his bleak geometry. Of some minor significance I guess. But no one does landscapes anymore. Thank God. So colonial and… pedestrian.” And she sauntered away as Julia stood rigidly still, face to the wall, hiding all of her tears.
Throughout her sad reminiscence Neil held her in his strong arms, kissed her lavender hair and listened. It was the first time either of them had revealed something so personal, so real. Then they fell back into their shared silence and drifted off to sleep, together.
*****
Suddenly they can see him, moving towards them like a flowing ghost and they open fire. Julia and Neil pull their triggers in unison, backing towards the outside wall, firing desperately trying to stop Master Leung. But then he is upon them and his blows are like cold iron and fast and precise and he is dismantling them piece by piece. Neil roars and smashes his big pistol against the Master’s skull and tries to shelter Julia while she reloads her pistol and fires around Neil’s side, into Master Leung at point blank range. But they are pressed hard up against the wall and the pain makes it clear they can’t take much more. Neil keeps hitting with the barrel of his gun and reaches for his mic switch ready to call in the air strike.
Then the unholy howl of Baker’s M-14 splits the air as he fires from a slouched position against the wall. The bullets tear into Master Leung and he moves away from Julia and Neil. Julia sees Tommy sneaking back towards the Main Gallery Room too, then Zeng leaps in through the shattered window and she feels a flood of gratitude for her friends.
Five on one, they lash out with everything they have against the Master. Baker’s broken back keeps him on the ground but his aim is still true. Zeng’s right arm hangs at his side and he wields his grandfather’s sword in his off-hand, engaging Master Leung close up with a flurry of furious slashing strikes and Tommy, around the corner gestures and speaks softly and mystically pulls Master Leung into full view, hidden no longer.
Julia and Neil stay side by side and, fully reloaded and inspired now, they fire continuously with shared determination and they find their marks.
Master Leung still strikes with shattering force but unhidden he is overmatched by the five. Then suddenly he moves with lightning speed drawing the fire after him, he races around the big room and bullets fly into the walls, ripping up painting after painting. He picks up speed until suddenly he passes Tommy, grabs his hips like an unwilling dance partner and spins him into the room. Baker pulls his M-14 off target as soon as he sees Tommy’s parka but Master Leung is too fast and he shoves Tommy into the last stream of Baker’s deadly fire.
“Aw shit, B…” and then Tommy is silent, his small body punctured and slumping like a sawdust dummy. Master Leung tosses him aside.
Baker howls with rage and sorrow and fires all his hatred at Master Leung. And then his ammo runs dry. He looks to his truck, where his bag full of guns sits across the room and out of reach. He can not move. He pulls a long knife from his boot and, bent in half with a broken spine, waits in the shadow of the wall for Master Leung to come ask him to dance.
Zeng leaps over Tommy’s fallen body continuing to press Master Leung, who is badly hurt now, and fully revealed. Master Leung is fighting defensively, moving away from Zeng with small steps so smooth and quick his feet are a blur. He deflects bullets with his palms and evades most of Zeng’s thrusts and slashes. He stays in motion while at the same time seeming to rest, building his energy.
Julia and Neil fire until their clips are empty and coordinate their reloading. Julia watches Master Leung with a critical eye.
“He’s building up to something Neil.” She moves a bit closer to her lover. “Can we beat him without destroying the place we’re fighting over?”
She glances at Neil. He keeps aiming, firing, having his bullets deflected and if he is feeling any frustration or fear or anything Julia can’t see it. Nothing shows.
“Neil!” Julia stomps her foot hard on the tile floor and he turns to her, surprised, and she says quietly, “I hate it when you ignore me.”
He looks back at Master Leung, pulls off more shots, then glances at Julia’s beautiful bloodied face. They alternate firing at Master Leung with stealing glances at each other. Julia is looking up at Neil. He is so big beside her and she likes that. She is glad for his attention but hating how hard it is to get. He glances at her again, looking right into her eyes and seems about to speak but as if he heard “eyes front” shouted into his face he snaps his attention forward and takes a few steps away from Julia, towards Master Leung.
Zeng is building the intensity of his attacks though he is breathing hard, his face pale and drawn. He grimaces against pain and exhaustion and launches a whirlwind attack, leaping into the air, spinning, throwing a hard back kick, spinning, landing a hard slash with his sword, spinning, kicking again, and making another sword slash before landing. Master Leung stumbles backwards perceiving these new wounds to his body but looking past them. Then he counterattacks.
Master Leung could be a century old. His face is deeply lined with rows of wrinkles, his eyes almost closed under drooping lids. His nose is flat and bent like a boxer’s and is tipped with three tiny white hairs. His long beard and moustache hang like ancient glacial ice. But somehow his lips have held their shape against age. They don’t droop or sag, they have precise edges and seem set, carved from cold stone. They never move, are just set there in place, pressed together, firmly set.
His attack is fast. He becomes a blur as he springs forward at Zeng unleashing six snapping punches into Zeng’s chest and it sounds like a short string of Chinese firecrackers going off as his ribs crack and pop and Master Leung moves on leaving Zeng to collapse to his knees with one short painful, disappointed moan. He sinks to his knees and fights for short shuddering breaths struggling against the blood building up inside his lungs. His breath turns to a horrible gurgle and he lets himself slip to the floor and, with a measured, savoured exhale, finally rest.
Master Leung hits Neil next, still moving in a single fluid attack. Neil fires his last bullet at point blank range. Master Leung is moving so fast Neil can’t brace himself and falls like a child hit by a speeding bus, hitting the ground so hard the floor tiles crack beneath his head and shoulders and for a moment his arms twitch at his sides and his eyes blink wildly. Then his left hand starts moving in twitchy slow motion towards the mic switch on his belt.
“No Neil! Please don’t.” Julia cries. All of her men are down. Her bloodbrothers. Allies. Her lover. Something like family. She has never liked combat, never been comfortable and now she is alone against a legend. She runs. She turns and sprints down the north hall towards the back of the building and throws her empty pistol to the blood-slick floor and slides her hand into her jacket pocket. Maser Leung’s feet move so fast is sounds like rainfall and he catches her quickly with a leaping kick in the back that lifts her into the air and propels her down the hall, following the same path that Tommy had before.
“Good,” she whispers and the hand in her pocket presses the button. The hall explodes with a violent boom behind her and she hears Master Leung curse as the flames and concussive force consume his battered body. Julia hits the floor and tumbles over bodies of monks and agents then slides into the wall to a hard stop.
Marble chunks clatter to the ground, dust clouds fill the air and huge snowflakes drift in through empty windows. Julia hears ringing in her eyes that slowly clarifies into the sound of police sirens. Close. She pushes her back against the wall and slides up to her feet, testing her balance. She wants to get back to the others, to Neil, Zeng, Baker. She wants to know if they are alive. Wants to help. And she wants the painting. She stumbles to a side window and the cold winter air feels good on her burnt face. Peeking around the sill, she sees cops moving along the side of the building. The cops serve the Ascended and if they find her now her life is over.
She runs, limps, then runs. Makes her legs go. She sheds her black jacket, revealing a tight white long-sleeved shirt with a thin hood hanging at the back. She pulls on the hood and it covers her hair and fits snugly around her face. She pulls hard at the waist of her pants and Velcro side seams give away to snow-white tights. She runs up the stairs, into a second floor office and to a window on the south side of the building. This is the largest window on the second floor and opens easily, having been oiled last night. She watches a squad of police officers pass below then turn around the back. She leaps and stretches out the jump to get as far from the building as possible. She lands and rolls towards the neighbouring building and lies still in the deep snow. The cold stings her hands and face. She listens, looks carefully, sees no helicopters overhead, determines the best route and moves. Julia crawls, rolls, waits, follow shadows, uses hedges, trees, decorative walls for cover until she is several buildings to the south.
From here she can risk a short look back, something she has never done before. She sees three gas company trucks, eight police cruisers, a big tow truck and a CTV news truck crowding the front parking lot. The gas trucks are backed right up to the front door and burly men in gas company coveralls are loading bodies into them. She knows from experience that even if Baker or Zeng had been alive, they would not be now.
She sees Neil on a stretcher being rushed to an ambulance where a lean man in a dark suit waits, then immediately begins questioning the barely conscious agent as they lift him into the vehicle. Julia is moving again. She can’t help and won’t watch helplessly.
Three blocks south she reaches the sewer cover she unbolted two days ago, drops into darkness and disappears.
*****
The African violets are flowering beautifully. Dark purple, rich pink, snow white, Julia checks them all carefully, picks out dead leaves, rotates the pots so all parts of the plants get enough sunlight. She straightens from the table of plants and looks out the floor-to-ceiling window of her Lakeshore condo. The August sun is bright and the sky is clear and marbled with distant wisps of cloud. White triangles dot the lake and she can see small wakes of the sailboats. None of the sailboats seem to be going anywhere. They start at the port, go out and play in the lake for the afternoon and end up back where the started.
Julia checks her watch then picks up her gym bag from the couch and goes to her training session. She runs on the treadmill for forty minutes, staring at the timer, watching the minutes click down. At three minutes she gets impatient. She wants to be on to the next activity. She speeds up and hits a full out run, staring at the clock, running as fast as she can. The seconds click down and she is going faster and faster and she starts to hate that timer. She wants off this treadmill but makes herself wait and by the time the digits hit 00.00 she has run herself out. She lets the treadmill convey her backwards and she slips off onto the floor and walks slowly to the showers.
In her car she checks her palm calendar. It says “Buy groceries” and she doesn’t want to. She drives to the Art Gallery of Ontario instead where a new Picasso show is opening. She wonders how she feels about Picasso but nothing surfaces. Maybe she’ll have a reaction when she is right in there, surrounded. She walks through rows of ceramic plates from Picasso’s late 40’s Madoura pottery experimentation. Dozens of the plates line the large gallery room. They are decorated with playful, silly faces and whimsical energetic patterns. Julia strolls up and down the rows looking from face to face, a critical script running through her brain assessing each piece, talking to herself about the influences, the ironic twist to the pottery tradition, but she doesn’t feel anything.
She stares at a plate with its big round eyes and a triangle nose, a huge toothy smile and the nub of a ceramic tongue sticking out. The border is decorated with lines, dots, and X figures. The cards reads “Horloge a la langue”. Julia translates out loud, “The clock has the language.” She stares at the plate and her face twists into an offended scowl. “Oh, you’re so bloody clever, aren’t you!” and an elderly couple two rows over turns nervously towards this outburst. Julia smiles blankly and gives them a little wave. Everything is fine here.
Julia pulls her 6 Series Convertible into the underground parking lot. She had forced herself to stop at the store on the way home from the gallery and one token bag of groceries sits in the passenger seat. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head and catches a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She slowly turns her face to one side, then the other and sees just the smallest trace of a scar. She slaps the mirror aside, grabs the bag of groceries then reaches under her seat and pulls out her windbreaker, wrapped into a lumpy ball.
Back in her condo she puts some Evian in the fridge, some apples in the basket then picks up her windbreaker and goes to the living room. She stands in front of the fireplace and unwraps her jacket, pulling out the Picasso plate. She sets it on the mantel, arranges it just the way she wants. Perfectly set there. The face on the plate smiles and sticks out its tongue and she waits for the rush. The patrons saw nothing. The security saw nothing. Alarms, cameras, nothing. She didn’t prepare, didn’t plan. Just took it. Who else could do what she can do?
She waits, stares at the plate and its foolish face then the scowl returns to her. She steps forward and grabs the plate and hurls it into the fireplace where the fifty year old ceramic shatters into thick shards. She reaches in and grabs three of the biggest pieces and throws them against the fireplace mirror and it cracks and tilts wildly on its mount. And that make her even madder so she pulls the mirror off the wall and throws it into the table of African violets. Pots break on the slate floor and soil cascades down the window, broken mirror pieces go everywhere and the plant table tips backwards. Its back legs catch on the rug so it stops, wedged between the window and the carpet. Julia reaches and yanks the carpet hard so the furniture all shifts and the plant table falls hard to the ground and the last flowers crash onto the floor.
*****
After the battle she had made her way to the very private clinic of Dr. Jared Holk. He is a skilled physician, works for cash, has a back entrance to his office, and for the right price is perfectly discrete. She left Dr. Holk’s office with 43 stitches and a bag of painkillers. After that she slept for a long time.
It was difficult to get information of course. The news reported a gas line explosion at the McMichael and said there was evidence of a break in. Police were investigating. No charges were ever laid and the story drifted out of public consciousness as newer shocks and scandals were inserted into it. The surviving pieces of art were sent to various other galleries. “Icebergs” never showed up in any collections so must have been destroyed. There wasn’t enough left of the collection to justify rebuilding the McMichael. The Group of Seven collection had been hacked down to a dozen intact paintings and another seven that were restorable but permanently damaged.
Julia had no help now. The rebels were never a big organization, never had too many warriors in its ranks. She knew there were some others out there, Mescaline Friday, a semi-lunatic mechanical engineer. Mick McGough, a semi-professional wrestler and full-time drunken brawler. She had tried to find both of them. Spent weeks searching the places she had seen them before, then places she imagined they might haunt. She searched the phone book. Tried phone numbers she thought she remembered. But she never found help. She wondered how she might recruit new members. Watched people at the gym. Wondered how Adam Hightower used to do it.
She tried to locate Neil. He had never given her his address. She had a couple of phone numbers he seemed to cycle through quickly but none of them were active. His phone numbers were rarely functional for more than a week or two. They had mostly rendezvoused at hotels, basements of public buildings which Neil had keys to (storage rooms of the courthouse, boiler room at Robart’s Library at the university, even a sparsely furnished room in a condemned tenement house that had a clean bed, small kitchen appliances and enough food on its bare shelves to last months. Julia had put up with those places for six months then finally invited Neil to her condo. He refused for weeks but eventually joined her there for dinner, but he never stayed overnight.
In her search, Julia broke into every place she had ever met with Neil but everything was gone, dark, empty. She didn’t find a single trace of him, or her, as if their entire relationship had never existed.
Twice, in the months after the battle, Julia risked the drive by the McMichael gallery. She wanted to know if there was any activity there. If the gallery was still significant. But it was gradually torn down in a very unhurried demolitions project. Both times there were two or three men working with a small crane, jackhammers, crowbars, tearing out walls, throwing beams and broken sheets of drywall into a large bin. The power of the place must have been in the remarkable collection of artwork, the beauty of it, the placement, the unity of it all. Without the art, it was just a broken down building of no value in the secret war.
*****
It is Autumn before she hears from Neil. It is a crisp day in late September and Julia is returning from an early morning jog. She didn’t think much on the run, listened to the lake, was aware of the wind on her face and her muscles felt strong as she pushed herself forward. She walks into her condo and there he is. Standing at the window in black dress pants and a crisp leather coat. Julia drops her keys on the entry way floor and stands stock still, staring.
“Close the door please,” Neil commands softly.
“I wish Baker was here to tell you to fuck right off.” Julia lets the door slip closed and her eyes well up. “What are you doing here? What’s the point?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice is so soft. Julia hates herself for being concerned about him.
“Neil, turn around. What is happening?” She steps towards him and he turns to her. His face is different. He is pale, thinner. His rich dark eyes seem black and lifeless. One shoulder slopes lower than the other and he looks off balance. Julia sobs and drops her face into her hands. She turns away from the window, away from Neil and he steps towards her, reaching out his strong hands but she quickly and firmly slaps them down and away.
“Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me. I am alone.” She rubs at her tears and wills them to stop. “I want to be alone.”
“I’m sorry Julia.” Neil offers and tries to step closer but Julia moves around the coffee table.
“Stop saying you are sorry! I know you are sorry. You have always been sorry. Since our first date. If I can call it that. You fucked me in a boiler room. That was romantic. I’m sure you apologized to me a dozen times on our first date and you have never stopped. I’m sick of your empty apologies and I’m done with you. Now please leave.”
“It wasn’t easy for me to get here.” Neil’s face is so pale. He looks like a four day old cadaver.
Julia feels cold. Somewhere she feels compassion for him. Maybe sympathy. Or just pity. She isn’t certain. But her heart is frozen and she just stares at him. “So what. Nothing is easy. I don’t really have anything to say to you now. You got what you wanted from me, I’m sure. I can’t believe I slept with you in all those gross places. You used my team to defend the Rouge Valley site, and you failed us, failed me in the Gallery battle. All my friends are gone. You are a nightmare, Neil.”
Neil rubs his face, with his hand over his forehead, then slowly over his empty eyes, his nose and sunken cheeks, his lips, then slowly over his chin. He looks at Julia and says nothing. He walks towards the door with a slight limp.
“You weren’t planning to stay long anyway, were you?” Julia is looking at the floor, deflated, slouching. “Why did you come here Neil? Please…” and her tears come again and she hides her face in her hands and turns away.
“There was one last thing I needed to do.” He points over to the fireplace where a large square package, wrapped in thick kraft paper is leaning.
Julia knows what it is and her shoulders shake and she sobs. She wants Neil to get out and she wants him to stay and hold her in his strong arms. She hears the doorknob turn and she asks, “Am I ever going to see you again?”
“No.”
“Has it been worthwhile? Being the champion of the shadow government. Has it all been worth it?”
“No.” His voice hollow and distant, he walks out into the hallway and the door slips shut behind him.
Julia sits on the floor in front of the fireplace and slowly unwraps the painting. She tosses aside the paper and leans the frame back against the marble surround. Slowly, she revisits the deep, bruise coloured sky, the cold blue-white icebergs, and the ripples in the bottomless black water. She sits, completely alone, and stares into the painting like it is a mirror.