by Jacob Whaler
Kent walks to the stove, picks up a skillet, brings it back to the table and puts it down between them, pausing long enough to look squarely at Matt. One eyebrow lifts for dramatic effect. Without a word, he pulls off the lid.
A white cloud of steam jumps up, carrying with it all the smells and culinary delights of millennia of Asian cooking.
Matt’s eyes widen. “Just what I need.” He stares down at the sizzling gyoza. “You load me up on garlic just before I pick up Jess. Are you trying to drive her away?” His eyes narrow with suspicion, and then he laughs, taking another long look at the steaming gyoza.
“It took all afternoon to make these.” A distant smile floats across Kent’s face. He sits down and turns to gaze out the window at the mountains, elbows on the table, chin propped up on one hand. “Besides, she won’t let you kiss her anyway.”
“You got me there, Dad. I guess I’ll risk the garlic.” Matt grabs his chopsticks and loads his plate with the dumplings in a matter of seconds. “I think Jess will understand.”
Kent seems lost in thought, still staring out the window.
Matt surveys the table like someone ticking off items on a checklist. “Let’s see, gyoza… check… sticky rice… check… miso soup… check… pickled radish… check.” He pauses, as if searching for one last item. “OK, there it is. Ketchup… check.” Stabbing one of the dumplings with a chopstick, he plunges it into the ketchup and holds it up for inspection. “Like everything else in my life, a seamless blend of Japanese and American culture.”
When he inserts the gyoza into his mouth, it slowly melts into delicious oblivion. Utter contentment spreads across his face.
Through it all, Kent is still staring out the window.
Matt follows his dad’s gaze. The upper reaches of the mountains are veined with white snow. He thinks about blazing down Powder Puff, dodging boulders, and the future stories he will tell of the Great Crash. He thinks about seeing Jessica in less than an hour, about getting on the transport tomorrow for the flight to Tokyo, about the bliss of being on his own, half a world away from his dad, for the first time in his life.
Looking down, Matt sees ripples in the miso soup. He realizes his right heel is bouncing up and down again, causing the whole table to shake. The Japanese have a funny word for this. Binbou yusuri, the poor-man shakes. Rich people are thought to be in control of their mind and body, unlike the lower classes. It’s a nervous habit that manifests itself whenever he’s on the cusp of a new adventure. With conscious effort, he presses his foot down and makes his leg stand still.
His dad is still silent. Matt knows who and what he’s thinking about.
“Hey Dad, remember how angry Mom used to get when I dipped her gyoza in ketchup instead of that special Japanese sauce?” He looks across the table at his dad, trying to pull him into the conversation.
Kent remains silent, but a smile creeps across his face. Finally, he turns from the window. His eyes go from Matt down to the gyoza on the plate. “It’s been twelve years.” Selecting one, he dips it in ketchup and stuffs it into his mouth. The smile leaves his face, and he seems to be looking at Matt without seeing him, eating without tasting.
“Mom would be proud of you, Dad. A few more years of practice and your cooking might be almost as good as hers.” Matt reaches across the table and playfully punches his dad on the shoulder. “Keep it up. I expect you to be even better when I get back.”
Kent smiles again and picks up a yellow pickled radish with the tip of his chopsticks. He chews mechanically and then stops. “It’s hard to let you go, son.” His eyes glisten. “You’re the only part of Yoshiko that’s left.”
“Now don’t get all mushy on me, Dad.” Matt slurps miso soup through a mouthful of rice. Nothing tastes better in the world. The bouncing in his leg starts up again, and he doesn’t try to stop it. “Let me be honest. I can’t wait to get to Hokkaido University. They say Professor Yamamoto is the leading authority on Japanese folk legends.” He swallows the rice. “He’s never had an American research assistant before. He said he looks forward to working with me, and he’s already got some research lined up for me to get started on. He’s even going to put my name on any papers he publishes with my assistance. It should be a great summer.”
“The professor is a good man. He helped us back when we escaped from New York and got to Japan after we lost…” Kent drops his head and stops talking. He can’t seem to get out the final word. Then he swallows and begins again. “After we lost Mom.”
Matt stops chewing. “I don’t really remember much about that.”
“Professor Yamamoto didn’t have to help us. We were refugees with no place to hide and enemies everywhere. It would have been easy for him to just turn us away. But he didn’t.” Kent starts to eat and talks between bites. The food seems to wake him up and give him new energy.
Matt’s cheeks are packed with rice and gyoza. “It’s all just a blur. I was only ten.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to change your mind.” Kent stirs his miso soup and takes a long sip out of the cup. “There are plenty of good graduate programs in Asian history right here in Colorado.” His voice sounds hopeful.
“Not a chance, Dad.” Matt shakes his head. “We’ve been over this a million times. I’m twenty-two years old. Never lived away from home. The longest I’ve ever been gone was a week, and that was scout camp. It’s time for me to grow up and get out of here.” He stops chewing and lets out a long sigh. “It’s time for you to let me go.”
Matt can feel it starting again. The same old arguments with his dad. He knows there’s no way to stop it.
“That’s just the point, son. You don’t understand what’s out there. I’ve had to protect you from it, ever since…” Kent’s voice falters again. “Ever since they took your mother from me. From us.”
Laying down his chopsticks, Matt shakes his head. “But Dad, that was twelve years ago. Even if it wasn’t just an accident, how do you know they’re still looking for you? They’ve probably just forgotten about the whole thing by now.”
“That’s not the way it works.” Kent puts down the miso soup. “They’re still looking for me. And you. They’ll never stop. There’s too much at stake.”
Matt knows he won’t win an argument with his lawyer-dad, but he isn’t going to give up that easy. “I found that surveillance-cam you stuck on the rearview mirror of the truck.” He grabs a pickled radish with his fingers. “You’ve taught me well. I’m ready for this.”
“You don’t understand.” Kent shakes his head. “I’ve never told you the whole story.”
“Then tell me now.” Matt plays with the radish in his teeth. “I’m not a kid anymore. It’s time I heard it. All of it.”
“Are you sure you want to know?” Kent looks at him through the round glasses, making his eyes look huge.
“Positive, Dad. I want to know. I need to know.”
CHAPTER 7
Kent inhales and lets out a long exhale, dropping his eyes down to the table. “I suppose I’ve put it off long enough.” He leans back in his chair, folds his arms and looks up at the ceiling. “I was still working at Myers & Sullivan in New York. I went there right after my clerkship for Justice Hammond. You were one year old, running our life, and we loved every minute of it. Life was good and looking to get a lot better.”
Reaching for his jax, Matt plays it under the table in his left hand without taking his eyes off his dad, looking for the Myers & Sullivan Mesh-point. He stabs another gyoza with the chopsticks in his right hand.
“You remember the little white house we bought in Hawthorne up in Westchester County? The school just a block away? I’d leave for work before daylight so I could get home in time for dinner with you and Mom.” Kent smiles and shakes his head. “She was such an incredible cook—and not just gyoza. Every meal was a work of art. Her way of expressing love.” He brings the miso soup up to his lips and takes a long sip.
Matt pops a dumpling in his mou
th.
“Before I knew it, nine years had flown by. Things were going well. I had just been made a partner at the firm. You were the star sweeper on your soccer team. We had a golden retriever. What was his name?”
“Champ,” Matt says.
“Right. I loved that dog.” Kent takes a mouthful of sticky rice and chases it down with miso. “I’d take the whole month of August off every year, and we’d go to Japan to visit Mom’s family. It was a good life.”
Matt remembers his dog Champ, playing fetch with him in the little park across the street, the wet licks. He remembers running home from school to a house filled with the smell of fresh baked bread and apple pie. His Japanese mom could cook American food better than anyone else in the neighborhood.
Looking down at his jax, Matt finds the Mesh-point and reads in his best deadpan voice. “For over 90 years, Myers & Sullivan has been an elite law firm for the most sophisticated international corporate transactions. William Myers and James Sullivan met while in the U.S. Army in the Gulf War and attended the Columbia University School of Law together after the war on the G.I. Bill. After a few years of practice, they started their own firm in Midtown Manhattan.”
Matt’s dad laughs and pushes another gyoza into his mouth.
“M&S was the most prestigious law firm in New York City when I went there. Still is. They had a standing offer for the top-two Columbia Law School students of every class. That’s how I got my job.”
A pickled radish goes into Matt’s mouth to chase down another dumpling. So far, he’s heard all this a hundred times before. “I can see it now. You had a plaque in your office. Kent Tiberius Newmark. Certified Genius. Come on, Dad tell me something I don’t know.”
Pausing to enjoy a mouthful of rice, Kent continues with his story. “So here I am, a newly minted partner with a bright future in the top law firm in America. I’m one of the rising stars in the high-octane world of corporate mergers and acquisitions. A new deal comes in from one of our most important clients. The firm gives it to me and tells me to run with it.”
“Cool,” Matt says. “You must have been quite a hot-shot.”
Kent puts down his chopsticks and drums his fingers on the table. “I really shouldn’t tell you this.” He shakes his head. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Dad, it’s too late to stop now. I’m old enough to hear what happened to Mom.”
Taking another deep breath, Kent closes his eyes. “As you wish.” His eyes float open. “So our client was a mega-corporation selling one of its subsidiaries to an investment fund backed by Chinese money.”
“Wait, Dad. What was the mega-corp’s name?” Matt holds his jax in his left hand and grabs another pickle with the chopsticks, popping it into his mouth. “Anyone I’d recognize?”
“You don’t need to know. Better if you don’t.” His dad takes in a mouthful of rice and a sip of miso soup. “Anyway, it turns out the client is selling a subsidiary that operates a huge open-pit mining operation in Northern India near a place called Devprayag. Ever heard of it? Two great rivers come together there to form the Ganges.”
Matt grabs the last gyoza, looks at it and licks his lips with relish. “What were they mining?”
“Uranium. A massive deposit was discovered a few years before, and the Indian government jumped on a new source for its expanded nuclear program. The client developed the project and operated it at huge profit for several years, and then suddenly decided to sell it.”
“To a Chinese company, XinShang, right?” Matt smiles.
“That’s the one.” Matt’s dad nods with approval. “You’re good with the jax.”
“So what’s the problem? It says here that the uranium extraction continues in operation to this day, providing India with a source of safe, clean energy and unlimited fuel for its arsenal of nukes.”
“The deal was done in a very short time frame. The buyer sent us a due diligence request list, asking us to tell them everything our client knew about the uranium mine, its operations and any environmental problems. When we reviewed the client’s files, everything checked out.” Kent drinks the last of his miso and smacks his lips.
“So what’s the problem?”
“When you’re a lawyer working on a deal, you get to know your client pretty well. These guys were sneaky. I had a gut feeling they were hiding something.”
Matt leans forward. “Hiding what?”
“Three days before the deal closed, I grabbed a young associate, only a year out of law school, and sent him to India to do some checking on the ground. He showed up unannounced at the client’s headquarters. An old lawyer’s trick.” Kent finishes his rice and ends his meal with a yellow pickled radish.
“What did he find?”
“A disturbing environmental report was buried in some electronic files. Something the client never bothered to report to us or the buyer. He sent me a copy.” Matt’s dad pushes his plate away. “It was the last I ever heard from him.”
CHAPTER 8
Alexa Gianopoulus walks down the hall to Ryzaard’s office in glove leather pants. No need to rush. The plan has been worked out over the space of months, and it’s ready for execution. And she’s in the middle of everything, just where she likes it.
She wonders what her family back in the small village in northern Greece would think of her now, if they could see her clothes and luxury apartment, complete with a well-stocked wine cellar. Images of her past move through her mind. Fields of barley and onions. Endless herds of goats. Tractors and trucks snaking along dirt roads between hills. Her father’s fingers, gnarled from the hard life of a farmer. The long dusty dress her mother always wore. The pungent smell of garlic and olives in the kitchen. Cheese at every meal.
Her parents and extended family have become utterly foreign to her.
Here she is, worlds away, and never happier to have run away from home to the City where she became a student and escaped the crushing boredom of life on the farm. And then the turning point in her life. That chance meeting with Ryzaard two years ago when he came to New York University to speak at a history symposium. She exposed his ignorance by asking a question that only someone from the Greek countryside could answer. She still remembers.
What did ancient Greek farmers put on their lips to keep them from cracking in the sun?
Ryzaard couldn’t guess, so she gave the answer.
Olive oil and beeswax.
He pulled her out of the crowd and offered her a job as his personal assistant on the spot. He later mentioned something about how she reminded him of his third grade school teacher, a secret love. Now she makes more salary in a month than her father earned from forty years of backbreaking toil.
She strides through the open door and pauses in the middle of the room.
Ryzaard stands at the window, shirtless, hands behind his back, gazing off to the right at the remnants of the setting sun across the Hudson River.
The furniture in the office is just the way Ryzaard says he likes it. Sparse, but exquisite. The wide desk came with him from Oxford. Made of antique wood and custom-built to fit his height, its dark color matches the leather on the high-backed chair behind it. Among the items strewn about its surface, Alexa’s eyes focus on the foot-high bronze statue of a naked man. To her left, there is a large crystal cube big enough to sit on with an embroidered gold cushion on top. She knows it as his meditation platform. When sitting atop it in a lotus position, it gives the illusion that he’s floating in air. On the far right, a Chinese wall-hanging of a black dragon droops down above a red sofa. The ancient paper is crinkled and yellow, and the faint smell of dust lingers around it. The old grandfather clock from Ryzaard’s ancestral home in Poland stands on the opposite wall to the left.
A line of tobacco smoke drifts up from a half-burnt cigarette balanced on the edge of the desk. Old books are stacked against the grandfather clock and go halfway up its side. Piles of documents are scattered on the desk.
There are no bluescreens
for video, no holo ports, no Mesh-com interfaces. The only piece of modern tech in the office is a jax. Even Ryzaard has one of those. It lies askew on the desk at the foot of the naked man.
Alexa’s eyes run up and down Ryzaard’s familiar body. In the two years they’ve worked together, she’s become more than his assistant. For all the power he wields, he’s apparently never had a confidant, someone to open his heart to.
As his companion, she has come to fill that void. Their relationship is not one of equals, but it allows her to be more honest and open with him than anyone else in his world. He tolerates her occasional criticism without exacting revenge or striking back.
She can’t help appraising his looks.
For a man supposedly in his late 60s, he is far too fit. His height allows him to look down on just about everyone, and she knows he has a distinct dislike for anyone taller. The well-muscled back, broad shoulders and arrow-straight posture contrast with a full head of gray hair. His silver mustache and goatee add an air of mystique. He wears his usual attire, a tweed jacket and bowtie reminiscent of his days at Oxford. He hasn’t been back to England since coming to MX Global three years ago.
When she clears her throat, there is still no reaction from Ryzaard. He stares out the window in the direction of the setting sun apparently oblivious to her presence.
“Dr. Ryzaard.” Alexa gently breaks the silence. “The emergency board of directors meeting has been called for 9:00 this evening. All the directors have arrived, and a quorum will be present in person. Mr. Van Pelt will conduct the meeting. It starts in half an hour.”
Ryzaard slowly turns his body around to look at her. “Is the presentation set up and ready to go in the boardroom?” His voice is clear, a subtle mix of German and British accents.
She knows better than to ask him if he’s from Germany. He always reacts with horror when that question comes up.