M7 Mike Costa Lives: Phrenland - excerpt from Novel...

Phrenland - A Dimensional Spy Novel

Michael J. Costa

Chapter 1: Escape

Pop-pop-pop! Automatic gunfire ripped through the public thoroughfare like a flash flood. Two speeding automobiles collided into a fruit seller, spewing unripe oranges and day-old pineapple grown in Hawaii onto the cobblestone road. The occupant of the first car fled on foot to the nearest Church of Christ, nearly missing an ivory fountain containing nickels and copper cents. The occupant, a blondish woman, escalated the tall, wooden staircase with two heavily armed men in pursuit. She stopped for a moment, turned, and delayed one man with a brash kick to his face with one stiletto heel, causing him to tumble backwards into his accomplice. Not waiting to catch her breath, the woman continued up the staircase and into a previously locked room. Then up she went through a now-broken window, to the rooftops. The men approached her with guns drawn, both Uzi in model with silencers. The woman hesitated.

“Now, Madame, give us the Cipher. I won’t ask again,” the man said while cocking his Uzi.

“The whole world will see this. They will know what you people did to the City… And he will come! He will come to destroy you!” the woman threatened while waving a flash drive into the air. A whirling sound echoed just behind her.

Both men exchanged glances and laughed. “No you don’t understand, Madame,” one man said. “We don’t care. Just hand me the Cipher and you can go.”

The woman turned to meet a yellow helicopter rush up to her from below the Church. She quickly jumped onto one landing platform, and then as one man below tried to fire at her she grabbed a hold of his neck using her exposed legs. Then she dropped him a meter up, onto his accomplice below.

The woman looked up. A co-pilot received her from inside the cabin. She recognized him, and smiled.

About two hours later, the woman was escorted to the Bureau of Intelligence in Cornwall. Rows of computer terminals lined the walls and cubicles of the building. Inside a test room, she could see experimental arms being implemented onto plastic dummies, mostly from covert explosives. She stopped walking upon greeting a blank wall guarded by a tall bronze statue of JFK, to whom she shook one bronze hand, or rather twisted it. The blank wall revolved on a hidden platform, revealing a marble stairway to some hidden control room outfitted with futuristic technology.

“I have it. I have the Colovian Cipher,” she smiled in a room filled with video cameras all pointed at her. The sleek, black leather chair before her turned slowly, revealing its occupant. A tall elderly man smiled back.

“I am sure you do, Agent 9. Just set it upon the tray. I will examine the contents later,” said the Spymaster M7 while uncorking a bottle of Ice Cola. Alcohol was prohibited in the Province.

“And Maliz,” he said while looking up. “Forget about Agent 7. He won’t be attending the wedding. Some – business – came up. Oh, one more item. Read today’s paper,” he said.

Agent 9’s brief smile faded. The morning paper headlines flash-backed to another time, a different age, to a time when she was still in College searching for a career; the newspaper read: “Colovian Prince Killed. Cornwall Agents suspected.”

Maliz was not her real name, but one she adopted upon joining the Clandestine Service in Cornwall. She came from a family of spies. Both her parents since retired and now live on an undisclosed island in the Pacific Ocean.

Her real name died in a skiing accident in Montreal, Canada, while on vacationing with Agent 7. She was 27, he was 31. Someone had swiped her identity while in line for a ski lift, then the thief fell off a slight cliff and rammed into a large Oak tree below. It was rare because Oak trees had been planted in a reserve park dedicated to some fringe group of tree-huggers. Her photo ID and all her credit cards were in the thief’s wallet, so this made their way to the local media.

Maliz was an athletic but slender 6.1 blondish Agent 9 of the Cornwall Agency. She specialized in acquiring intelligence, and in Korean Martial Arts. Of mixed ancestry, she could blend in with any crowd, speak a dozen languages, and still be asked if she ever played basketball. Yes, she did, but only in high school. She had a habit of keeping the ball.

Her romantic fling with Agent 7 didn’t start with the Agency. He introduced her to it, but only because they were steady once.

Agent 7 trusted her to keep her mouth shut about what he did for a living. No, it wasn’t his cover in Exotic Real Estate. Though he did own a small island in the Florida Keys, equipped with a small arsenal of spy gear for his “retirement days,” Agent 7 was interested in photography. He always wanted to be a film producer, a movie maker. This ended when his first film captured something else in the background, something that would forever change his life. He photographed a glimpse of some long-dead musician. After this image was confirmed, he then realized that many secret agents have falsified death certificates. They live in the shadows. The musician was reported by the media to have died from a drug overdose; but there he was, alive and walking about. If you can’t trust the media, it’s because they are programmed by someone else. This intrigued him enough into wanting to join this Secret Society. So he became Agent 7, a very good agent. He wasn’t the best; that was his father, Agent L-1.

Maliz was to attend her best friend’s wedding in the suburbs. Actually this was on a cattle ranch, but the cities nearby encroached into the region like a suburb. Maliz knew her from College, as part of her Sorority Gamma Epsilon Omega. They had been roommates once; they shared a bathroom and cosmetics. Her friend was into Mass Communications and World History classes. As part of joining the Sorority, all candidates had to be synchronized swimmers in the College Pool. Maliz met Agent 7 there who was covering for the local College Newspaper, the Daily Trident, as its chief photographer. His photos of her lower half made quite an impression with the Press, and with her, earning his first Official Slap of Sorority Gamma Epsilon Omega. This was presented unto him as a medal during Graduation Ceremonies some time later. Maliz then began her romantic fling with Agent 7. Her roommate had invited both of them to her wedding. Tuxedoes were optional.

Maliz took the newspaper in stride en route to a coffee dispenser in the main hallway. She pressed her fingerprint on the ignition button to start the device, and then selected the option for cocoa-flavored coffee. Her fingerprint scan was obvious; only employees could activate it, due to former budget mismanagement. A digital voice informed her that her coffee drink was ready.

“Thank you, you piece of junk,” she told the device upon picking up the foam coffee cup.

“In another year, your cell phone will be junk,” said a fellow agent.

“Agent 6,” she said.

“Agent 9,” the man replied. “So what’s the situation with the Colovians?”

She dropped the newspaper into his lap as he sat squarely on this cushioned, black leather chair. “The Prince was killed. I haven’t had time to decipher the Code he was carrying.”

“Do you know who did it?” he asked her.

“Who do you think? Jessica’s wedding was scheduled for the weekend. Now this,” Agent 9 said bluntly.

“Ouch,” Agent 6 said openly. “Does Agent 7 even remember Jess?”

“If he does, he doesn’t care for publicity… Now the entire Agency is being blamed. Check under the subtitles, page 4,” Agent 9 said.

Agent 6 fumbled through the newspaper, skipping past a caption for a sexual stimulant and an advertisement for exploding cologne. A random sigh with an “aha!” ended his confusion.

Maliz drank a third of her cocoa coffee drink, pacing near a shuttered window with a view of pigeons and a homeless man reading from a computer cell phone. That was an undercover field agent – we don’t have homeless people in Cornwall.

The intercom interrupted the silence of the room. “Agent 6, Agent 9, the Spymaster requests your presence,” the voice said.

Maliz turned to Agent 6 with her mouth open slightly. Agent 6 said, “I hope it’s important.”

“Yeah, really,” Maliz replied.

Spymaster M7 activated a slide projector against one screen that opened up from the floor in his main office room. The summoned agents filed into the office, amid four other agents in suits. Agent 9 was the only female of that group. Her crisp hazel eyes stared ahead of the general gaze, focusing on the screen with the chemical formula display.

“Gentlemen, we have intercepted a communiqué from Colovia. From our resources, we infer the Colovians were attempting to form a new element. We are not certain about its chemical structure as yet,” M7 said.

“As you can see by the elemental structure, the basic type is derived from a concoction of chemicals found in household elements….” Spymaster M7 read from a prepared speech.

“That looks familiar,” Agent 9 interrupted. The other agents glanced at her discovery, then back to the Spymaster.

“Would Agent 9 like to evaluate this?” M7 replied.

She approached the film slide projector. She smiled slightly to offset the stress of being on the virtual spotlight. “The schematic reminds me of the chemical formula for Tryptophan, a known chemical found in certain foods like Chicken or… Chocolate,” she said.

“Interesting,” Spymaster M7 said at length. “Why the Colovians would want to keep this a secret, I wonder. Regardless, I want Agent 9 and a field agent to investigate this find. I can’t have all my agents in the basket, as we need PR people in the field now.”

“May I?” Agent 6 interrupted. “I volunteer to assist Agent 9…”

“Agreed. Agent 6 will escort Agent 9 to the Colovian Highlands for research purposes only… We cannot risk publicity over any further attack on the stability of the Republic, if it comes to that,” Spymaster M7 concluded. “And Maliz, good luck,” he smiled.

Maliz walked to the garage from the basement level, a small suitcase in her delicate grip. The Agency packed her equipment, including some sensitive items. She met Agent 6 at the car port. He was dressed in a single-breasted, dark lined suit with bowtie and leather cowboy boots. The car, an American made distant cousin of the Corvette, was made of bullet-proof Titanium with armored glass, hidden armaments, and an escape pod. Its sleek gray exterior was met by a luxurious, leather and velvet cockpit, with coffee maker, GPS, and onboard integrated Cellular communications technology.

Agent 6 smiled, tipping his Texan hat against the wind before removing it. Agent 9 was the designated driver.

With the windows rolled up, the car backed out and silently drove outside of the garage, and through an advertisement panel that served as a gate. Maliz drove about ten miles to the airport, then to an off road private airfield for Agents only. The checkpoint guard scanned the license plate and opened up a steel barrier granting them safe passage. A Boeing 797 Jet was positioned on a private runway.

The two agents entered the Jet once normal screening procedures ended, at about 15 minutes’ worth. Maliz sent an email postcard to Jessica, informing her of the postponement of her visit to the wedding as scheduled in a few days. But she should return by then, hopefully.

Agent 6, in his cushioned seat, readied the video screen and air conditioning above. Colovian Highlands await their arrival, in about 4 hours.

Halfway in the flight, due to limited turbulence, Agent 9 examined a snapshot of the chemical formula for Tryptophan, as captured by her lipstick camera. This puzzled her somewhat. Why would the Prince of Colovia kill over an ingredient as common as this? Ah… Oil was common to the Middle East until the invention of the automobile in the West, only then was it valuable, she thought. Okay, what is so special about this drug? And why Colovia? She indexed this in her online directory, thumbing over digital screens like a hockey puck on a concourse.

Agent 6 was sleeping; typical.

Maliz opened up a bottle of Ice Cola and sipped its fragrant brew before closing her weary eyes. She settled into the faux leather pillow, dreaming about Agent 7’s robust yet handsome visage. Then her gaze wandered into a cool pond located in a dense rain forest, with a sign that read: “Welcome to Colovia.” And then reality hit her – where is Colovia?

Chapter 2: Colovia

A thunderclap interrupted Agent 9’s brief sleep on board the 797 Jet. There was some turbulence; the Jet was entering a small storm as new mountains appeared on the horizon. The cool white and gray speckled mountains echoed the trail from the Jet, almost as evenly as the thick rainforests below mimicked a mirage. A set of golden palaces bedecked the surface above some distant clouds. The Jet neared its destination, once it passed by twin waterfalls and a giant sculpture of a winged bull carved from living granite. It was Colovia, Land of the Golden Tongue.

A greeting party met the Jet. Colovia didn’t have many visitors this time of the year. And with the Prince dead, some citizens relished the opportunity of new faces. With that came some suspicion of foreign agents as well… Though Agent 6 and Agent 9 had cover identities.

The Agents rehearsed their identities prior to disembarking. “Maliz is a reporter for a magazine, and I am her cameraman. It seems legitimate,” Agent 6 said.

“Just watch where you point that thing… It’s not a camera, you know,” She added.

“Laser is on stun,” Agent 6 remarked with a grin.

“Ahh Media people, wonderful,” said a man in high fashion garb. “Please come this way,” he smiled broadly.

The Agents walked in the cool passage, its floor covered in gold and malachite tiles and a ceiling of Asian artwork that resembled a temple. Roof tiles were fashioned of gold foil with ivory complements. A single water canal led from inside the Palace, with small floating rafts carrying anything from lit candles to fruit baskets intended for the gods, of whom there were several honored as idols above.

The man who greeted them honored a pair of approaching gentlemen by striking a bronze gong several times. The metallic sound ricocheted against the solid wood walls and brick towers. The man then bowed slightly and returned to the front of the Palace.

One man met Agent 6 warmly. He was of Asian ancestry, with deep black hair braids entwined with golden hair rings, a golden embroidery suit, with simple leather flops as shoes. The other was in a simple double-breasted coat, with a blue Lotus symbol pressed over his heart. He introduced himself as Vizier Nic, pronounced “Nice” in his thick Colovian accent.

“Greetings, I am Vizier Nic. I am Colovia’s equivalent of Prime Minister. This is my Deputy, Omm. He is a mute, but can understand by reading lips. Our Prince Deci was recently killed by a renegade agent we suspect, based on surveillance cameras. Colovia was working on a new technology, so we are suspicious of new people here,” he said.

“I’m curious,” Maliz started. “Why was your Prince killed?”

“We suspect it was because of our new device, that some outside of our walls believe that any new technology is a weapon,” he said. “Colovia are peaceful people. Down below are shepherds, cattle ranches, and farmers. We have a nice rain forest of course, from which exotic medicines are found.”

“Does your new technology have a name?” asked Agent 6 while directing the camera.

“Yes. We call it Phrenland,” Vizier Nic continued. “Our scientists discovered a new Dimension of thought while testing a chemical found in Cacao beans.”

“Would that be Tryptophan?” Maliz dared.

“Why yes, how informative!” Vizier Nic replied. “My the Media knows things.”

“Yes, the Western Media does,” Agent 6 added. “Please continue.”

“We…. The Dimension of Phrenland is only accessible via sleep in one of our chambers. But now, you’ve heard enough. Our chamberlain will show you to your rooms in the Palace below. I bid you good evening,” Vizier Nic stopped.

Maliz and Agent 6 were led to a series of buildings down a short flight of stone steps. The sky was remarkably overcast with rain clouds; a storm was coming. Lightning was seen in the distance. They entered a medium size building made of brick and red granite stones carved irregularly. Its roof was covered in gold and malachite tiles, but the interior had rich carpet and gilded furniture from the Victorian era. It also had Victorian era sanitation technology. When Maliz protested upon seeing this she was greeted by a turned handle and locked front door; the Colovians didn’t want the Media to leave anytime soon.

Chapter 3: In the Palace

That night, Maliz slept on a Queen-size mattress extending from a gilded frame, which was probably older than her by decades. Agent 6 slept on a similar bed in the adjoining room. A shared bathroom separated the two rooms. The room was very quiet, so double-paned windows of modern construction must have sound-proofed the room from the storm outside.

Maliz dreamt that she was walking in this highly decorated hallway, about four kilometers long. It extended underground. She heard distinct voices coming from a locked room below. Someone banged against a wall, hoping for someone to hear it. As she walked down the basement passage, an image presented itself before her; it was a statue with these glowing yellow eyes. The eyes pulsed with energy. Maliz reached out her hand to touch it. Then a rush of energy forced itself from the eyes, with the name of Agent 7 written in the light. Then Maliz awoke.

Sweating from the nightmare, Maliz calmed herself by breathing techniques she had learned from a meditation class. The room was slightly illuminated by the morning Sun; her watch read 5:35am.

Maliz retrieved her cell phone and activated it. Though reception was poor on account of the mountains, she accessed the Internet from a ground server. Maliz researched nightmares with any connection to the drug Tryptophan. What she discovered shocked her for a minute.

She got up and walked over to the bathroom barefoot. The cool tiles felt warm upon stepping on them. A marble sink with gold fixtures allowed hot and cold water to flow into its basin. A brief washing of her face and hands awoke Agent 6, and his groans could be heard through the door. A dish of fancy hotel soap and other toiletries towered over the wash basin on a separate shelf. One small plastic bottle of Cocoa Butter stood on a medicine cabinet panel, its lid partly open. Hmm…

Agent 6 knocked on the bathroom door four times. Maliz opened it.

“Agent 9, what are you doing up so early?” he yawned. He was dressed in his undershirt and boxer shorts with socks.

“Hi,” she smiled. “I found something about the drug Tryptophan…”

“Oh not work again,” he said. “Maliz try to get some sleep for once.”

“Listen. I had a dream just now,” she started.

“So? I have dreams all the time,” Agent 6 complained.

“Dreams can be controlled using the drug Tryptophan. The drug is found in Cacao beans, as the Vizier told us. Well do you remember what we ate last night?” She asked him.

“No?” he said.

“I had a chocolate muffin,” she said. “It was loaded with Tryptophan.”

“Yes, I see, so Trypto-whatever causes dreams? What does this have to do with the Prince?” Agent 6 asked.

“Vizier Nic mentioned the device Phrenland. Whatever he meant by that I don’t yet know… My dream was about Agent 7. I think he’s being held captive in a dungeon here…” she said.

“So hold on… you think dreams caused by this wonder drug are psychic visions?” Agent 6 asked in bewilderment.

“I still need facts, but the idea has merit. The Prince was working on the new device for months. And Agent 7 wouldn’t have simply left with his work unfinished. I do think he is here,” Maliz said.

Agent 6 smirked slightly. “All right, then. We will search for him once we have permission from the Colovians. We are the Media remember? Surely the Media have rights in Colovia…”

MC 2013.