Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  Petur turned to Isaac. “If these events come to pass, will we be able to appeal to the international courts to enforce the lease agreement?”

  Isaac shook his head. “I doubt it. The international courts aren’t very powerful . How would they enforce a decision? Would the US defend us with its military against Mexico? Fat chance! Although I think there could be an international consensus supporting us, a consensus that has no teeth is not worth much.”

  “That’s correct,” Elisa concurred. “Mexico could take us over, without risk of adverse consequences of any kind. There would be little, if any, retribution. The Island Project would become an asset of the new Mexican government.”

  It was Petur’s turn to shake his head. “The Project is primarily a conglomeration of people and ideas. The Island itself and the things on it will not get Mexico very far.”

  “Not scientifically, no. You are correct. The Group will present in the press the idea of getting the Paradise Islands back as a major desire of the people of Mexico. This will be self-fulfilling, for the people of Mexico will take on that desire. It will truly become a major goal. To them, the Islands will be a symbol. To get it back will represent the new government’s power and willingness to acknowledge and respond to the people’s desires.”

  Isaac intoned, “You do not give the people of Mexico much credit. Don’t you think they will see through this? Won’t they perceive this manipulation?”

  “I don’t think they will — at least not in sufficient numbers to make a difference. But I do give them credit, as much credit as any other group of people. They are equally as bright as the people of other nations, and their educational level, although low, is not at the bottom. But, as we well know from history, the carefully conceived plots of a powerful few can manipulate large groups. This sort of manipulation is exactly what is occurring in Mexico now.”

  “So, what do you recommend we do to stop it? Can we not just expose the Group for what they are? Or go to the Americans and inform them of what is going on south of their border?”

  “I don’t think we can. It’s too advanced, and if it were exposed now, the press would treat the allegations as rumors developed by a sinking government in a last gasp effort to remain in power. And the Americans will welcome this change. I am sure they are well aware of the Group. At least, I am reasonably sure they are. The Group does not appear interested in communism; and it is likely that both Mexico and the US will greatly prosper by the changes that lie ahead. The US will not meddle in the internal politics of Mexico. They have no motivation to do so.”

  “But the government will be corrupt. We can point this out to the Americans.”

  Isaac helped Elisa here. “It’s pretty corrupt now. It will be less corrupt after the change. The problem is that while the corruption has helped the Island Project in the past, the new corruption will hurt us. We must be careful to keep perspective. We do not wish to become like them.”

  Petur asked, “Elisa, can you get this all to me in writing? Give me all the details that you can muster. Tell me your sources if you are able. Give me everything. We will need to address this. We’ll need to prepare for this potential occurrence.”

  “It is not a potential occurrence, Petur,” Elisa said confidently and deliberately. “This will come to pass.”

  “What kind of timeframe are we talking about?”

  “Well, of that I am unsure. Parts of the plot seem ready now. Others are running behind. So, six or at most twelve months, I would think.”

  Petur turned to Isaac, and said matter-of-factly, “I had not planned for this.”

  “Well, Petur, you can’t plan for everything. We’ll get through it. Petur; I think we should call a meeting of the Council.”

  “Yes. I agree. No sense in delaying.”

  “I’ll have a full report for you in the morning, then,” said Elisa. “That will interfere with our dinner plans, Petur.”

  “I’ll make it up to you, Elisa. I promise.”

  Isaac stood up and smoothed out his shirt; the sweat was now beginning to dry. “Elisa, I’m glad we met today. Thanks for the lemonade with the pleasant dash of panic added.”

  She laughed as the two men departed. Petur and Isaac began the long walk to Science Hall, where the Hash had started that day, and near where their own houses sat. They initially walked in silence, each deep in thought.

  After a time, Isaac asked Petur, “How much do you buy into what she is saying? Do you have any reason to trust that her conclusions are accurate?”

  “Some. She seems very bright, and your résumé on her, although not complete, shows that she is talented at what she does. She is a bright sociologist. But I am eager to hear what her sources are. How reliable is the information on which she is basing her conclusions?”

  “We’ll need time to read her report. How about if we call the meeting of the Council for Monday instead of tomorrow? — to give us more time to absorb.”

  “Sure, Isaac. But we may not have much time to act.”

  They walked the rest of the way home, once again in silence.

  After parting from Isaac at the road leading to his house, Petur increased his pace going toward home. He wanted to push the thoughts of Mexico to the back of his mind, even if only for a short time. He showered quickly, and dressed in casual green pants and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. After spending more time than usual on his hair and his teeth, Petur felt ready to go on his treasure hunt. Not a hunt for a treasure concealed in the depths of the ocean onboard the Bounty, but a fickle treasure embodied in the person of the loveliest woman he had ever known — or in this case, had never known.

  He ran the little golf cart at full throttle. He buzzed down the steep hills toward the airport road, careened around corners on the paths to the resort, and finally stopped abruptly at the front entrance to the main resort building.

  He did occasionally enjoy some perks as the founder of this organization, and today’s perk was that the bellhop who welcomed him from the tall marble pillars of the entrance recognized him immediately and ran down to park his cart for him. Petur thanked him in a hurry as he climbed the steps, two at a time, and entered the lobby. He walked across the luxuriously well-appointed room, which was paneled with mahogany and carpeted in a deep red, straight to the registration desk.

  “Mr. Bjarnasson!” exclaimed one of the two clerks behind the counter, as he quickly adjusted his well-ironed shirt from its suboptimal position in his tropical shorts. “How are you today, sir?”

  “Well. I am well, thank you.” Petur came in closer so he could speak with less chance of being overheard. He also took the opportunity to note the engraving on the man’s nametag. “Bob, I need a favor.”

  “Of course — anything.”

  “I need you to help me locate a woman who’s staying at the resort. I don’t know her name, but I can describe her.”

  The clerk looked uncomfortable, but nodded his head. “We’re not supposed to give out information about the guests. I suppose, however, that it’s okay in this case. I hope I can help.”

  Petur hoped he could help, too. “Look. She’s a brunette, with shoulder-length hair; perhaps thirty years old, give or take several years; perhaps five foot five.” And then he added, even more quietly, “And incredible legs. You can’t miss those legs.”

  The clerk was amused. This man in front of him was human. Most people thought of Petur Bjarnasson as the idealistic genius who had brought the world’s best minds together, with a unified purpose. Here, he was trying to find a girl to scam on.

  Assuming the same conspiratorial tone, the clerk replied, “I don’t know, sir. Do you have a picture?”

  Downcast, Petur answered, “No, just the description. It will certainly be someone who will catch the eye of most men — assuming you are…” He let the implied question hang in the air.

  “I am indeed. My eyes are trained to pick the best of the best.” The young desk clerk, blond, blue-eyed, and likely from California, smile
d at the leader of the Island Project. “But there is a dearth of gorgeous women here this week. Tommy and I were lamenting that just a few moments ago.” He indicated the young man at the other end of the counter. “Seems we’re in a lull.”

  “Can you ask Tommy to come over, please?”

  “Sure. Tommy!” He called over to his friend, who was idling away his time by fiddling with a computer. This was always a slow part of the day in the lobby — no one checking in or out.

  Tommy glanced over, and seeing Petur standing at the lobby desk, hurried over and nodded respectfully.

  “Tommy, Mr. Bjarnasson is looking for a highly attractive brunette woman with gorgeous legs.”

  “Aren’t we all!” replied Tommy, his smile revealing a prominent gap between his upper front teeth. And then, more seriously, “Anybody in particular?”

  Petur let Bob explain the situation. It was too humiliating to have to go through this twice. The younger men, on the other side of the desk, were clearly enjoying Petur’s discomfort. They respected him, he was sure, but that did not mean they wouldn’t toy with him a little. Petur felt happy that he could amuse these two a little. He was not so sure that he would feel as happy about amusing the dozen or so others to whom they would relay the tale. Not much he could do about that, though. His reputation would stay strong. It was okay to appear a little human now and again.

  Tommy was not able to help, either. “Sir, I’ve been working all week. Honestly, I note every attractive woman who walks through the lobby. It’s one of the perks of my job. I haven’t seen any brunette of the height you describe who knocks my socks off. Several blondes, yes. But no brunettes. You may have different tastes than I have, of course.”

  “No. You would remember this woman.” Petur thanked the two, and then turned to walk slowly down the long lobby toward the open courtyard in the center of the building. Actually, he thought, perhaps she was not so memorable. For despite his best efforts, he really did not know what she looked like. He had never seen her face, or at least not much of it. He could only remember his impression of her: regal, lovely, … beautiful. Yet, she had blurred in his memory. Perhaps only the pheromones kept her in memory at all. As a drawing on a beach is brushed out by the waves, his momentary and partial view of her face had been washed over by the faces of hundreds of other women whom he had met since then. He shook his head in dismay.

  Petur stayed on the resort grounds for the next several hours. He walked among the small shops that purveyed the consumer merchandise that the people of the Island Project had invented. There was new diving gear, new software, home-medical devices that Dr. Standall had dreamed up, and several dozen other items that were now entering markets all over the world. Petur no longer kept track of them all. But the Island was almost completely self-sustaining; it had cash surpluses accumulated for future needs; and the investors were satisfied. The pace at which progress can happen when science is wisely funded and not inhibited by bureaucratic hurdles was remarkable.

  He walked past the pools, past the chair on which the fat lady had been sitting earlier. The place had been restored to its original pristine condition after the Hash storm blew over. The Hashers were always very good about cleaning up after themselves, even when they were three sheets to the wind.

  Petur looked in the golf-and-tennis shop. He walked through the lounge and the bars. He visited the exercise rooms, the hair salon, and the docks where boats could be rented. The folks working at these places could not help him, either. Then he walked up and down miles of beach, looking for those telltale legs and that telltale wet hair. He had no luck on the beach, either. She was nowhere to be found.

  It was almost seven when he admitted defeat. The sun had set, and the brief red glow in the sky was long gone. He was taken with a feeling of loss at not finding the girl with whom he imagined he had a spiritual, rather than just a pheromonal, connection.

  The lights from the resort beckoned him back from his sandy walk, and he slowly worked his way through the dunes to his little golf cart. Somehow, on this small island, she had managed to get away once again.

  32. Spy and Destroyer

  JOSEPH ONBACHER HAD been on the phone all afternoon. It was Saturday, but that would not stop this motivated man. Once he got a bee in his bonnet, Joseph would let it buzz until it flew away. The bee was buzzing. It was time to wholeheartedly search for His Majesty’s Armed Vessel Bounty.

  His first call was to the central offices in Seattle of the shipping firm that operated the Elijah Lewis and her two remaining sister ships. It was apparently closed for the weekend. There was only a lonely answering machine to receive his call. This frustrated him, but he could only blame himself. After all, he owned the firm.

  Not to be thwarted, he next called Captain Tom Stouffer, the master of the Elijah Lewis. This call succeeded, as the phone was picked up on the second ring.

  “Tom, it’s Joseph Onbacher calling. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”

  Tom answered respectfully. “Not at all, sir. Just watching a ball game with the kids. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Some honor!” replied Joseph. “I am an old man and a nuisance to most people!”

  “No, sir. I could not disagree more.” Stouffer’s statement was not the least bit obsequious. It was just a point of fact. The reality was that everyone who worked for Joseph held him in the greatest esteem. He was that kind of man.

  “How long have you been in port, Tom?”

  “We made good speed coming back. We got in over two weeks ago, sir. Ship’s getting some retrofitting done. They say it will take another six. I feel like a landlubber.”

  “You got anything scheduled for when she’s back operational?”

  Tom replied, “It turned out to be a good time to do some preventive maintenance. We’d be sitting on our hands anyway. But we’ve got a couple of platforms to place, starting after this.” Oil-drilling platforms were one of their more common tows.

  “How about the other ships — what are they up to?”

  “They’ve got business for the next two months. After that, the three vessels are each vying for only two jobs pending. But the Elijah Lewis is going to be one of the victors, I’m sure.”

  Joseph stated bluntly, “I really would prefer it if she wasn’t.”

  There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Stouffer caught on. “Whatever you have lined up for us, sir, the Elijah Lewis is standing by, ready to assist.”

  “I was hoping you would say that. How would you like to make another trip to Paradise, but stay down here for a time?”

  “My crew loved their visit there. Apparently the women were rather accommodating. What do you have in mind?”

  “Ever gone on a treasure hunt?”

  “Can’t say I have. Not a real one, at least.”

  “Well, we have a real one. I want to find a sunken ship.” Joseph then warned, “It may be a little monotonous.”

  “Sir,” replied Captain Stouffer, “I tow things at four knots for months at a time. I like monotony.”

  “Yes. Good. Of course.” Joseph stopped to think. “Well, then I have some arrangements to make. You’re going to need some special equipment, bottom-scanning sonar, magnetometers, and the like — maybe a gravity gradiometer, too. Don’t know exactly what yet, but expect some big stuff coming soon.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Joseph added, “And make sure your crane is working.”

  “The derricks will be working fine, sir. May I ask what you are planning to use them for?”

  Joseph tugged at his white beard. “Well, Captain, how else are we going to launch the submarine?”

  Captain Stouffer had no further opportunity to ask questions, for Joseph quickly bid adieu and moved on to his next call. He was getting everything lined up for the hunt. It turned out to be a long process, for it was difficult to get hold of people on the weekend. He enlisted the aid of several young people who were beholden to him, one of whom promised to obt
ain an appropriate submersible, which the Elijah Lewis could pick up on its way to Paradise. Joseph leased sonar equipment from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, a procedure that was simpler than it would have been if Joseph had not been a director of that organization. He also obtained a magnetometer, along with several other recommended pieces of equipment, which, taken all together, Jacques Cousteau would have envied. Everything was lined up. For all his weekend rushing, however, it still would take more than two months to start the process.

  By the end of the afternoon, Joseph decided he was in desperate need of a drink. He wiped the sweat off his brow as he stood and then carefully tucked his shirt into his shorts. His round belly protruded. He took the opportunity to rub it. He was growing proud of his prodigious abdomen. And it was time to fill it with a little something.

  One of the young dockworkers had taken it on himself, in his spare time of course, to provide fine beers, ales, and richer drinks to the sailors who occasionally came into port. He had built an elaborate little bar into the corner of the wharf’s warehouse. The bar’s existence had been kept hidden for months; yet, like moths rushing toward a light bulb, the thirsty sailors flocked there. In time, a name was given to the rum stop, and all who knew of its existence referred to it as The Piling.