by Pat Mullan
There was no line waiting for taxis and he got one right away. In minutes he was taking the airport exit south to Le Jeune. He never noticed the gray Corvette that pulled out after him. The taxi dropped him five minutes later outside the rental agency that GMA always used. He was a VIP customer and the late model Jaguar he had requested was gassed up and ready.
He took the 836, commonly known as the Dolphin Expressway, west to the turnpike and headed south towards Homestead and the Keys. Traffic was sparse on the turnpike and MacDara cruised at about fifty-five. Passing through the western outskirts of Miami he could see the newer housing developments on his left. Single family homes, crowded close together. Spanish style, cream walls, cinnamon roof tiles. Further on he noticed older developments; some houses still being repaired from the hurricane of two years ago. On his right shopping malls and warehouses flashed by, broken by open land used for growing shrubs, plants and the ubiquitous palm trees that dotted and clustered the Miami landscape. Further south, towards Homestead, he couldn't help noticing the deterioration. The homes were gray, box-like, flat-roofed shacks, an occasional one adorned with a white picket fence or a well maintained flower garden which only tended to emphasize the shabbiness.
The turnpike ended and the Last Chance Saloon stood as an outpost to the twenty miles of everglades and mangrove swampland that had to be crossed before reaching the Keys. MacDara was now on U.S.1, a two-lane roadway punctuated by signs advising that there were passing lanes ahead. Periodically the road did expand to four lanes changing back to two almost right away, it seemed. MacDara was in no hurry. He was enjoying the pleasant contrast of water and plant-life on each side of the road; a wilderness again. He was attracted to the extremities of the planet, he thought : the Florida Keys, Connemara. His pleasant reverie was broken by the sounds of the traffic that had built up behind him in his rear view mirror, all itching to drive through him. A gray corvette was riding up his tailpipe. Well, MacDara decided, they could all wait until they reached the next passing lanes. He wasn't going to speed up today for anyone. The passing lanes came and went and a rush of traffic moved out to the fast lane and whizzed past, free at last. It was only when the single lane traffic resumed that MacDara noticed the gray Corvette still riding close on his rear bumper. It had not passed. He began to feel irritated but his state of mind refused to permit it. He could see two people in the Corvette. Pricks, he thought, another time I'd teach the bastards a lesson; but I refuse to get annoyed today.
About a half hour after leaving the Last Chance Saloon the mangrove swamps ended and MacDara reached Key Largo, the first of the communities on that necklace of islands that reached out into the Gulf of Mexico and ended at Key West. He began to feel even mellower and the refrains of an old song took over his mind ........Bogey and Bacall in Key Largo; oh yeah, two of my favorite people, he thought, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.....
He had had it. Enough was enough. The Corvette was still dogging him in his rear-view mirror and he was sick of them. Avoidance, not confrontation today, he advised himself. Should be close to the Greek's place by this time. The Greek on the Creek. Just the right place for a beer and some fresh fish. A couple of hundred yards ahead. He swung off the road to the right, past the tall battleship gray buildings that housed the boatyard and nosed the Jaguar into the parking area behind the Greek's. Just a diner sitting on the boardwalk at the side of the channel that bisected the Keys. But the food was good, he remembered. A forty-five minute break, he reasoned, would let that Corvette tailgate someone else.
An hour and a half later, the strains of a reggae band greeted his ears as the Holiday Isle resort at Islamorada approached. Teeming with cars, noise, and lithe young bronzed bodies. He slowed to a crawl feasting his eyes on the spectacle as he passed. It was the screeching of tires that jarred his spine. The gray Corvette was back. It had just swung out of the jungle of cars at Holiday Isle and was once again riding his rear bumper.
MacDara finally got the message. He put his foot to the floor and shifted up into overdrive. The Jag responded instantly. In seconds the needle was hovering around eighty but the Corvette was closing the distance. Traffic was light and MacDara easily swung out to overtake and pass the vehicles ahead. No sirens. That meant there were no patrol cars in the vicinity. That was good and bad. Good because he didn't want the local cops involved. Bad because this contest would go down to the wire. A winner and a loser. MacDara didn't intend to end up as shark bait off the Florida Keys.
The crack of the rifle was unmistakable. MacDara ducked instinctively as the bullet shattered his rear window. Glancing in his mirror he could see one of his pursuers standing up in the open sunroof with a weapon raised to his shoulder. Immediately MacDara started to weave the Jaguar zigzag across the road startling a driver in the oncoming lane. They were trapped on this road, the hunter and its quarry. Nowhere to go unless you chose the Gulf of Mexico on the right or the Atlantic Ocean on the left.
Two more shots in quick succession. But they couldn't hit a barn door if it was moving the way I am, though MacDara. He knew he had the forty-five that Shields had provided in the glove compartment. But it was useless in this contest and he wanted to pick his own place to take a stand. With the Corvette in hot pursuit, MacDara literally flew through Long Key and Duck Key. It was only when he glimpsed the small airport to the right that he realized that he had reached Marathon. The seven-mile bridge lay just ahead. A gleaming span that rose and arched high in the air and flowed down to the last quarter of the Keys. He felt that the Jag had enough under the hood to stretch the distance between himself and the Corvette - enough to get to Ramrod Key where he planned to make a stand. But the Corvette was fast. They were nudging 120 miles an hour as they reached the high point of the bridge and he hadn't shaken the Corvette. MacDara weaved in and out of half a dozen vehicles ahead of him narrowly missing a couple of startled drivers in the oncoming lane. But his plan was foiled. As they neared the end of the bridge the Corvette had managed to block his zigzag and had almost drawn alongside. The guy riding 'shotgun' in the sunroof had opened fire again, the bullets breaking the side rear window in the Jag and narrowly missing MacDara. They were just off the bridge and reaching Spanish Harbor Key when the good ole boy materialized out of nowhere speeding towards them in a souped-up Ford pickup.
The Corvette had nowhere to go. The driver tried to veer left at the last minute but the good ole boy just kept coming at him, giving him a glancing blow on the side as they collided. The Corvette crashed through the low barrier and seemed to take flight, then dropped straight down into the blue-green Atlantic, the gunman screaming as he hung out of the sunroof; it sank immediately. Shark bait. MacDara didn't wait around for explanations. He kept moving. It was only when he reached Duval Street in Key West that his heart-rate resumed its normal sixty beats a minute.
"You know, Owen. I think Hemingway had it right after all."
"What do you mean, Doctor Dan?
"When he killed himself. He knew that life was only worthwhile if he could still write. He couldn't write anymore."
"But what about his family? Didn't he also have a responsibility to them?"
"He did. But what have you got to offer them if your own life has lost its dignity?"
"This doesn't sound like you at all, Doctor Dan. Not the man I've read about... and certainly not the man I'm looking at."
"Oh, I've been lucky, Owen. I'm as fit as a fiddle and the old mind still works. I wonder sometimes what I'd have done if it had all started to fail, the body, the mind, the whole shebang. Don't dismiss Hemingway's option as the act of a crazy and selfish person."
They were standing in the study of Doctor Daniel Pepper's house. Doctor Dan lived on the east side of Key West, close to Simonton and Duval Streets and only a stone's throw away from The Reach Hotel, MacDara's favorite place. MacDara's room, with its cool Mexican tiled floor and warm Indian dhurrie rugs had been hard to leave this morning. He had set the combination alarm clock coffee machine for ten
a.m. and awakened to the sound of the coffee beans in the grinder. Filling a large mug he had opened the sliding glass doors and gone out on the patio, feeling the cooling breezes coming in from the Atlantic. His head was still fuzzy from the Margaritas he had consumed in Sloppy Joe's the night before. MacDara had checked into the Reach as soon as he arrived yesterday. Still shaken from his harrowing ordeal with the gray corvette, he had taken a long shower, changed and headed for Sloppy Joe's. He had had an urge for a margarita and Sloppy Joe's served the best in town. A big open busy place with a very long bar and a good band on stage, Sloppy's was just the kind of therapy that Owen MacDara needed. Hemingway's favorite drinking place, it was owned in the thirties by Joe Russell, charter boat captain, rum runner, and the author's fishing companion for twelve years. It must have been three a.m. when MacDara's therapy session ended and he tumbled into bed in his room at The Reach.
He had no difficulty finding Doctor Dan's. He lived in a distinctive two story Conch house, constructed by ship's carpenters in the late nineteenth century. It was adorned by an ornamental balcony and deck that fronted the entire house. A scarlet flowered Cordia Sebestina tree, commonly known as a Geiger tree, dominated the garden. Doctor Dan had been expecting him. He was sitting in a wicker chair on the porch immersed in the daily papers. When he stood up and grasped Owen's hand, he had the virility of a man at least twenty years younger. He took MacDara into his study and left to bring back some refreshments. When he returned he found Owen glancing through a copy of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea that he'd extracted from a shelf where medical books like Gray's Anatomy and Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine were intermingled with works by Hemingway, Turgenev, Joyce and Tom Clancy.
"You'll never go like Hemingway. What did MacArthur say : 'Old soldiers never die, they simply fade away'. And I don't see anything fading about you. You'll probably live to be 150!"
"Owen, I don't have time to think about it. I'm too busy. Harry was too busy as well. He had no time to die. I still don't believe it."
"You're not alone. We all don't believe it. That's why I'm here. Tell me about Harry's visit with you in March last year."
"That was odd, you know. Hadn't heard from him in years. Then, suddenly, he just shows up. Calls me the day before from Washington. Writing his memoirs, he says."
Dr. Pepper walked over to a wall of his study that was covered with photographs, degrees, memberships and awards and took down a group photograph in an antique pine frame
"There we are, the seven of us at Walter Reade. That's me, my two colleagues, and the four interns that worked closely with us. Harry was my favorite. There he is, to my right. Such dedication and competence. If you wanted a surgical procedure executed to perfection, you'd ask Harry to do it."
Owen could swear he saw Doctor Dan's eyes moisten as he spoke.
"Harry and I kept in touch regularly after his internship at Walter Reade. He often consulted with me when I was at the New York Hospital and later at Johns Hopkins. Even during his Korean tour. He encountered cases of sickle cell anemia in one or two of his black troops. And, once he had a patient with a virus that he couldn't identify. But after Korea our contacts stopped. I hadn't heard from him since he retired. But that wasn't unusual. Our work no longer dealt with the life and death problems of our patients."
Doctor Dan paused and stared out the window at the scarlet flowers on his Geiger tree. Doctor Dan had lapsed into a world of his own. Owen didn't break the silence. A minute or two later he willed himself back to the present and spoke again :
"Harry was troubled. Something in Korea. Such a long time ago. He wanted my advice again."
"Did it have anything to do with a Colonel who is now in a very important job?"
"How did you know that?"
"I was there."
Doctor Dan studied Owen's face for a while and decided to continue :
"Well then, you know. Harry talked to me back then, what was it '70 or '71. Thought there might be a question of ethics if he was asked to disclose what happened. On the other hand he felt this particular Colonel might be vulnerable. An easy target for the Soviets. Remember, we were still in the Cold War in those days."
He was still holding the group photograph he had taken down from the wall and he had been, unconsciously, wiping the glass with the cuff of his sleeve. Now he went over and put it back on the wall again.
"We talked it over but I'm afraid it was a matter that only Harry could make a judgement on. He felt strongly about this particular Colonel and he had given him his promise. So Harry kept quiet. And as the years passed he forgot about it. Until he started writing his damn memoirs." The change in tone in Doctor Dan's voice showed a harshness Owen had not expected. Owen did not say anything. He waited for Doctor Dan to pick up where he had left off.
"Harry had found out something. I don't know what it was. But he was certain that General Walker was an easy target. And not for the Soviets."
"Did he know who?"
"Yes, I believe he suspected who was behind it but he had no proof. One thing he was sure of. He was certain that the enemy was right here in this country. Do you know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, I believe I do."
"Harry was afraid. He was sure he was in danger. But he didn't know if anyone would listen to him."
"He was right. Nobody would."
Doctor Dan stopped talking again. He had a faraway look in his eyes. It was almost as though he were replaying an old reel of the past in his head. MacDara waited till he spoke again.
"Harry didn't think he'd live through this. I thought he was being melodramatic at the time. He told me if he disappeared or was murdered that he wanted me to share a secret that he'd kept for years. He didn't want to take it to the grave with him. He told me to use my best judgement. I think that Harry would have trusted you with his secret. I'm too old to protect anyone."
MacDara hadn't expected any surprises so he had no time to prepare himself for what Doctor Dan had just said.
"Doctor Dan, we only met an hour ago."
"Oh, I checked you out as soon as you called to make this appointment to see me. Everyone who's ever known you would trust you with their life. That's good enough for me. Harry has a daughter, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he does. Kate. A beautiful young woman. I'm very fond of her."
"Then it's doubly important that you know. Kate is adopted. Harry and Ruth couldn't have any children."
"Is that the secret?"
"That's part of it. Harry always knew her real father. But he swore an oath of secrecy. Ruth doesn't even know. Harry never told a soul. I think he was afraid for Kate's safety if he were no longer around. When I tell you the rest of the secret, I think you'll understand."
Doctor Dan paused, not for effect, just to regain his composure. Owen could see that this was very stressful for him. Finally, he looked at Owen MacDara directly.
"General Zachary Walker is Kate's father."
When unexpected news is received, good or bad, people react in either one of two ways. They either show their emotion by babbling incoherently or instead they shut down like a clam, incapable even of speech. Owen MacDara reacted in the latter way. He couldn't say a thing. Doctor Dan went to the drinks cabinet and poured double scotches for both of them.
Back at the Reach, Owen MacDara poured himself a Glenlivet straight up and tried to deal with the revelation he'd just received about Kate. Kate knew she had been adopted. It was obvious by her early teens that her complexion and facial structure were racially different from both her parents. So they told her. They always knew they'd have to. They told her that she'd been adopted as an abandoned baby in Seoul. She had accepted that and felt very privileged. Harry and Ruth Whiteside may not have been her biological parents but they were her real parents in every other way. She loved them dearly. Kate had told Owen all of this one evening at Ardree House.
It was the revelation that General Zachary Walker was her father that he must come to terms with. He decid
ed that the secret would remain with him unless he had to use the knowledge to protect Kate. From what Doctor Dan had told him, he was sure that that's what Harry Whiteside wanted.
He finished the Glenlivet, set up his laptop and dialed into General Shields' E-mail system to read his in-box. There was one message from the General :
Before you leave Florida see Javier Uribe at the Doral Country Club. Eberhard Mueller left a sport's bag that he didn't pick up. Javier will give it to you. Might be important.
Check in when you return.
Owen sent a message of his own describing the attackers in the gray Corvette. That's curious, he thought. There wasn't even a mention of it on the local radio news programs today. It's as though it never happened.
Next, he called the Doral and booked a room for the night. He checked out of the Reach and was in the Jag heading back up the Keys by three thirty. The sun was shining, the sky was a deep blue, no clouds, only the aerial artistry of an airforce jet as it took off from the nearby airbase. The tranquility made yesterday's contest with the gray Corvette seem like a dream.
A little over three hours later, MacDara was turning the Jag over to the valet at the Doral. He checked in and was given a suite in one of the Executive Lodges overlooking the golf course. It was too late to see Javier Uribe so he showered, changed, and relaxed over a superb steak dinner in the Club dining room. The D.J. in Rousseau's night-club had an affinity for Sinatra. MacDara had one night-cap, a Courvoisier, at the bar. Ole Blue Eyes was singing 'I did it my way' as he left.
Javier Uribe was a small, dark, compact Chilean. Ex-Special Forces, he remained in the Reserves and spent his weekends skydiving. He was a Security Consultant to powerful individuals and corporations. A Latin G. Gordon Liddy. He consulted on security matters for the Doral and their wealthy and important clients, many of whom frequented the Doral Saturnia, their adjacent health spa. On occasions he accepted special assignments from the National Security Agency. He was expecting MacDara. After the obligatory handshake he got right to the matter.