“He was a diplomat,” said Jonah, repeating his childhood cover story by pure instinct. The truth was more complicated. One day his father was there, the next he wasn’t. Over the next two years, concern became suspicion became accusation, each falling domino driving Jonah further from home.
“You were born in Beirut? Three days before the 1983 American Embassy bombing?”
“Does it matter?”
“Your mother is conspicuously absent from your file.”
“I was hatched.”
“You traveled a great deal in your youth.”
“Saw a lot of third-world shitholes growing up. Are you going somewhere with this?”
Dr. Nassiri pushed the file aside and looked directly at Jonah.
“I need you, Mr. Blackwell,” the doctor said.
Ah, the pitch. Here it comes, thought Jonah. An opportunity to collaborate for some small creature comfort or empty promise. Jonah crossed his arms, already refusing in his mind. It was bad enough to be alone in a room with one of them this long; every action would be suspect for months, assuming he’d survive the retaliation of Umar’s friends.
“I understand you are an accomplished marine diver,” continued Dr. Nassiri. “You studied for two years at the college of Marine Design at Glasgow University but did not complete the program. Dive instructor in Thailand, then volunteered for the British Embassy relief effort in recovering drowning victims after the tsunami. Saturation dive certification in Norway, several shipwreck and oil rig projects, and from all appearances the beginnings of a lucrative career.”
Jonah uncrossed his arms. This he did not expect. Even remembering what it felt like to dive was like another stab wound, throwing him out of his prisoner’s hardened mindset.
“You came to specialize in saturation diving, including commercial salvage and well inspection and repair work for the oil and gas sector,” continued the doctor. “You were one of the first divers onsite at the Costa Concordia disaster — under a false name, of course. And this is not to even speak of your rumored treasure hunting. Spanish galleons, Roman caravels, Phoenician traders. It’s theorized that some of your activities and relationships ended in violence. There are gaps in the record, but I understand the DST was very curious as to whether you’d pursued a certain sunken Moroccan transport plane rumored to have carried a king’s ransom of cultural artifacts.”
Jonah frowned, signaling his unwillingness to rehash his arrest in Moroccan waters. He knew exactly what had pushed him from legitimate work and into the shadowy world of criminal treasure salvage. Survival, plain and simple. Once the news broke that his father wasn’t just a disappeared spy but a suspected traitor and double-agent, Jonah’s world shrank considerably. Sure, it looked bad from the outside, but the minute-by-minute decisions were clear from his perspective.
“Get to the fucking point,” said Jonah.
Dr. Nassiri smiled, ready to set the hook. “Six days ago, a jet aircraft was lost off the Horn of Africa, sinking a few miles from the coastline of Somalia. This plane carried a scientist and her two assistants, as well as a great deal of oceanographic research. I thought it lost forever, but our civil communications network has picked up a transponder signal emanating from the wreckage. I believe the aircraft has come to rest, in perhaps three hundred, three hundred fifty feet of water.”
“Which is it? Three hundred or three hundred fifty?” asked Jonah. “It makes a difference.”
“I do not know,” admitted Dr. Nassiri. “The transponder has been communicating, but we do not believe it will continue to do so for long before the batteries expire. I must begin a recovery of the data and the bodies of the personnel immediately.”
Jonah cocked his head, not bothering to ask the obvious question.
“You are pragmatic,” said Dr. Nassiri. “As am I. I feel that this service will outstrip your transgressions, and I am willing to have you released from custody. The proper bribes have already been set into motion. This is your chance at a new life, Mr. Blackwell.”
“What’s to prevent me from telling you to shove it the second we leave Moroccan soil?”
The doctor just smiled. “A new identity,” he finally said.
“What?”
“While I cannot prevent you from breaking terms, I have come up with a method of incentivizing you to fulfill your obligation. Specifically, I understand you are not currently welcome in the United States, the nation of your citizenship.”
Jonah said nothing. He had no family there, no friends, not anymore. And to step foot in the United States as a Blackwell would only serve to reopen one of the more painful wounds in recent American political history, to say nothing of his probable arrest.
“Anyone can buy papers.”
“Who can offer a solution to facial recognition? Fingerprinting? My friend, I specialize in these areas of microsurgery!” Dr. Nassiri opened his arms wide, and began to talk excitedly. For the first time, Jonah felt as if he was seeing the real man behind the doctor’s façade, a man who prided himself in the expertise of medicine. “Why, facial recognition is the easiest. I will do this personally. You need not fool any persons anymore, merely the machines. For them, it is simply the matter of moving the location of specific data-points. I could move one ear up a millimeter. Bring in your nose just in the slightest; reshape the left eye socket to more closely match your right, the more attractive of the two. Just enough to nudge the data points and you are a new man as far as any software is concerned. The fingerprints are even easier… just a matter of the surgical incision and the creation of several subdermal fissures under the fingers. Two weeks later, your fingerprints will be unrecognizable. They will have no hallmarks of change, but be so different as to bear no association with your previous identity. Work history, identification papers, this is easy by comparison. Keep in mind that very little must be changed to make you undetectable as your former self. I’d recommend you stay away from major airports, untrustworthy past acquaintances, and the borough of Manhattan, but otherwise you would have the chance to start again.”
“Would I need to return to Morocco for the procedure?”
“No. We could rent all necessary space and equipment in Thailand.”
Jonah nodded, considering the offer. Changing fingerprints and facial hallmarks seemed simpler than the gender reassignments Thailand had become renowned for. As if there were anything to consider — he’d been gone for too long already, only collaborators conversed with prison personnel in private.
“What would you need to undertake the recovery?” asked Dr. Nassiri, signaling that the pitch was over. No negotiation, Jonah could take it — or die in prison.
“I’m familiar with the area. I worked on a sunken World War II civilian transport some years back. A lot of ammunition and a stash of silver coins. Aircraft are manageable. I could probably do this one alone, and with a minimum amount of equipment. I would be alone, correct?”
“We would like to keep our footprint as small as possible.”
“I’d need a full set of trimix rebreather gear. Recovery liftbags. And a ship. You know much about the pirates in that area?”
“I assure you, we will be well-defended.”
“I’m going to take that as a no,” said Jonah. He sighed, collecting his thoughts. “Forget being well-defended. Be fast. They are devious, they are sophisticated, and they are organized. If they run into trouble, they don’t retreat. They call in reinforcements. I don’t care how well-defended you are, you’ll run out of ammo before they ever run out of pirates.”
Jonah could tell Dr. Nassiri was not a man used to being challenged or overruled. The handsome doctor paused just a little too long before graciously accepting the correction.