To say the least, Lloyd was less than excited about this whole story idea. I can’t believe that he allowed both photos to be included in my presentation. This is better than I had hoped for.
If there is somebody out there that has come in to contact with this guy, this article should really shake them up. Hopefully, they will respond with a phone call or at least a letter. Of course somebody out there has to see the article first before they can respond. The Portland Herald doesn’t enjoy that large a circulation, but at least it is a start. I must stay positive, if I am going to be successful in stopping this guy before it is too late.
Betty’s voice comes over the intercom.
“Mr. Brooks, you have a call on line three, please. Mr. Brooks, line three.”
I gulp down a down a slug of coffee and pick up the phone.
“Hello, this is Matthew Brooks. How can I help you?”
“I know who your man is Mr. Brooks.” A mans voice whispers from the receiver.
“I read your article in the paper, and I know who he is. I guess I should say, I know what he has done,” the caller states with intensity.
“Who is this I am talking to, please?” I inquire.
“I’d rather not mention names on the phone if you don’t mind.”
“All right, that’s fine. You say that you’ve read the article and seen the photographs in The Herald.”
“I’ve seen them all right.”
“Well sir, could you tell me how it is, that you know the man in those photographs?” I ask with scrutiny. I hear a whispering chuckle in response to my question.
“Well I guess you could say I met the man in your newspaper article, while he was trying to kill me. In fact he has tried to kill me on a couple of occasions,” he quips sarcastically.
“Why would he want to kill you sir? Why would he want to do something like that?”
“Because I know too much and I’ve seen too much.”
“Too much about what?”
“I know too much about the destruction of the Challenger, Mr. Brooks,” he reveals.
“The Space Shuttle Challenger? You’re talking about the space shuttle that exploded just after take off in 1986?”
“Yep, that’s the one, except it didn’t explode, it was blown up.”
“It was blown up?” I ask trying to sound very skeptical, even though I know that is exactly what happened.
“Now, I don’t want you to think that I doubt your story sir, but it’s my job to be skeptical. I have to ask questions to make sure the information I receive from my sources, are reliable and authentic.” I inform him.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Brooks, I totally understand, ask away,” he is anxious to put my doubts to rest.
“The idea of the space shuttle Challenger being purposely blown up; is this some kind of theory?” I ask, beginning to dissect his story.
“It’s no theory Mr. Brooks; it’s a fact. This isn’t just some harebrained idea that came to me, while I was watching the shuttle take off on TV, I assure you.
I know more about the space shuttle program than do most of the readers of your newspaper.”
“Well maybe you can tell me, how is it that you know so much about the space shuttle program anyway?”
“At the time of the Challenger explosion, I was working for the FBI on a special assignment to NASA. Well, to be more precise, I was assigned to Cape Canaveral. I was in charge of internal affairs and security before, during, and after each launch. You can check me out if you wish, Mr. Brooks. Call the FBI human resource office in Washington, DC, if you want,” he offers.
“Well sir, how could I do that, when I don’t know your name? I’d have to have a name.” I try to sound as powerless and incapable of action as possible. The line goes silent. I wait for him to hopefully respond with his name.
“All right; I’ll give you a name, Riker, Stephen A Riker. Call the FBI, ask them if they ever had an agent named Stephen Riker working with NASA,” he volunteers.
“Does the FBI give out that kind of information to just anyone that calls, Mr. Riker?” I ask with uncertainty.
“Well, they may not give you everything they’ve got on Stephen Riker, but they should be able to at least give you enough information to prove my identity,” he assumes.
“At least you would know that a Stephen Riker did work for the FBI and that I didn’t just pull the name out of a hat,” he submits.
“OK then, that’s fair enough.” I yield to his tentative evidence, for the time being.
“So then, you claim that the Challenger was purposely blown up. Are you also saying that the same man you saw in my newspaper photos is the one that blew it up?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying,” he is very emphatic.
“Did you see him blow up the space shuttle?”
“Look, I’ve said too much already. I don’t want to say anymore on the phone. Who knows, somebody might be listening. If you want to know more you’ll have to come down here and see me personally.”
“Come down here? Down here, where?”
“Costa Rica.”
“Costa Rica?” I ask in surprise.
“You want to know the rest of the story, you come down here. I’ll have someone pick you up at the airport. And Mr. Brooks, come alone.”
“You don’t know when or if I’m coming or what I look like, Mr. Riker. How will you be able to have someone meet me?”
“You let me worry about that. If you come down, I’ll find you,” he guarantees.
“I’ll tell you one thing Mr. Brooks, before I go. This guy wants to keep who he is and what he is a secret and he will do anything to keep that secret. That’s why I know he has got to kill me to keep that secret. Now that you are asking questions about this guy, and you got his picture plastered all over the paper, he is going to want to kill you too,” he warns.
“Please come, Mr. Brooks. We have got to figure out a way to stop this guy before he kills again,” he pleads. The phone goes dead.
I sit there for a moment, totally astonished from what I have just heard.
“Boy, you’re here early this morning. What’s wrong; couldn’t sleep?” Kelly greets me from behind. I jump a mile high, her greeting kicking me from my trance of deep thought.
“Oh, good morning. How are you this morning?” I sit back down and kind of stare off into the distance.
“Wow, aren’t we jumpy this morning? Did I interrupt something?” She is perky and smiling.
“Huh? Oh no, I just had the weirdest call of my life that’s all.”
“Who was it? That is if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Believe it or not, an FBI agent called me in response to my article I put in the paper. Well, at least he said he used to be an FBI agent.” I explain without making sense.
“Why would an FBI agent be calling you?” She asks, still standing behind me. I turn slowly around in my chair and look up at her.
“Because he saw the photos I put in the paper, and he said that he recognizes the man in the photos.”
Kelly looks puzzled for a minute and then speaks.
“How would he know who he is?
“Because that same guy tried to kill him too.”
“What! Why would he try to kill an FBI agent?” She asks, totally flabbergasted.
“Because that FBI agent saw him shoot down the space shuttle Challenger in 1986.”
“The Challenger? He actually saw him shooting down the Challenger?” She is thunderstruck into emotion.
“Well, that’s what he says anyway. If it’s true, if he really did see our infamous stranger blowing up the space shuttle, I can understand why he would want Mr. Riker dead,” telling her from my point of view.
“Riker, who’s Riker?” She asks.
“Oh that’s the FBI man’s name, by the way, Stephen A Riker.”
Kelly thinks deeply in silence for a moment.
“That is such an incredible story, Matt. Do you think he is telling you th
e truth?”
“Well, I won’t know for sure until I hear the rest of his story. The only way I’m going to hear the rest of his story is in person. And the only way I am going to hear his story in person is if I take a plane to Costa Rica.”
“Costa Rica? You have got to be kidding, Matt. Here we go again. You know Lloyd is not going to let us go to Costa Rica. Besides, he just told me to tell you to come to his office. That’s why I’m here. To tell you that he has another assignment for us. If you waltz into his office and tell him we’re off to Costa Rica, he’ll fire you all over again.” She protests excitedly.
“Now settle down.”
“I’ll take care of Lloyd. We have you might say, an understanding, at least for now. Plus, the fact is, I have to go to Costa Rica by myself. Mr. Riker said come alone, and he meant it. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t take kindly to you taking photographs of him or his whereabouts.” I try to explain to her.
“Well if that’s the way you want it,” she begins, her hands quickly come to rest on her hips.
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be this time. I’ll be ready for that assignment when I get back in a couple of days or so, OK?”
“Coming back? I heard about your offers from big time newspapers. Why come back when you can work for a real newspaper?” She sarcastically implies.
“Because they will never have what The Portland Herald has.” I give rebuttal.
“Oh I see, and what’s that?” She asks.
“None of them have you.” She nods her head in agreement, her eyes begin to water, and then she quietly turns and walks away.
Besides Riker’s directions to come alone, I failed to mention to her the danger involved in going. One of us sticking our neck out is enough. Besides, if anything happened to Kelly I would never forgive myself.
Arriving at the Juan Santa Maria airport in San Jose I am directed to customs. A young lady in uniform stamps my passport and I head for the curbside out front of the airport. Somehow hopefully, Mr. Riker has sent someone to meet me.
I left Portland the afternoon before on the 5:30 flight to Los Angeles, catching a red eye from LA to San Jose, stopping at Aurora airport in Guatemala City for an hour on the way.
I can never sleep on planes, so the eight-hour red eye special from LA to San Jose has left me feeling as if I spent the night in the back of a pickup truck. My soul is weary with fatigue, and with each move I make, my muscles ache in protest. I step outside over to the curb to see what transpires.
After waiting only fifteen minutes or so, a rusty beat up old Datsun flatbed rattles up to the curb. An old man scoots over to the passenger side of the truck and rolls down the window.
“Brooks?” He speaks with a heavy Spanish accent.
“Yes, I’m Brooks.”
“Riker say you come please,” he instructs.
We maneuver through the busy city streets of San Jose, never going below fifty miles an hour. On at least two occasions I thought we were dead for sure, due to the old gentleman’s wild and undomesticated style of driving. Closing my eyes seems to lessen the terror I feel, so I keep them closed most of the time. When we reached the outskirts of the city, I can finally unclench the tendons of my arms and legs, loosen the grip of my hands from off the seat, and relax.
“Where are we headed?” I ask him.
“We go Playas Del Coco.” His hand points up ahead.
“How far is it?” I ask. He shakes his head as if he doesn’t understand, so I try again.
“How far?” I ask again, trying to gesture with my hands, in an effort to communicate. He thinks for a moment then looks at me and holds up two fingers.
“Dos.” He smiles a big smile, with a gold tooth shining in the middle of his grin. Of course I’m not sure if he means two miles or two hours, so I settle back and watch the scenery go by.
We arrive in the little fishing village of Playas Del Coco about two and a half hours later. The road was long, hot, and dusty. This must be the dry part of Costa Rica, because I have yet to see the rain forest that Costa Rica is famous for.
In the middle of the village square we pull up and stop at a little adobe open air type restaurant named ‘Los Monos.’
My Costa Rican driver yells something in Spanish to a large man in an apron who is heaving some kind of gigantic fish onto an outside grill. They both laugh about something, and then he turns to me.
“Uhhh, you stay. More ride come,” he instructs me, pointing down to the ground repeatedly.
Grabbing my backpack from the back of the flatbed, I meander over to one of the outdoor tables, rigged with a thatched roof cover over it. After placing the fish in just the right place on the grill, the large gentleman comes over to my table, wiping his hands on his apron as he approaches.
“Welcome, welcome señor.”
If you travel anywhere in the world you should at least know a few of the most important words of any language to get by. One important word that comes up often is the word for beer.
“Una cerveza, por favor,” I request.
“Sí señor. Is Imperial good for you?” he asks.
“Yes, Imperial is fine; as long as it is good and cold.”
“Oh sí señor, muy bueno cold.”
The ‘Los Monos’ is only about a quarter mile away from
the ocean. I turn my chair so that I can view the beach and the multicolored fishing boats anchored just offshore, in the blue waters of the Papagayo Gulf.
Howler monkeys cavort and rhythmically woof from macadamia nut trees that tower above the building of the restaurant. My ice-cold cerveza is served. I lift it to my mouth and let its cold froth tranquilize my throat. Just then, a blissful breeze that has visited the cool waters of the gulf brushes against my face. In that moment, I am truly in the oasis of life.
After four hours of waiting and at least as many beers, I feel as lethargic and hot as a Costa Rican sloth steaming in a sauna. I close my eyes and begin to drift. Just as I am about to lay my head down on the table, a teenage boy put-put rattles up to the restaurant on a scooter, startling me into consciousness. He speaks first with the large man at the grill, who in turn points over to me, using the word gringo as he points. The boy waddle walks his scooter over to my table.
“You señor Brooks, please?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m Brooks.”
“Riker say you come with me, please.”
“Come with you? That thing isn’t big enough for the both of us, is it?” I ask, questioning the safety of it.
“Come, not much time. You hold tight, please.” He puts on his sun glasses
I sit my butt down on a fender space the size of a Reader’s Digest magazine. As soon as I grab hold both hands onto the boy’s belt, we are off.
I didn’t realize that these little scooters could move this fast. I make an effort to look over the boy’s shoulder to see where we are headed. My face is soon machine-gunned with every flying insect living in Costa Rica, my eyes quickly filling with detonated insect entrails. I pull my head back behind the boy and am blind for awhile, until my eyes are able to water themselves bug-free. I wished I could get to my sunglasses inside my backpack, I think to myself.
Only after fifteen minutes and ten miles from where we started, we begin to travel through a primeval rainforest, which soon ends at the edge of a lonely secluded beach. I find later that this isolated place is the furthermost northern part of the Papagayo Gulf, and only five miles or so from the boarder of Nicaragua. The boy turns off the scooter and kicks open the kickstand. Two large iguanas on the beach race for cover.
A clamor of birds screeches and twitters from the trees above, as the boy and I sit and wait on the beach. The waves slowly meander onto the shore and a light balmy breeze gently wisps past our faces. Even with the light zephyr, the heat is stifling and I am sweating profusely. I am dying for a drink of water. I look over at my teenage traveling comrade, who seems to be as cool and calm as a freshly picked petunia. His obvious vigor makes me fe
el kind of wimpy, so I say nothing of my personal plight.
A long boat skims around from the finger of land that jetties out from our right, about a mile out. It turns towards our direction without cutting its speed. Only when it reaches a point of a hundred yards from shore does it cut its engines, then chug-a-lugs up to the sand. A local middle-aged man with a long mustache, wearing a bright red bandanna on his head, motions for me to come aboard.
“You come for Riker señor, rápidamente,” he commands.
As I step onto the boat, the boy pushes the bow of the boat back into the water. For a minute or two, the boat sputters in reverse. The captain turns the boat towards open water and pushes the throttle all the way forward. Then we fly, skimming across the water.
“How far is it?” I ask in an effort to communicate. The captain of the boat looks straight ahead without physical acknowledgment of my question, or even the sound of my voice. I feel like such an outsider, completely out of my element. I settle down as comfortable as my seat will allow, conceding that I must just wait and see where in the world the captain decides to navigate this craft.
The water we travel on is almost without so much as a ripple; except for the occasional school of fish that boils the surface of the water in reaction to our passing. As we pass each surfacing boiling school, hundreds of acrobatic aerialist seabirds position themselves for the possibility of latching onto a feast.
We must have traveled thirty minutes or so, when we turn into a small cove of water, its breadth being no wider than a quarter of a mile. As we draw closer to the shore the captain cuts the engine, which now spits and sputters up towards the sand. We run aground on a small crescent of black sand beach and the captain kills the motor. Except for the water lapping onto shore, all is silent.
“You wait here, señor,” the captain says.
If this is in fact the arranged rendezvous point, I would feel much better if my next guide was somewhere here on this beach, before the boat takes off. As it is, there is no one to be seen. This insignificant spit of sand I stand on is the only thing protecting me from the two abysses of jungle and sea, veneering either side of me. The thought of being left here all alone without provisions begins to plague my mind, and I am now more than a little concerned.
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