Page 128 of Player
Clarissa
Faking a heart attack isn’t my finest moment. I’ve ruined vacations and even a honeymoon. But considering my story is for the common good, small sacrifices like forcing the ship back to port is necessary.
No one questioned my sincerity.
Drinking four large bottles of bubbly Pelligrino within a twenty-minute span—mixed with vodka, the lesser, less effervescent, of evils—and the buildup of gas felt like a heart attack.
The nurses and doctor at the hospital in Derry think it’s hilarious.
The ship captain and cruise line less so—returning the ship to port for a passenger with chest pains? Disruptive and chaotic, yet part of the safety protocols outlined in the stinking paperwork.
A few gas-relief pills later, and I’m good as gold.
I slip my phone out of my knapsack then research what time the next train leaves Derry for Cork. Perfect. I relax back onto the hospital bed, reassured that I can finish up here and catch that train with no glitches.
I might be in time for Finn’s fight.
But, instead, I have plans elsewhere. Because the fight club storyline is an appetizer to the main course. I imagine buyers will be soon arriving to collect their merchandise. The warehouse is the place to be, a front and center viewpoint for these illegal, black market deals. And Finn wants me nowhere near.
Either he thinks he’s protecting me, or the CIA prefers not to have me witnessing the bust.
Or maybe it’s a combination of both?
Whatever the reason is irrelevant. My finishing what I started takes priority over everything else. My feelings, well, they’re not important. This is my first major investigation since Aleppo, and I’ll be damned if I allow this one to culminate with tears and heartbreak.
Later, I’ll lick my wounds.
I fiddle with my phone, check the time, glance at the door, impatient to do something. With a sigh, I take out a notepad and pen—parting gifts from the cruise ship—then sketch out the chronological order toward composing my story. Short, soon-to-be-filmed clips of trucks being loaded with uranium. My narrative on the container ship, where I’m describing where I am and what’s happening. The CIA’s involvement in infiltrating the mob.
I open the app to the cloud, half my attention devoted to scribbling words on paper. Is there anything I missed? Anything that can complement the hard work I’ve already done?
Tossing the pen onto the pad, I turn my attention toward skimming through my files.
I click on the folder I created. And blink. Nothing is there, not even the video clips from Mexico City or the explosion of Señora del Leon’s hacienda in Tecalipan.
Gone.
My stomach sinks but I try not to panic. Maybe I uploaded everything into the wrong folder? Maybe there’s a glitch in my search engine and video/audio are hidden? I slowly, methodically, begin to scroll through every blessed file, every video, every document.
I still don’t panic when I find nothing.
I double back to the video-recording app. Maybe I overlooked the fact the files didn’t upload? Maybe they’re there?
Nothing.
No. No. No. How could this have happened? I recorded an entire city being bombarded with bombs without losing a single video. I checked then rechecked the files were uploading properly before boarding the cargo ship. It’s simple technology, not rocket science.
How do files uploaded at different times just vanish?
I gasp, but the sound that fills the hospital room sounds more like a moan.
Finn, the CIA.
“I’m going to skin him alive,” I grind out, stumbling out of bed. “He deleted everything, didn’t he?” With shaking hands, I begin to dress. “What gives him the right to tamper with my files?” I shove the pad and pen into my bag and my feet into my shoes. Three firm tugs and I tear off my plastic hospital bracelet then toss it on the bed.
If I hurry, I can visit the local police, ask to speak to a CIA representative, and call bullshit on Finn. To an average citizen, this might seem impossible. But I’m a reporter. Getting government officials, politicians, whomever to speak to me is what I do.
What I can’t do is give up hope.
