by Richard Edde
Was he having a heart attack? He couldn’t die here, not before prying the secrets out of the Mongolian earth. His abductors hadn’t hurt him yet and maybe they wouldn’t. The man next to him lit a cigarette and blew smoke into Kesler’s face, stifling, and choking him. The Suburban’s tires squealed as they hit a long curve. Kesler struggled to breathe and said a silent prayer--Blessed are You, LORD our God, King of the Universe, Who bestows good things upon the unworthy, and has bestowed upon me every goodness.
Then he waited.
***
Harry dialed his brother’s number in New York. Max picked up on the first ring.
“Max, it’s Harry. What’s the latest on Mom? How is she doing?”
Harry had debated on whether to call Max. During their last conversation his brother sounded curt and abrasive, leaving Harry to wonder if he could confide his concerns to Max. Harry doubted the man truly cared if he was kept informed with updates, probably only going through the motions. But what did he, Harry, care?
“I’m glad you called, Harry. Mom has taken a little turn for the worse. She--”
“What do you mean, worse, Max?” Harry said, irritation showing in his voice. “Or little? How come you haven’t called?”
“Calm down, Harry. I was planning on calling but I’ve been working all week. Mom started getting more short of breath, so she went back to the doctor and he changed her medicine. Let’s hope she improves in a few days.”
“If she doesn’t, then what?” Harry tried not to let his aggravation overcome the calm he relayed over the phone.
“I suppose she’ll have to go to the hospital. Her spirits are good and Dad is helping the best he can.”
“The asshole doesn’t care about her, he never did. Or have you forgotten, Max?”
“Harry, don’t start with that, all right? For Christ’s sale, just keep it to yourself.”
Max sounded annoyed and Harry chafed at his brother’s tone.
“Max, listen to me. Don’t find a reason to delay calling if Mom takes another turn for the worse.”
“You know, if you were here, instead of on the far side of the world, things would be better.”
Harry was losing his temper. His heart pounded and a lump formed in his throat. It was there, again--the reason he and Max never hit it off as brothers--his irritating, condescending, arrogant attitude. They were like oil and water, seeing the world through completely different sets of eyes.
“Dammit, Max, it’s my career. It’s what I do. I didn’t choose to be here. Listen, just call if you have news. Now I have to get back to work.”
***
The grandfather clock in the West Wing’s Roosevelt Room ticked closer to Eastwood’s appointed meeting time with the President of the United States. He sat at the end of a long mahogany table, surrounded by red leather chairs. He couldn’t believe he was actually here in the White House, about to meet the leader of the free world. His flight to Washington/Dulles had landed less than an hour earlier and a limousine had met his Hawker near the cargo ramp at the end of Runway 19. A short time later, they drove through the Northwest Appointment Gate and entered the West Wing.
The door next to a fireplace at the end of the room opened and in walked a cadre of men in suits, followed the president. Eastwood stood.
“Good morning, Mr. Eastwood,” the president said, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I am honored to be here.”
“Well, let’s get down to business, shall we.” The president signaled Eastwood to be seated and took a chair next to him. “Would you care for anything? Coffee? Water?”
“No thank you, Mr. President,” Eastwood said. The rest of the suited men took seats around the table. “How can I be of service, Mr. President?”
“Mr. Sawyers, I believe, has briefed you on my Charity Compliance Commission and that I hope to persuade you to lead it. It would entail a number of public hearings with you as the chair and the writing of a report, summarizing any recommendations the commissions feels appropriate.”
Eastwood listened as the president outlined the details of his commission and his vision of its mission. Flags hung on poles and framed an idyllic Hudson Valley painting on one wall, while a painting of Theodore Roosevelt as a Rough Rider hung over the fireplace. Eastwood noticed that there were no windows.
“My vision is a commission comprised of twelve folks from the private sector of varied backgrounds and areas of expertise. Their mission would be to determine to what extent current charities abide by the tax code and whether more reform is needed. For example, could we maximize the efficiency and effectiveness of any incentives for charitable giving? Should we consider whether the availability of tax incentives for charitable giving be broadened to include more taxpayers? Do we need to closely examine the relationship between political activity and tax-exempt status?”
The president paused for a moment then continued with his outline. Thirty minutes later, he was finished. “That’s about it, Mr. Eastwood. I can answer any questions you might have.”
Eastwood thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, Mr. President, you covered everything.”
The President stood. Eastwood followed suit. After shaking hands, Garrett Sawyers escorted him to a small office down the hall from the Roosevelt room.
“So, can we count you as being on board, sir? The president is certainly impressed with your qualifications.” Sawyers indicated a chair and the men sat facing each other.
“I believe so,” Eastwood said. “It would be an honor to serve the president and my country.”
An hour later, he was seated in his Hawker 800, heading back to New York.
***
Kesler opened his eyes. It was dark but he could just make out that the small room was bare, except for the hard chair in which he sat. His hands and legs were not bound so he stood and stretched, feeling the blood return to them. There were no windows. The single door was closed, a soft beam of light glowing beneath it. Voices, talking in hushed tones, emanated from the next room. Kesler’s lips were parched, his mouth felt like cotton, his bruised and battered body ached. He searched the room for clues to his location but recognized nothing. An overwhelming musty smell greeted him and caused his stomach to convulse. The drive in the Suburban had lasted about an hour so he figured he must be close to San Francisco. On the drive, he had heard jets taking off so he was either near the San Francisco airport or possibly near San Jose. Most likely San Francisco, he surmised. He had been pushed up a few steps, shoved into the chair, and commanded to remain still. Hours passed as he waited.
Kesler struggled to wrap his mind around the why of his predicament and came up empty. He was no physicist working on government secrets, no politician trying to save the world. He was a simple anthropologist, teaching at a small university. He was not wealthy so ransom could not be much. His thoughts drifted back to Lithuania when he was accidentally locked in the family cellar. It had been dark and creepy with large rats scampering over his feet, bumping into him. His cries for Mother stayed with him into adulthood and now, in the dark room, old terrors began to surface. His pulse raced, droplets of sweat formed on his upper lip, his breathing quickened. He fought to keep a grip on the panic that was percolating deep inside his mind.
He focused on his breathing and methodically slowed its rhythm, blowing out each deep inhalation gradually before sucking in more air. As his pulse began to slow, he looked about the room a second time, again noticing the light under the doorway. The room was not decorated--no wall hangings and no graffiti. The voices he thought he had heard earlier were now silent. He was alone.
He returned to the chair and collapsed in it.
The door opened, flooding the small room with a yellow light. A husky man dressed in black fatigues entered and grabbed him by the arm.
“This way, Doctor,” the man said, his voice a deep baritone pitch. The man pulled Kesler into the brightly lit room. “Sit there,” he sa
id, pointing to a chair.
Kesler sat, squinting.
A large, bulky man, his nose and chin in the air, entered through a side door and stood over him. “Hello, Dr. Kesler, My name is Doyle. I trust you have been treated with respect.”
Kesler looked about the room and noticed two other men dressed in black fatigues. They were big and burly with hairy arms. One had a nose that was bent to one side.
“In addition to kidnapping, what other crimes are you going to inflict on me?” Kesler said through a dry mouth.
“None, I assure you, Doctor. My employer believes you can be of great assistance to his enterprise. My job is to convince you of the logic in cooperation. If you answer a few simple questions you will be returned to your home unharmed. If you don’t, well...” His voice trailed off without finishing the threat.
“What are you talking about? I’m just a college professor.”
“It is in regard to the expedition in Mongolia. Your interview appeared in the Times. Remember?”
Kesler nodded. He had been so excited about the possibilities of Harry’s discovery that he had called the science editor at the New York Times--the man was a friend of his--and explained the discovery and its implications. A bit premature, yes, but it might help in garnering more funding for the project. And he had yet to inform Harry.
“My boss is very desirous of learning the exact location of the expedition. Exactly where they are digging. Give me that information, Doctor, and you will be home in a matter of hours.”
“I don’t know their exact location. We have talked only a couple of times by phone.”
“Come, come, Doctor. You can do better than that. Otherwise, my burly friend here will have to extract the information from you. Trust me, you will tell him everything when he’s finished.”
Kesler shot a glance at the big man whose smile revealed a missing front tooth.
“I told you, I don’t know the exact location of the team. Only in general terms. What are you going to do? What do you want?”
“Doctor.” The way the man said the word Doctor made Kesler’s stomach churn into a knot. “Just answer my question. I’m losing patience. Where the hell are they?”
As the big, burly man moved closer, Kesler slumped in his chair and gave him the information he wanted.
***
Harry lay on his cot, waiting for dinner to be served in the mess tent. Low clouds had formed in the dull gray sky over the Altai Basin, threatening storms. A cool wind swept down off the peaks and over the steppe, causing the grasses to undulate in an ethereal way. As the interior of his tent darkened with the fading light, his thoughts rested on his mother and he wondered if her condition had improved. Being halfway around the world made it nearly impossible to keep abreast of her situation. His brother’s bad attitude did not help either. She was older and plumper now but her laugh was still infectious. During all those years of growing up in Chicago his mother was his most ardent supporter, in spite of his own personal doubts regarding his talents. She managed to give her sons equal attention, much to Max’s displeasure. Harry quickly learned that his father favored Max who he took everywhere but, rarely, if ever, paid Harry any attention. His mother came to his college graduation while his father stayed at home, inebriated on the sofa. His mother read his dissertation and praised his work, although she didn’t understand a single word of it. She also saw him receive his doctorate hood and bought him a fine celebration dinner.
She lived simply, not having much in the way of worldly luxuries, but he never heard her complain. He sent her what little money he could save on a lowly professor’s salary. He didn’t know if Max helped or not. His father could not, or would not, hold down a job for any length of time so his mother worked at a hotel as a maid in order to support the family. Whether his mother loved the bastard, Harry never knew, never inquired. He didn’t want to know. She managed to make a life for Max and him, feed and clothe them, fussed over them when they became ill. His mother deserved better than she had received in life.
It was Max who Harry never understood. The source of Max’s arrogance and his airs of entitlement still mystified Harry, for his brother wasn’t a very happy person. Divorced twice, he had been taken to the cleaners by his second wife until she died in a fiery automobile accident. Harry always harbored a deep suspicion that Max might have had something to do with it. His large alimony payments ceased after her death when the brakes on her car failed, she crashed into a bridge abutment, and the car caught fire. Pinned behind the wheel, she didn’t make it out of the resulting inferno. Max had paid for an elaborate funeral. Neither of his marriages produced any children and, as far as Harry knew, there was no current love in his brother’s life. Once, when they had been drinking together after Peggy’s death, Max talked of depression and an unwillingness to continue living. But through counseling, he had managed to pull himself out of the depths of despair. Five years of dedicated work had allowed Max to get back on his feet financially and now he was raking it in. Harry had to admire his brother’s tenacity and his single-minded purpose, but it was all about making money. Max had no other interest that Harry was aware of. Maybe that was the source of Max’s condescending personality, his unending ability to make Harry feel subordinate, as if he were a small boy again.
So now, here they were the small dysfunctional family. Harry had only his career and Mother. Once she was gone, his family would cease to exist. No, he thought, it didn’t really exist now. The only relationship that mattered to him was with Mom. His true family was his research family, his colleagues. Without them, he had no life, no future, no hope. But that too, had changed after what he’d done, and now he was struggling to regain his self-respect.
Chapter 7
Doyle sat in a high-backed leather chair across Eastwood’s massive desk while his boss toyed with an unlit cigar. Brilliant sunlight shone through the large window behind BioGen’s president, backlighting him with an ethereal glow. The express ride up the elevator to Eastwood’s penthouse office had left Doyle somewhat lightheaded and nauseous, which continued under his boss’s scrutinizing gaze. He opened a canvas messenger bag, retrieved a sheaf of papers, and handed them to Eastwood.
Eastwood thumbed through his report on the Kesler kidnapping and interrogation. Impatient, Doyle fidgeted in his chair and tugged at his tie.
He was an action-oriented individual, prone to making quick decisions without thinking through all available options. It was this personality flaw, he realized, that had gotten him into trouble with his commanding officer while with the MPs. There had been a cocaine smuggling ring on post, and Doyle was assigned to find out who was dealing the drugs and how they were getting by security and onto the post. When his investigation began to implicate the post commander’s chief of staff, things got dicey. The major was the colonel’s darling and the commander did not want to hear bad news. The fact that the commander was having sex with the major’s wife further complicated matters. Doyle knew the woman to be one that got around and had a reputation, but when she became the commander’s mistress, it sent Doyle’s investigation into a tailspin. The colonel listened to Doyle’s findings then promptly threw him out of his office. When Doyle threatened to go to the Provost Marshal with his findings, he suddenly found himself facing a court martial for dereliction of duty and failure to obey a superior officer. The charges were bogus, of course, but Doyle didn’t have the stomach for a protracted military trial with the attendant publicity. He resigned and received his pension.
After leaving the service, he worked for several private security firms and was a deputy sheriff, until he noticed Eastwood’s ad in a law-enforcement magazine for a chief of security. At his interview, the two men hit it off and Doyle had the job before the session was over. It was difficult, complex work, requiring long hours and numerous flights in the Hawker, for BioGen had its tentacles all over the world. But he found the work challenging and stimulating, leaving little time for romance. When he needed sex, he paid for it. H
is boss was an odd duck but he had big ideas. And Doyle was making more money than he ever dreamed possible.
Eastwood placed the report on his desk and lit his cigar. “Well done, Ben,” he said through a haze of smoke after lighting the cigar. “What’s the fallout going to be? Do you think he will go to the police?”
“What if he does? He can’t identify anyone or how he got to the warehouse. We left no traces, I assure you, Mr. Eastwood.” Doyle toyed with an ear as he spoke.
“I’m sure of that, Ben. From what this Kesler told you, the expedition is in the Altai Mountains of Mongolia. These bones they have uncovered--they may have stumbled onto something that merits our further scrutiny.”
Eastwood leaned back in his chair and gazed out over the East River. Its water was a dark black and tiny whitecaps were visible. Doyle was uncomfortable in the long silence that followed. BioGen’s leader was an unpredictable man with a hyper functioning ego and, while Doyle was used to the long periods of silence--when the man appeared to be weighing options--they still, nonetheless, made him uneasy.
Finally, Eastwood leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Ben, I want you to take a few of your best men and get over there. You can take the Hawker. Find the expedition but keep your distance. I want to know what they’re doing, their every move, so keep me informed. But don’t do anything until you get orders from me.”
“Yes, sir. Want to use encrypted email using the satellite connection? We have our own encryption method so it should be private and hacker-proof.”