The Arcturus Man

  He set up the tripod, pushed the anchors into the dirt, rolled over on his back and closed his eyes. He was tired. He felt fatigue constantly in recent months. That was an alien feeling for him. He always seemed to be tired. He let is mind drift to whatever places it longed to go. He waited until his heart stopped racing. He felt the early morning chill deep in his bones. Cold was a familiar feeling and he liked it.

  He test fired the Dragunov several times in the past month to zero in the sight. He even tried the crossbow because it had a flatter trajectory and was utterly silent, but the range was unreliable. It has to be the Dragunov. No one in Maine paid attention to a single shot now and then—as long as there weren’t too many. He saved his vodka bottles for this. People in America were accustomed to trash lying around their parks and beaches. No one would pay attention to the broken bottles. He was hitting them with the first shot out to 500 meters. It was too risky to try much farther. He knew he could make the shot at 1000 meters, but this was too important to take any chances. Still, he knew he had to keep his distance from Ziemelis. There was risk in being too close.

  He tied fluorescent orange fishing line from a tree near a popular fishing spot near the kill zone to act as a wind sock. He could now estimate the wind speed at the target by how much the fishing line was deflected. He stopped drinking two days ago so that his breathing would be slow and relaxed. Once he braced, he thought he was still rock solid. He could not miss. It was as certain as a sun rise.

  He turned fifty last month. The return of his beloved Dragunov was his birthday present.

  “Yes, the years were beginning to show,” he thought.

  He recently lost the last of his natural teeth. He had probably waited too long to give in. He was not growing old gracefully. He tried to fight back. His vitamin E regimen had almost put him in the hospital. Despite an hour of exercising each morning, his hard, angular Slavic face had developed jowls. He could pinch almost an inch of fat at his waist. He was disgusted by his own weakness. He wasn’t doing enough. Despite everything to the contrary, he was still hard. He was still strong. He was Cossack. His blue eyes were testimony of a savage family lineage. He was very proud that his hair was still jet black. It was a family trait. His father hadn’t turned white until he was almost ninety. It was at least something he could hope for.

  Smolenskiy had hours to wait. He would wait for days if it was needed. It was not a difficult thing for him. His mind drifted to better times. His father was a mujik, a peasant farmer in the Ukraine. He remembered stories from his parents. When he was an infant his mother would tightly bind him from neck to toe to a swaddling board and prop him up beneath a shady tree while she and his father worked the fields. At times, he would be like that for ten to twelve hours. Father O’Connor, a cultural anthropologist Smolenskiy knew personally, used swaddling as a working theory to explain the passive nature of the Russian peasant, but when unbound, the mujik could be fierce. According to O’Connor, peasants were accustomed to being subdued from infancy. Leave it to the undisciplined Western mind to concoct simple explanations for complex social phenomena.

  Smolenskiy thoughts drifted to his early years. During his youth, stories were retold hundreds of times at the kitchen table beneath candle light. Most told was the tale of Grandfather Bear taking young Ivan, but finally abandoning the baby and board in a thicket after failing to unwrap the infant. The pale scar across Smolenskiy’s forehead has been a lifelong reminder that it had really happened.

  Then there were the Cossack stories. He heard raucous stories over and over about Taras Bulba writing insulting letters to the Czar. The family was vaingloriously proud of its Cossack roots. His paternal grandfather never tired of reading the letters, over and over again, laughing again and again. And, there were the stories of the Cossacks bleeding Napoleon’s army as it was retreating from Russia and how it was the cause of his eventual defeat.

  He heard how his maternal grandfather was hung from a lamp post by the mobs during the 1905 Revolution. He had been a policeman in St. Petersburg. He heard the account of his maternal great-grandfather racing from a pack of wolves in a blizzard and throwing his grandfather’s younger brother from the troika to appease the pack so that the family could escape. Better had it been his grandfather. Ivan always regarded that particularly family story as being pure fable, but he grew up with the shame of having a Chekist in their bloodline. Whether fact or fable, the stories swirled in his thoughts and lodged in his heart. Smolenskiy was the product of everything that he was and everything that he had heard, and above all, he was an officer of the Speznaz.

  He never needed to remind himself how much he hated Latvians. They weren't Slavs and they always had their noses in the air. Stalin hadn't hurt them nearly enough. Of course, who knows what he would have done if he hadn't died in 1953. Stalin should have lived longer.

  He visited Riga a year ago and still felt the humiliation of having to deal with the dregs of the former Soviet Union. Everyone in the new independent Latvia spoke fluent Russian but wouldn't speak it. He was forced to speak English. Still, he had been resolute in not speaking that bastard language, Latvian. He should have gone to Tallinn, where at least they didn't put on airs about being better than everyone else. The Finns and the Estonians were reasonable. Every last Latvian and Lithuanian should have been sent to the Gulag. Many were sent, but not nearly enough. Stalin should have lived longer.

  Young Ivan had been a brilliant student. He had achieved the equivalent of a doctoral degree in psychology at the Leningrad Polytechnic University by the age of 25. He had been selected, coached and groomed by the GRU. Eventually, he was sent to Speznaz. Why anyone needed a psychologist in Afghanistan was only known in the Kremlin, but he went without hesitation or contemplation. The Soviet war in Afghanistan was a nine-year struggle starting in 1979. Smolenskiy was there in the thick of it. He was Speznaz for life! He was, after all, a Kalmyk Cossack, the descendent of a famed warrior class that dated back a thousand years.

  He kissed the anchor tattoo on the web of his hand for a benediction and then slowly took his position. He panned the cove with his scope. Jared's boathouse was still closed. He could see that the Boston Whaler was still in its moorings. He would wait. He would wait as long as he needed to. The sun would be above the horizon soon.

  Jared woke at six, as he always did. He never used an alarm clock. Jenny probably wouldn’t be up for a while yet so he didn’t bother getting dressed. He went to the bathroom. He noticed that she had picked up her clothes. It was nice to see a woman’s clothes lying around. It was an intimate, comfortable feeling that Jared wasn’t used to, but wanted to be. That Jenny might stay in his house for another day or two was a small miracle for Jared. The intimacy was too new to grasp right now.

  He walked downstairs. Ginger already had the coffee going. He poured a large cup and loaded it with half and half and sugar. He walked outside and sat on a bench outside the veranda. He heard the water running so Jenny must be up. He stepped into the veranda, reached into a humidor on the patio table and took out a Cuban cigar, a Montecristo. He liked a short smoke. Luckily the Canadian border wasn’t that far away. He bit off the tip and lit up. He heard a loon on the pond. It was a welcoming sound. He felt really good. The depression was a memory. The coffee and the cigar were good. Everything was good. Jared deeply inhaled his cigars. He liked the rush. He forgot about the distant wind.

  Jenny appeared at the door. She was dressed. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. Blond hair. Blue blouse. White shorts. No shoes. She was beautiful. She was a tonic.

  “Morning. My goodness it’s cold. You don’t even have a shirt on.” She glanced at a large outdoor thermometer. It was just at 48 degrees.

  “I don’t get cold.”

  “Well, I do.” She noticed his coffee. “I thought you liked your coffee black,” she asked.

  “Except for the first cup in the morning. I want the sugar high.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She ran inside. Moments lat
er she reappeared wearing the Bellagio bathrobe over her clothes.

  “That’s a little better. You don’t even have goose bumps,” she said. He laughed at that.

  She walked over and sat next to him.

  “Thank you for inviting me to your house. I am really enjoying it.” A loon called out again.

  “Neat. You know, I’ve been thinking about the loons. We’re on an island. I thought they only lived on fresh water,” she said.

  “That’s true. There is a large fresh water pond on the island that is fed by a spring. That’s pretty rare for islands. It’s just large enough for loons. They arrive not long after the ice thaws on the pond. That was a male you heard.”

  “A male? How could you know that?”

  “You probably haven’t been exposed to loon lore in marine biology. They are fascinating animals. Only the males make that particular call. It was directed to another male to warn him off. Each male makes a completely distinct yodel that can be used to identify them individually,” he said.

  “You’re right. I don’t know anything about loons, but it is a marvelous sound, don’t you think?”

  “The loons in Maine are the ‘common loon’—Gavia immer," He said.

  "Your Latin is phenomenal. I guess I’ve said that before,” she said.

  Now he was showing off,” she thought.

  "It is among the oldest groups of birds on the planet. Ornithologists think that they have been around more than 40 million years. Kind of an interesting fact if you are one of those who believe that dinosaurs became birds. Most people think that loons are some kind of duck, but they are an entirely different species, somewhat related to the penguin.”

  “Jared, you are an incredible man.” she said to herself.

  “I need you on trivia night at the sports bar in Cambridge…Hey, I’m still cold. I’m going inside. I still haven’t had my shower yet, but I really needed this coffee. I could smell it as soon as I left my room,” said Jenny.

  “Sure. Please excuse me while you shower. I have to make a quick phone call and then I am going for a morning run. I’ll be right back. Or…do you want to join me for a run before you shower?” asked Jared.

  “No thanks, I am not a morning running type person. And, no cliff climbing. OK?” said Jenny.

  “I promise. No cliffs.”

  She noticed that his forehead only showed a reddened area where that terrible gash had been. No stitches. It was amazing. He had been bleeding profusely. It was too early in the morning for her to figure things out. She let it go.

  Jared stubbed out his cigar and walked into the other room. Jenny heard him make a phone call. He was speaking in German. He sounded like a German. He was really amazing. Then he spoke in English. Strange! It was a quick call. He walked back into the kitchen. Jenny was still nursing her coffee.

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Have a good run.”

  Jared went out the side door and started running. It wasn’t a jog. It was a sprint. Jenny watched as he disappeared into the woods.

  “Definitely a bona fide Alpha male,” she thought. She walked back to her room. She had forgotten to lock the door last night. She wondered if there was any Freudian significance to that. She went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower.

  Jared ran about a dozen laps around the island. The run was much shorter than usual, but he was looking forward to talking to Jenny before she left for her work. He came out of the woods at the boathouse. He glanced at the bluff across the cove. He focused but could only get strange and confused images. Whoever was out there thought in Russian. The thoughts were malevolent. There was also something very familiar about it. He sensed that person before. Suddenly it gelled. It was Dr. Smolenskiy. Many years had passed but Jared had attended classes taught by Smolenskiy. He recalled that there was mutual dislike. It all came together now. He had been out there since last night. He was the one watching him at Ashley’s. Jared now knew that he had to be vigilant. Smolenskiy was tracking him. Why would an M.I.T. professor be watching him? There had to be a connection to the nameless men.

  He opened the boat house and floated the small Boston Whaler out and tied it off at the beach. He ran the dingy to the beach next to the small Whaler. He would need the dingy to get Jenny to the big Whaler, which was moored about a hundred feet out. It was an eighteen-foot Dauntless with a 150 XL OptiMax Mercury engine. It was too much engine if the bay was full of chop, but the tide was out and the water looked like a soft undulating sheet. Jenny was a strong. He had no doubts about her abilities to handle the bigger boat. Besides, it was safer. He preferred the small Whaler for himself.

  He walked up to the house and went in through the veranda. He was surprised to see that Jenny had already made breakfast. He was doubly surprised to see that she made home fries, bacon and eggs. She had even buttered the toast. Finally, a woman who knows what butter is. Wonderful, he thought.

  “Working in this kitchen is a dream, Jared,” she said.

  He walked over and pecked her on the cheek, but close to her ear. It was a calculated kiss. He wanted it to become a habit and this was how to get it started. He noticed that she had leaned forward to receive it.

  “I would have thought that you were the tree bark and pebbles type for breakfast," said Jared.

  “Well, actually, I guess I normally am, but I thought you might like this judging from our dinner last night. Anyway…since you had it. I assumed you liked it.”

  “I do. I do. Thanks for making breakfast.”

  The skunk smell was gone so they set up in the breakfast nook in the kitchen.

  “Ginger has been very quiet today. But, that’s alright. I think that I can manage without her now,” said Jenny.

  He poured himself some coffee—black—and sat down next to Jenny. They ate and talked for a while. Some time later, he leaned toward her and asked, “What are your plans today?”

  “Back to the flats, " said Jenny.

  “I tied up the dingy on the beach. Take the big Whaler. It’s full of gas,” said Jared. “Tow the dingy to wherever you’re going.”

  “Thanks for the loan of the boat. It should save me a lot of time.”

  “Make yourself some lunch before you leave. The boat has a cooler. There is an ice machine in the boathouse. Do you think you might finish up around five?” asked Jared.

  She thought for a moment. “Yes, I can probably be done by five.” She had secretly hoped that he would volunteer to help her today, but she wasn't going to ask.

  “Meet me at the boathouse at five. OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’re going to catch our dinner today.”

  “OK, I’m game, as long as its not clams.”

  She got up and cleared her dishes from the table and put them in the dish washer. He surveyed her body language. She had turned away and wasn’t looking back. That was obviously a statement she wanted to make. He gathered his dishes and put them in the dish washer. She put one hand behind her head, stretched a bit, and started to talk without looking at him. Her body language couldn’t be clearer. He told her that he wouldn’t wait on her so, obviously, she wasn’t about to wait on him either. And, there was no good-bye kiss.

  “See you later then.” She walked out.

  He wondered if he could actually have a relationship with Jenny. Was it even remotely possible? It would be up to him. He knew she wanted him, but could it last? Would she feel the same way once she got to see the dark side of his moon, the side he never showed anyone? He doubted it. But, maybe!

  He went to his study. He missed Jenny’s presence in the house, but like all things in Jared’s life, there were endless contradictions. Being ordinary for an entire day yesterday was exhausting. He had to work hard at acting and talking ordinary. Jared was physically indefatigable, but mental exhaustion was something that happened often. It was good to have time alone so he could be himself.

  He settled on the floor, braced himself with some cushions, and looked up at the ce
iling. He called up Dershowitz’s book on the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen Effect and set the timer to a second a page. He would speed it up later, but he wanted to focus on the data first. His latest interest was faster-than-light quantum physics. Time travel was fascinating. He most enjoyed things that he couldn’t master. He was disappointed. It was evident in a few minutes that Dershowitz was primarily interested in the possibilities of teleportation. That didn’t interest him. He kept reading for a few more minutes, but then had Ginger change books. He read for several hours, missing lunch. He wasn’t hungry. He rarely was. He would eat when he was hungry. That was another reason he had no clocks in the house. He was not going to be a slave to any machine. Finally, he said, “Ginger...MK Ultra.”

  Ginger immediately appeared on the large screen television. He sat up. Ginger was nude. Ginger was blond, slim, and tall--not at all like the other Ginger, the blackjack dealer at Trumps. She looked a little like Jenny. He had programmed Ginger to be his ideal woman. Was that the only attraction he had for Jenny? No, it was much more than that. He was confident of that.

  “What would you like me to do, Jared,” asked Ginger.

  “I don’t need you to do anything, Ginger. I just wanted to see how much you looked like Jenny.”

  Ginger frowned. He had recently expanded her fuzzy logic so she could appear to have emotions and could guess when good and bad things were being said. The context logic required very complex and long algorithms. The software was working better than he had expected. This would never be possible with digital logic. The fuzzy routines were Jared’s invention.