Chapter 11:"The best of buddies"

The megabus set off for DC at eight am. It was a bright day, and the sun shone through the few clouds in the sky as Patrick looked out of the huge glass window. He had of course taken a seat on the second floor, a since-childhood preference of his.

It had been quite a challenge to convince his sister that he was going no matter what. She lately had been making sure to keep him close by, ever since the incident with the house back in West Village. The journalist understood, and rarely slept in his own apartment any more. Besides, what was not to like about the company of Elaine and the kids? He enjoyed being around family, and he was sure Jake and Maya felt the same.

Although the ride was a fair length, time seemed to slip by fast. On the way, Patrick went over his research on the OEE, and also the directions he needed to take to get there once the megabus reached its destination.

And so he arrived. Unfortunately, the weather told a different story than back in New York. Great clouds covered the sky, and the streets looked dank and gloomy. The journalist stepped out from the bus stop onto the sidewalk and began his trajectory. Luckily, the offices of the International Trade Administration weren't far, and so he arrived in just under a half hour of steady-paced walking.

He looked up. The great building loomed above him, the countless pillars holding it up grey and strong. DEPARTMENT OF COMMERCE read the words written in stone above three black sets of double-doors. Quite the impression. Patrick took a deep breath, walked up the steps and entered the middle doors.

Inside it was more pleasant. The floors were carpeted and the sturdy doors blocked out all the noise from the street. Patrick walked up to the ladies at the reception desk and asked for the office of Marcus Wood.

"Who's asking?" inquired one of the unsmiling women. She was plump and looked short sitting in her wheeled chair.

Patrick hesitated before answering. "The press."

The lady tried unsuccessfully to conceal a snort. "I'm afraid you'll need to do better than that to-"

"I have an appointment." he interrupted her sternly.

She raised an eyebrow, and sighed. After checking her computer screen, she nodded. "Third floor. Doorway at the end of the hall, you can't miss it. Take the elevator."

Patrick did as told. No time or need for a thank you. He reached the door, which had a golden plack saying "Marcus Wood", and below, "Head of the OEE". You know, just to make it clear. The thing was quite shiny, recently made.

"Excuse me, do you have an appointment?" asked a fellow behind a desk, off to the right.

What a nerd, thought Patrick, but instead mumbled a yes.

"Great. Mr Wood will be available in about ten minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, the PA let him through.

It was a nice office. There was a beige couch to the right, and a wooden cabinet against a glass wall to the left. A great rug was spread across the floor, with strange shapes and patterns. Patrick guessed it was oriental. At the far end, there was a man at a big desk, and finally, behind him a wall with many shelves, containing everything from books to framed diplomas and pictures to bizarre artefacts and many other objects.

The man himself seemed to be writing something down on a piece of paper, intervally looking up at his DELL computer screen. It was him alright, that shiny plastic skin could be identified from a mile away.

"Right, you've got five minutes. I have a meeting for lunch that I cannot miss, so I recommend you make it quick." he said, still not looking at Patrick.

Patrick cleared his throat. "I'd like to ask a few questions about Alan Chamberlain."

Wood stopped what he was doing, and looked up, taking off his glasses. "No."

Patrick half-smiled. "Feared so."

The other man crossed his brows slowly. "Wait a minute, I know you. You're... you were the guy at Elaine's house. Her brother, right? What's the name? Ah, Darren, that's it."

The journalist waved a hand. "Patrick, please."

"Right. Well, what d'you want to know? Hell, you probably know more than I do, you living with his sister and all."

Patrick hesitated. "How do you know that?"

Marcus was blank for a split-second, before revealing a goofy smile. "You must've told me. Take a seat."

Patrick gently sat down on a hard plastic chair facing the desk. The couch must've been above his pay-grade. Only for the privileged, important people with important business, not just some reporter. "Right. So. Were you and Alan close?"

A simple, stupid question to start off with. Were you close? Pff, he may have even taken it too far.

Wood scoffed. "Of course we were. The best of buddies. After what happened...." He shook his head slightly. "It was hard, you know?"

Sure it was, thought Patrick, his eyes darting round the room. He then took out a small notebook and began to jot down words. "Popcorn. Mayflower. Indigestion." is what he wrote. He now looked like a rookie, and that's exactly what he wanted Wood to see him as. He had him right where he wanted.

"Uh-huh. So, what's the job like?" he inquired. "Confidential, I know. But how does it feel to sit where he sat, work where he worked, do what he did... or should I say undo?"

The other man abruptly seemed tense. In an instant, he gripped the arm of his chair, but then let go again. But it was too late; Patrick had seen and registered the gesture. Wood narrowed his eyes.

"Undo? Are you referring to...?"

"Yes. You appealed to take away the restrictions on the dealings with Oman. If I recall correctly, said restrictions were only imposed no more than nine weeks ago, fruit of your... best buddie's actions."

Wood took a deep breath. "The whole thing was a mistake. Alan - Mr Chamberlain - didn't know what he was doing. I simply restored order and security, to the benefit of this department and to all of the United States, as of that matter."

"It's funny. Security was the main factor for Alan's suspicion of Oman. He believed there was something going on, illegal shipments. Arms dealings, perhaps. Drugs, even. However, your intentions are the complete opposite, but still under the name of security."

The other raised an eyebrow. "There isn't anything funny about it."

"One word: irony. To tell you the truth, I think Alan was murdered by an underground mafia here in New York."

Wood burst out into laughter, but it sounded forced and maybe even a little nervous. Was that a tinge of awkwardness? However, the journalist's expression remained completely indifferent. He nodded slightly.

"Ah, now that... that wasn't irony. I'll be honest with you, Marcus: both of us know that there is more to Alan's death than what the media says, what so many people think. Yes, something dark, deep, dangerous, and certainly not funny at all. And I intend to find out what that something is."

Patrick stared right into Wood's eye, as the last remains of the other's smile disappeared. And that is how they stayed.

"You naive little pulp. You have absolutely no idea what you're trying to get into. I could destroy you with the snap of my fingers. The snap of my fingers! A few words, and you're done. Game over. So I recommend you watch that mouth of yours, or things are going to go sour, for you and for those people you call family."

Now it was Patrick who gripped his seat. "Really? Are you willing to take such a risk? What are you going to do, Marcus? Send me to prison? Eliminate me, dump my body in the Hudson? Or will I end up like your pal Alan? Then it would be you watching my body rot up at Hunts Point."

The man's eyes practically burst into flames, opening wide in horror.

"Yes." affirmed Patrick, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. "I know about that, and perhaps some other things, too. So you tell me, Marcus. I want to see you give it your best shot."

There were a few seconds of silence, as the two stared at each other, breathing heavily.

Patrick suddenly spotted the piece of paper that Wood had been writing on. He was only able to read one word in capital letters before the other man saw what he was doing and stuffed it inside a drawer: CENTAURUS.

"What's that?" he asked.

"None of your business."

"Alright." The journalist took out his phone and googled the name. He then read out loud: "Centaurus is a multinational company, with bases in the USA, Spain, Oman,..." He stopped "I think that's all I need to know. Unbelievable."

"What?" asked Wood. He did not look happy at all.

Patrick looked at him in the eye again. "You... you are their puppet, aren't you?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Oh c'mon, Marcus, who are you trying to fool? You work for them. The people that killed my brother-in-law, and most likely the people that burned his house down. You did as told, Alan didn't, and he got killed for it. That's why you want to reverse the law, they need you to do so! I'm not an idiot, anyone can make the connection."

"Stop wasting my time. You are completely insane, a lunatic! Go explain your conspiracy theories to someone else!"

"This ain't no conspiracy. I am going to get to the bottom of this, and I am going to find out the truth. Not today, not tomorrow, but I will. I can assure you that."

"You and whose army? Your network of street rats?"

"And there it is again. You know a lot of things about me, Marcus, and we've only met once, briefly. Me living with Elaine, my contacts on the streets, the fire,... you know this because you have been informed. I am now getting the impression that I have none other than a target on my back. What else, a mic under the table, in your pocket? Correct?"

"Nonsense! As I said, I have a meeting. I must be off!"

"You coward. There you were, looking at Alan's body, seeing what a mess he had made. You might as well have committed the crime yourse-."

"STOP! Stay away from me, and I'll stay away from you. You have no business with the OEE, or Oman or any of it. You hear me?"

"All I heard was a fool trying to save his own ass."

And with that, the journalist got up and headed to the door.

"They'll kill you!" shouted Wood. He sounded agitated, desperate even. "These people... they'll take everything you have, and then they'll kill you and the ones you love. Or..."

"Or they use you to their advantage. I get it. You become no more than a puppet, a card for them to play. I wonder what option you went for?"

"You think I had a choice?! They blackmailed me, threatened to kill my boy! Eliminate him from the system, that's how they put it. What could I do?! I... I tried again and again to convince Alan to do the right thing. For his and his family's sake! But no, he boldly marched on and went through with it. No surprise he ended up like that, by the river."

There was a silence, and the journalist could practically feel the hopelessness on Wood's face. Patrick then took a deep breath and continued.

"You know what I say? I say let them try. I'm here, so they can come and get me. Goodbye, Marcus."

The journalist marched back down the hall, his bag slung around his shoulder. He was in such a rush he didn't even think about the elevator. Down the stairs he went, his mind racing along with him. When he finally reached the bottom he walked across the hall and out into the street.

It was raining heavily outside, but he didn't care. He needed to get away from there, to walk it off. It was only now that he realized he was shaking greatly, trembling like a leaf in the wind. He felt agitated, nervous, for his heart was beating fast.

His pulse thump-thumped in his ears, and the adrenaline... it didn't stop pumping.