The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  Dean furrowed his eyebrows. “What? A special ID is required to travel in America. Is this a joke?”

  “We’re not joking, and no cause for alarm, Mr. Cohen,” the Brit said. “You have arrived during the staging of a joint terrorist training exercise. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

  Dean sighed. “Alright then, but I’m running late for an interview with a long ride ahead. Can’t I take care of this when I return this evening?”

  The British soldier glanced up at his German associate, who was closing the trunk. The German soldier moved to the passenger side of the car. Dean assumed the worst. He turned his head right and saw the German soldier’s gun poised with a finger on the trigger.

  “Mr. Cohen, later isn’t an option,” the Brit said. “We will escort you. It’s not far. Please follow our vehicle on your right. Command will issue the pass, good for twenty-four hours, and you are on your way. I’d suggest, sir, if you expect to stay longer, that you seek out an NGO and obtain the OWN card, the One World Network card—or, if you prefer, a chip implant. Afterward, our checkpoints shouldn’t inconvenience you again.”

  Dean couldn’t stifle a snicker. “Chip implants? OWN ID cards? Sounds like gestapo tactics. Hey, is this really necessary?”

  The British soldier remained stone-faced. “Our exercise isn’t a gestapo operation, Mr. Cohen, and, yes, a proper ID is necessary. The OWN system flagged you at the airport car rental as a possible unauthorized entry into White River.”

  Dean remembered Pearlette’s warning about White River going cashless. It appeared to be a reality now—that, and a whole lot more, apparently. Computers had pre-alerted the military here of his destination.

  Spooky stuff, but a commendable technology against terrorists, Dean reasoned.

  But the concept of carrying this so-called OWN card, or worse, a chip implant, disturbed him.

  This training exercise doesn’t sound like it’s just for terrorist training. More like NSA data mining by a government run amuck, Dean mused.

  “I apologize,” Dean finally said. “I didn’t intend to make light of your training exercises, but I’ve never had to register to enter an American town.”

  “We understand, sir, and your cooperation is appreciated during our exercise.”

  Dean also understood another blatant message: the soldiers were following do-or-die orders. Surrounded at an armed checkpoint wasn’t the time to antagonize a UN foreign national on American soil—not with a gun pointed at his head.

  “Lead the way … Uhh, what’s your rank?” Dean asked.

  “Sergeant major, sir.”

  The sergeant major made a hand gesture to the German soldier. Both returned to their vehicle and pulled away. Three other soldiers took their place at the checkpoint. Dean followed the sergeant major. He looked up into his rearview mirror. A second vehicle had pulled in behind him. No escape. Armed escorts had him sandwiched.

  The stark contrast from his earlier visit to White River gave Dean goose bumps. He felt like a character out of a George Orwell novel under Big Brother’s tyrannical thumb.

  Could this be a harbinger of America’s future? he wondered.

  *

  After receiving his temporary OWN card, Dean proceeded to White River, checked into his hotel, and then left again. He still had to locate Mr. Ian Taylor. He followed his map and GPS without deviation, or so he believed. Ian Taylor lived somewhere close to Table Rock Lake in Stone County. Glenn’s information seemed more vague than detailed, and tax records from Dean’s experience weren’t foolproof.

  Why couldn’t they assign street signs, for Pete’s sake? Dean thought.

  He pulled to the side of the road, stopped, and tossed the map on the seat.

  “Gosh, I’m so lost. Time for Plan B,” he muttered.

  He saw a farmer on a tractor in his field and got out of his car. With any luck, the man might know where Ian Taylor lived. Then again, maybe not. Regardless, he waved his arms for the old man to stop.

  The farmer slowed, stopped, and dismounted his shiny green tractor with yellow wheels. He moseyed toward Dean, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. In typical New York fashion, Dean launched into a verbal explanation for his plight.

  The old man threw up his hand. “Slow down, young feller. You’re jabbering a mile a minute. Now start again. You say you’re from where, and you’re looking for who?”

  Wrinkles on the old gent’s weathered, dark-tanned face and furrowed brow mimicked ruts in the fresh-plowed earth. Dean smiled. He’d overlooked the fact he’d changed latitudes and wasn’t talking to a New York City cabdriver.

  “I’m sorry. My name is Dean Cohen. I’m a reporter from New York City and I’m looking for a Mr. Ian Taylor. His property is somewhere is in this area, but I’m lost big time. Can you help me?”

  The old man chuckled. “New York City! You are lost, young feller, but you’re in luck today. I know Mr. Taylor.”

  The farmer scratched his chin, chewed on his tobacco a few times, and spit, as if deciding how to explain the route. Dean smiled, listening to the old man give directions with finger pointing and hand gestures between chews and spits.

  “Take that gravel road right over yonder and bear right, by old Billy Bob’s place, for about a mile. You can’t miss it. You’ll see his old piece of junk tractor out in his field, unless it’s covered up in weeds. Anyway, you’ll come to a Y in the road; you can’t miss that, either. There is a giant red oak tree rooted smack dab in the middle. Take the left fork. Ian Taylor’s big spread isn’t far from there. Tell Ian that Eugene says ‘Hey.’”

  The old man punctuated the end of his directions with a long trail of tobacco spit. Dean thanked him and left.

  The farmer hadn’t exaggerated about the immense red oak tree. He took the left fork as directed. After another mile or two of meandering gravel roads, Dean considered turning back, until he finally came around a curve. A welcomed surprise was in view. The road straightened out and returned to pavement. He slowed his rental to a crawl. Ahead lay two massive intimidating gates hinged on thick stone walls.

  “Impressive security, but no guard,” Dean whispered. “How am I gonna get through?”

  He stopped past the obvious motion sensors and got out. No signs, a call box, or anything he could push or pull that would open the gates. Several cameras were in plain sight, perched on polls like leering owls.

  Security this tight, someone has to be watching, he figured.

  He felt he had to do something, anything, to draw attention. He broke out into a dance for the motion sensors and cameras—worthy of a 1970s’ drunken disco dancer, complete with arm and hand gyrations. The gates didn’t budge.

  “Hello!” he yelled.

  Nothing moved.

  “Okay, Cohen, isn’t this special? You’re all dressed up for the party and can’t get in the door.”

  Ten feet from his car, with his back to the gates, an eerie quiet settled in around him. The sounds of wind and forest seemed to hush, as if holding its breath, considering what to do with this intruder. Uncomfortable with the sudden silence, Dean looked about. Nothing moved, not even a leaf.

  Then, as quickly as the silence had arrived, a breeze began to blow, birds chirped, as if the earth and clouds exhaled. Dean heard the clang and squeak of metal moving against metal. He whirled around as the mammoth gates started to open.

  “Wow, now that’s spooky,” he whispered.

  He ran for his car. The immense gates opened wide, like a yawning hippo. He waited, as tire-disabling spike strips and round solid steel barriers retracted down into the asphalt. Past the gates, the thick stone walls continued snake-like and disappeared in the surrounding woods.

  He marveled at the size and grandeur of Ian’s piece of Camelot hidden in a private Sherwood Forest. He followed the paved lane for another mile and exited a dense patch of woods. Ian’s Paul Bunyan-sized log home came into view.

  Dean slowed to enjoy the scenery. The majestic property was reminiscent of elega
nt eighteen-century Southern plantations. The imposing two-story home sat on a scenic knoll surrounded by colossal oak and pine trees. A wraparound porch encircled the home, as if it were an oversized circus canopy.

  “Gracious, what a mansion,” Dean said, drinking in the grandeur like a schoolboy’s first visit to a zoo.

  Closer to the main house, he noticed a stately garden to his right—and a peculiar sight: a single gravestone. He guessed it was a memorial for a beloved family member … a wife, he figured.

  He followed a circular drive, finally stopping in front of the massive log home. As Dean turned off the car, he spotted someone sitting on the porch. Dean eyed him. The big man in a rocker appeared calm, but observant, as he went back and forth.

  Could that tough old bird be Mr. Taylor … or his security against intruding carpetbaggers? Perhaps I’m even at the wrong property.

  Dean stepped out of his car, but stood close, ready for a quick exit.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Dean said. “I hope I’m at the right place. I’m looking for a Mr. Taylor. A farmer named Eugene gave me directions. Are you Mr. Taylor?”

  The big man smiled and remained seated. “Young man, I’ll ask the questions. Who are you? State your business.”

  The man’s tone left little doubt that unannounced or unexpected visitors needed to beware. Dean then noticed the unnerving sight of a pump shotgun by the man’s chair.

  “My name is Dean Cohen, sir. I’m a journalist with Global News Daily from New York. Are you Mr. Ian Taylor?”

  The man stopped rocking and leaned forward, picking up the shotgun as he did so. “New York City,” he repeated. His eyes narrowed, as if deciding whether to hear Dean out or boot him off the property. “You’ve traveled a long way, young man. The question is, why do you want to speak with Ian Taylor? You here on business or are you a pain-in-the-neck journalistic snoop? Which is it?”

  Cautious in his reply, Dean answered, “Sir, I’d be happy to explain—that is, if you’re Ian Taylor. If not, I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  The big man’s tone and hard gaze melted, now exchanged for a slight grin. “Lucky for you, Mr. Cohen, I’m Ian Taylor.”

  Dean could only shake his head. Glenn had told him that Ian had been on an archaeological expedition in Palestine in 1948. It sounded ludicrous that he was even alive yet. Now, Ian’s ageless physical appearance defied reason.

  Ann was right: Ian Taylor is a mystery.

  “Mr. Taylor, my sincere apologies for showing up unannounced. My magazine couldn’t reach you by phone, and to answer you, I’m on assignment. If you have time, I’d like to speak with you about one of your expeditions. Palestine 1948, to be precise.”

  Ian’s immediate reaction was to slit his eyes at Dean and purse his lips. Dean knew that he had hit a raw nerve. He imagined and wondered if Mr. Taylor had been expecting someone to eventually come inquiring about that very subject.

  Ian sighed. “Palestine was a long time ago, young man—a turbulent time in my life. But I make no excuses for those actions. Come up here and have a seat. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Ian’s statement seemed odd, but intriguing.

  “I see you carry a gun,” Dean said. “Are you expecting trouble, Mr. Taylor?”

  Ian grinned. “You wouldn’t have gotten this far if I thought there would be, Mr. Cohen. I let you through the gates. Oh, and your little dance routine was the best entertainment I’ve had in months.”

  Dean felt his face flush. I must’ve looked like a crazy man. A bad first introduction, he figured, but Ian’s subsequent laughter was infectious and eased the tense moment for Dean.

  He climbed the wooden porch steps, impressed with Ian’s height as the big man stood to greet him. Upon closer inspection, Ian’s skin looked taut, and his six-foot-plus stature was straight, not hunched over with age, and his shoulders square and strong. Ian looked … robust, but that was impossible.

  No way this guy was traipsing around Palestine in 1948.

  Dean realized his eyes were fixed on Ian. “I apologize for staring, Mr. Taylor. I expected a much older man.”

  Ian turned his head away and gazed at the gravestone in the garden, as if reflecting on a painful memory. Then Dean watched him caress an intriguing amulet around his neck.

  “Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Cohen. You’re correct. I am old. Born in 1910. I should’ve died long ago.”

  “What! In 1910?” Dean nearly shouted. “Sorry … but, Mr. Taylor, by your appearance, I would’ve never guessed that. That’s … Well, it seems impossible. Nearly 110 years old? What’s your secret?”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. Dean saw by Ian’s hard gaze that he’d overstepped his bounds.

  Oh, great, wrong question.

  “Bah. Secret! I’ve no secret elixir, Mr. Cohen. There’s something else involved, something beyond my wildest imaginations, and it forever changed my life. And, no, I am not quite to 110 yet, young man.”

  Now Dean noticed that Ian hadn’t stopped fondling his necklace. He caressed it with great care.

  “That’s a nice amulet you’re wearing, Mr. Taylor. I’ve never seen one quite like its design. Would it, by chance, be the source of your good health?”

  “Heh. Thank you, and, yes, it’s one of a kind, but you’re probing for a quick answer, Mr. Cohen. The source of my longevity is an unfathomable mystery.” Ian stuffed the necklace under his shirt, out of sight. “Let’s move on, Mr. Cohen. Please, take a seat. You’ve come a long way. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Dean understood “move on” to mean that the secrets behind Ian’s amulet and longevity would have to wait for another opportune time.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Taylor, I’m good.”

  “Very well, have it your way, but I don’t mind if I do.” Ian sat down and poured a two-finger level of whiskey without ice, then corked the bottle, leaned back in his rocker, and smiled, observing Dean with a curious eye.

  “Cohen, hmm? You’re a Jew, then?”

  Dean didn’t take the remark as a slur; rather a statement of recognition. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “No disrespect intended, Mr. Cohen. I’ve never tolerated bigotry. It’s a waste of a man’s time and energy. Now, please, you were saying?”

  “Mr. Taylor, I’m thinking you already know the reasons I’m here.”

  Ian grinned. “Yes, of course. I was expecting your boss, Mr. Boyd, but you’ll do.”

  Dean’s mouth fell open. Ian had expected an interview with Glenn?

  “Young man, mind if we drop the formalities? It’s tedious and quite unnecessary.”

  “Uhh … Sure. Not a problem, sir.” Dean nodded. “Okay, then, Mr. Tay—I mean, Ian, why were you expecting my boss? Have you two already met?”

  Ian shook his head. “No, I’ve never had a personal introduction. Everything I know about your boss is in a vicarious way through Deborah—that is, Dr. Deborah Holland. She often talked about him. She and I became great friends over the years. In fact, she was afraid GEM-Tech security might track her down, so she changed her last name to ‘Taylor.’”

  “Then you’ve met her daughter, Ann?”

  “Yes and no. I was with Deborah at Ann’s birth.”

  “Then you know Dr. Holland sent her journals to my boss?”

  “Yes, I knew she would. I was out of the country when Deborah died.” Ian’s eyes turned wistful, and the corners of his lips drooped a bit. “When I learned she’d passed away, I was confident that, if threatened by GEM-Tech, she’d protect her documents. Glenn would be her logical first choice.”

  Dean nodded. “Ian, in full disclosure, Glenn’s briefed me and I’ve spoken with Ann in person. Glenn has her original documents, and I’ve read them. I know about GEM-Tech’s gruesome experiments. Also, Ann gave me copies of three tapes recorded by her mother.”

  Ian let out a loud breath. “Young man, I’m well aware of all that. Don’t disappoint me now. Be precise with your questions. Deceptive probing doesn’t suit you.”

 
Dean smiled, enjoying Ian’s frankness and being reminded of his boss by it. “Very well, Ian. Let’s start at the root of this enigma. I’d like to ask you—”

  “You want to know what part I played with GEM-Tech’s abominable experiments?”

  “In part, yes, but correct.”

  “And you want the sordid details behind the two-thousand-year-old Jew.”

  Bingo, the answer I need to the question I wasn’t even sure about. He wondered if Ian would tell him this mysterious Jew’s name. He guessed that at some point in Ian’s friendship with Deborah, he had confided in her about the Jew’s identity.

  “Yes, yes I do,” he said as he shifted in his chair and made ready to scribble notes.

  Ian took a sip of his drink and began. “The GEM-Tech of present day was once Solomon Industries in 1948. Abram Solomon, the owner and CEO—then and now—hired me after the war to find a specific Jew. The individual he sought seemed a peculiar pursuit, but I thought it an intriguing challenge. Others in my line of work believed it an absurd wild goose chase.

  “In that period of my life, though, my services were for hire to the highest bidder. I didn’t care who or what my clients wanted. Money was my motivation. Abram Solomon paid Dr. Charles Wagner and me an insane amount with an equal bonus if we found the Jew. Dr. Wagner’s job was to ensure the Jew’s preservation back to New York. It’s what happened the day I found him that still haunts me.”

  “Wait, wait. You said Abram Solomon. Deborah states in her tapes of a phone call with him before her death. If this man is the same one, and he’s still alive, that’s as incredible as seeing your appearance and knowing how old you are.”

  Ian leaned in close. “I’ll make this as clear as I can. He is that same man, and, yes, he’s alive today. Incredible, you said. Yes, if you think in the natural. But, no, not incredible at all if you understand his spirit. The powers that sustain him have nothing to do with my own granted abilities.”

  Dean read Ian’s intense look to mean, Make no associations between him and Abram Solomon. He scribbled a referenced note to dig deeper into of the secret—or secrets—of their longevity. Any further discussions, he knew, were pointless for now.