Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“Eighty?” she offers. “I also charge by the hour.”

John inspects her through a narrow opening. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.” She eases a knee through the door gap. “I’m legal.”

“You should be at home.”

“Fifty?” She tilts her head in a plea. “Please, I need the cash.”

If he were back as an active duty cop he would’ve arrested her there and then. “No, thank you.” He tries to close the door again but this time the young lady foils the attempt with her cheap sequin handbag.

“Twenty dollars till midnight.” Her voice quivers. “I’ll even throw in a massage.”

John pauses to think. The young lady takes notice and peddles her wares. John swings the door wide and wrestles her arm away. She staggers backwards, surprised and hurt.

“Wait here,” he says, and closes the door and latches it behind him.

A moment later he returns to find the young lady faithfully waiting, her eyes now glazed over with tears. He takes her hand and slaps two 50-dollar notes onto it. She stares incredulously at them.

“Go home and put your nose in your books,” says John. “You should be saving your passion for the one you’ll marry.” And then he shuts the door.

The door clicks shut. Clara finds her lower lip trembling and wonders if the emotion associated with her performance had been for real. With the back of her hand she swipes away her tears and most of her make-up. She calmly treads the carpet on her way out, her expression returning quickly to one of frigid apathy.

Back in the room John checks his equipment and finds Landon where he has left him. A reproduction of Landon’s first journal entry sits in a folder on the table, scarred in scribbles of red ink. The names Qara Budang Tabunai and Harriet are conspicuously circled. He sits at the edge of the bed and mulls over the mystery behind them.

A pulsing red light on his console signals an incoming call. He adjusts his earpiece and speaks. “Sunray.”

Thaddeus’ voice comes through the line. “Status just jumped another notch.”

“I got the message,” says John. “When’s Internment?”

“Any time now. They got an SX through.”

John’s stomach churns at the grim news. “For who?”

“Don’t know yet. Noticed anyone?”

John polishes his face in his hand. “No one’s following. I don’t think I left any trails that could be picked up.”

“There’s another thing. You remember that journal you brought in?”

John glances at the folder beside him. “What about it?”

“We ran a scan of it against the Ghost database. Turns out the only other operative that has it is Marco from Ops-B Division.”

“Shit… Marco…”

“He doesn’t play the administration thing.” Thaddeus’ voice cackled. “In a compromise he’ll just go for what’s convenient. This guy’s got a reputation for manipulating the SX protocol. If he sees you, you’re dead.”

“Yeah, I know how it works,” says John.

“They want you to bring your Chronie in,” says Thaddeus. “You think he’s worth it?”

“Don’t know.” John buries his face in his hands and wishes he could drift right off to sleep. “If we make the move the Other Side’s going to come down hard on us, and the worst part is, I don’t know who I’m up against.”

“I could get you some back-up,” says Thaddeus.

“I need another favour.”

“Go on.”

“If something happens to me, Ginn has the right to know.”

“For heaven’s sake, no names over the secured line. You of all should know this better than anyone else.” There is a pause before the earpiece cackles again. “If this leaks your entire family will be tracked. And even I can’t change that.”

“She has the right to know,” says John. “Take it as a part of my will. She has to hear it from you because you’re the only person I trust.”

A longer pause. Anticipation seizes John over the ringing silence of the receiver, then Thaddeus’ voice returns. “Let me think about it.”

“Don’t take too long. If things are as hot as they seem, I might not have much time.”

“I know,” says Thaddeus. “When are you bringing him in?”

“After one final probe,” John answers. “I want to know who the Tracker is.”

“It’s your call. Meanwhile keep yourself snug and safe.”

“Any idiot knows that. We better hang up now.”

13th February 1942, Friday

My name is Anton. It’s two hours past midnight and I’m writing by candlelight. The air raid siren is moaning but I see no one taking shelter, perhaps for want of sleep.

It is such irony that the Jap bombers have to fly high to evade our very accurate ack-ack, and in doing so they have to bomb indiscriminately because they can’t fly low enough to drop their bombs accurately. A shophouse in the city and my house in the suburbs would stand equal chances of being hit.

Yet everyone is tired of the raids. They’re willing to sleep it off by the poor odds of a bomb hitting their home. Just yesterday I saw a crowd watching planes battling in the midst of a day raid. Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t dash into a shelter at the first siren and waste my day there, either. Some say we should take cover only when we hear ack-ack fire. Then again there would be no ack-ack fire if our planes are engaging the Jap bombers.

A few concede that the best solution is to wait until the bombers are overhead, just before they drop their bombs. But what they ought to do is put up more roof spotters to authenticate the threat before sounding the siren.

We finally closed Robinsons after a bomb struck us for the 2nd time. It went right through the roof of the northern wing and blasted out the front of the men’s department, just yards from the café. The general manager has been most gracious to offer the homeless food and lodging at the furniture section—most of them even got to bathe in sparkling new bathtubs. It was sad to flush them from our basement: Caucasians, Chinese and Indians. Had a few Malays, I think. We also cleared out valuables and destroyed our wine stock this afternoon. All gas lamps have been extinguished since the first bombs fell. Feels like such a long time ago. Now it is dark everywhere. It is no longer unusual to see an unlit street or headlights wrapped in burlap.

The mood is grim after this morning’s air raid. From the grapevine I gather that things are steadily deteriorating for the defenders and that a most bloody battle has been raging at Pasir Panjang since this morning. The smoke from the burning Normanton oil depot has filled the sky for days. We were made to believe an elaborate fabrication intended to prevent undue panic.

Everyone now believes we are going to fall.

I have heard that the Japs love Indians. If that is true then I reckon Amal will be safe. They probably love Malays too and hate the Chinese to the core. I can’t help but wonder what they’d think of me.

It’s such pity to close the store. Everyone loved the café—my café, because I’ve been running it alone since the first air raids. Many gathered there for their elevenses and from them I heard of a great many things.

I used to think the Great War was bad. This one can only get worse.

Count to Arthur: 1,298 of 5,475 days

ANTON AWOKE TO the fan’s icy draught. The ward was dark but dawn wasn’t far because he could hear the hooting whistle of the Asian koel. His sleep was restless. He drew a deep breath in a yawn and filled his nose with the sharp twang of iodoform disinfectants.