“So, what do you think? Do we go or don’t we?”
“My dad. . . “
“Screw your dad. This is about us. If he can do it, you can do it. I say that we go for it.”
Chapter 5
Seattle, Washington
The marina occupied a narrow strip of land clinging to the foot of the cliffs at the edge of the bay. A glorious blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds formed a dome over their heads and the snow-covered Olympic Mountains filled the western vista across Puget Sound. Row upon row of boats formed a forest of masts. Just to their left was the ship canal.
An ugly black steel railroad bridge crossed Shileshole Bay where it narrowed to a wide canal. Upstream from the bridge, the Hiram Chittenden Locks lifted boats and ships up to Lakes Union and Washington in the heart of the city. Along the bank of the locks, a manicured lawn with precisely trimmed trees and shrubs made up one of the prettiest parks in the city. Tourist wandered the park, crossing the footbridge over the locks and descending under the locks in the fall to see the salmon swimming upstream in the fish ladder through viewing windows.
Ted and Chris stood on the dock, staring at the big blue sail boat. God, she’s in sorry shape, Ted thought. According to Chris, she had lain at her berth in Shileshole Bay Marina relatively unused for more than five years. Since Chris’ mom died, Harry hadn’t been able to set foot on the boat.
Washed out white and yellow script spelled out D-E-F-I-A-N-T on the side of her dull hull and on her faded blue sail cover. The partially detached letters N and T drooped from the sail cover where the threads had worn out, like something from a Salvador Dali painting.
“Where do we start?” Ted climbed aboard from the wide concrete float. Concrete float? Isn’t that an oxymoron? How do they keep this thing from sinkin’ into the water?
“Dad has a guy that cleans her bottom and services her engine every year. I guess we’ll start with clean up.” Chris opened the combination lock on the companionway hatch and descended into the cabin.
A combination of diesel oil and mold produced an unpleasant musty odor that enveloped Ted as he climbed down the companionway ladder. Mildew covered the teak paneling.
“What a mess,” Ted said. “It stinks.”
“We must’ve forgotten to hook up the electric heater last time we used the boat,” Chris said.
Surveying the cabin, Ted felt misgivings. Dios mio, can we ever get her cleaned up?
“I’m gonna start by ripping out that old tape player.” Ted pointed to the cassette player in the bulkhead above the chart table. “Man, that’s an antique. We gotta have a sound system we can plug our iPods into.”
“Whatever,” Chris replied.
As long as he can get Mariner games on the radio, Ted thought, he’s happy.
“We can pick up a new system at Car Toys. I have Dad’s credit card.” Chris dropped his duffle bag on the table.
This is going to take some getting used to, Ted thought.
If Papa had a credit card, Ted didn’t know about it. They lived in a shadow economy where everything was either cash or barter. Ted never understood how Chris could spend his dad’s money so cavalierly.
Money had always been an issue in the Higuera household. Lack of money, that is. Mama and Papa provided a neat, clean house. They always had food and clean clothes, but growing up, Ted never had the cell phones, Nintendos and other toys that Chris took for granted.
Chris didn’t seem to have any problem spending his father’s money. No matter how much they fought and bickered, when push came to shove, he pulled out his dad’s credit card without a second thought. Money doesn’t mean anything to these people.
Chris seemed to take on a new energy. “While you’re working on that radio stuff, I’ll start on the bosun’s chores.” He began going over what he called the “standing and running rigging,” whatever that was, on deck.
Ted went to work on the mechanical systems. Mechanical work wasn’t exactly new to him. He’d spent much of his youth hanging around his uncle’s garage in LA. His Tío Ernesto managed to keep Papa’s 1985 Chevy conversion van running with chewing gum and bailing wire.
Ted traced the lines of the fuel system. Wonder why there’s two fuel filters? He heard Chris climbing down into the cabin behind him. He turned to see Chris seat himself at the chart table and take out a pad and pencil.
“Whatcha writin’ down?” Ted wiped his hands on a rag. “I thought you remembered everything.”
“That’s the way my mind works.” Chris looked up from the table. “I have to write it down to remember it. I’ve got a list going of repairs that we need to make, stuff that we need to buy. I’m starting a list of the food and supplies we want to take with us. Let’s see, we’re going to need new dock lines. . . I think we should get a new in-haul for the jib. . . I want to replace the hinges on the lazarette. You have any suggestions?”
“We should replace the fuel lines on the engine.” Ted reached for an open end wrench. “These things are so old that they’re brittle.” He wiggled a dried out black hose.
“OK” Chris said. “I’m going to run over to Fisheries Supply and pick up some Tekka to clean the teak. I’ll see if they have any rubber tubing.” He put down the pen and reached for his Blackberry and car keys. “If you think of anything else you need, give me a call.”
“Hey, dude, should you really be spending your dad’s money on this shit?” Ted stood aside so Chris could climb up out of the cabin.
“Don’t worry about it, bro. The old SOB’ll never miss it. He never even sees the bill. His accountant pays it for him.”
Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to get used to spending Harry’s money after all.
****
Toronto Canada
“Fazul, can you step in here a minute?” The tall, bald man looped his thumbs into his suspenders, stretching them out.
Why did that self-important fool want to talk to him? He had hardly said ten words to Ahmad in the five years Ahmad had worked for EverTech. Ahmad had devoted the last eighteen months to developing a guidance system for the new Wild Fire air-to-air missile.
“Sure, Mr. Thompson.” Ahmad pressed Ctrl-Alt-Delete on his keyboard to lock his computer while he left his desk. He stopped at the door to Mr. Thompson’s office.
“Sit down, we need to talk.” Mr. Thompson folded himself into his brown leather swivel chair behind the enormous desk.
“Yes sir.” Ahmad sat in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. Something in the old gasbag’s tone set warnings off in the back of his head. He brings me before him like a school boy.
“I’m taking you off of the Wild Fire project.” Mr. Thompson paused to let it sink in. “I want you to start turning your work over to Pasqual.”
“Why?” Ahmad felt like he had been struck in the chest. It was hard to grab a breath. “Did I do something?”
“I’m sorry, Fazul, this isn’t my decision.”
“Mr. Thompson, my work is excellent.” Ahmad looked around the office desperately, looking for something that would help him make his case. “You’ve said so yourself. My last performance review was ‘exceeding expectations.’ What happened?”
“Listen, Fazul,” Mr. Thompson leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “You know that we do most of our work for the Ministry of Defense. They say who we can and who we can’t use. I don’t make these decisions.”
“The Ministry of Defense?” What could they possibly know? He and Mohammed had been so careful. Ahmad felt sick to his stomach. The nausea rose to his throat. “I don’t understand.”
“They’ve taken away your ‘Top Secret’ clearance,” Mr. Thompson lifted the brown personnel folder on his desk, then let it drop back. “You can’t work on this project without it.”
“My ‘Top Secret?’ Why? What have I done?” Ahmad was panting like a dog, his heart beat running wild in his chest. I have to remain calm. Although he wanted to get up and run, with a massive act of will power,
he forced himself to sit still in the chair.
There was a long silence. Mr. Thompson seemed to be considering his options. He tapped the eraser on his mechanical pencil against the file folder. Finally, he spoke again.
“If you want my opinion, you should be more careful about the people you hang out with. CSIS investigators were in here last week asking about you. They think you’re running with some dangerous radicals.”
“Who? I don’t understand.” Dangerous radicals? It had to be Mohammed. Ahmad hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just exercising free speech.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re off Wild Fire. I’ll try to find some kind of maintenance work for you that doesn’t require a ‘Top Secret’ clearance.”
Maintenance work? The bottom of the software development barrel. He wouldn’t spend the rest of his career fixing other programmers’ mistakes.
Chapter 6
Seattle, Washington
Ted heard a steady stream of cussing from up on deck. Chris was not happy as he stripped the yellowed varnish from the Defiant’s woodwork. Ted tore the old tape player out of the cabin and installed a state-of-the-art sound system. For the crowning touch he installed all-weather speakers in the cockpit so that they could listen to his tunes while they were sailing. This boat will be a sail-a with rock ‘n’ roll-a.
After finishing with the sound system, Ted meticulously replaced all of the fuel and water lines on the old Yanmar Diesel.
“I know we need to bleed the air out of the fuel lines before we start the engine,” Ted shouted up to Chris on deck. “But I’m not exactly sure how.”
Chris put down his paint brush and dropped into the cabin. “Hey, you’re the mechanic, bro. I thought you could fix any engine.”
“Tío Ernesto didn’t do a lot of work on diesels.” Ted ran his fingers over the fuel filter. “I guess the Amazing Teddy-Man is gonna have to figure this out by hisself.”
A sweet, citrus fragrance wafted by Ted’s nose.
“Hi guys. Need some help?”
Ted looked up to see a pair of wedge-heeled sandals in the companionway. His eyes made the long journey up a pair of tight fitting jeans to a well filled out University of Idaho T-shirt, stopping at the raven black hair and emerald green eyes. His heartbeat quickened. Man, that Candace always looks fine. A gold necklace with a diamond pendant encircled her neck, matching the dangling earrings. A huge diamond engagement ring flashed at him from her left hand.
“What’re you doing here?” Chris looked up from the engine.
“I thought I’d help you get ready for the cruise.” Candace lowered herself into the cabin over the exposed engine.
Usually good-looking chicks were high maintenance, but here she was with rubber gloves, a bucketful of cleaning supplies and a willingness to tackle ugly chores. I wonder if she’s gonna worry about messing up her nails? As Candace climbed down to the cabin, her fragrance overpowered the boat’s moldy smell.
Chris met Candace’s appearance with an icy shrug. “You can start in the forepeak,” he told her. “Clean the mildew off of the woodwork, then rub it with teak oil.”
Ted flashed an angry glare at his friend. “Easy, dude. The lady’s offering ta help.’
“When you get done there, move on to the head,” Chris went on.
Why’s Chris trying to chase her off? Cleaning the head was an ugly task. The marine toilet hadn’t seen a brush or cleanser in years. Oh well, better her than me.
Candace kicked off her sandals, rolled up her sleeves, pulled on her rubber gloves and went to work. She cleaned her way aft sanitizing every surface in the cabin.
“I think this boat must be held together with mold.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’ll probably break apart and sink if I clean it all up.”
Wow! She’s doing a great job. Ted hadn’t expected her to put out that much effort.
“When was the last time the galley was cleaned?” Candace started to work on the several years’ worth of grease accumulated on the gimbaled stove.
“Not since Mom died.” Chris answered coldly.
This can’t be good. Now Candace was really invading Chris’ mom’s territory. Chris had told Ted stories of the times his mom was wedged in her galley, cooking gourmet meals under difficult conditions. Chris was not going to react well to this.
****
Toronto, Canada
“They’ve done it again,” Ahmad exhaled a sign of disgust and turned to his father. How could he not care what was going on in the world? He glanced around the room, taking in the rich carpets and the Arabesques hanging on the wall. As always, his mother had fresh cut flowers on the table.
His father sat in his brown leather recliner, reading the sports section. The Iranian soccer team was playing in the World Cup, a recording of the Iran vs. Mexico match played on television for the umpteenth time. Ahmad smelled the delightful fragrance of lamb stew with spinach and prunes, wafting in from the kitchen.
“What has who done?” His father folded the paper precisely and set it in his lap.
“The government has finally admitted culpability.” Ahmad turned the front page section towards his father. Now he will have to see what his beloved Canada is really like.
“For what?”
“Torturing Muslim civilians. Look.” Ahmad waved the newspaper in the air. “Canada’s paying Maher Arur ten and a half million dollars for detaining him illegally and torturing him.”
Visiting his father’s neat row house had become increasingly painful. The traditional Friday night dinner, before visiting the mosque, was a minefield of political passion.
“It was a mistake.” His father reached for the tea cup Ahmad’s mother faithfully kept full.
At least Mother still knew her place, Ahmad thought.
“Our government doesn’t torture people,” his father continued. “They are trying to make it right.”
“It’s a mistake that they keep making over and over again.” Ahmad folded his paper and set it aside. “In Kandahar they’ve been torturing suspected Taliban members. Beating them with cables and giving them electric shocks.”
“That doesn’t concern us.” Mahmoud cleaned his glasses. “The Taliban is at war with Canada.”
“How can you say that?” Ahmad shifted his weight forward in his chair. “We are at war with them. We’re the ones going to their country to fight; they’re not coming here. These are our people we’re fighting.”
When his father finally spoke to him, Ahmad felt like he was five years old again. “Ahmad, you understand nothing. We expect people like that to make wild accusations. It’s what they do, standard operating procedure. They have no credibility.”
How could his father sit there and discuss it so calmly? Where was his sense of outrage? Of loyalty? His father had completely sold out to his adopted country.
“Canada is guilty of war crimes.” Ahmad’s voice went up in tone and volume. “What we’re doing in Sarpoza Prison is every bit as bad as what the Americans do at Abu Ghraib.”
“I’ve been down that road before.” Fire flickered in Mahmoud’s eyes. “When the Shah was in power everyone whined that they didn’t have freedom.”
“Father, the Shah’s secret police, the Savak, tortured and killed people.” Ahmad’s heart was beating so quickly he could feel it in his ears.
His father reached for the remote control and clicked off the soccer match. “That was nothing compared to the Ayatollah.” His father clinched his fist every time he said the word “Ayatollah.” “After Khomeini came to power, he put more than sixteen hundred dissidents to death. Our people. My friends. I spent a year in one of his prisons. There’s a reason we fled to Canada.”
“I don’t condone what the Ayatollah did, but these were enemies of Islam. We had to purge all the un-Islamic elements from our society.”
“WE?” his father shouted, then he paused and regained control of himself. “You’re just parroting words.” His father waved a hand dismissively at Ahmad. “You can’
t possibly understand. You weren’t there. It’s easy to criticize from the safety of Canadian freedom. I lost my friends, my family, my fortune. Your mother was chased from the streets, stoned. For a few years, our entire society went mad.”
“But look at the outcome, father.” Ahmad spread his hands, as if he were revealing a stunning vista to his father. “We have a perfect Islamic state.”
“It’s only perfect because you don’t have to live there. You don’t know what it’s like to live under the rule of the mullahs. Canada is much better.”
“The Canada that kills our people? The Canada that tortures its own citizens? The Canada that’s in the American’s pocket? This is not my Canada.”
“You take these things too personally.” Mahmoud picked up his paper again.
“How can I not? They affect me, they affect all of us. Maher was detained because his mother’s cousin was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood.” Ahmad waved the newspaper at his father again. “They didn’t even prove it; they just threw him in prison for a year.”
“I’m sure there was more to it than that.” Mahmoud flipped his paper open, signaling an end to the discussion.
“Sure there was.” Ahmad ignored the signal. “They turned him over to the Syrian police. He’s a Canadian citizen and the Americans flew him from New York back to Syria. They knew that the Syrians would torture him. Our beloved government just stood by and watched.”
“Things happen in war time.” His father’s nose was now buried in the newspaper. “We have to give up a little of our freedoms to ensure our security.”
“How would you like it if it was your freedom that they had taken? Something must be done to stop this.” But his father was not paying any attention to him.
At that moment Ahmad knew he must join the fight. If good men like his father could sit idly by while the world turned a deaf ear on these crimes, then he must do something about it himself.
The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1) Page 4