Reverend Duke Norman assessed his next shot carefully. He was actually a superb golfer, having spent his summers as a young man working and playing at the famous Augusta National Course in Georgia. While Augusta wasn't exactly known for welcoming African American members at the time, it did welcome black caddies. As club founder Clifford Roberts said, "As long as I'm alive, all the golfers will be white and all the caddies will be black." The caddies weren't supposed to play, of course, but the young Duke Norman managed to sneak in holes whenever he could. The caddies weren't supposed to sleep with members' wives either, but the young Duke did that too. For the most part, these violations went unnoticed. That was until one day out on the course. That day left a vision forever seared in Duke's consciousness. It was the sight of an angry husband lifting his golf club high into the sky in the midst of an unforecast thunderstorm. The golfer was ready to bash young Duke's bright red brains all over the ninth hole green. The later police report said what happened next was the result of electrical conductivity. Duke knew it was more than that; it was divine intervention. The lightning bolt came from nowhere and struck the golfer's club, killing him instantly. That was the day Duke Norman found God or, as he put it, God found him. The golfer may have been electrocuted, but Duke was electrified. He knew on that day that God had chosen him for a purpose. When he met the President he knew that that purpose involved him. Duke's faith in God and golf skills were the two things he retained from his days at Augusta. As a result, he was a good enough golfer that he could play to the level of whomever he was with. Playing down perfectly was a discipline that came with its own rewards. The Reverend gauged his shot carefully, then swung just a little short. Duke Norman's ball landed in the rough, exactly as intended.
"Oh, what a shame," said the President.
"We all have our crosses..." said the Reverend. He then realized that the Commander-in-Chief was not referring to his deftly foiled shot. Instead, the President was watching a golf cart approaching over the hill. The cart was driven by a secret serviceman. The White House Chief of Staff was riding on the seat beside him.
"I need your support Reverend," said the President. He turned to his evangelist friend with a look of urgency. "There are... doubters."
"I see," said Duke Norman, "you mean..."
They both looked at Jim Hornswell bouncing towards them on the golf cart passenger seat, gripping the sidebar to keep from falling out. The President nodded and said grimly, "I truly believe this is as it was foreseen, Reverend. What does the scripture say? This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper."
"I don't think that was the Bible, sir."
"I'm pretty sure it was."
"Yes, Mr. President."
Jim Hornswell pulled to a halt a few feet away. He wore an anxious look on his face. "Mr. President, we need you in The Situation Room right away. Something has happened!"
The President turned to Reverend Norman and said, "I'm thinking of letting my beard grow, what do you think?"
"An excellent idea," agreed the Reverend.
"Mr. President?" said his Chief of Staff anxiously.
"Oh all right, I'm coming," said the President, "but officially I won this game!"
The pastor nodded his acquiescence. "Indubitably, sir."
* * *
The Situation Room was packed. The close quarters mixed with tension and thick suits filled the room with an air of intrigue and body odour. The President, having had no time to change, arrived in plus fours and a golf cap. The tartan on his trousers was that of the MacDonald clan, although he did not know it. He'd picked it out because it looked nice.
Standing at the end of the table, Secretary of State Sarah Maxwell looked grim. On the drive back, Jim had briefed the President, who became fully engaged once he learned it concerned Loose Thread. All other matters were secondary to him now. Who cares about the debt ceiling when the world might end on your watch? Jim looks pale, thought the President, I wonder if he's coming down with something?
"This appeared 30 minutes ago on Al Jazeera and other Arabic television stations," said Sarah. She switched on the wall-mounted TV at the front of the room. On the big screen, appeared the figure of Ali Madda. The rotound Arab stood smiling broadly with his hands clasped across his belly. Beside him, an assistant held a small steel canister. The video was paused, leaving Ali with one eye open and the other half-closed. It was the inebriated look people often had when frozen mid frame. The set looked like some sort of Arabic Home Shopping Network. In this case, the item being presented was the deadliest weapon ever devised.
"For anyone who doesn't recognize him, this is Ali Madda," the Secretary of State explained. "Ali Madda's father, Abd Al Madda, is considered the Godfather of terrorism in Saudi Arabia. We don't believe, however that Ali here is working on his father's behalf. In fact, we believe he is trying to impress his father and more successful siblings. Analysis suggests he wants to ultimately usurp his father."
"An edible complex," said the President knowingly.
"Did you say edible complex?" asked Jim.
The President nodded, "As in, to eat one's father. Not literally, of course. It's a metaphor. You know, from that Greek play, Death of a Salesman."
"Don't you mean oedipal complex?"
"Really Jim, now you're just making up words."
His Chief of Staff started to object, but the President waved him to silence. "Please continue, Sarah."
The Secretary of State nodded and pressed play. On screen, Ali Madda's smile grew wider. "You see what I possess? The President of the United States knows what it is. Look closely." Ali waved to the cameraman. The camera zoomed in towards the canister, but went too far. This resulted in the device being half off screen. Ali, who was able to see the live feed on an off-stage monitor, became agitated. "It's out of frame, move left!" Ali shouted in Arabic.
The flustered cameraman and canister holders both moved left, respectively, making matters worse. Now, only the edge of the device remained visible, while the hairy forearm of the assistant filled the display.
"No, not the camera, the device!"
The canister now moved completely out of frame.
"No, no, no, you idiot!" Ali shrieked.
"I knew we shouldn't have done this live," the director muttered off screen.
"Not your left, camera-left, your right!"
The canister moved clear across the screen and off the other side.
"No! No! Stop!" There was a pause then, as the terrorist leader tried to regain his composure. With forced calm, Ali Madda said, "Slowly, slowly, move it back a bit." Slowly the canister inched back into view. "Keep going... keep going... stop!"
The canister was still off center, but fully visible in frame.
"Good enough," said Ali with relief. "Now turn it around to show the markings."
The assistant started to rotate the canister, then dropped it. It clattered to the floor and rolled off stage. Panicked, the assistant leapt across the screen in pursuit.
"Ahhh!" screamed Ali, who began inexplicably slapping a nearby terrorist intern.
The screen blurred into fast-forward mode as the Secretary of State explained, "Sorry, it goes on like this for, um, several minutes." Sarah pressed play once again.
An exasperated Ali Madda, headwear askew, was now holding the canister himself. His assistant was still visible in the background, sitting on a crate, with his head between his knees. He'd suffered a bloody nose and had toilet paper stuffed up his nostrils to stop the bleeding. The intern had run off entirely.
Ali drew a deep breath and continued his rehearsed tirade. "Mr. President, you know what this is because your country made it many years ago. You made it to rule the world, but today? Today, the devil will feel his own tail! This is a weapon far worse than the atomic bomb. You know that, if I open this container, the entire world will be destroyed. There will be no survivors. The infidels will perish and only the holy will go to paradise! And by 'holy', of course, I mean Muslims."<
br />
"Pause it," commanded the President. "Is this real?"
The Secretary of State nodded. "We believe so, Mr. President. It makes sense. Mathias Boltzmann has done business with Madda in the past. The canister certainly looks authentic."
"It kind of looks like the coffeemaker they use at the White House dinners," another staffer observed.
"This a disaster the likes of which the world has never seen!" said Jim, aghast.
"I agree..." said the President solemnly. The leader of the free world peered carefully at the frozen image of the Islamic terrorist holding the weapon and nodded, "It does look like the coffeemaker they use at the White House dinners."
There were nods of consensus down the table. Jim Hornswell and Sarah Maxwell looked on, dumbstruck.
"Continue" ordered the President. The video began to play once more.
* * *
"We will release Allah's vengeance unless the following demands are met. First, one hundred billion dollars from the United Nations. Second, the release of the following groups of prisoners..." For a moment, Ali Madda feigned peering at a long list. He then looked up with a devilish grin and shouted, "All of them!" The jolly terrorist then burst out into a maniacal laugh, holding his jiggling belly like some sort of diabolical Santa Claus.
Mathias switched off the TV in disgust and threw the remote to the floor.
"We knew this could happen," said Carl.
Mathias glared at him, "No, we did not. Not yet! Now, the duplicates are worthless!" Mathias swept a dozen counterfeit canisters from his desk. They clattered to the floor and rolled off in different directions. "God damn it! Where has the trust gone? It used to be you could sell contraband munitions on a handshake!"
"We were lying to him too," Carl pointed out meekly.
"That's not the point! The point is..." Mathias paused for a moment, trying to figure out what the point was. "The point is, we had long standing relationship, he and I. I picked him very specifically because I could trust him and he could trust me. The only reason I was prepared to betray that trust was because of the uniqueness of this particular weapon."
"Yes, well... perhaps he felt the same way?"
Mathias stared at his friend for a moment. He wanted to throw a canister at Carl's head. The only canister within reach, however, was the real one and, even with its presumed adamantine shell, winging it across the room still seemed a bit reckless. Mathias picked up the device and, instead of throwing it, paused to study its reflective surface. The curvature of the metal warped his reflection like a funhouse mirror. I could twist off the top and end it all right now, he thought, that would be something.
"Mathias?" asked Carl tentatively.
"Yes? Oh yes. Hmm, well, it's a good thing I didn't give him the real one. He might just be crazy enough to open it!"
Carl blanched noticeably.
"Are you alright, Carl?"
"I'm fine, I, um... you don't think he ever would open it, do you?"
"What's it matter? He doesn't have the real thing."
"No... no, of course not."
Mathias turned and placed the canister in the wall safe where it belonged. He then closed the door, spun the dial, and lowered a painting to conceal it. The painting was an authentic Van Gogh, entitled The Painter on the Road to Tarascon. It had been a gift from his grandfather, who had himself "come across it" at the bank one day. The painting, he told Mathias, was a symbol of the common bond they shared.
Chapter 15
"My colours, my honour, my colours, my all..."
– Robert the Bruce
"Because it's pointless," Charlie insisted. Lisa rolled her eyes. That's not right, thought Charlie, I'm the one who should be rolling mine. "Look, if you want to go to these classes—"
"Meditation sessions."
"Whatever. If you want to go, then that's fine. I don't."
"You could find yourself there."
"I can find myself here." He patted himself. "See? I already did."
Charlie loved Lisa, but she changed belief systems as often as her outfit. She was on an eternal quest for meaning and had run the gamut from Kabbalah to Faith Crystals. She might have tried Amish but for their "terrible taste in clothes." Lisa's latest fling was with eastern philosophies. Charlie had inherited his own religious thinking from his father, which is to say, he didn't. "My religion is cattle," his father would scoff, "most religion is sheep." Charlie sighed and said, "Look, I appreciate you wanting to include me, but I don't need it. I'm just an atheist or whatever."
"Buddhism is non theistic."
Charlie sighed. He usually humoured her religion-of-the-week. He considered it a hobby for her. Like most husbands, he was happy to indulge his wife's hobbies. Today, she was into Buddhism, which is what she claimed to have been seeking all along. She explained that she'd read Siddhartha in high-school but had forgotten how awesome it was. A few weeks ago she'd 'Liked' the Dalai Lama Facebook page, and now here she was. The whole reincarnation thing seemed silly to Charlie. Most religions at least made some sense, in that they moved in straight lines. You're born, you live, you die, and then you go to Heaven or Hell. Atheism was the same really, except for the last bit. The idea of going around and around forever seemed idiotic, like circling a metaphysical parking lot for all eternity and never finding a spot. The problem was, this was no longer about Lisa, it was about Faith. Lisa wanted to teach Buddhism to their daughter, and how they raised Faith mattered. From that point, their discussion degenerated into yelling. Lisa accused Charlie of never truly respecting her beliefs. Charlie accused Lisa of being a 'faith tourist', a line he'd thought up while waiting for his coffee at Starbucks the day before. They then began to bicker about whether 'bhavacakra' was the Circle of Life, or some sort of Greek dessert. The fight only ended when Faith came out of her room in tears, begging them to stop. Lisa and Charlie instantly forgot their quarrel and rushed to comfort her. "It's just an argument," Lisa reassured her, "something grownups do."
Charlie agreed. When Faith asked him why, he answered, "Because we're ridiculous."
* * *
"Are those the highlands?" asked Alex.
"I guess so," said Charlie, noticing for the first time the green hills rising before them through the pouring rain. He had the windshield wipers on high, but they could barely keep up with the downpour. Where did this weather come from? he wondered. The forecast had called for clear skies. They'd been driving for over two hours through the Central Lowlands along a blacktop highway, having just passed through another soggy Scottish town whose name he'd already forgotten. Now, they were driving past what looked like a bog. The rain beat across the brackish surface, making the water even wetter than usual. Once he had the hang of driving on the left side of the road, his mind had again started to drift. In an effort to break the habit, he'd started to force himself to think of less ideal moments. He knew his life before hadn't been perfect. He and Lisa had been fighting more and more, while being intimate less and less. He'd found himself noticing women at the agency. He and Lisa had talked about fixing their issues, but never did. Charlie's theory was that, if he dwelt more on the flawed reality than those memories of bliss, he might be able to break this cycle of constantly returning to his life before the accident. So far it hadn't worked. The truth was, even at the lowest points, he was happier then. He knew why. He'd had a purpose, things to strive for. Life was moving forward in a linear fashion, like it was supposed to. Of course, he'd also lived for Faith, so that she could grow up and, someday, have children of her own. That, he realized, was circular. Maybe life is a corkscrew, he thought.
"Hey," said Alex, "did you know I'm Scottish?"
"What?"
Charlie glanced over to where Alex sat in the passenger seat. The boy had his nose buried in a brochure on the clans of Scotland he'd picked up at the car rental booth. "The Grahams were a clan," he said. "I'm Scottish!"
"You're an American, of Scottish descent."
"Still. I think it's neat. I have
a crest, a tartan and everything!"
"Well then," said Charlie, "welcome home."
Alex smiled at him. It was the first look of genuine happiness Charlie had seen from the boy. It disarmed him.
* * *
The rain continued unabated as they rolled through the deserted streets of the village of Cockwaddle. "What about there?" asked Alex. He pointed to the warm yellow windows of the Lamb & Lion pub further down the street. Since it was Sunday, the bank next door was closed, so Charlie pulled in there to park. The two then dashed through the downpour to the front door hung with a sign of a lion lying down with a haunch of lamb.
The interior was packed with locals, fellow refuges from the rain. The loud hubbub halted as patrons turned to stare at the new arrivals who stood dripping in the doorway. Charlie and Alex stared back, awkwardly. For a moment, they were the most interesting thing in the room, before being dismissed as misplaced tourists. The room's attention then turned back to the TVs.
"I've never had that happened before," said Alex, "actually silence a room."
"Well, we're off the beaten path here, and we're a couple of strangers."
"Stranger, maybe, but not the strangest," said Alex with a grin.
Charlie smiled back. His smile vanished as he noticed what the locals were watching. The televisions were showing a newscast of what appeared to be massive riots.
"What's going on?" asked Alex.
"Soccer match?" Charlie joked weakly. In truth, the images were much more troubling. One scene was clearly in Tokyo, while another looked like Berlin. Charlie and Alex approached the end of the bar and squeezed in next to the brass service rails, the only place they could find an opening. After several minutes of waiting, it became clear no one was coming to help them. "Hello?" said Charlie to the barman, "Hello?"
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