Nicotine Dreams — MATT DURAND

Edgar Cooke felt a shortness of breath as the boat began its slow approach to the gray stoned platform. The cool breeze masked the slight sweat beginning to form at his browline. It had been years since he had last applied his tradecraft, and the time away cast a shadow of self-doubt upon him. He reasoned that the stakes weren’t what he was generally accustomed to for this particular job, so he needn’t worry. Worst case scenario, he thought, they’d confiscate the contraband and give him a verbal warning to not repeat the stunt. However, he knew word would get back to people at the agency that monitored the location. He figured he would never hear the end of it at social functions. The threat of constant jokes at his expense caused him to approach this job with the same level of attention and detail as any other. He speculated about the level of security measures that awaited him. His mind ran through the meticulous preparation he had put into the package he was smuggling. With each pass over the construction, he became more confident that he would make it through the inspection.

The boat killed the engines and drifted to a stop against the platform. Two workers stepped out to catch the lines and secured them to their respective cleats like clockwork. After one of the workers completed his tie-off, he relocated to the center of the platform and held out his hand. The package of interest, wrapped in plain kraft paper, was about the size of a shoebox. Edgar locked it underneath his arm as he took the outstretched hand of the worker.

In a thick Italian accent, the worker spoke the few words of English he knew. “Follow this way, please,” he said.

Edgar walked a few paces behind the worker as they climbed the weaving cobbled walkway. Decades of training caused him to assess his surroundings needlessly. He gauged the survival rate of hitting the water from the height they were currently at. He calculated how many workers he thought he could incapacitate before triggering an alarm. Then he moved onto the buildings. From his current vantage point, he counted three or possibly four structures, with none rising higher than five floors. He played out different escape scenarios as his eyes scanned the perimeter for guards. The compound nestled into the sloping hills that sprawled across at least twelve acres of land. The contours of the geography offered up ample hiding spots, he concluded.

Edgar continued to follow the lead worker around a corner of the first building. They walked through a spacious courtyard with ivy-laden arches. The worker held open an all-glass door almost ten feet in height, motioning with his hand to enter.

“Through here, please,” he said.

Upon crossing the threshold, Edgar could see the standard fair of security apparatuses lined up behind a small check-in desk. On initial analysis, he didn’t spot any high-tech devices he thought his shrouded package wouldn’t pass. He walked up to the receptionist.

“Hello, I’m Edgar Cooke. I’m here to see Charles Cooke.”

The slender woman with ink-black hair, tied in a neat ponytail, nodded back to him with a smile. She typed and clicked a few keys on the computer to her right. The clacking sounds of modernity felt out of place for the antique structure he stood in.

“Yes, Mr. Cooke. Thank you. We have you here on the list. Once you go through security, Matteo will escort you to his room.”

Edgar gave a courteous nod as he began to walk over to the security station.

“Thank you,” he said.

The moment of truth was upon him. The moment to prove whether or not his skills had abandoned him. One guard sat behind the conveyor belt, watching an x-ray monitor. A second guard stood on the other side of a metal detector, waiting. A third guard was in front and stepped forward as Edgar approached.

“Please put your package on the conveyor belt. Empty your pockets and place the contents in the tray. Also, remove your belt and shoes and place them in the other tray.”

Edgar set the package down first. He removed the loose objects from his pockets as he watched the package disappear into the black x-ray box. Edgar casually directed his gaze toward the guard manning the monitor as he removed his belt. He squinted to try and discern any reaction from the guard’s face. Seeing none, Edgar bent down to remove his shoes. He stood and put them in the adjacent tray and then proceeded through the metal detector. The second guard moved next to the package coming down the belt.

“May we examine what’s inside more thoroughly?” the guard asked.

“It’s a gift. Is this completely necessary?”

The second guard looked to the guard behind the monitor, who was now standing.

“We understand, signore. It is for the safety of the staff and patients that we are thorough. It is a candle and some tea, yes?”

“That’s correct. There’s also a small notebook and a writing pen for him. The doctor said these would be calming gifts to give someone here.”

“We generally don’t allow flammable objects in.”

“Can we make an exception?”

The two guards came closer together and spoke in whispered tones. Edgar caught a quick, suspicious dart of the eyes from the guard behind the monitor. They were going to make him open it. Thankfully, this was part of the plan.

“I’m sorry, signore. We can’t let the candle go through.”

“The rest of the objects are fine?” Edgar asked.

“Yes.”

“Ok, please try not to damage the wrapping too much.”

“Yes, signore.”

The second guard returned to his post and produced a small folded knife from his pocket. With a simple flick of his wrist and the knife was open. With surgical precision, he slid the blade through the craft paper and peeled it back. He closed the knife and removed the top of the inner box. He reached in with both hands and extracted the candle as though it were a beating heart. He positioned it on the side of the package and reaffixed the top back on the box, then folded the paper as best he could to its original state.

Edgar emptied the objects from the tray and then took the package from the guard.

“Sorry, signore. You can pick up the candle on your exit if you wish. Thank you for your understanding.”

“Everyone has their job to do,” Edgar said.

At this point, the thin man with dark features, Matteo, stood at the start of a long corridor. He made a slight circular motion with his hand directing Edgar to follow him.

“Hello, signore. My name is Matteo. I have been the lead caretaker for Mr. Cooke. His room is right this way.”

They walked in silence. Large windows filled the expanse with a cascade of light. The bright yellow glow that it created exuded an almost heavenly atmosphere. The quietness further amplified the calm corridor, only interrupted by subdued chirps from birds outside the glass. As a result, Edgar felt like he was shouting as he spoke to Matteo.

“How has he been?”

“Like most patients here, he has his good and bad days.”

“Which end of the scale does he fall in on most days?”

“Well, his spirits are still quite good despite the failings of his body.”

“I see. And what is his overall outlook?”

“I’ll let the doctor speak with you about that. He can provide you with more accurate information.”

Matteo stopped at an open door. He gave a pleasant smile and stepped to the side. He extended an arm indicating this was the final destination.

“Mr. Cooke’s room, signore. If you need anything, there is a buzzer on the nightstand.” Matteo bowed and retraced his steps down the corridor.

Edgar walked into the naturally illuminated room. It was neat and tidy. A hospital bed sat to the right, jutting into the space with monitors surrounding it. On the opposite wall of the bed was a squat wooden writing desk with a brown leather chair seated underneath it. There was a compact dresser on the entryway wall with two plants atop it. In front of him, there were three expansive windows. Two modest chairs flanked a tiny table that held a chess set, and sitting in one of the chairs was Charles. He sat, looking out one of the open windows.

“Hello, Dad,” Edgar said.

The side of Charles’ head tilted at the sound of the voice.

“It was good of you to come,” he whispered.

Edgar entered the room and sat down in the unoccupied chair. The package rested on his knees. Charles shifted in his seat and peered at the man before him through pale eyes. “You’ve grown a beard. It suits you.”

Edgar’s hand went to his beard and brushed the scruff with his fingers.

“I’m told it makes me look old.”

“I’d hate to hear how people think I look then.”

Charles was tall and lean. He had the hunch of old age that made him look shorter than he was. His white hair was all but gone, and a few specks of a five o’clock shadow rounded out his face. Frailty seemed to encapsulate his body. The sickness that had overtaken him hadn’t been kind. It was over a year since Edgar had last seen his father. The initial sight had almost brought him to tears, but he pushed sentiment aside and focused on the job at hand. Edgar leaned forward over the package. In a conspiratorial tone, he asked, “Is this the most comfortable room for you to talk in?”

Charles decoded the cryptic question of whether someone was listening in on them. He shook his head from side to side without uttering a word. Charles lifted his chin, gesturing towards a folded wheelchair in the corner of the room. “Help me to the chair, and I’ll take you to one of my favorite veranda here.”

Edgar located the wheelchair and folded it down. He brought it to the side of his father. Charles threw a boney arm over Edgar’s shoulder, and together they shimmied him into the wheelchair. Edgar placed the package in Charles’ lap.

“Lead the way,” Edgar said.

They wove through the winding passageways, with Charles giving simple commands of where to turn. After about a five-minute walk, Charles lifted his finger and pointed straight ahead, “Through those doors is the spot.”

A fresh wave of sweet, scented air hit them as they emerged onto the vast veranda. They were alone except for a few cast iron table sets scattered about. Charles raised his hand up for Edgar to stop walking.

“Ok, now. Take approximately ten steps forward, make a hard right turn and walk another four steps. Then a hard left turn and take three steps to the railing. From my intel and observations, this is a blind spot for the cameras.”

Edgar grinned to himself at the precision of the orders. Some habits never die, he thought. Edgar wasn’t sure how his father had come to work out this exact location, nor how he knew with such certainty that they wouldn’t be watched. Still, he’d never known his father to be wrong about something of this nature. So he walked ten steps forward, four steps to the right, and three steps to the left. Their secret position overlooked the lake that circled the compound. Mountains decorated the background. Edgar brought over one of the chairs from the table sets. As he sat down and took in the view, he felt a sense of ease that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Charles took a careful look around the veranda to confirm they weren’t being observed. Then he opened the package.

“All right. We’re good here. Now then, let me hear how you did it.”

Edgar propped his elbow on the arm of the chair as he leaned toward his father. Charles pulled out the first item.

“The bag of tea. Open it up, and you’ll see a top layer of black tea. Push your fingers straight down, and you’ll feel a small round knob. It’s part of a clear plastic cube mold. Remove this, and underneath is the tobacco. If anyone ever tries the tea without you knowing or asks for a cup, you can give them the real thing. If, for some reason, someone sees the tobacco, they shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between that and the tea. That’s part of the reason I went with loose leaf.”

Charles beamed with pride as he removed the top compartment that held the tea. He put his nose into the bag and took a long sniff of the tobacco. He sat back in his wheelchair and let out a sigh.

“That smells like heaven. For the past few months, I’ve been having those dreams again. Those damn nicotine dreams. It was starting to become unbearable. This means a lot to me.”

“Well, I’m not done yet. The notepad there with the pen; take that out.”

Charles did so. He pulled the steel pen clipped to the front of the pad and held it in his hand as he opened the book.

“The pages are the rolling papers. If you look close enough, you’ll see that each page is perforated straight across, which will give you three smokes per sheet. Now, unscrew the pen.”

The rigid fingers grasped the top of the pen and unscrewed it. Charles tapped out into the palm of his hand a small batch of matches.

Edgar continued with excitement as he revealed more of his construction.

“Matches are hidden in the tube. If you turn to the last page of the notepad, the inside back cover is the ignition strip for the matches.”

Charles caressed his finger over the fine grit of the inside back cover. A far-off look overtook his face, and he turned to Edgar with appreciation.

“This is fine work. Truly clever, son. Your training hasn’t failed you.”

“I had brought a candle, as well. It served two purposes. If they let it through, I figured you could use it to mask the smell if you had to smoke inside. Then you could burn the paper and leftover tobacco in the glass. If they didn’t let it through, the hope was that it would serve as a decoy from them inspecting any other items too closely. They took the candle, so you’re out of luck on that, but it seems like you’ve got this spot scouted out already.”

“Yes, it took some doing too,” Charles sighed. “These people run a decent operation, but there are always weak spots. You just have to know where to look. They’re very touchy about smoking here, so that’s why I knew I had to call you out of retirement. You’re the only one I could trust with this job.”

“I would have come sooner, but….”

Charles waved his hand, dismissing Edgar. He turned his attention back to the cigarette. “I’m an old dying spook. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time here unless it was necessary. Now, quiet, and let me concentrate on rolling this thing.”

It was true that Charles was in poor health. Years of indulging in man’s sins and the stress of being a lifelong high-ranking intelligence officer had taken their toll. He had continued to work until he was deemed a liability. He was given a few options for how he could retire, none of which appealed to the lauded praise of his own self-worth and tastes for the extravagant. The compound, to which they now spent the afternoon, was customarily reserved for high valued assets with medical conditions that needed safekeeping. He was able to convince them that he fell into that very same category.

“Will you have one with me?” Charles asked.

“I quit years ago.”

Almost immediately after responding, Edgar felt a twinge of remorse at the rebuttal.

“Ah, right. I see,” Charles said.

It was subtle, but Edgar recognized the twitch of disappointment in his father’s face. Charles always loved having company in his conspiratorial escapades. Edgar wanted to reply with more rationale and defend his position but resisted the urge. He tried changing the subject.

“Mullins told me that you should be able to come home soon. He said you’ve about hit the period where any intel you had would be useless for any foreign competition.”

“Yes, I’ve become quite useless, haven’t I?” Charles said.

“No, that’s... that’s not what I meant.”

The realization of his situation was creeping in at the edges of Charles’ eyes. The knowledge of becoming obsolete translated into the frustration preventing him from rolling the cigarette. Edgar noticed his struggle and grabbed the tobacco kit.

“Here, let me do it.”

Edgar set about hand-rolling the cigarette. He never was an ardent supporter of hand-rolling but had become proficient at it while stationed in Turkey. He folded a sheet of notebook paper to crease the perforation. He removed a rectangle. Reaching into the tea bag, he pinched a tiny clump of tobacco, then sprinkled it onto the paper. He cradled the sheet between his thumbs and first two fingers. Edgar pulled it tight as he could and then rolled the tobacco back and forth, compressing it into a more cylindrical shape. Satisfied, he brought the long edge to his mouth and licked it. Edgar rolled this paper over as he tucked the other end underneath. It wasn’t the prettiest looking thing he’d ever seen, but it would get the job done. He handed the cigarette to his father. He then removed one of the matches from the hidden compartment in the pen. He struck it against the grit paper backing of the book. The minuscule match erupted and danced in the faint breeze as he held it for his father. Charles leaned into the flame with the cigarette in his mouth. His hand crept up to the match to shield it from the wind. After taking a few short drags, he rested back in his chair.

“I’ve missed you, old friend,” he said, admiring the burning cigarette between his fingers.

They sat for a moment, looking at the beauty of the landscape before them. Charles exhaled a steady stream of smoke and kept his gaze locked out in front of him.

“I won’t be coming home, Edgar. They’ve given me two months tops. And that, they said, was being generous.”

“What are you talking about? I thought they had things under control.”

“We don’t control anything in this life, despite our best efforts. You should know that by now.”

“Let’s get you back to the States. I’m sure they can try something better there.”

“No. I wouldn’t survive the trip.”

Charles admired the cigarette between his two fingers. “This is what I wanted. This smoke and to see your face one last time.”

Edgar stared at his father in disbelief and then shifted his attention to the horizon, trying to digest the information he’d just heard. The revelation opened up a wound filled with guilt. Edgar wanted to blurt out his apologies. Sorry for not being there enough when you got sick. Sorry for not being a better son. Sorry for not caring more. Sorry for being selfish and sorry for treating you like a burden. He wanted to say all of this but couldn’t summon the courage to do so. Instead, he reached out for the cigarette that Charles held.

“What the hell. Can’t let you smoke alone.”

Charles grinned as he released the cigarette to his son. Edgar took a pull and let the smoke rest in his mouth before bringing it down into his lungs. He exhaled and thought of what else he could say. Unable to come up with anything worthwhile, Edgar returned the cigarette to his father. As he looked into Charles’s eyes, he saw what could have been mistaken for relief. They nodded to each other in an unspoken understanding. As the sun began to set, the two former spies smoked their secret cigarette in the blind spot of the camera.