Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  As the Mexican launch approached the pier — clearly the main landing site — the coxswain slowed the boat down rapidly. Juan Marcos was thrown forward into several men in front of him, who struggled to hold the weighty man on his feet. He grimaced ferociously at the man at the helm, who averted his eyes quickly and turned his attention solely to the task of landing the craft.

  The Mexican sailors efficiently tied up to a small dock at the end of the large pier, and then laboriously assisted the weighty new governor of Northern Mexico out of the boat. He moved directly up the ramp to the firmer surface of the large wharf, with Enrico close behind. Expecting a diplomatic welcoming party, Juan Marcos was dismayed that there was nobody to meet them.

  He looked out over the long pier made of wood and cement. Several truck-sized containers sat quietly along the edge. One had a door ajar, which was swinging open and closed in the gentle breeze, in need of oil to squelch the squeaks. The container itself was empty. His gaze turned past the large warehouse at the head of the pier, then up the road toward the center of the island. This was the only egress. Some crumpled newspaper swirled around in circles in the middle of that road, blown by an impish breeze. The place was a ghost town.

  The Mexican soldiers, weapons in tow, had now gathered on the pier. Within a few moments all eyes were on Juan Marcos. Turning to the officer in charge, he said, “Vasquez, keep alert. Things here do not smell good.” Then he marched off toward the road.

  When the officer barked orders at them, the men followed behind Marcos, and carried their weapons out in front and at the ready. Within a few moments, four of the men had moved immediately ahead of the governor, and two more had been sent farther up to scout.

  Marcos reached a gentle turn in the road, and to his dismay saw that from here on it went uphill. He did not appreciate hiking. These island people would suffer for this outrage. Within only a few minutes his legs were hurting, his face was red, and he was audibly panting.

  The large building with the peaked crystal roof was off a road to his right, and he motioned to the officer. “Commander Vasquez. We will turn right, up ahead. Have your men go that way.”

  Commander Vasquez called loudly, “Santos, Gonzales!” When the men looked back, he made a broad motion with his hand. They soon disappeared around the tree line.

  “How are you doing?” Enrico was beside his father, who looked over and saw genuine concern in his son’s eyes.”

  “I am fine. But I am not designed for this sort of physical activity.”

  “We should stop for a rest.”

  “That would be nice, but we have only been walking for a few minutes. These men would all laugh. No, we push on. It looks like the road will flatten with the turn.”

  And it did flatten. In a minute more, the large group of men turned the corner, and all pulled to a stop. Down a gentle slope ahead of them lay the grand entrance of Science Hall. But the sight of it was not what stopped the men. What stopped them was the sight of a man sitting in a small aluminum folding chair in the middle of the road. The man, with silver hair in disarray and a modest potbelly, was chatting amiably in Spanish with the two scouts, but when he saw Juan Marcos round the corner, he smiled and held up a hand. In the hand was a large tumbler with just a little bit of a red beverage left at the bottom.

  The man made a guilty face, as he swallowed the last of the Bloody Mary and put the glass down. He shrugged, and then said in English, “Oops. Sorry about that. Only had one.” He stayed sitting.

  Marcos — red faced, perspiring profusely, and winded — only had enough breath to say, “I am Juan Marcos.”

  “Yes, I could tell,” the man replied. “You look tired. It is already rather hot, even for Paradise. Sorry.”

  “I am the governor of Northern Mexico.”

  “Yes, yes; I know.”

  This man was not getting the message, or, more likely, was being obtuse.

  Juan Marcos said with impatience, “Where is Petur Bjarnasson? I wish to see him now.”

  The man looked puzzled. “Petur may be willing to see you. Why don’t we go find out?” He picked up his empty glass and stood up. Giving the glass to the younger Marcos as if handing it to a waiter, he stepped over to the governor and held out his hand. “I am Isaac Bonhoff. I hope your trip to Paradise has not been uncomfortable.”

  Juan Marcos was irritated at the show and made no effort to conceal it. Instead of offering his own hand in return, he said, “Take me to Bjarnasson, Mr. Bonhoff. I do not wish to spend all day standing in a road.”

  “As I said, we can go see if he is available. I know he was expecting you sometime today. But he is always working on something or other in one lab or another, and sometimes forgets about meetings, you know.”

  “I am sure he has not forgotten about this meeting.”

  Bonhoff laughed at this. “Well, we will see, won’t we?” He turned toward the shining building ahead of them. Waving his hand in a large circle he called out, “Come along everybody!” And off he walked, briskly.

  The pack moved off in pursuit — twenty men, three of whom filmed the procession. Juan Marcos thought this whole exchange had been strange. But at least now they were walking downhill.

  48. The Product of Your Effort Is Ours for the Taking

  THE MAN NAMED Isaac Bonhoff led the Mexicans along the paved road to the front of Science Hall. The path opened up into a yard that revealed the entire edifice unblocked by trees. It was prodigious, and should have felt out of place surrounded only by small buildings; yet to the men seeing this for the first time, it appeared that this monument to science befitted the reputation of the place well.

  The steps leading up to the main entrance were of finely honed marble, which should become slippery when wet. But for some reason these steps weren’t slick in the least, despite the slight dampness on the ground. Marcos examined the stairs as he walked up, attempting to determine what sort of material must have been applied to the steps to improve his shoes’ grip.

  Bonhoff began talking as he walked through the doorway, before the other men had entered. Marcos picked up his statement in mid-sentence.

  “…which is the center of scientific, political, and cultural endeavors here. Quite impressive for such a small group of people, don’t you think?”

  Juan Marcos walked up to him. “Why should such a small group as yourselves need such a large building?”

  “This building is filled with laboratories of all sorts. As any scientist can tell you, their laboratories are always too small. We have tried to prevent that concern here by creating generous laboratories. Nobody wants more space. This building houses administrative offices — the few that we require — as well as offices for some other important functions. There is a fine restaurant upstairs. The amphitheater we are now in frequently serves as a movie house, although they don’t always show my type of film.”

  “And what is your type of film?” Marcos asked, absentmindedly.

  “The type with exquisitely lovely female leads, of course.” Bonhoff pressed a button on the elevator. “I’m afraid the elevators are not large enough to hold you all,” he said, looking around at the twenty men who had entered the building behind him. “You’ll need to make a second trip. We’re going to the third floor.”

  “And what is there?” asked the younger Marcos. Enrico’s complexion was no longer green, now that he was off the water and on stable ground.

  “The Council chambers. It’s where we make decisions.”

  “Will Bjarnasson be there?” Marcos asked impatiently.

  “I don’t know. I told you that before. He might be busy.”

  There were eleven people on the elevator, which could usually hold perhaps thirteen but was handicapped by the voluminous mass of Juan Marcos. Marcos imagined that the sound of the slight groan he heard as he stepped aboard might have been the startled complaint of the elevator cable. But the elevator rose rapidly and easily, undisturbed by its unusually hefty burden.

  Bonhoff l
ed the uniformed men, as well as Juan Marcos and his son and two of the journalists, down a wide, dimly lit hallway. Commander Vasquez took up the rear.

  They approached a pair of open double doors leading into the back of a room. This was unlike the other meeting rooms on the floor. It was designed as a courtroom, with room for nine people to sit at a curved desk elevated above the rest. It was there in case a crime was ever committed. It had never yet been used for its primary purpose.

  Juan Marcos stepped through the wide double doors. It was a dimly lit room with no general lighting. The only illumination came from seven gently glowing reading lights on the desk at the front and two narrowly focused spotlights, which shone brightly on a table. Two tables faced the curved desk, one on each side of a center aisle that ran through the four rows of benches behind.

  “Come, Governor Marcos. Sit there.” Bonhoff walked up the short aisle to the front of the room and pointed to the table at the left. There were two chairs behind it. Just then a spotlight came on to light the table up brightly. He then pointed back toward the rows of benches at the rear. “Your men can sit back in those rows somewhere.” To the man with the camera, Bonhoff said, “And you go wherever you would like, okay? Follow your natural instinct.”

  “Where is Bjarnasson?” Marcos demanded once more.

  “I told you he might be here. Not that he would be here. I have no idea where else he would be, however. We might as well wait here.” He pointed to a tall aluminum coffee machine, and said, “Allow me to get you something. Some coffee, perhaps?”

  Marcos shook his head impatiently, and sat down heavily in the wooden high-backed chair. Enrico turned and looked back at the door as he settled in the seat next to his father.

  Just after both men had taken their seats, a door in front of them opened. The room beyond the door was bright, and from that brightness people walked in. Each was dressed in a business suit. Marcos had half-expected to see judicial robes. Initially, their faces were cast in darkness, but as each sat down the men could make out his or her facial features more clearly. The first was an enormous man, with the largest head he had ever seen. He felt like the man stared through him before moving along behind the curved desk to the right. He sat down, but was so large he still seemed to be standing. When his head approached the small reading lamp, the coarse and exaggerated features of his face became visible. There was nothing ordinary about a man with that appearance.

  The next person was the antithesis of the first. He wore an exquisite suit, most likely Italian and certainly fitted by a finely skilled tailor. He must have felt comfortable with his wealth. But with such a short stature, he looked almost like a boy. However, the hair was beginning to recede, revealing that he was older than he at first appeared. Marcos had to sit up taller in his seat to see this man’s face after he sat down next to the huge man at the desk above. The curved edge of lengthy desk was blocking his view.

  There was a brief delay before the next person walked through the door. This man’s suit was not close to the caliber of the one that preceded it. It was slightly wrinkled, perhaps bought at a department store, and several years out of fashion. But the man who wore it needed no special material or fashion designer to stand out. Petur Bjarnasson’s face was now recognized all over the world. Marcos nodded respectfully to Bjarnasson, who took his seat near the others. He left a seat empty between the shorter man and himself.

  Bonhoff then walked up the three steps to the level of the others and sat to Bjarnasson’s right. Last to enter was a woman, who, despite the dim lighting, glowed with certain beauty. Thin, confident, in a trim blue skirt and matching blouse, her blonde hair fell loosely behind her shoulders. Marcos suspected this was Bjarnasson’s sister. She closed the door behind her.

  Marcos looked at the five people gathered in front of him and staring down upon him. Behind them, the wall was lined with flags hanging loosely from shining golden staffs — the flags of the dozens of countries whose citizens had worked and lived on Paradise 1. Marcos noticed the red, white, and green flag of Mexico — unfurled more than the others and hanging freely in a position of prominence. Assuredly, Ernesto Bolle — the media mogul — would personally oversee the editing of whatever was taped here today. It was reassuring that it would be an ally of Salingas, but even so, he doubted that the man would have the interests of the Marcos family at the forefront of his mind as he performed his propaganda tricks.

  For more than a minute, none of the five spoke, and the room was palpably tense. This was nothing like the sort of reception that Juan Marcos had expected. He hadn’t counted on it, but he certainly hoped that he would be met as a foreign dignitary or as an official who held dominion over their land. He had anticipated at least some sycophantic greeting. But there was no such submissiveness here. Instead, he was sitting with his son at a table designated for the defendant in a criminal case, looking up at the judges who would hold jurisdiction over him.

  It did not escape Juan Marcos’s attention that they were attempting to place him in a subservient position. He sat at a table like this as a youth, looking up at a judge who had the power to send him to prison. The judge did just that, and years later he paid for it dearly. But he was not a criminal here; he was not on trial. And he had tolerated the silence long enough.

  “Mr. Bjarnasson.” Marcos stood, indicating to his son that he should do so as well. Standing, they were not quite at eye level with those who sat in front of them. He continued, in heavily accented but fluent English, “My name is Juan Marcos. This is my son Enrico. We have come as emissaries of the new government of Mexico to help dispel certain concerns of the people of Mexico about your presence on this Mexican territory.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Marcos, from all of us. We are sorry that we could not afford a more hospitable welcome, but as you can tell there are few people left on the island and too much for them to do.” Bjarnasson pointed to the colossal man at the end of the group. “Allow me to introduce some of the members of the Council. At the end there is Herr Otto Wagner, who designed much of the physical structure.” The great head nodded briefly. “Next is Thomas Standall, our doctor. To my right is Professor Isaac Bonhoff, whom I believe you have already met. Last is Sophia Bjarnasdottir, one of our leading scientists. Our sociologist will be here shortly, but she seems to have been delayed temporarily.”

  Marcos replied, “I have been following the exploits of your organization with some interest, and so your names are familiar to me.”

  Bjarnasson smiled. “Yes. And we have paid heed to the exploits of your organization as well, Mr. Marcos — with deep interest.”

  Enrico Marcos frowned slightly at Bjarnasson’s statement, but Juan Marcos simply nodded. “Indeed, I would expect no less.”

  Bjarnasson’s smile disappeared. “And now, Governor Marcos, can you please tell us precisely why you came? I don’t wish to be rude, but there is a large vessel off our shore, loaded with weapons, and we would like to know why. The message we received from your government spoke obliquely about taxes owed and a renegotiation of our lease. Why would you require a vessel of war to undertake such business negotiations, Mr. Marcos?”

  Marcos motioned toward his son, who had been carrying a soft leather case. He shuffled around within it for a moment before producing a small sheaf of papers. Enrico lifted the papers above his shoulder, for all to see clearly, and then looked across the room to assure himself that the cameraman was filming him.

  Enrico spoke in a steady voice. “I hold in my hand a report summarizing illegal actions taken by certain key members of your organization in order to obtain a lease for the Paradise Islands. Included within it are times and dates of visits with various officials of the former government of Mexico, of favors granted to them, and yes, of bribes paid. Documented here are the confessions of the government officials involved, in great detail. Their statements are thoroughly convincing and unimpeachable. Contained here is a story of unconscionable greed and larceny on the part of the members of the so-cal
led Island Project in their efforts to obtain agreements that would benefit them at the expense of the people of Mexico. Mr. Petur Bjarnasson is the principal agent of these crimes, and is being indicted in absentia in Mexico City at this very moment, on charges of corruption and bribery.”

  A murmur arose from the several Mexican men who sat behind, none of whom had expected such a statement. Bjarnasson, after all, was an international hero. Enrico turned sharply and stared maliciously at the men. They ceased their banter immediately, and held their heads low. The Council members were likewise in a stir, talking among themselves earnestly.

  Enrico turned back and, focused on the Icelander, spoke authoritatively. “You are expected to appear in front of a duly appointed member of the Mexican judiciary in the near future. I have a subpoena for your testimony in hand. This is a serious offense, Mr. Bjarnasson, one that Mexico is not willing to ignore. You have suborned corruption in the highest levels of our former government. You have lied, cheated, and stolen from our country.”

  Bjarnasson stood now, staring sternly at the two Marcos men below him. “You may make charges, Mr. Marcos, and you may call me names. But your charges are ephemeral. They have no substance.”

  Enrico retorted, “Actually, Mr. Bjarnasson, they do. You are an indicted felon in Mexico. You are currently a resident of a Mexican possession. And we have the right and intend to exercise the right to return you to Mexican courts to face the charges, to be convicted of them, and to spend the rest of your life in a Mexican prison.”

  It had taken six hours to repair enough of the damage to give the submarine an opportunity to float to the surface. With so much water inside the boat, the sub had been able to only slowly and laboriously heft itself from the bottom. It crawled to the surface like a lazy turtle, and when it broke into the darkened sky, nobody on board even felt the deceleration.

  The captain and men worked quickly. The diesels started up instantly upon reaching the surface, and when the propellers engaged, the whole craft shook terribly. The captain said nothing. A bent propeller would be a problem, yes; a bent shaft, even more of a problem. But he was glad that the propellers were attached at all. They limped to the sanctuary of the northwest coast of Paradise 5.