by Jake Aaron
David decides he has eliminated a lot of names and has a few to work with. He decides Darwin is not a good prospect. He realizes he has done as much as he can in Australia. He hates heading home without a solution, but he has made progress. He needs to get back to Langley to the computer. He will use the IBM 360 prototype to check aliases used by Alex Olson around the arrival date and departure date of the Simmers in Sydney.
Out over the middle of the Pacific in a Boeing 707, David has a Mai Tai. Feeling a buzz, he is confident that he can locate Alex Olson. He senses positive momentum, and that is a good feeling. The dream of being a field agent propels him.
*****
David goes to work early in the morning just eight hours after arriving back at Dulles Airport. He is charged with coffee. He finds no use of Alex’s aliases arriving or departing Sydney in known timeframes. After four hours he starts sorts of names of females arriving alone and departing on dates similar to the Simmers. He spends the next six hours looking through the many sorts.
This night, he is restless. Eventually he falls asleep. When he awakens, he has one word echoing through the lobes of his brain: Vanuatu. Out of the hundreds of names in his preliminary list, this connection stands out — a gift from his subconscious. A mystical, exotic name. If he were trying to hide, he’d either find a large city or a remote location. A crowd, a large metropolitan location, would make sorting out aliases a major undertaking. The remote location would be the other possibility, away from the madding crown. Vanuatu was that kind of remote location. No extradition treaty, either. Inductive reasoning at its highest, he scoffs at himself. It is a hunch, a good one.
He searches for other leads he will investigate if the hunch does not pan out. He can’t afford to be seen as a lightweight or a boondoggler. The other locations for suspects are in New Zealand and Hawaii. He will eliminate all these on this next trip and reserve the ones remaining in the continental US for the following trip, if there will be one.
Vanuatu
David tries to be casual showing the laminated depictions of Alex Olson to airport personnel in Port Vila. There are hints of recognition. He calls it a solid maybe. He rents a car and ventures into town. After several more hours of asking around, he calls it a day. His weary body needs rest. The next morning he will start again, in spite of jet lag.
Next day at a casino, the croupier identifies the photo. “This Dr. Joan. She save my nephew. Very good lady!”
“She has a large inheritance I need to tell her about,” David lies to make the croupier feel good about giving up information. “Do you know where I can reach her?”
“She in family clinic — other side of island. I draw you map picture.”
*****
David goes to a small department store in Port Vila. He buys a backpack, swim mask, snorkel, fins, flip-flops, beach towel, boots, a long-sleeved green shirt, and green canvas trousers. He stops at a general store to purchase a sledge hammer, a hacksaw, an axe, and 4-mil black plastic bags.
He follows the map. He carefully approaches the clinic where Alex works. He sees Dr. Joan Smith listed second on a crude marquee. Outside the clinic in a small parking lot, he casually eats a sandwich in the car with the windows down and radio playing “Come a Little Bit Closer.”
Sipping on a cold Coca-Cola, he accosts a family leaving the clinic. “Is Dr. Joan in today?”
“Yes, sir. She in,” the mother says. “She very busy.”
“Thanks,” David says, “I need to get her to take some stitches out. Guess I better get a magazine to read. Have a good day!” He heads back to his rental and fumbles for a non-existent magazine as the family drives off in an old rusted jeep.
David waits for good separation in time from the departing family. He starts his vehicle and heads for a nearby picturesque beach he saw coming to the clinic. There he changes into his swimsuit in the car and takes his gear to the beach. He enjoys himself for a while snorkeling. He is amazed at the palate of colorful tropical fish in the clear ocean. He marvels at the beauty of the coral, the anemones, and cowrie shells. He loses his sense of time. Then he remembers his mission when his bare foot is scraped by sharp coral. The cloud of blood in the crystal clear water surrounding his cut foot gives him an idea.
He exits the green-blue, salty ocean water, feeling surprisingly heavy without its buoyant effect. On the beach he picks up a sharp finger of coral. He does not dry off. He sits on his towel, grits his teeth, and rakes the coral finger fast and deep across his knee, as he winces at making a self-inflicted wound. He wraps the knee with a white handkerchief.
It is only a short drive to the clinic. He limps in, still dripping ocean water and shedding sand from his lower torso. He expects to wait to be seen when he checks in with the receptionist. He notes a sign on the wall that Dr. Joan is on duty today — Dr. Aurand, tomorrow. Viktoria comes out immediately, looks at his bleeding knee, and says, “You’re next. The coughs and colds will wait.”
David expects to meet a cold, austere killer. Instead, Dr. Joan is a warm, caring physician.
“How are you feeling, sir,” I ask with a fresh smile. Though I have to consciously work at being sociable, ailing patients do not seem to notice. They usually are focused most on their malady. I carry on, “Are you a visitor to our friendly island? I haven’t seen you in town.” While I seem engaged in conversation, my eyes check out his pupils for drug use, his nails for personal hygiene, and skin tone for overall healthiness. I feel like Sherlock Holmes sometimes, looking for clues to the truth about a patient.
For some reason, “Steven,” as he gave his name to the receptionist, is experiencing some shock. He feels light-headed. He exhibits a deep coral wound he suffered on the beach.
I catch him as he is about to fall over sideways. “Steven, let’s lay you down for a bit. Viktoria will get you a blanket to get warm. I’ll suture up the wound after that. We’ll get a health history on you when you’re up to it. Looks like a nasty coral gash!”
When all the protocols are done, David is almost back at 100%. He agrees to come back in three days or sooner, if need be, to check the wound. I warn that coral often contains small capsules with ejectable stinging threads. I also mention that the cut alone exposes the human body to the many pathogens in ocean water. I add that such cuts often become red, swollen, tender, and itchy.
“If you see signs of spreading redness, it could be cellulitis, Steven. In which case, you need to seek care immediately,” I pat his shoulder, as I have seen Dr. Aurand do. I smile, “But I’ll bet you’ll heal nicely, and I’ll see you running on the beach in no time.” I make my whole face beam as I look directly into his eyes. “Wait at least ten days to have a clinic remove the stitches. Cuts around the knee tend to pull apart.” My bedside manner is improving with constant practice. It’s on my list.
Outside, David drives away from the clinic. He buys another Coca-Cola on his way to his hotel room in Port Vila. He naps for an hour to recover his overall sense of balance. A nice lady, a wonder doctor — what a shame, he thinks.
*****
The following day, David has a hearty breakfast for an early start. He loads up his car with a his swimming gear, backpack, and medium-sized case. The case is slightly bigger than a briefcase. He heads toward the clinic. He parks on the main road near the entrance to the clinic and pretends to need to change a tire when cars come by. He can see the clinic parking lot through a clearing. He waits.
He knows Dr. Joan is not on the schedule for today. He hopes she will drive somewhere so he can begin to establish her pattern. He is lucky. He sees her back her Citroen out of a garage. Before she is at the main road, he ducks down to hide from her view. She turns her car away from him. He follows.
After a few miles, she turns off the main road onto a nearly overgrown dirt road through the jungle. I have all the time in the world, he counsels himself. He wants to offset his eagerness.
He parks in a near pull-over area along the main road. He dons his green shirt, trousers, a
nd boots. He carefully follows the path of Dr. Joan’s Citroen with his weapon.
He hears a rifle firing. As he nears, he recognizes Dr. Joan as the shooter. She is firing at a distant target with her telescoped rifle. He knows he is supposed to wait for an operative, but he feels a pressing need to finish the job. Polly Gone has dragged on too long. He senses she will somehow slip away from him, once found. He feels his initiative will make him a hero — as an operator and as an analyst in the deputy director’s eyes. He looks for a good clear shot. He will have to circle to her front to achieve that.
In position, he is on a slight hill. He has enough clearing to fire without standing out too much himself. He backs deeper into the trees to assemble his portable rifle and mount its telescopic sight. He takes a stick of Black Jack, his favorite chewing gum. He returns to the optimum firing location with his rifle. He loads the round. He has never felt so heightened in awareness. He has never felt so good. His sense of jubilation crowds out any doubts.
His moment is at hand.
Dr. Joan’s Firing Range
I enjoy a carefree day off from work at the clinic. Even better, I am going to start the day with my favorite activity. As I grip the rifle Dr. Aurand gave me, I am grateful to him. I remember my youthful beginnings in Rifle Club. My heart smiles at Dad’s pride in my shooting ability. I think warmly of Glen and how I dazzled him time after time. I connect with fun memories of competing with Gunnar in New Mexico. One day the two of us will be able to fire together again.
As I am about to fire my forty-ninth shot of the day, I see a glint in the jungle at my 11 o’clock. Nothing natural does that, my brain tells me. My sharp vision pulls in the hint of a distant rifle aimed at me. I instinctively fire at the gleam from the other rifle’s telescope. I never miss.
With heightened situational awareness, I methodically reload and carry my rife at the port arms position Gunnar taught me as I move cautiously toward the source of the glint. When I see no motion where I shot, I pick up the pace to a full run. I come to a full stop and lay my rifle down. I am cautious. Is the fallen man playing possum? I put my hunting knife blade up my left sleeve. I tie the laces of the supine shooter together — just in case.
I morph to physician. The downed man is breathing. He is Steven, the coral wound. The side of his head is flowing with fresh blood. I take off my brown, long-sleeved shooting shirt and rend my white cotton camisole into strips. I wrap the man’s head. The full-metal jacket from my rifle went straight into Steven’s telescopic sight. It rattled around the tube of the scope and emerged to strike the side of Steven’s head.
I put my shirt back on while I watch my patient. I become more self-aware. Knowledge of other people tells me I should feel anger or shock; I don’t. For some reason, I feel as good or better than I have ever felt before. I am positively euphoric. It is a peak experience. The moment is transcendent. The danger I faced produced a surge of adrenaline. The risk I took in shooting back gave me a boost of dopamine, which accentuated my considerable gun skills. I already had a base of feel-good endorphins as I enjoyed my lifelong hobby of shooting. Overall, my body created a cocktail of addictive hormones. All of this need to understand the world, is a gift from my parents.
After five minutes, I decide Steven is stable enough to be left alone. I drive my Citroen back to the clinic. I interrupt Dr. Aurand to ask his help. He is with a patient. Monique takes over. Without a single question of me, Dr. Aurand borrows the pickup of a patient in the waiting room. I throw the patient litter in the bed of the pickup with Dr. Aurand’s medical bag.
On the way to our patient, I explain the incident, “He was going to kill me. I had no choice. He is part of the …”
“Joan, say no more. I am your friend. I understand. Even though your shot was defensible, you don’t need scrutiny. I understand. We will do whatever it takes.” Is he a surrogate for Gunnar?
We find Steven still breathing but unconscious. The head wound has stopped bleeding. We roll him onto the litter. Dr. Aurand pulls the bolt back on the man’s rife, pulls out the unfired bullet, pockets it, and throws the man’s rifle ten feet away — to prevent the man from using the butt as a weapon.
“I have a friend who will return the man’s car when the rental office is closed,” Dr Aurand offers.
The Clinic
At the clinic, I get out to open my garage door. My Citroen is in the patient parking lot. Dr. Aurand drives the litter patient in the back of the pickup into the garage. I shut the big door. Dr. Aurand and I exit through the garage’s side door. I return to the garage with intravenous fluids and medical supplies. I skillfully clean the wound and observe no fracture of the cranium. I suture the three-inch gash in his head and dress it. I medicate the man who tried to kill me to keep him unconscious.
In between patients, Dr. Aurand brings me coffee. “Joan, how are you? I have a friend who can make this body go away. Let me know what you want me to do.”
“Dr. Aurand, thank you. You have done more than enough. I do not want to jeopardize you. If we can keep the patient here for a few days, I know an expert on these things who will advise us ….”
“As long as you wish, Joan. It is nothing. I will spell you here. Monique will also help. You can trust her. I will do anything for you, Joan …”
*****
I drive to Port Vila to call from a phone booth. I call a number in Bangkok — an emergency number Gunnar has given Uncle Walt, Aunt Cece, and me. I leave a short message: “Barbarian at the gate. Come to Lanai.” Lanai means Vanuatu. Gobi Desert would have meant Alamogordo.
Twelve hours later I call the US Consulate in Sydney to see whether there are any messages for a mythical Susan Goldberg. Gunnar leaves word for me with a Marine guard that her “nephew” will arrive “Lanai” in thirty-six hours.
I return to the garage to spell Monique.
“Dr. Joan, our patient started to spike a fever. These tropical wounds are the worst. I suspect it is coming from his knee wound, which is angry. Not too much redness or swelling around his head wound. He is still asleep.”
“Thanks, Monique. I treated him yesterday for the coral gash. Yes, it looks like cellulitis. I’ll start him on an antibiotic. Please tell Dr. Aurand that help is on the way. I cannot tell you how relieved I am. We can trust this person coming completely. He will know what to do.”
*****
Monique meets Gunnar at the Port Vila airport. She recognizes the youthful athletic man with a mustache from Dr. Joan’s description.
“Monique, I am so pleased to meet you. Dr. Joan has told me so much about you.”
“She speaks very glowingly of you as well, John.”
Monique, normally very relaxed, feels nervous talking to someone she knows is probably not who he says he is. Conversely, Gunnar enjoys playing John. It’s good practice to live a legend — with a net for a change. Monique fills him in on the patient’s condition. She tells him that Dr. Aurand is read in, too.
I can tell Monique is convinced at first that John and I are lovers by our heartfelt reunion. We hold our hug for a full minute. We both have tears of joy at seeing each other again. No mouth kiss, so I’m sure she then reasons we are ex-partners.
Alone with Gunnar outside the garage, I relate how an assassin tried to kill me two days ago, how I fired first in self-defense, and how the patient is doing. I sigh. “There’s something else you need to know.” I take a deep breath. Time to come clean. “I fired the bullet that killed Kennedy. This is not a joke! I see the disbelief on your face, but it’s true. That’s why I dropped out of medical school and why I’m hiding out here. No rescue of a mobster. You need to know that, assuming you’re still willing to help me. I’ll tell you more later. I really need to explain myself.”
I can read the micro-expressions in Gunnar’s face. Initially, he thinks I am joking. After that, he can tell I am serious. He pauses. He hugs me and kisses my right cheek. “I’m here to help. I was going to wake the patient up and give him a lot of capiches: capiche
this, capiche that. My whole Italian vocabulary,” he laughs. “I see that’s no longer necessary. Let’s see this poor bastard who took you on.”
Once again, Gunnar is a marvel. He processes the unbelievable as if it were the ABCs.
Inside the garage, I check the patient. “He’s still stable. I’ve kept him under. I don’t think he suffered a permanent injury from my shot. He developed a fever from a coral cut on his knee. The coral cut was probably a ruse to do a positive ID on me.” I pause, as Gunnar would before a punchline. “I don’t think my suturing was so bad that he’d want to kill me for it. Maybe it was the bill.”
Gunnar laughs. He likes my sense of humor, a gift from growing up with him.
I am pleased Gunnar understands my homage to him. I motion for Gunnar to follow me back outside the garage. There, I tell him, “As a physician, or person pretending to be one, I’m a believer that the unconscious may hear and remember things said around them, so I want to be careful about what we say in earshot.”
Gunnar nods, “Very wise, doctor.” He is not condescending about the title. “I know you want to talk, but right now I’d like to get you out of danger. There’s a flight out here to Australia in ten hours, or you could go to one of Vanuatu’s northern islands. In either case, getting you away from the clinic is a good idea, sooner rather than later. We don’t know what he reported. I’ll have this wrapped up in twelve hours. Who do you think he’s working for?”
I drop the other shoe, “The CIA would be my best guess. Glen recruited me for Dallas. Could be rogue elements from other agencies, or both. I’m sorry to involve you. I hope you can do this without jeopardizing your job.”