NightSide - Asynchronous Mud

He opened his eyes, lifted his face to the archway now overhead, and as he watched a raven flew by, and it settled directly atop the ornate opening. He walked to the edge of the passageway, looked out over the trees, and there he saw a vast wall of carved stone, and he stepped back, looked up at the raven.

Only now he saw the decaying woman, but now she was made of cold, black stone and ten meters tall, yet every detail was there...the cape, the corset, the stockings and heels, all of her garish details, and at the apex of her legs, within the womb of her cold, dead flesh, came the same soft amber glow he'd seen atop the ornate lamps.

He walked to the edge of the passage and looked up into the amber glow. He saw indents and handholds where an unknown sculptor had fashioned the lacy edge of her stockings and the straps of her garters, and he reached across the abyss and found a place for his hand. He brought the opposite foot across to another handhold and pushed his body across to the cold stone flesh of her legs. Committed now, he looked up and began climbing. After several minutes climbing, he paused and looked around.

He shook his head, confused. The amber glow was still up there, but was it further away now?

Then he looked down and wanted to scream. The landing and the arched doorway were hundreds of meters away now as if the statue of the woman had grown, and now there were huge snakes winding up the statue's legs -- chasing him -- and the closest was a huge cobra.

This snake looked up at him and opened its mouth, revealing impossibly evil-looking fangs dripping with venom. Now terrified, he looked up and started climbing again, but soon he was growing tired, feeling winded, but then he reached the top of the statue's legs. He scissored his way up the remaining few meters, and when he came to the cold stone labia he reached out, found not cold stone but warm flesh, and he could tell that the source of the amber glow came from within the stone.

He reached out with his hands, pushed the labia apart, and climbed inside, pulling himself into the warmth of her womb. He came upon darkness so complete, a warmth so comfortable, he let himself go. He closed his eyes, felt himself drifting away, then he looked down, saw that the cobra was still coming for him.

He climbed deeper into the womb of the night until he came upon a ledge, a smooth platform of some kind, and he pulled himself up, and there he stood...waiting for the coiled strike that had to be coming.

But in the next instant, he found himself adrift in space, and everywhere he looked he saw stars and nebulae and great swirling galaxies...yet he felt little now...only filled by a sense of wonder at the beauty he had suddenly found. He reached out and cupped a galaxy in his hand and an impossible warmth came to him.

And for a moment he saw himself as he had been -- once: innocent, curious, his idealism shining pure and clean.

Then he remembered what he really was, what he had become, and the cry that came from his stone-cold lips split the atom of the night.

+++++

She woke at seven the next morning, rinsed her night's troubled sleep off in the shower before she dressed to ski, then walked down to breakfast in the dining room. Last night's minder was absent, she soon saw, but another likely tail was already seated across the room, an American drinking coffee and reading the International Herald Tribune. So, she thought, this one was trying to pass himself off as an American. Then she saw a Persian woman sitting by herself on the far side of the room; was she looking her way a little too covertly? Yes, of course she was, and that made sense, didn't it?

Yet she found herself looking at the 'American' once again. Strong -- yet not overtly muscular; he had the lean, hard-edged look of ulterior motives, and she was about to look away when he looked up from his paper -- and then he looked at her. He smiled, then looked at his coffee and began reading again, and in an instant, she was on guard. She didn't know who he was or who he worked for, but this one was dangerous. She looked at his shoes, at the soles of his shoes, wanted to see what kind of print they'd leave in the snow, then she finished her breakfast and walked down to the ski room in the basement.

Ten minutes later she was on the Gornergratbahn riding up the mountain railway, wondering why anyone would turn a train into a ski lift. It took forever to get to the summit, and she followed the herd out onto the snow and looked across the expansive valley at the Matterhorn. She admired the view, the mountain standing over the mist-enshrouded village like a sentinel, then she walked over and grabbed her skis, put them on. When she had her gloves and poles on she poled over to another overlook and pulled out her Leica, took a few shots of the Matterhorn across the valley, but then she felt someone skid to a stop beside her...

"Something else, isn't it?" the man from the dining room said.

"Yes, it's wondrous!" she said, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. "I wonder, could you take one with me in it?"

"Of course," the young man said graciously. He took the camera from her and stepped back.

She watched him closely. Leica M's like hers were difficult for most people to understand, yet he focused and set the aperture with practiced ease -- then he paused. "What are you shooting?"

"Kodachrome."

"64, or 25?"

"64," she said. He nodded his head, re-set the shutter speed and closed the lens all the way down. He shot a few verticals, then four more horizontals from different angles. "You shoot like a pro," she said, admiring the way he moved.

He smiled. "Maybe that's because I am," he laughed. "I'm scouting some locations for an apparel company shoot next week. This place is magic when all the Christmas lights are up."

"I can just imagine."

"So, will you be up here long?"

"Just two more days," she said as she took the camera from him. "Ski down a few yards, would you? I'll get one of you!"

"Sure," he said, much to her surprise. A 'spook' wouldn't let her do that, would he...?

"Are you going down to Riffelalp?" he asked as she took his picture.

"I was thinking about it," she said. "Closer to lunchtime, maybe."

He nodded. "There're a couple of chalets in the woods just off the main trail, under the Riffelboden. Family run, I think, like dairy farms during summer. They make their own cheese, and they have mulled wines, fondue, raclette, that sort of thing. I stopped at one a few days ago," he said as he put his goggles back on, "and I've been hoping to go back ever since if you'd like to join me."

"Sure, sounds fun," she said, putting her camera away while she side-slipped down to him.

"What are you doing up here?"

"Fabric design," she said. "My firm has a plant near Zurich; thought I'd come up here for a few days. You know your way around here?"

"Sure, but stay away from the black runs over there," he said, pointing. "Snow's too unstable right now, avalanche danger."

"I'd like to take it easy for the first couple of runs. I don't want to hold you back."

"Not a problem, I'm stiff this morning too. I'll probably be too slow for you." He pushed off, started down the broad expanse of snow.

She pushed off and fell in behind him, watched his legs as he turned. 'He's good,' she thought, yet she had no trouble keeping up with him, and less than ten minutes later they were standing in line at the Riffelberg chairlift, waiting to ride back up to the top.

"Good snow today," he said when they were on the lift, obviously enjoying the morning.

"Very good," she said, "for December, I think."

"Where do you ski back home?"

"Anywhere I can, really, but I haven't had much time the past few years. You?"

"Same thing, I guess. I don't usually have too many winter sports clients."

"What's your usual clientele?"

"Corporate. Lots of portraiture, for annual reports usually. Physical plant, oil refineries and the like, again, for annual reports. That's the meat and potatoes of it, anyway."

"And when you shoot on your own?"

"Oh, I like to play with light -- natural, I mean. Landscapes. Mountains and sunsets, that kind of thing."

"Been doing much around here?"

"Some," he said.

"Could I see some?"

"Sure, I've got a few rolls coming in, hopefully by tomorrow."

"Well, maybe tomorrow evening?" she asked.

"You know, maybe I should know your name?"

"Oh! Well, yes, why not? Dana Goodman."

"Dana? Paul Rudesheim. From Boston, by the way."

"Minneapolis," she said as the chair came to the top of the lift. They hopped off and slid down the ramp. Paul looked at his watch, then he took off down the same run, picking up the speed a little, but still, she kept up with him and they were back at the chairlift just a few minutes later. They were in the chair again when she broke out some lip balm and put some on.

"Good idea," he said, fumbling in a jacket pocket.

"Here, use mine."

"Thanks."

When they slid off the ramp at the top, he stopped and looked at his watch again. "If you're up for an early lunch, we could head down now..."

"Sounds good," she said, and she watched him push off then skate down the hill, rapidly building up serious speed. She followed him again, but this time he was pushing it hard, pushing her to the limits of her abilities. The snow was soft, ruts were forming in the loose crud kicked up by all the other skiers on the hill; she was still behind him, still only a few meters off his pace when he arced off to the far right side of the run and ran almost straight down the hill, his speed easily pushing through 70 kph, then he slowed, making a series of quick slalom-like turns just before he came to a rocky ledge. She was tucked in behind him when she realized he was airborne, that he had jumped a cornice; she pre-jumped, brought her knees up to her chest as she judged their height and how far they'd fly. She saw rocks on both sides of the run-out ahead, but no trees or people, and she guessed she was thirty feet above the snow when she left the cornice, and the vertical fall looked like fifty feet, maybe more. He was either showing off -- or being a real jack-ass, she thought.

Still, he made a perfect landing and fell into a tight, slalom-like rhythm, burning off speed until he came to a stop near some trees. He looked uphill but was surprised to see her skidding to a stop on his downhill side.

"I'm impressed!" he said, shaking snow off his goggles.

"That was fun," she said, grinning.

"Did you race? In college?" he asked.

"A little."

"Uh-huh. I know what that means."

She laughed. "And you?"

"GS and downhill. Wasn't good enough to make the US team, though."

"Is that one of the chalets there," she asked, using her pole to point out a hut a few hundred meters away.

"That's one of 'em," he said. "The second one down the run, off to the left, is the one I want to go to. Ready?"

"Well, I'm hungry now. Hope you are too?"

He smiled, pushed off and headed through the trees at breakneck speeds, and a few minutes later skidded to a stop beside an almost ancient-looking "chalet" -- but to her it looked more like an old barn that had been converted into a rather rustic looking trailside diner.

Which, it turned out, was exactly what it was.

There was room inside for a few people to sit, more on a rock-lined terrace out front, but it was too cold for that. They took a seat at a small, timbered table inside by a very old stone fireplace, and a rather buxom bodied, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman brought them a local cheese fondue and hot, mulled wine without even asking what they wanted...

"This is all they serve," Paul said, relishing her surprise. "I guess they figure if you don't like it you'll just get up and leave."

"Well, it's damn good," Dana said, spearing a second piece of bread and dunking it in the bubbling cheese.

"Same family's been making this cheese since the beginning of time, I think," he said as he speared two pieces of bread and set them in the pot. "Try the wine. It's decent."

"Suppose they have any water up here?"

He turned and asked for a bottle, and the woman brought it moments later. "Sorry about the cornice," he said. "I was just feeling so good, and it's my favorite jump on this side of the mountain..."

She laughed again. "Good way to get rid of an unwanted girlfriend," she said.

"Might be at that," he grinned.

They ate in silence after that, and though she took a few sips of wine she finished the water, then motioned for another bottle.

"Chocolate fondue's not bad if you want some dessert, and they have what tastes to me like Turkish coffee."

"I'm fine, thanks."

He shrugged. "I'm going to head over to Sunnegga if you feel like tackling some of the steeper trails."

"No thanks. I've got to make a few calls back to the states this afternoon," she said. "But thanks for pointing this place out...it's great!"

He smiled as he laid out some francs for the bill, and Dana paid her share. She finished the water and they walked back out to the terrace -- only to find more people arriving. Dana threaded her way through the people over to her skis and put them on, waved to Paul and pushed off down the trail. Every now and then she caught brief glimpses of the village below, and she stopped once, when she had the feeling she was being followed. She turned and looked up the hill -- through the trees -- and...did she see someone duck behind a tree?

She skied down the trail a few hundred meters, then quickly darted into a cluster of trees -- and there she waited a moment, then looked up the trail...but she saw nothing, no one...no skiers at all. She shook her head, pushed back onto the trail and skied down through the village to the hotel, where she dropped her skis and boots off in the ski room before going up to her room. She showered, put on more formally attractive clothes before she walked back to the main shopping street.

She found her new Rolex was now three minutes slow and walked to the jeweler, expressed her disappointment and asked him to check it out. She wanted to drop off her rolls of Kodachrome and saw a small camera shop across the way and went in, filled out the processing envelope and dropped the rolls in, then she saw a used 85 f1.5 in the display case and looked it over for a while, then as if on a lark she decided to purchase the lens. She looked around once outside again and, as if the thought had just come to her, she walked back to the patisserie and went to the counter, picked out a few interesting items and asked for an espresso. She looked at more items in the case, then she went and sat at the same table she had the day before.

The General came inside a few minutes later, his magnificent Gordon setter tucked in close by his side, and he saw her. He seemed to smile -- if faintly -- before he too went to the counter and ordered. He turned, looked at her when he was through, then came to the table next to hers.

"What a happy -- coincidence," he said, smiling, then he sat in a chair just a few inches from her own.

She looked at the setter and scratched her ears again, and the dog licked her hand.

"She likes you," he said. "That is most unusual."

"That's because she has very good taste," she cooed, doting on the girl.

"How was the snow today," the General said, going over the security report again in his mind.

"Very good," she replied. "There was enough sun to soften up the icy spots."

"Ah, well, I must go up tomorrow and see. I think there will be sun a few more days."

She smiled, picked up her coffee.

"I see you have a Leica," he said, looking at the silver box on her table. "For an M?"

"Yes, it's my secret fetish. I tried a Nikon once, but it lacks something."

"Yes, the clarity of the rangefinder. That makes all the difference."

She nodded. "Yes, but the quality of the lenses...that's what brought me back."

"You have an adapter for it," he said as pointed at the lens.

"No, not with me, but the shop had this and I just couldn't resist."

"Franz is a good man," he said, pointing at the camera store she'd just come from. "He does well for such a small village. So, you have an M4?"

"Yes. Well, the M4-2."

"Ah, the Canadian Leica. I understand a new M4 is coming soon, perhaps next year."

"Oh, really," she said, appearing genuinely interested. "Any idea when?"

He smiled -- gently, then held up his hands while he pursed his lips and shook his head. "You never know with Leica."

"I would love a fast 75," she said lustfully.

"I have heard rumors one is coming soon," he added somewhat boastfully, speaking as someone with inside information usually does.

"Faster than 1.5?" she asked, looking at her purchase.

He steepled his fingers before his face, and his eyes smiled. "1.4," he crooned, his spoken numbers lilting, almost gleeful.

"Damn," she said. "So I get to buy a new body AND another lens. Well, I won't be skiing much next year!"

"I have quite a collection," he said, hovering next to the edge of her precipice, "why don't you come up and have a look?"

She looked at him, curiosity in her eyes. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

He pursed his lips, made the same little self-deprecating shrug once again, as if to say 'It's nothing...'

"Well," she added, "I'd be delighted. Perhaps you'd join me for dinner, and we could walk up after?"

"Say about seven?" he asked, smiling.

"That sounds good. I'm at The Zermatterhof."

"Ah. Of course."

She finished her coffee and was getting ready to leave when she saw him looking at her -- an odd, almost perplexed look in his eyes. "I may have a spare adapter," he said after a moment, pointing at the silver box. "Why don't you bring your M4 and that new lens. You really should test it before you leave, make sure it works."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, thanks. That's a good idea," she said as she gathered her gloves and hat. "See you at seven, then," she said as she waved, before she slipped out the door on a breeze.

He thought about her grandfather as he watched her walk away. He remembered the man well, in fact. A physician and a close advisor of Mossadegh's; the man had barely managed to flee Tehran in '53, and while the CIA had followed him as far as Argentina they'd lost track of him near the Andes, though once the general had heard the man had been spotted in Bariloche. They sent a team, but too late; he was neither seen nor heard from again.

The old man looked at the captain waiting across the street and thought about all the varied streams of history. No way would the captain understand this obsession, no way would he remember the passions of those first days back in power -- except what he may have heard about through the stories of others. No way would the captain understand how difficult it had been to get rid of all the deeply embedded nationalists left behind in the bureaucracies and the military. So while one more part of the score would be settled tonight, this last remaining vendetta had a bittersweet feel to the old spy. This last, long-standing enmity was something almost ancient now, but as the woman's grandfather remained one of the Shah's most bitter memories, her fate had been all but sealed the moment they met.

Yes, because while her grandfather was dead and gone and her father out of reach, she was here, and the order had come from the Shah himself: Kill her, but first make her understand why, then make her suffer --

+++++

She knew she was blown -- but then again they had been counting on that happening.

The general had almost single-handedly killed everyone in the Shah's Iran, anyone allied in any way with the Mossadegh regime, but the word was the General had gone after the few Jews in Mossadegh's inner circle with unusual ferocity. As such, the General had become a high priority target for the Israelis, yet they could not take him out within Iran without creating unnecessary blowback, so his case had lingered for years. But then the General had recently been spotted moving around outside Iran, and when the opportunity arose he had been tailed, members of his support team identified, and then the late-night conferences began working on the best way to approach and take out such a high-profile target -- despite the American umbrella of protection he enjoyed through the Shah.