The end of The Zorbs

[Leslie]

THE ZORBS cont 10

Chipping Away.

It was four weeks before Feefer received any information concerning his planned move to Australia. During those weeks he returned to his area of work in Nepal, happy to be riding about in the mountainous region, in charge of his own affairs, out of the crowds, not wondering which of the people might be a Security Agent dogging his trail, but aware that the tell-tale chip was still inside his body. He was already letting his hair grow longer.
The call came on his mobile phone, the RRVS standard model that he always carried on his travels, a basic, solid phone designed to survive hard living, with no frills, no fancy cover and no screen or camera. An accented voice announced itself as representing Amal Bucktar’s Leather Store and said that the goods he had ordered were expected to arrive on a date two months in the future. His immediate reaction was a feeling of disappointment that it was such a long time to wait; the thought lasted only a moment as he considered the planning and preparation he must make.
After a little calculation he contacted Headquarters via the computer at one of the field posts and gave four weeks notice of his intention to take a month-long break to which he was entitled, saying that he wanted to explore the city of Delhi. It gave time for the managers to arrange cover.
It was too soon to start growing a beard; as a main item in changing his appearance he couldn’t leave behind witnesses who knew about it.

Life for an itinerant doctor with the RRVS could have some odd facets. Most of the nurses staffing the field posts were from European backgrounds and peculiarly isolated among the native population, so a visit from a similarly European (male) doctor was usually warmly anticipated. The doctor was often expected to provide the nurse with some life-enhancing treatment, a minor reality that had been whispered to Feefer between introductory talks on his arrival, and one with which he had complied after only brief reluctance.
At field post 16 he was relieved of this duty, not that he would have minded fulfilling it as the nurse there was one of the more attractive ones, but she was having an affair with the handsome son of a local Chief.
Alone for the second night at field post 16, Feefer settled down to read one of the dog-eared paperback novels that the organisation supplied. When he realised that he had read one paragraph three times and had no idea what it said, he decided to deal with what was really on his mind. The chip was still in his abdomen and it had to be removed. The necessary surgery was actually within the abilities of the resident nurse, but he could not ask her, or anyone else, to do the job; removing a tracker chip was a criminal offence and would put Feefer and whoever did the removal on the wrong side of the law. If the fact were discovered their professional careers would certainly be over and they would probably go to prison. There was no option: he had to do the operation himself.
He had performed similar procedures a number of times – on other people, but to operate on himself was a different matter. To cut someone else with a scalpel was routine, but could he cut himself?
Questioning whether he could carry it through, he went into the rudimentary operating theatre and gathered a collection of instruments, setting them out in careful order on a tray. The tray, with its collection, he placed on a wheeled stand.
Next, he went to the shower room, stripped and washed himself thoroughly.
Returning to the operating theatre he swabbed his abdomen with antiseptic liquid.
He brought the trolley and tray with the instruments close to the make-shift operating table and climbed onto the table, set so that he was slightly in a sitting position.
Taking a syringe from the tray he filled it from a small bottle and injected himself in three places in his abdomen. He waited for the fast spreading numbness to take effect, testing with the tip of a scalpel. Assured, he gritted his teeth and made two small cuts in his body. His fingers felt the familiar resistance, his abdomen sent no signals. There was relief on the physical side but no denying the nausea.
He knew fairly accurately where the tracking chip was positioned. Now came another familiar procedure – when it was performed on someone else; it was comparatively simple and, for what he was to do on himself, not especially invasive. First, he inserted through one of the incisions a manipulating rod tipped with an illuminated camera. This wirelessly transmitted images to a monitor. A brief exploration showed Feefer the object he sought. Through the second incision he inserted a similar rod tipped with a claw designed to cut or to grip. He had performed this kind of operations on patients a number of times, always fascinated by the reality of viewing the inside of the body and, from outside, controlling instruments that were performing the manoeuvres. What he was doing now was different; he felt like two people at the same time, the one calmly performing a surgical procedure, the other squirming at this invasion of its own flesh. The one kept telling the other not to be squeamish, not to think it was going to be sick. Fortunately the surgeon was dominant and his hands did not shake.
No great dexterity was required to bring the claw to the chip, free it from cushioning tissue and extract it.
With both tools removed from his body, Feefer applied strips to pull the lips of the small incisions together and protect them. They would heal in days.
It had all been quite brief and straightforward. He lay back and found that his face and head were running with sweat. He allowed himself a brief rest.
He aided recovery by oral administration of whisky while he put on clothes, after which he returned to the operating theatre and cleared up evidence of his activities, sterilising the instruments and the chip. The tell-tale tracker he sealed into a small plastic bag which, from then on, he carried with him.

Feefer stopped shaving only a couple of days before his leave of absence started. The fair stubble was not particularly noticeable, though as he had forecast the whiskers grew quickly.
Released from duty, he started his journey to Delhi with a leisurely horseback ride wanting to allow as much time as possible for the beard to grow before getting back amongst people. He passed a week this way and the beard was growing well.
He switched to the rail service for the long run through India to the city. By the time he arrived there he had tucked his Feefer Burghend identity card away, moved his Fred Bowerman passport to the front of his wallet and assumed an Australian accent.
Worryingly, the growth rate of the whiskers had slowed. He wondered whether the RRVS would have notified Security that Doctor Burghend intended visiting Delhi, wondered if anyone was looking for him on the streets, if they would recognise him through the inadequate disguise, check on his hotel and find him registered as F. Bowerman.
He explored Delhi, doing the tourist things, visiting the usual sights but always paying attention to the people around him, checking whether he saw a person more than once, whether he was being followed. The tracker chip would confirm that he was in the city, if Security ever checked; whether they would recognise him was what mattered.
A week before the date that Amal Bucktar had given him, Feefer made a couple of purchases; he bought a cheap pendant locket and a tube of superglue. In his hotel room he squeezed some glue into the locket, set the tracker chip in the glue and closed the locket, sealing the whole thing. He had not bought a chain, it would not suit the purpose he had in mind, instead he strung the locket on a leather bootlace and hung it around his neck.
Wandering through the crowded streets he picked out an old beggar-man he had noticed at various of the tourist sites around the city. Feefer went to him and dropped a coin into his collecting tin. The old man chattered benedictions upon his benefactor. Then Feefer lifted the bootlace over his own head and placed it around the neck of the beggar saying, “Take this pendant, old father. It holds great blessings. It has brought me good fortune, now I pass the good fortune to you. Never open it or the blessings will fall out. Never part with it or the blessings will leave you. Remember me in your prayers.”
Feefer walked away from the chip and from the old man who lifted the locket in his hand and looked upon it in wonder and surprise.

At his hotel Feefer told them that he would be leaving next day and settled his bill. Late that night he stowed his few possessions in to a duffle-bag and left the building by a back door, just in case anyone should be watching at the front. He boarded the night train for Calcutta.

He took a room in a modest hotel on the docks side of the city and did a walk-about to get some idea of the spread of the dock gates. Later he went to Amal Bucktar’s Leather Store and asked to speak to the proprietor.
To the proprietor he said,
“I received a message that goods I was expecting had arrived.”
So that only Amal Bucktar could see them, Feefer showed his Burghend card and his Bowerman passport. The Indian businessman invited Feefer to go through to the back of the shop and have a cup of tea.
“Our friend Sandy wishes you to arrive at gate 6 at midnight tomorrow,” Amal told him. “Sandy himself being a ship’s officer will be busy aboard, but there will be a man looking for you, near the gate. You must, of course, be cautious. The Southern Cross is to sail in the early hours.”
Feefer nodded his understanding. They sipped tea in silence for a while. The situation reminded Feefer of films he had seen of espionage and spies in wars long ago.
He asked, “Have you been involved in this sort of thing very often?”
The Indian’s calm face showed a slight smile, “Not so very often. I only work with Mister Sandy and his ship does not come many times each year.”
Another thought crossed Feefer’s mind. “Have you helped any women out to Australia?”
“Not from here. It is too difficult to pass women through the Gate Security, especially white women. There are no good excuses for them to be there. If we must deal with women, they are sent down the coast and taken offshore from some small port in a small vessel to reach the ship.”
Feefer’s mind had been seized suddenly with an idea. “Have any nurses gone out in the last couple of years?”
Amal’s face remained in its calm setting as he thought. “Only two this year and two the year before.”
So Feefer asked his inevitable question, “Do you know their names?”
Amal’s features altered slightly as he considered. “If there is no reason to know, I prefer not to. There is security in some ignorance. However, the last two went together, but I never met them. I remember Sandy said something about their names making him think of Tin Lizzie, which he seemed to think was funny, though I believe Tin Lizzie was some kind of early motor car. The humour I did not understand. But he is Australian.”
He would have to find his answer elsewhere, maybe in Australia. They finished their little tea party and Feefer wandered out into the streets. That evening, for want of any other ideas, he went to the bar where he had first met Sanderson, had a few drinks, sank into a reflective mood and silently reviewed the years of his life and the loyalties that had led him to this place and time. The faint chance that he might find the nurse who had gone to Australia, and that she might be his Liz, cheered him a little, but the hope was not strong enough to cover his sadness at the thought that he would never see his parents again.

Next morning he stayed in his room, having a vague idea that less exposure kept him safer. At mid-day he went out to have something to eat, then returned to his room. In the evening he packed his duffle bag and wandered to the familiar bar; there was a lot of time to kill but he took care not to drink too much, intoxication and loss of judgement could be costly.
By ten-thirty he decided he had drunk enough and impatience was making him restless; taking up his bag, he went out and began to wander the streets in the general direction of the docks, the area growing less salubrious and more ill lit the nearer he got.
At eleven o’clock he was standing in the shadow of a building looking across a wide stretch of tarmac at gate 6. Beyond the gate and the wall there were bright lights, movement and many noises of activity. He longed to be on that side of the gate, but he was too early. People came and went but no-one was obviously waiting for him. He turned and strolled back into the warren of alleys and narrow streets.
A voice spoke loudly close behind him, “Feefer Burghend!”
Automatically, he stopped. He realised at once that he had given himself away, but he turned and knew that he must try to bluff it out.
He could not see clearly who had called his name; there was a darker shadow in the shadows, a slim, slight figure.
Feefer spoke with a strong Australian twang, “Think you got it wrong, mate. Fred Bowerman’s who I am. Seaman.”
The figure advanced out of the shadows; Feefer recognised the Security Agent who had cautioned him about keeping bad company. The agent said, “I don’t think so. Needing a haircut and a shave doesn’t make you a different person. Not enough to deceive someone who is interested in you – as I am. Thought it might be worth-while to keep an eye open when the Southern Cross docked; looks like I was right, even though the tracker system says you’re still in Delhi.”
Feefer had to keep bluffing, there was no other choice, “Sorry mate. You’re mistaken. I must look like this Burghend bloke, but Burghend I ain’t.”
He turned to walk away. The agent’s voice called sharp and authoritative ,
“Burghend you are, and you’re coming with me. Turn around.”
The command was so positive that Feefer did turn around; a short barrelled pistol was in the agent’s hand and pointing at Feefer’s chest. He stood still.
This was not the kind of situation that occurred often in the Security man’s life, he was relishing his moment of drama. Inexperience was against him and he made the mistake of stepping too close to his quarry. Feefer was even less experienced, but the desperation of the hunted sharpened his responses. He swung the duffle bag and knocked the gun-arm aside, dropped the bag and seized the arm. The two wrestled, but it was a one-sided contest; Feefer was much the stronger and easily took the pistol from his opponent.
They stood apart, the hunted now threatening the hunter. Nothing happened for what seemed to both of them a very long time.
It was the Security Agent who spoke first. He said, in a slightly mocking voice,
“Alright, what do you do now? You can’t take me aboard with you. You can’t leave me here – not alive, anyway. You can’t kill me, can you, doctor? That’s not in your code, not in your nature. You’re in a real fix, aren’t you? What can you do with me until your ship sails?”
Feefer knew he was right. He held the lethal weapon but there was no way that he would use it, not to take life. He could threaten, but a threat that would not be carried through was meaningless. His brain seemed to heat up, thoughts went spinning in his head, he was in a dilemma with no solution. Desperate and frustrated, he turned and stumbled away. At the first corner he stopped and pushed his forehead against the wall, feeling its solidity while his world fell apart.
Having lost his absconder, the agent picked up the duffle bag – at least it should provide evidence of the success of his investigations. H e was still inspecting the outside of the bag when a voice said, “Give it to me,” and a native was beside him and trying to take it away. They tugged the bag to and fro and shouted at each other. The noise penetrated Feefer’s agonies and he looked around the corner to see what was happening. At the moment he did so the Security man uttered a shout that was more of a screech and reeled backward; the native had possession of the bag but he stepped toward the agent and Feefer saw the shine of a blade, immediately he charged in shouting and unintentionally waving the pistol. The native fled into the dark alleys, taking the bag with him before he could stab his victim again.

The Security Agent was leaning his back against a wall but his legs were buckling, he had his left hand pressed against his side and he was breathing painfully. Feefer automatically reverted to doctor, “Let me see,” he said, gently taking hold of the protecting hand and lifting it away. The wounded man allowed him to do it. The man’s jacket was undone and open, there was blood on the shirt, but not a great amount. Feefer moved to open the shirt but realised that one hand was occupied in holding a pistol; he looked around for somewhere to put the weapon. Not wishing to leave it lying in the street, he slipped it into a pocket of the agent’s jacket – after all, it was his.
Feefer ripped the shirt open and inspected the wound. He told the victim, who was almost beyond being interested, “ It must have been a narrow blade, means it was probably quite long. There’s not much blood here, but you’ll be bleeding internally, could be a punctured lung. We must get you to hospital.”
The agent managed a weak smile and there was even a hint of humour in his voice as he breathed, “Well done doctor.”

Feefer looked around, sizing up their situation. He knew where they were and where the hospital was; he also knew that they would find no transport nearby. He took the agent in his arms, ‘like a baby’ or ‘like a bride across the threshold’ crossed his mind, and he was grateful that his enemy was such a small person.
As soon as they reached a busier street Feefer was able to hail a taxi. In such a district the driver was not at all surprised to have his passenger helping an injured friend into the carriage. Feefer ordered him, “To the hospital, fast as you can go.”
The driver whipped his horse to a gallop.

Nurses came forward quickly as Feefer carried the injured man in; he stood by, careful to not be a doctor as the Emergency staff took over.
Someone turned to him and asked, “What is his name?”
Answering honestly, Feefer was able to say, “I don’t know.” By way of explanation, he added, “I arrived just as some mugger stabbed him.”
A nurse was searching the jacket; to her surprise she pulled out a pistol which she waved about dangerously. The surgeon took it from her and laid it aside. From an inside pocket of the jacket the nurse took a wallet in which she found a card identifying their patient as Security Agent Vansont Dulmeer, which seemed to satisfy whatever misgivings they had. Feefer watched with professional interest as they dealt with the injury.
Suddenly he thought of his appointment at gate 6; he looked at his watch, he had barely fifteen minutes to keep that appointment.
He said to the medical team in general, “I have to go. My ship sails tonight”
The surgeon looked up, “You’d better stay. The police will be here and they’ll want a statement from you. Seems you’re the only witness.”
The last thing Feefer wanted was an interview with the police. He wondered how he could escape. If he missed the sailing he became a criminal fugitive, his disguise inadequate, his false passport useless. He stood chewing his bottom lip, trying to think of options, aware of seconds ticking away.
Agent Dulmeer was still conscious, though he had lain with his eyes closed while the team had worked on his body. He opened his eyes and sought Feefer. Mustering breath and strength he said, “Better go shipmate. Better not miss your sailing.”
He managed to raise his right arm and extended his hand. Their eyes, locked on each other, said many things they should not put into words right there. Feefer took the hand and shook it carefully.
The surgeon began to object to Feefer’s leaving, but a Security Agent had authority, “I can deal with it,” he breathed, and that was the end of the matter.

Another bone-shaking, galloped taxi-ride got Feefer to Gate 6 a few minutes after mid-night; with Dulmeer’s blessing it seemed safe to go openly to the rendezvous.
The crewman who still waited there was surprised and said, “You cut it bloody fine. I wouldn’t have been here much longer.”
At the entrance, Feefer handed his passport to the guard and placed himself in front of the surveillance eye. The passport went into the scanner slot, the scanner and the eye compared opinions, the passport was ejected and Feefer was admitted to the docks.
His escort led him to the Southern Cross, stood aside at the boarding ramp, made an exaggerated waving gesture and said, “Welcome aboard,” directing Feefer to go ahead. With one foot on the ramp he stopped. He made the lifting of the other foot a ceremonial gesture in his mind, the separation of himself from the Indian sub-continent, from the Northern Hemisphere, from Zorb-land, from all his past. Feefer went aboard.