by Frank Hughes
I walked until I reached the last of the fire damage, where healthy trees had been chopped down to form a fire break. I took a different route back towards the Sno-Cat, looking for anything that might prove arson, but nothing stuck out. Besides, they’d had two months to police up the area.
Then I noticed something that looked like an arrowhead stuck in one of the withered tree trunks. On closer examination, it was a shard of metal, rusted from exposure, but still bearing flecks of what could be yellow paint. I worked the sliver out of the wood.
“You have found something, Mr. Craig?” said Kohl.
“No, nothing.” I stuck the piece of metal in my glove and turned to face him. “What would anyone have been welding down here?”
Kohl shrugged. “I am not familiar with the details of construction.” He pointed back towards the building. “Our resort is unique, one of a kind. I have been told that standard,” he paused, “connections?”
“Connectors?” I said. “Like Simpson ties?”
“Yes, the connectors, that is it. Many of our fixtures are custom made and the standard connectors do not work.” He waved his arm at the clearing. “Here perhaps.”
“At night?”
“Artists,” he said, smiling, “who knows with artists.”
I pointed at the trees. “There were explosions here.”
“I cannot say. Perhaps.”
“What would be here that could explode?”
“Paint and associated materials.”
“Stored in the open?”
“Mr. Craig, I am sure you know that contractors do not always adhere to the letter of the law. I assure you, we are keeping a much stricter eye on them since this incident.”
“I’ll bet.” I waved my arm at the burnt trees. “So what exactly about this little trip is supposed to convince me the fire was not deliberately set by Ken and his friends?”
“That is not my purpose, Mr. Craig. You will believe what you believe. But, surely terrorists would have caused wider destruction, or targeted the buildings themselves.”
“Perhaps they planned to, but someone stopped them.”
“And yet no one has come forward to claim credit for this event. Is this not unusual for these ecology terrorists?”
“They have a saying at Disneyland, Mr. Kohl: dead men tell no tales.”
Kohl laughed. “Americans. You see conspiracies everywhere. You are familiar with Occam’s Razor?”
“I think so,” I said. “In layman’s terms, the simplest explanation is usually correct.”
“This is so. And here we have a choice between a careless workman causing a fire, and your theory,” he assumed a Shakespearean tone, “of a violent confrontation between two secret societies, each pursuing evil ends. Which, I ask you, would a rational man chose?”
“I’m probably the wrong guy to ask.”
He smiled. “Have you seen enough, Mr. Craig?”
“I think so.”
As we walked back to the Sno-Cat, I noticed a well used trail snaking off into the woods. In the distance, I could just see the roof of a large building. “Where does that go?”
“That is a service trail.”
“Looks pretty well traveled.”
“We use one of the old warehouses in the ghost town for storing some of the groomers and our firefighting equipment, which proved fortuitous when this terrible event occurred.”
“I’d like to see that ghost town.”
“Out of the question. It is off limits to guests. There are the remains of mines and tunnels, many of them hidden by debris or foliage. Should someone fall into them, they may never be found.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
“Then let us return to the resort. We are having a small celebration and I would be pleased if you would join us for a drink before returning below.”
“Who am I to pass up a drink?”
“Excellent.” Perhaps, to pass the time until then, you would like a tour of our little facility.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“I thought you might.”
29.
Kohl gave me the grand tour of the L-shaped building. The long leg was strictly for the suites. The top two floors of the shorter leg contained administrative offices and a dormitory for a small live-in staff. The junction of the two legs was reserved for the restaurant, kitchen, bar, and lobby.
The first floor and basement were lavishly equipped with everything I imagined the super rich might need on a getaway. An exercise room boasted the latest, most expensive workout machines, plus a sauna, steam bath, and lap pool. There was a temperature controlled room full of cigars and deep leather chairs in which to smoke them. The wine cellar was extensive and the business center looked like someone hijacked a Staples.
“So, Mr. Craig,” said Kohl, as we walked back through the lobby, “an inquisitive man like yourself, an investigator, must have questions about our establishment.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. How is it that this place is even here, at this altitude? Isn’t this public land?”
“Actually, no. This part of the mountain is private, handed down for hundreds of years in a single family. The current heir is a member of our consortium.”
“Really? Can I meet him?”
“He lives in Monaco now.”
“Who can blame him? Why is it called Spanish Mountain?”
“Ah, as I understand it, the family had a parchment, an old Spanish land grant from the Sixteenth Century giving them title to the property, which was honored, as many such things were, by your government.”
“I had no idea the Spanish pushed this far north,” I said.
“If you know your history, you know that most of the European powers laid claim to vast lands that were never fully explored. Some have challenged the legitimacy of the land grant, but not successfully. In any case, the family was the original operator of the Spanish Mountain resort, with little success. It remained a less than profitable enterprise, frequented mainly by locals, until Verdugo assumed ownership. Since then it has become a top destination. Now we have added this exclusive section.”
“What I don’t see is how you make money.”
Kohl stopped and turned to me. “Why, Mr. Craig, we charge exorbitant fees, of course.”
“I gathered as much, but from what I’ve seen, the overhead of this place must be enormous.”
“It is indeed, as you say, enormous.” He gestured for us to continue walking. “However, we offer a unique service here. Solitude, privacy, discretion. There are only twelve suites. Each is owned by a wealthy individual desirous of a refuge. A rock and roll performer, three heads of state or former heads of state, some business people.”
“Senator Canfield?”
“Technically, no. The suite is owned by Mrs. Canfield.”
“What about Boyd?”
“Mr. Boyd has a chalet near the public area.”
We walked past the dining room and stopped by a heavy metal door. Kohl waved his key card and then, shielding his actions, punched in the eight digit code. He pushed the door open.
“Our kitchen.”
We walked down a little passageway lined with stainless steel shelves into the brightly lit kitchen, a scene of controlled chaos where three cooks were preparing a variety of dishes under the direction of a large man with a long handlebar mustache and a black kerchief. He nodded a quick greeting to Kohl, who bowed slightly.
“We won’t disturb the chef right now.” He pointed. “Over here is what I wanted to show you.”
I followed him past three walk-in coolers to a door at the back of the kitchen. Again he used his key card, again the eight beeps. The door opened into a Plexiglas passageway. The cliff overhang loomed above us. We walked about twenty feet to a sliding door. When it opened, a steady stream of warm air washed over us.
Kohl waved me into a small cavern that had been shaped and expanded by human hands. The damp walls retained their rough, natural appearance
, and there was the odd stalactite around the edges, but most of the floor and ceiling had been leveled and a concrete pad poured. Fluorescent lights hung from chains bolted to the ceiling, their cold glare competing with the warm yellow light that streamed through the steamy windows of six small greenhouses stretched in a neat row across the center of the cave. A single pipe rose from the peak of each roof, connecting with larger pipes that ran across the ceiling. Each greenhouse entrance had a metal door with a wheel in the center, like the watertight doors on a submarine. Against the cave wall, opposite the greenhouses, were large coils of flexible black piping, some bags of fertilizer, and several large wooden crates, one of which bore a pasted on label reading “Dave’s Hardware.”
“So, this is your famous hydroponic garden,” I said.
“Quite so. Many of our fruits and vegetables and all the herbs and spices used in food preparation are grown here.”
I pointed at the door of the nearest greenhouse. “Airlock?”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. “Each individual crop requires its own climate. The atmospheric pressure and temperature must be maintained precisely for optimum results. It is also imperative that disease and biological pests not be introduced to the individual environments.”
I walked over for a look. The windows were blurred with condensation, but I could see some fruit bearing plants.
“Strawberries?”
“Yes. The berries are delicious I might add. The dessert we prepare with them has already won several culinary awards.”
“And these?”
“Lettuces,” he said, pointing to each one in turn, “herb garden, tomatoes, cucumbers, and so on.”
“It’s like a subterranean Sizzler.”
He started to ask me what a Sizzler was, but the volume of the air conditioning increased drastically. At the cave’s far end, a stooped, mustachioed figure in a white lab coat stepped through a door I had not noticed. He was typing on a touchpad, oblivious to our presence.
“Ah, Doctor Fisher,” said Kohl, raising his voice above the roar of the ventilators.
Fisher stopped abruptly and looked up, blinking with surprise, and pushed his glasses up on his forehead. The door behind him slid closed, instantly reducing the sound level.
“Mr. Kohl. This is unexpected.”
“I apologize, Professor. I was showing a new guest your wonderful project.”
“It’s most unusual. Most unusual.”
“I apologize. We will not be long,” said Kohl, who then turned to me. “Dr. Fisher is a world-renowned expert in the field of hydroponics and food production, a Nobel prize winner. We were lucky to get him. Weren’t we, Professor?”
Fisher blinked, lowered his glasses, and went back to making notes. Kohl smiled patiently and turned back to me.
“Our investors are able to provide unlimited funding,” he said. “Dr. Fisher is making breakthroughs here that will reap benefits for all of mankind. He is not only improving the field of hydroponics. Through genetic experiments he is developing new methods for accelerating plant growth. Our strawberries, as an example, develop in a quarter of the time it takes for natural growth.”
“Handy if you have a hankering for shortcake.”
“Think of what this means for world hunger, when he is finished and his methods are shared with mankind.”
“Out of the goodness of your hearts, no doubt.”
“Mr. Craig, only an insane person does anything for a single reason. Of course the considerable investment made here must be paid back through reasonable compensation for the processes developed. But, I think the price will be small compared to the benefit. It may be regrettable to some, Mr. Craig, but the great breakthroughs in science most often come from the baser human instincts, such as the desire for profit. Or war.”
“Or the space program. Let’s not forget Tang.” I turned to Fisher and pointed at the strawberries. “This one looks more like aeroponics than hydroponics.”
Fisher looked up in surprise, pushing his glasses back onto his forehead. “Quite correct. For these berries I find that a more appropriate method. It allows for a disease free environment.”
I pointed at the display near the door. “And your greenhouses are computer regulated.”
“Yes, of course. Throughout the process, different levels of nutrients and fertilizer must be delivered in precise amounts, which vary throughout the growth cycle.”
“You are familiar with hydroponics, Mr. Craig?” said Kohl.
“In a past life I dealt with individuals who dabbled in it. I picked up a little knowledge here and there.”
“Really? I was not aware you had experience in agriculture.”
“Not how I would have categorized it.” I smiled at him. “It was a cash crop, though.”
“Ah.” Kohl smiled. “I believe I understand.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Fisher, gesturing with his touchpad, “I must see to my calculations.”
“As you wish, Professor.”
Fisher went to the strawberry green house and touched a small screen near the door. It lit up to display what looked like temperature, barometric pressure, humidity, and a host of other figures I didn’t recognize. After a moment he began typing on the computer.
“So,” I said, pointing at the door through which Fisher had entered, “what’s back there?”
“Oh, the control room for the greenhouses. As Dr. Fisher said, all this takes considerable energy and monitoring.”
“I’ll bet. No free samples?”
“It is a shame you will not be here to try the waffles with strawberries in the morning.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Kohl smiled and gestured towards the entrance.
“We go?” I said.
“We go. Good night, Professor.”
Fisher mumbled some reply without looking.
30.
The sun had set by the time Kohl escorted me back to the bar, which was empty. However, a long table had been added against the windows. On it four silver chafing dishes were perched over little tins of blue flame.
“The others will join us soon,” said Kohl. “Please wait here.”
Boyd entered as Kohl turned to leave. He’d changed into a tuxedo. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and there was a sheen of sweat on his face.
“You’ve been gone for hours,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, most productive,” said Kohl.
“Good.” He looked at me. “Then let’s get you on the next cable car.”
“And miss the party?” I said. “Not on your life.”
Boyd looked at Kohl.
“Yes,” said Kohl, “I asked Mr. Craig to stay and have a drink with our guests.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I lack a sense of humor,” said Kohl.
“He’s German,” I said.
“Austrian,” said Kohl.
“Same difference.”
Kohl opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by a burst of conversation. We turned to see Senator Canfield leading a group into the bar, his wife on his arm. Canfield wore a conservative dark suit, but Cory was sheathed in a spray on red gown. She lit up when she saw us.
“Nick! Jeff! Hi!” She gave me a huge smile and waved frantically.
“Behave yourself,” said Boyd, under his breath, before making a beeline to the Senator.
Kohl and I followed in his wake as the three well-dressed couples in Canfield’s entourage fanned out around him, one pair heading to the bar, the other to the chafing dishes. Another man in a suit kept station behind Canfield and Cory.
“Senator,” called Tim from behind the bar, “what can I get you?”
“Oh, the usual, Tim. And a champagne cocktail for Mrs. Canfield.” His voice, so familiar to me from his TV appearances, was deep and measured.
“Wait, Tim,” said Cory, “I’ll take a bottle of Dom Perignon.” Then, smiling at her husband, she said, “Don’t be a stingy poop!”
Canfield smiled and kissed her on the cheek. She giggled and danced over to the bar. Canfield turned to Boyd as we approached.
“Evening, Jeff.”
“Good evening, Senator.” They shook hands.
Canfield looked over Boyd’s shoulder at Kohl. “Good evening, Arnold.”
“Senator,” said Boyd, “allow me to introduce Mr. Nick Craig.”
Canfield gave me a warm, seemingly genuine smile and shook my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Craig.”
“A privilege, Senator. I’ve long admired your political courage.”
“I noticed you didn’t mention my policies.” He laughed to take the edge off the remark. “Thank you, though, for the kind compliment.”
The presence of the man was undeniable. Over six feet tall, he looked fit enough to take the field again. His handsome, square jawed face, thick head of hair, and easy charm spawned unending comparisons to John Kennedy and Bill Clinton, but Jack Canfield was a conservative, the new face of the Republican Party. Although a devout Mormon, he had married the Roman Catholic daughter of a Cuban refugee. He embraced some pretty eclectic demographics, so his name was always on the short list when discussing presidential candidates.
“And what do you do, Mr. Craig?” said Canfield.
“Mr. Craig is a security consultant in my employ,” said Boyd, before I could even begin to answer.
“I see,” said Canfield. He covered his amusement at Boyd’s intervention by turning to the man standing next to him. “This is my right hand man, Bryce Randolph.”
“Mr. Craig,” said Randolph, shaking my hand.
“Mr. Randolph.”
“Please, call me Bryce.”
If anything, he was handsomer than Canfield and nearly as tall, but the checked suit had a sharper, European cut and his hair made Canfield’s sculpted coiffure look windblown by comparison. The smell of cologne preceded him like a bodyguard.
“So, Mr. Craig,” said Canfield. “Security consultant. Were you ever in law enforcement?”