by Jake Aaron
“I feel the same way, Gunnar. Right back at you. I never was angry about your superior situational awareness and creativity. Not to mention, people skills. I think I would have resented you if you could outshoot me, though.” Alex tries to be humorous with that insight on herself.
Gunnar knows that well may be the truth. He doesn’t know whether to laugh. He smiles. He knows it is an empty smile.
She continues, “Gunnar, that we get along so well, I think, has to do with our parents. They were remarkable. And Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece were and are the greatest foster parents ever.” I pause, then add, “Gunnar you should have …”
Laughing, Gunnar finishes my sentence, “been at my funeral!”
We both crack up.
“Yeah, who was that impersonating my bones, anyway?” he jokes, the emptiness gone.
“I think you just qualified for the olympics in gallows humor, Gunnar,” I try to stop laughing at our irreverent jokes. “If anything would make me jealous, it’s what I learned about you at your wake.”
“Damn, I missed that, too!” Gunnar roars. He pours himself another glass of champagne.
“You were always something great, Gunnar. You evolved so much in other respects as a cadet. I was in awe of the respect various people had for you. You helped so many people. You did so many great things. None of that was foreseeable in high school. Even though I visited you frequently at West Point, I didn’t know the half of what you actually did. And then you overcame all odds in Vietnam. Do you know you were awarded the Silver Star?”
Gunnar was solemn. “I did not know that! I can’t even joke about receiving a posthumous award in person; it’s such an honor,” he says very gravely. I sense memories bring horrific pictures to his mind. Gunnar’s dark skin looks peaked.
“I’m sorry, Gunnar.” I rise from the couch to hug Gunnar. “I am so glad you survived. You owe it to yourself now to enjoy life!”
Gunnar slowly returns the hug and regroups. “Thanks, Alex.”
*****
We spend a week walking the streets of Darwin enjoying the architecture and gardens. We both agree our time is best spent relating to each other and just enjoying being alive. Gunnar insists he has many more weeks to see Australia but only a few days to see me. Before I have to fly back to my medical practice, I insist on taking Gunnar on his choice of touristy things to do. We wind up chartering a boat to go deep sea fishing. Gunnar is pleased to land a 19-pound bluefish and 40-pound Barramundi. My catches were far less impressive.
Over coffee our last morning together, Gunnar observes, “Alex, Australia is us: set apart, different.” I know he refers to the very different way species have evolved here versus the rest of the world.
“I have to agree with you, brother. Australia is also magnificent. With some arrogance on my part, I say that also is us.” I laugh, but I mean it.
Gunnar clanks his coffee cup into mine. He smiles, and, with his best Aussie imitation, he says, “Fair bloody dinkum, mate, you’re chockers on judgement!”
*****
In our last night in Australia together, we decide to order in. There has been an unspoken rule of not talking about the future — until now.
“Alex, I have a pearl for you: Australia is also us: boundless potential and bright future,” he says.
I let that soak in. “Gunnar, you are so right. I have one for you. You know that river of life you talk about. I’ve told you that getting out of the channel I had picked may have worked out for the best. I don’t have all the awards I expected to get. I don’t have the degree I wanted. I’m not on course for a residency in surgery. However, I am practicing as a doctor and surgeon much sooner than I expected. I know I’ve told you that in other words the first night. The point is that I am surprisingly at peace with where I am.
“I’ve always known I wanted to be a physician. I never truly expected to feel so fulfilled helping people. I knew other medical students expected that for themselves. In fact, I had to make up stories about that being the case to tell to admission committees to get into medical school. Nonetheless, I get a sincere inner reward healing my patients. I know I help them a lot, but I get even more from it.
“The people I work with are helpful, nurturing. They support me in every way. I love my island home. It’s so good I almost fear change of any sort. How neurotic is that?”
“Sis, I can tell you are happy and content. That makes me happy, too. You’re less excitable than I remember. You’re calmer. Vanuatu suits you.”
I sense there is something he wants to tell me. “What about you, Gunnar. Graduate school, then back to West Point to teach? Your resume for becoming a general officer couldn’t be stronger.”
“Alex, the river has taken me down a new channel. It looks promising. The Company wants me. I can use everything I’ve ever learned and capitalize on my most recent experiences in Vietnam. I have some basic training at the Farm coming up after R&R. Then, who knows? Very likely hopping around Southeast Asia making the world safe for democracy,” he elaborates and mocks himself. “For the foreseeable future, there will be no Gunnar.”
I am taken aback. I need to reset several algorithms in my brain. “You mean you’ll be working for the CIA?” I sound alarmed. I feel a cold sweat. I never knew exactly for whom Glen worked, only suspicions. I think, at the very least, Glen had close links with the CIA. I also suspect a CIA connection to the conspiracy to shoot JFK — and to the plan to eliminate loose ends like me.
“What’s going on, Alex? You seem upset.” Gunnar still can read me very well.
I ask, “Do you think there’s any way the CIA could be coopted by the mob? Do you think your working for the CIA will put me in danger?” I think my question is clever. It maintains my cover story and asks for relevant information.
Gunnar is thoughtful. “Sis, I don’t see any way you are in jeopardy. For one thing, knowledge about me is going to be close-hold. Very few people will know about me. That information is compartmentalized. You must have a need to know to be exposed to it. And the CIA is a very big organization in which I have a very small footprint.
“Speaking of footprints,” he continues, “tell me the names of all your associates, in case I am ever privileged to meet them.” The names go into that steel trap of a memory he has. I know he will check out their backgrounds, including known associates. Glen used to do that. We could tell by the obscure facts he would raise that were way beyond common knowledge. I know Gunnar is protecting me.
After I provide the names, I hug him. “Gunnar, thanks for looking out for me — always. I’d say I owe you one, but my pile of debts owed you is beyond my ability to count.” I laugh. “I’m glad you’re on my side. I pity your enemies.”
Gunnar scoffs, “As twins, we are one. There are no debts.”
I am mollified. I resolve to work possibilities at another occasion. It is time to enjoy my last few moments of this visit with Gunnar for a while longer.
Vanuatu
“Dr. Joan, Dr. Joan, I missed you,” a five-year-old Melanesian girl screams at me as I climb out of my Citroen returning to the clinic from Australia. She has distinctive curly blond hair that contrasts with her dark skin. As a scientist, I marvel at the phenomenon every time I see it. The more I think about it, the more I tend to believe it’s a genetic mutation. I’ve noticed that fewer Vanuatuan adults sport blond hair than youth. That makes me think the hair tends to darken over time, at least in some.
“Dr. Joan, after you save my brother, will you sign my cast?”
I hug Ranya and follow her into the clinic. I see her sedated eight-year-old brother on the operating table. I recognize Pisiv from treating his strep throat several months ago.
Dr. Aurand greets me, “Bonjour, Dr. Joan. Welcome back, Saint Joan!” He likes his playful Joan-of-Arc reference.
I smile. I know he isn’t being sarcastic. “May I assist, Dr. Aurand?”
“You may take over, Dr. Joan, if you don’t mind. Hit-and-run patient. He was brought
in at the end of an already long day for me. Are you up to it?”
“This is my life, Dr. Aurand. How are you holding up, Monique?” I ask.
“Bonjour, Dr. Joan, I am still going strong, not like the old man,” she jests.
Dr. Aurand’s lips give the hint of a smile at the old man reference to him.
While I am getting up to speed on my patient, “Dr. Aurand looks at me and asks, “So did you marry some lucky Australian … or what?”
“No, I just had a wonderful sight-seeing tour. That’s all,” I answer with my attention divided. Then, I give him a smile to acknowledge his compliment. He accepts that my social graces are less than average, at best.
“I had to ask,” Dr. Aurand kids, “I just wanted to know if I had a chance …” He and Monique love to torture each other. I may never understand the complexities of romantic love.
As my hands skillfully close more wounds, I smile and speak through my surgical mask, “Dr. Aurand, you will never find a greater catch than Monique.”
Monique smiles back through her mask and turns her words to her partner, “And you may never catch me, Dr. Aurand.”
Viktoria, who is also scrubbed in, has the good sense to stay quiet.
Dr. Aurand removes his surgical mask, “I will adjourn to the waiting room, ladies. Maybe I can find someone who still loves me.”
After he has left the room, Monique confides again, “You know he thinks of you as a daughter. That’s better than a peer with him. He has never liked a fellow doctor as much as you.”
“Well, Monique, I am honored.” My cheerful acceptance of her kind words surprises me. I usually discount words like these as sucking up and answer with a sharp rebuke. I don’t. I am genuinely touched.
After two hours of constant work, we have our patient ready for transport to the hospital in Port Vila. The patient’s mother and father wait to thank me. They bring me a large basket of local fruits: papayas, mangos, pineapples, watermelons, bananas, and star fruit, to name a few. Of course, they each hug me five times to show their gratitude. I sign Ranya’s cast. I am home.
*****
Holding my rifle stock as I am about to shoot connects me with different realities. First, I remember fondly my recent reunion with Gunnar. I am unsettled as to how his new job will shake up my universe. As for him, he will do just fine. He’s Gunnar! No matter the problem, no matter the difficulty, Gunnar will emerge triumphant. Second, I remember how good shooting makes me feel. It is a joy I cannot express in words. Third, I remember the danger flowing from that fatal shot in Dallas. I retrace the primrose path that led me to pulling the trigger. That distant event seems like yesterday. I recall that, no matter how safe and content I feel, there are people who want to kill me because I am evidence in the crime of the century. I am ever grateful for this warning that keeps me alive.
After shooting, I drive to a nearby beach and sit. Next to the ocean, I feel insignificant to its vastness, its crushing waves, its constancy over time. I wonder whether I will ever tell Gunnar about Dallas. While I know why I did what I did, I’m not sure I can explain myself. I’m not sure a super-patriot like Gunnar can possibly understand — or forgive what I did.
Langley, Virginia
At CIA headquarters, Deputy Director Randal Higgins tells his secretary to send an analyst into his office. He omits pleasantries. “David, how is Polly Gone going?”
Analyst David Preen has been the single point of contact on the highly secret project. He has been directed to share minimal information with anyone, including operatives who see only a few pieces of the bigger puzzle. Like other headquarters employees, he had seen the depression in Higgins when then-President Kennedy did not make him the director of Central Intelligence. David notes Higgins’ grim mood whenever Polly Gone comes up. Unfortunately, that operation is David’s principal focus.
“Director Higgins, nothing has come to light investigating the Simmers’ previous business trips. The fact that the Simmers gave our operative the slip at Sydney’s airport may well have given us the lead we need. They may have been on their way to meet up with Alex. Now with the beta-test version of the IBM 360 computer, I have a way to make some faster progress. I typed up thousands of computer cards with names, gender, dates, and locations. For flights, I added connection location. I’m looking for some kind of nexus. I figured that to find Alex Olson, I needed to check everywhere her aunt and uncle stopped when away from Alamogordo. I paid a private investigator to get copies of registrations from bigger hotels and alternatives in Australian cities they likely visited.
“We know when the Simmers arrived. We know they departed ten days later to return homeTo narrow the set of possibilities, I ran all the cards two days prior to their arrival date through two days past their departure date. The cards have names of relevant incoming air passengers, departing passengers, and names of people in hotel registers.. I found no Alex Olson, Walter Simmer, or Cecilia Simmer staying in a hotel or bed and breakfast in Sydney. I then expanded the computer search to hotels and bed and breakfasts in Canberra,Melbourne, and Darwin on the next iteration …”
Higgins interrupts, “So you’re assuming they did not stay with friends or campout?”
“I am, Director. Since you want no more assets than myself knowing the overall project, I’ve had to limit the search to more likely events.” David wants to know why Alex Olson is a target. He never asks. He keeps in mind what is widely known at the Agency — Higgins’ rule: Ask too much, get fired. What creates a double bind for him is the common knowledge that Higgins perversely likes initiative from his staff. He likes his staff a little off-balance.
“Go on, David.”
“The IBM 360 gives us a pretty good indication that the Simmers were using an alias. As you know, there are always people checking into hotels with aliases. I confirmed that Down Under that occurs as well. I think it’s very likely the Simmers paid cash under their aliases. As long as Alex has been in the shadows, she may may have credit under an alias and be able to not use cash.
“I also ran the IBM 360 for departures of the Simmers out of major cities in Australia for the ten-day period following their arrival in Sydney. I found nothing up to their return flight.
“Now it is a matter of shoe leather. The aliases are most likely to be those who paid in cash. I have one photo of each of the Simmers, one of Alex, and four artist depictions of Alex in possible disguises. I need to fly to Sydney to show those to the hotel staffs and bed-and-breakfast owners where the promising aliases were used. Then, I need to follow the bread crumbs.
“It has a been a long, intensive slog. We’re going to get there, sir.”
Then Randal Higgins scratches his chin. “David, pack your bags. Stay Down Under as long as you need. Don’t come back without knowing more about Alex. If Sydney doesn’t pan out, of course, expand your scope of cities. I don’t have to remind you this is very close-hold. No one, I mean no one else, needs to know what you are doing. Am I clear?”
“I’m eager to do it. Terminate the target?” David adds. He wants to show he is leaning forward, showing initiative. He knows analysts don’t do wet works.
“Leave the sanction to a field operative, David. I know you’re eager to get into the field, but I can’t afford to lose a top analyst right now. Solve this, and you’ll get your chance to be a field operative.”
“I’ll get the job done, Director.” David knows Higgins thinks himself the rightful director, not just the deputy director.
Australia
Despite feeling jet lagged, David begins showing pictures of Alex Olson around the potential locations in Sydney where cash was used. He is smart. He tamps down his normal bull-dogged, get-to-it manner. He takes his time so that those he is asking about having seen her back in September, will also take their time trying to remember. He watches their facial expressions as they answer. He is delighted that Australians, in general, do not expect to be tipped for everything they do. If they did, he would have already busted his budg
et.
With nothing solid found interviewing hotel staffs in Sydney, David begins his second week with cold calls on bed and breakfasts. While bed and breakfasts don’t feel like a target-rich environment, a wily fugitive might well prefer them. He tries not to get discouraged.
He moves on to Canberra hotels after three more days, again where the computer list takes him. At one of the large hotels, he hits pay dirt. A reliable concierge remembers all three from September. The front desk verifies both parties paid in cash. Eureka! David insists on leaving a large tip despite many protests.
The alias used by Alex Olson, however, does not connect to any names arriving in Sydney. He knows when the Simmers definitely did arrive in Sydney.
David is discouraged. He felt so close to solving this case, then nothing. He heads to a local pub. He makes the mistake of drinking his supper. Afterward, he aimlessly wanders the streets of Canberra hoping for the inspiration he could not find from a keg.
David wakes up in the middle of the night to urinate. The beer was such a bad idea. Then, it hits him. He has been dealing with too large of a pool of aliases. Seemingly, there is less of a likelihood of aliases on international flights. Despite the revelation, thoroughness demands he continue to investigate where the three may have stayed. He also concludes that, in deep cover, Alex probably had one or more sets of papers.
*****
After determining the three stayed at least two nights in Canberra, David moves on to Melbourne. After four days there showing pictures, he gets a hit on where the three stayed, paying cash. The targets are clever. They do not repeat their aliases. He learns the three spent six days there. He goes through his computer printouts to see whether any of the aliases rented a car in Sydney. No, they did not.