Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  Petur spent the next ten minutes detailing more specifics of his plan. Standall continued to interrupt from time to time, with important questions to which Petur always had the answer. The waitress was approaching with a tray of food for them.

  “You need a tremendous amount of capital, I imagine. Do you think you can obtain the requisite financing?” Standall queried.

  Petur was pensive for a moment, then replied, “Perhaps there’s a better person here to ask,” He looked into Standall’s eyes. “Do you think I can?”

  Their waitress placed their pancakes on the table. It was a large spread of delicious, fattening treats. Petur ignored it, as he looked directly at Standall.

  Standall was smiling, a grim pained smile, but with an element of hope. He was looking down at the table, but not at his plate. “Yes, perhaps I do, Mr. Bjarnasson.”

  The two men then settled down to devour their chocolate and whipped cream covered pancakes. Petur was ecstatic, for prior to this last twenty-four hours, he, himself, would have said “no” to that exact question.

  They ate in silence. Both men were thinking intently — Petur greatly worried about never producing anything despite all the effort, past and future, while Standall, knowing he had nothing better to do with all his money — soon to disappear otherwise anyhow — was considering how much fun he might have working on such a project, while wishing he had more whipped cream. They both cleaned their plates. After paying the waitress with thin strips of counterfeit currency printed insidiously by the European central bank, they climbed the short flight of stairs into the now dim light of the evening. Turning back toward the hotel, they walked in silence.

  There was a loud clatter to their left, the sound of metal striking metal. Both men stopped at the startling noise and peered into the darkened alley that cut narrowly between two tall, but narrow, blocks of houses. Something had moved back there, near a trashcan. A stray cat perhaps, looking for a meal. While stopped, Petur heard the shuffling of feet not far behind, and took a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw two men, both with dark hair and inadequately shaved faces. They stopped in their tracks when Petur turned to look.

  The characters behind him he had seen in the restaurant. They had been drinking coffee, and had ordered nothing else. There was an immediate sick feeling in his stomach. The hairs on his neck stood upright. He could hear his heart beating excitedly and feel the blood rushing in his head. He started walking again, grasping Standall’s elbow and propelling him forward.

  They were not far from the red-light district, a less-than-desirable neighborhood of Amsterdam. The street was poorly lighted, narrow, and relatively untraveled. There was nobody in sight, and the place was filled only with shadows. A boat moved down the canal to their right, but it was already out of earshot.

  “I think we have company,” he whispered. “Don’t look back.”

  Standall appeared concerned. He quickened his pace so as to get off this darkened street and onto a more well-lit avenue. Both men then heard the footsteps behind growing louder and faster. They looked back to see the two men running towards them, long trench coats flapping open behind. Neither Standall or Petur was much of an athlete, and their brief effort at flight met with no success. The two men were on them immediately. Petur was grabbed by his back collar and spun around into a wall, smashing his head solidly into the red brick. He held on to his laptop computer case, even as it crashed onto the ragged pavement.

  Standall had been tripped and thrown into some sickly shrubbery that lay next to a short staircase leading up to the entrance of a darkened building. The man who had tackled Standall followed his initial assault by kicking the doctor in his chest as he tried to pull himself out of the shrubbery. Standall swore loudly.

  The other man, scruffier by half while taller by a head, spit sticky saliva through brown teeth and spoke in a deeply accented English. “Your briefcase!” He was crouching directly over Petur’s face, his hand clenched in a fist. The threat was obvious.

  Petur tried to sit upright, but the weight of the man’s knee pushing into his chest halted his effort. He wiped the back of his free hand across his sweaty forehead to find that the sweat he felt was actually blood, dripping from a gash in his scalp. The man above him was looking nervously up and down the street, assuring that they were still alone. He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a dark gun with a long smooth round barrel. It was a .22 caliber Ruger MKII, modified with the elongated barrel of a suppressor — the classic assasin’s weapon. The man’s breath was putrid and corrupted with stale cigarettes. With his free hand, the man tried to pry the computer case free of Petur’s grip.

  The gun moved closer to Petur’s head. He had never been so close to a gun before, and yet he felt none of the anticipated terror. A voice shouted in the distance. A woman’s voice, but threatening nonetheless. The barrel of the pistol touched his forehead. It was not a cold steel, but rather warm.

  Peter reluctantly released his briefcase. The man took it, said something to his partner in an unrecognized language, and the two attackers ran down into the dark. A woman in a black suit ran past in the dark moments later, either pursuing or attempting to join the attackers.

  Petur helped Standall to his feet, and both men looked around the scene. Petur’s heart was beating so fast and hard that his pulses sounded in his ears like water pouring over Niagara Falls. Their two attackers had disappeared, along with Petur’s laptop. They had not taken the wallet of either man.

  Wishing to get into a public area as fast as possible, Standall and Petur hustled down the street to the lighted avenue ahead, neither looking back.

  4. Mysterious Wealth

  A BOWL of oranges sat in the center of the heavy wooden table. The oldest man in the group counted them with his eyes. Seven. There used to be nine. Now only seven. When he died, there would be only six. The six lines that were left.

  The leader had called this meeting emergently. These meetings used to be held but once a year, and served only to remind the men of the importance of their families’ responsibility. Handed down through the generations, the significance and meaning would have become lost but for those annual ceremonies. His father, and his father’s father, had been in the ceremonies. The same ceremonies.

  Now there was less need for ceremonies. These meetings had of late been occurring monthly, sometimes more often. The old man looked around the room at the others. Five men, ranging in age from thirty to seventy-five, sat there. They chatted amiably amongst themselves about the weather, their wives, their children and grandchildren. They were good people, most of them. The oldest man hoped that they could remain good.

  The howling wind announced the arrival of the leader, as it rushed through the door ahead of him. It was a wet, cold, and miserable day, as it so often was here. The old man shook his head.

  The leader was taller and leaner than all the others. He carried the authority to make the final decisions when the group could not. He removed his parka, placing it on a hook on the wall, and approached the table. Pleasantries were exchanged only briefly before the leader got to business.

  He looked first at the old man, then the others, before announcing simply, “Petur Bjarnasson has met with Onbacher.”

  While the others sat in shocked silence, the youngest man jerked straight upright in his seat, and shouted, “How on earth could that be?”

  The leader said nothing but shook his head solemnly.

  The old man decided he was next to speak. “This is an unexpected occurrence. And obviously raises an unprecedented problem for our group. First, let us have the details. When and how did they meet?”

  “At Onbacher’s house in Alexandria. Yesterday. Bonhoff made the initial contact. Our men followed Bjarnasson from San Diego, right up to Onbacher’s doorstep.”

  “What was said?” another man asked.

  “We have no idea.”

  “What do you mean, we have no idea?”

  A deep voice from the end of th
e table interrupted, “We should have planted listening devices long ago.”

  The old man spoke up. “We have always been able to get what we need from the obsessive notes on Bjarnasson’s computer. And Onbacher has been quiet for over a decade. We can’t watch everybody all the time. In fact, I had been considering suggesting we stop monitoring Bjarnasson so closely. It hasn’t looked like he was going to succeed.”

  The leader smiled, faintly. “I am glad we have continued monitoring him. He seems to be quite active. Bjarnasson’s in Amsterdam now.”

  “What’s there?” the big man asked.

  “We aren’t sure yet.”

  “Are our men with him?”

  “Yes,” the leader nodded.

  “And?”

  “And a meeting occurred. With a man named Thomas Standall. He’s another very wealthy man who lives in Boston. We know little about what transpired in this meeting.

  “Why do we know little? Read Bjarnasson’s notes, as usual! There can be no delay here. We all know how important it is to know, now, what is going on! How else can we intercede safely?”‘

  “He has not connected to the Internet at all, so we have not been able to hack into his notes. Our men, however, acquired his laptop computer. But it was before Bjarnasson had made notes on his meeting with Standall.”

  “What happened with Onbacher, then?”

  “According to Bjarnasson’s notes, trouble. Lots of trouble.”

  The old man rubbed at his face. “We have to prepare for the worst. This is a terribly unfortunate occurrence. Of all people to first fund Bjarnasson!”

  The leader nodded. “And once the ball starts rolling, it will not be stopped easily.”

  “We have known about them both for years,” interjected one. “Does the fact that they have met burden us more?”

  There was a chorus of concerned replies, with the leader summarizing. “We have feared accidental discovery if Bjarnasson ever succeeded in his quest. Discovery by Onbacher would not be accidental, but has been considered unlikely. However, with the two together, Onbacher will increase the pace that Bjarnasson’s accidental discovery might occur. And, there will be no chance of it being overlooked. The two together are much more concerning than the two individually.”

  The big man at the end of the table asked, “The Mexican plans. Are we still inserted there adequately?”

  Another nod. “Sleeping. Shall we activate? It will take time, of course.”

  The young man said angrily, “Why don’t we just kill Bjarnasson and Onbacher? Let’s do it now. End this.”

  The old man frowned, and replied somberly and simply. “Because that is not what we do. No, let’s activate Mexico.”

  Petur was on another airplane, his third flight in as many days. He reached up and felt at his hairline. Dr. Standall had put some superglue on his cut to hold the skin together. It was billed as working better than sutures. Petur hoped it would, or else the scar could be ugly.

  Much of the rest of the prior evening had been tied up with the Amsterdam police. Petur had tried to provide a description of the two muggers, but he had never been good with faces, and this was no exception. They appeared to be of Mediterranean heritage: Italian, Spanish, maybe Arabic. The effort had been futile. The attackers were unknown. There would be no answers forthcoming this day.

  Petur and Standall had become so numb to the events of the evening that they quickly stopped talking about it between themselves. Instead, amidst police examinations, Standall had asked Petur for more details of his substantial undertaking. After hearing the plan in full, he had been enthusiastic.

  “You have made it clear that I will be making the major decisions as to where my money will be focused.” Standall stated, “I do have one other wish. It’s simple. You will need a doctor for your project, will you not? I would like to be that doctor. Will you allow me to submit an application for the post?”

  Petur had been initially surprised, then pleased. Standall had gone on to explain his desire. “On my deathbed,” he had said, “I not only wish to look back and be proud of what I did during my life — I also want to have accomplished all my goals. One of these goals was to be a player in man’s advancement. By supporting the fraudulent system, however, I have accidently, naively contributed to a process that will be the whole world’s undoing. A new dark age. My money can help compensate for my errors, now that you have come along. But I would really like to be a part of it, to be a member of the team. I have done medicine, and done it well, and can continue to pursue it. I would very much like to pursue it with you.”

  Petur had been unable to answer right away. He had not given this proposal any advance consideration. The concept had not occurred to him. Yes, he had needed a physician for the island, and a family practitioner would fill the billet well, but he had not yet begun to search. If Standall was as good as his record suggested, he might be an extraordinary asset. The trip to Amsterdam could be doubly successful.

  Actually, “triply successful” would be a more appropriate phrasing. For Standall was about to introduce him to another potential financier.

  After the long night with the police, Standall had flown out of Amsterdam, but Petur could not get a ticket. He was therefore forced to enjoy this wonderful city for another twenty-four hours. He took in the Rijksmuseum with its impressive collection of Rembrandt and Vermeer. He visited the Anne Frank Huis, with its attached museum recording the legacy of pain and horror during Hitler’s reign of terror, a reminder of just how horrible tyrannical national socialism was. He had a boat tour with a polylingual college student as his guide. All in all a valuable twenty-four hours. The only disappointment was that he never ran into the brunette woman from the elevator, despite spending an excessive amount of time lounging in the hotel’s lobby, suffering from excruciating curiosity in an unmet desire to see what her face looked like.

  So now he was on a plane, on his way to Frankfurt. His final destination was Mannheim, on the banks of the Rhine, the industrial center of Germany. It was hardly a high spot for vacation travel — but then, this was business. And Mannheim was a great place for business.

  Standall also would be there. He had suggested Petur come and present his case to a man named Otto Wagner, who was the chairman of the board of the largest chemical manufacturer in the world. Petur was definitely playing in the big league now. Isaac had been his usual competent self, supplying the standard dossier that provided a summation of the man’s life and career, all loaded onto a new computer. All of the available information indicated that he was a man of high moral caliber — all his business dealings were ethically conducted, and he had an underlying concern for the well being of the employees of his company, to whom he was dedicated. He was very clearly a first class businessman, and seemed genuinely respected by his peers.

  The plane landed in Frankfurt — a busy and expansive airport. Jetliners from dozens of nations lined the concourse of the terminal, competing to be the most colorfully painted. Petur, with very broken German, determined that his best transportation to Mannheim would be rail, and there was a station in the next terminal.

  He could not understand the instructions that the man had given him at the ticket counter, despite the struggling attempt at English, so he boarded the next train with trepidation. It was correct, fortunately, and it took him northward to the central train nexus in Frankfurt, the Frankfurt Main Hauptbanhauf, where he transferred to a southbound train that in turn carried him on an hour-long trip to Mannheim. The heart of the Rhineland was nothing like he expected. He had imagined that the industrial center of Germany would appear appropriately dirty, run-down and polluted, with smog-filled skies. Instead, as the train entered the city on this midsummer afternoon, he noted that it was clean and hospitable, with pleasant suburbs scattered amongst rolling hills. There was little evidence that base industry was hard at work throughout the city, providing materials that allowed the German economy to persist in its generally upward climb while much of the rest
of Europe teetered.

  Petur checked into the same hotel as Standall again. He was entirely surprised when he saw the brunette from the elevator in Amsterdam step up to the far end of the inordinately long lobby desk. She had just been swimming in the hotel pool. There was a white towel wrapped tightly about her, and water dripped down her leg, forming a small puddle on the marble floor. Her dark hair was plastered to her head; her face was turned away from Petur, but her posture and curves were unmistakable.

  She spoke German to the desk attendant, received her room key, and turned further away from Petur and toward the elevators. With her back to him, Petur took the opportunity to admire those same fabulous legs he had noted before. Even without the effect of high heels, her calves were still exquisitely carved. He was captivated.

  She slipped into the elevator, seemingly never having noticed Petur.

  Petur’s heart was beating a little harder than it should. Pheromones, he thought. A furrow crossed his brow as he wondered why she was here. Was it just coincidence? No. Assuredly she was working for or traveling with Standall. His personal secretary, perhaps? Standall was wealthy and unmarried — it would not be unnatural to have a traveling companion. Likely that was it. In any event, there was probably some kind of romantic interest there, and his own chances were therefore nonexistent. Petur would consider nothing which might interfere with the great progress he had made in the last few days, and entertaining the notion of romantically approaching a rich investor’s girlfriend would no doubt qualify as insanity.

  He had settled in his hotel room, planning on a quiet evening of reading when the phone rang. It was an irritating sing-song beeping that he now knew was the standard ring in Germany and it was entirely unpleasant. Petur grabbed for the receiver to quiet the noise.

  “Petur. Glad you made it!” It was Standall.

  “Yes, it was an easy day. Nobody tried to mug me. Are you having a productive time?”