Sugar

by L. Todd Wood

  “Thanks for the effort, sir. Peter wanted me to pass on his thanks as well.” Walker nodded his head in acknowledgement.

  “You need to be careful. I’m ordering you to be careful. I’m not sure how much more I can help you. I fear there are dark days ahead for all of us.” With that, he turned back to the water and seemed to drift away again to some other place.

  Connor sat down in the chair next to President Walker and said nothing more. They both enjoyed the view quietly, lost in thought. The gulls swooped high and low searching for food, making an awful racket. The next morning, Connor headed back to New York.

  Omar Hakim woke early. The president and his entourage were scheduled to leave the governor’s residence late morning for the trip to the hospital in Chicago. The sun was peeking over the horizon as he started the government SUV and drove down to the center of town on the island. The only vehicle on the road was a horse-drawn taxi ferrying passengers to the marina for the trip to Mackinaw City on the Lower Peninsula. He did not tell any of his colleagues what he was doing or where he was going. That would be a problem at some point, but it would be a while before anyone noticed. He was off duty.

  He paid for the ticket for the high-speed ferry at the booth on the dock next to the catamaran. The wind had picked up, and the steel vessel was banging against the wooden pier as the moving water crashed against it. He boarded, and soon the ferry departed and quickly made full speed after leaving the harbor. He was pressed back in his seat from the acceleration. The plume of water spewed from the rear of the craft up into the air like a rooster tail. The trip to St. Ignace took only a few minutes. The city was the gateway to the Northern Peninsula of Michigan and had been established by the French centuries before. St. Ignace declined after the end of the fur trade in the nineteenth century, and now the population consisted of only a couple thousand people.

  Omar walked off the ferry upon docking and made his way to the parking lot then waited for the departing passengers to leave. He stood silently and scanned the small assortment of parked vehicles that remained for a few minutes. He chose an older GM model sedan and walked over to it. Pulling a metal strip from his sport coat, he jimmied the car door quickly and got in, closing the door behind him. After scanning the parking lot again and assuring himself that no one else was looking, he bashed the steering column to release the ignition wires and started the vehicle.

  The drive to Interstate 75, which led to the bridge crossing, took only a couple minutes. He paid the six-dollar toll and continued on to the suspension span. The tires hummed a loud note as they passed over the metal grates on part of the bridge. When about halfway across the span, he pulled off the active lane and stopped next to the base of one of the massive anchorage towers that reached almost one hundred and seventy meters into the air, and got out of the car. The giant, steel structures were mounted into colossal caissons of concrete rising from the lake bed. Several men were entombed there after falling into the concrete as it was being poured years ago. On each side of the tower, slightly above the level of the car span, were small doors the size of a big washing machine opening at a Laundromat. Omar opened one of these and climbed inside the tower, shutting the steel door behind him. There was not much traffic on the bridge at this time of the morning, and no one saw him enter. Inside, there was a small, metal ladder that ran from the road to the top of the tower inside the steel structure. The paint was fresh on the metal. It took seven years to paint the bridge. When the job was finished, the whole process started over again. It was a never ending process. Omar began climbing.

  President Walker exited the limousine and began walking into Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago. He was accompanied by a team of security and personal assistants. The trip from northern Michigan had been hard on him. He felt weak and tread gingerly into the lobby; a Secret Service agent held his arm. A swarm of staff and medical personnel surrounded him. As the automatic doors opened and he walked into the reception area, he muttered to the agent, “I need a chair.” The agent motioned for a wheelchair, and one was brought immediately. It was just in time, since the president slipped into unconsciousness right as he sat down. He was rushed into the emergency room.

  Omar reached the top of the bridge tower. There was a corresponding small, metal door opening at the top as well. He could feel the top of the tower swaying at least several feet in each direction with the wind. The engineers had designed flexibility into the structure. The wind howled at the high elevation. He opened the door and stepped out onto the small ledge between the tower pylons.

  It had not been difficult for Omar to handle the task given him by the sultan through the Imam from the Bronx when he had called; he was a trusted agent on Walker’s team for years. After being given the substance by an operative in town on Mackinac Island, he had slipped it one morning in the president’s coffee. Then he had stayed near his charge and watched as Walker drank the coffee and then asked for more. It had been a beautiful morning, and the view from the porch was peaceful and stunning. The porch had become the president’s favorite spot at the cottage. This made the Secret Service somewhat nervous, as the position was difficult to defend. However, at that moment, Omar knew he had succeeded.

  Omar felt at peace now. He had done his duty to the sultan and Allah. He would be rewarded in Heaven; that he was sure of. He gazed out at the stupendous view from the top of the tower. He could see forever. Maybe this is like the view from Heaven. The cars looked like ants as they crossed the bridge below. The sun was rising like a deity. Omar felt a joy he had never experienced.

  They would be able to pin the crime on him very soon; he was sure. There were most definitely traces of the material on himself and his belongings. The nature of the poisoning would be apparent once certain tests were done at the hospital. There was no cure, so his job on this Earth was now done. It’s better to burn out than to fade away. God is great! Omar jumped.

  At least I have an idea where she is now. The cancer is gone. Should I risk going to see her? I don’t think so. There’s too much I don’t know about what is going on. Connor had flown back to New York for a meeting with his doctor and sat thinking in the waiting room. He noticed the other patients obviously just beginning their regimen. He didn’t envy them. Cancer is evil. There was a decision to be made. Soon he would have to finish his last treatment. I really don’t want to do this again. The cancer is gone. I mean I REALLY don’t want to do this again.

  He was called into the doctor’s office sat in the chair offered. The man had a way with words. He first went over all of Connor’s recent test results and their meaning. Then he said, “Your chances of long-term survival will be greatly increased by taking the last treatment. Call it an insurance policy. You know, life’s tough, but it’s tougher if you’re stupid. Take the damn treatment.”

  The man is right. It would be nice to not have to worry about going through this again. I guess I’ll do it, Connor thought. Damn. “Okay, let’s get it over with,” he told the doctor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Natasha sat on the deck off the front of the house. It was hot in Bahia, and once again, here she was with a glass of cold, white wine in the late afternoon. The view was captivating as usual. She sat alone and watched the sugar fields. Small pleasures. She could watch them for hours. Where will my life lead now? she wondered. I’m young, full of life, and I feel like I am in prison. In a prison of my own making, on the run. On the run from the biggest mobster in the world, with limitless resources at his fingertips. And the love of my life has cancer. Damn! I need another drink.

  With time on her hands, Natasha had taken up writing. She had always wanted to write. Now, she had the opportunity. Time to get that novel out. In Russia, literature was held in high esteem. She had once heard of a writer who was traveling through Siberia via bus. He asked the bus driver to make a detour to an old labor camp to make some notes for an upcoming project. The bus stopped in the dead of winter, and the writer walked down into the camp. While
he was gone, the heater went out in the bus, and the remaining occupants were very uncomfortable in the cold. However, no one wanted to interrupt him and ask him to hurry up and leave, as he was a writer. Yes, she would get the novel done. However, that was not enough to fill the time. The wine helped with that.

  She would wait to be contacted by Connor. That is the way they had planned it. She would go into hiding, eventually tell him which safe house she had gone to, and he would meet up with her at some point when the time was right. When the time is right. When will that be exactly? Shit.

  It had been several weeks since she and Connor had communicated via email. She had not gone into the village since. She cooked alone, slept alone, ate alone, and drank alone. She was lonely. I’m not going to spend my whole life like this. This is ridiculous. She took another sip of wine. The alcohol was getting to her this evening. It had become a habit. She looked forward to that five o’clock glass of wine, but alcohol has a tendency to make one do stupid things.

  Natasha had purchased a prepaid cell phone on her last trip into the village. It was for use in emergencies. She had not spoken to her mother in a long time. She was sure her mom was worried about her, and Natasha was worried about her mother as well. The last time they spoke, her mom was sick and had just returned from the hospital. She was having kidney issues. The bond between a Russian mother and daughter was one of the strongest emotional bonds in the world. Russian women for centuries had survived in a male-dominated culture by taking special care of their female relatives. This for the simple reason that the men many times could not or would not take care of them. Natasha missed her mother. What could one call do? They don’t have this number. I’ll only call once. I just want to tell her I’m okay, so she won’t worry. She picked up the phone and dialed. “Mom? It’s your solnishka!” (my sun)

  Somewhere within the suburbs of St. Petersburg, Russia, a technician in an FSB listening post sat smoking a harsh Russian cigarette. He could feel the tiny embers burning away the lining of his throat. Hey, it helps pass the time. It was a boring job, but at least he had a job. He was fortunate to have landed a job with the FSB. He would be employed for life, as long as he didn’t make any enemies. His salary was enough to survive, not a luxurious life, but survival. Many of his friends were not so lucky. Russia was still a land of the haves and the have-nots. He was of the latter category.

  He looked forward to when his shift ended, as he had arranged to meet a very young and pretty girl at a local cafe. He had met her on the subway. She had such a beautiful face and thin, sexy body, he had to say hello to her. Anticipation. He had always been good at picking up women. It was a sport for him.

  The drudgery of this job was painful. He just waited until the computer picked up a call to or from a location that was being monitored. Then he picked up the call and listened, taking notes. It wasn’t hard. The equipment did most of the work. He spied on Russians all over the country as well as foreigners. Sometimes the calls were interesting and fun to listen to. At other times, they were boring. His favorite pastime was listening to phone sex between couples. That was a rare treat. Again, at least I have a job.

  The computer buzzed. He put his headset back on and began to monitor. Holy shit! I can’t believe my ears. It’s her. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Then his training kicked in. Trying to keep himself calm, he monitored the call. He then traced the number to Brazil and triangulated its location. The next step was very enjoyable. He excitedly passed the information on to his superiors per his prior instructions. This coup would earn a bonus from his chief for making the man look good. Yes, he would get a few thousand rubles under the table tonight. Now he could really impress the pretty, young thing.

  Connor awoke. He felt better. His mind was still full of cobwebs, but he felt a joy he had not experienced for some time. I’m done with the damn treatments! Ha! Can you believe that? And I’m in touch with Natasha! Maybe everything’s gonna work out. He vaguely remembered a dream prior to waking about being with Natasha somewhere warm and free. He wished he could go back to that dream; it was pleasant. Connor decided to get up and get something to drink but thought better of it as the weakness overtook him. It had been over a week since his last treatment in New Jersey, and he still had the rented apartment near the cancer clinic. The visiting nurse had left the day before. He was on his own now; although, he had another PET scan scheduled for later in the month. These walls are closing in on me. Time to get on with my life. Just a few more things to get done. He lay back down and went to sleep as his body continued to recover. He slept and slept and slept and dreamed of her in his arms.

  Eric Barnard quietly stood by President Walker’s side. The president’s breathing was slow and irregular. He felt like it was his duty to watch over him; although, he knew there was nothing he could do. It won’t be long now, he thought. Maybe he feels my presence. Barnard decided to hold his hand for a while. The least I can do. Walker was unconscious. All of his hair was gone. He looked like a cancer patient. He was thin, frail, gaunt, and dying. Eric was very sad. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good man and has done a great deal for this country. Bastards! Someone will have to pay.

  Angry, Barnard walked out of the hospital room. He didn’t want Walker to subconsciously feel the negative energy, not in the waning moments of his life. Barnard couldn’t accept President Walker was going to die. He had devoted his life to this man. Eric had followed him from the Governor’s Mansion in Pennsylvania to the White House. Walker had been in his life for two decades. All of that was ending now. He closed the door to the room and stood at the plate glass window across the hall, which provided a view of Chicago. He looked at the myriad of buildings before him without really seeing them. His mind was elsewhere. He was beside himself. How could this happen? It’s just unfreaking believable. What the hell is happening? This country is in danger. It’s not the same America I used to know. He stood for a long time in the window, letting his sadness and anger get the best of him. Then he started plotting his way forward. Where to go from here? I don’t even know who to trust. We Americans need to get to the bottom of this. We need to find out what happened and let the chips fall where they may. We need our country back. They assassinated a president for God’s sake. Barnard began thinking of people he could enlist in the effort. I’d better warn Connor. He pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and dialed.

  Connor was getting stronger. He could feel his body recovering. He had more energy every day. He even began to walk a few miles every afternoon to get his strength back and quickly learned the neighborhood layout. The residents began to recognize him and wave as he walked by. Soon he would be strong enough to leave New Jersey and the apartment for good. That’s a very good thing. I’m ready to move on to the next phase of my life. I’m going to put this cancer behind me. He felt an optimism he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Connor looked forward to his daily walks. It was a joyful feeling just to be alive. He took it all in, the smells, sights, and sounds. My how things have changed over the last few years. I’m certainly in a very different place than when I ran the trading desk. The country has changed as well. He stopped to sit on a bench in the park and watch a Little League baseball game below. It was actually quite exciting. The yellow team was up two to one in the last of ninth inning. This is the real America, he thought. His phone rang.

  “Hello, this is Connor.”

  “Connor, it’s Eric Barnard. Have you got some time for me?”

  “Sure, Eric, always for you. What can I do for you? How are you? How’s the boss?”

  “That’s why I’m calling, Connor. I don’t think he’s going to make it through the night.”

  “What?” responded Connor incredulously as he stood up from the bench. The parents in the stands turned to look at him. “I thought he just had some kind of bug. Are you sure? What happened?”

  “He’s been poisoned.”

  Connor’s heart sank. “Are you kidding? Are you positive abou
t this?”

  “We’re very sure. This conversation stays with me and you, okay? Promise me that before we go any further.”

  “Okay, on my honor.”

  “President Walker was poisoned with radiation. It was a very professional job. Only someone with very serious resources could obtain access to and handle such material. It was polonium-210. It occurs naturally in your body but this was a massive dose. Two hundred times the lethal exposure. He ingested it somehow. It’s all throughout his internal organs. It’s the same material that the Russians used to poison one of their double agents in London a decade ago. And it does not lend itself to being discovered even when ingested. You have to conduct some special tests. One of the Secret Service agents, Omar Hakim, killed himself a few days back. His body was not found, as he jumped off the Mackinac Bridge, but his belongings had traces of this stuff all over them, so it was an inside job. The question is where did he get this material? We may never know. The FBI is here now—they are all over this. I’m not sure when it is going to be announced to the public and what is going to be announced. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you, Eric. That’s certainly information I didn’t expect or want to hear. I owe a great deal to that man.”

  “Well I know for a fact he liked you very much.”

  “Thank you. Let me ask you a question. This Omar guy. Was he possibly tied to any Islamic organizations?”

  “Yes, we found records going back to his recruitment in the Marine Corp by an Imam in the Bronx. There was a definite connection. Why do you ask?”