The bell over the door clinked as Waseem’s clean-shaven face leaned into the pub. New, cheap clothes draped his narrow shoulders, but it was hard to look into his coal-black eyes and make any assumptions. They betrayed nothing other than cold. Still, seeing the dark-skinned Middle Easterner walk into a place like this was reminiscent of a pigeon landing on second base at a major league baseball game—everyone stared. He was clearly out of place compared to the funky, pale-skinned, tattooed, and body-pierced crowd so at home in Little Five Points.
On weekends, Porter Bar was so filled with an array of tattoos and body piercings that token yuppies who strayed past the door would not stay for long. A clique of truly unique souls defined Little Five Points like no other place in Atlanta. It was like a tiny slice of San Francisco’s Castro district, somehow nestled in the south.
Bastian Mokolo sat at the bar wearing thick-rimmed shades. He peered at Waseem through the reflection of a large mirror emblazoned with the words “Lagunitas Maximus,” and studied Waseem’s body language. The skin on the beard area was pale in contrast to the rest of the dark features, apparently unfamiliar with the recently applied razor. To Bastian, it was a sign that Waseem was new. The new ones often wanted to keep their thick facial hair, but once they arrived in the United States, they stood out like a man in a four-buttoned suit in the middle of a livestock auction—shaving was just a matter of time.
At two p.m. on a Monday, the establishment was down to four patrons. The usual lunch crowd had left, having to return to their day jobs. Waseem paused near the entrance and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. His emotionless face scanned the barstools and locked on Bastian who didn’t return the glance but instead studied the half inch of foam still left in his glass. Waseem walked over to him but Bastian didn’t acknowledge his presence. Instead, he held the glass up in the reflecting light, taking more notice of the translucence of the dark beer than Waseem.
Bastian said, “A damn food group, mon. Dey joke ’bout de head on beer being a food group. Like you cood slice eet and poot eet on bread,” his Jamaican accent as thick as the head on the beer.
Waseem pulled out the barstool, looking Bastian up and down. Bastian took another sip, paying no mind.
“Your ass ain’ gonna seet itself, mon. You got to guide eet down.”
As Waseem eased onto the stool, he gazed at Bastian out of the corner of his eye and then began the first scripted code phrase. “Mon looks in de abyss.”
Waseem drew a haggard breath. “There’s nothing staring back at him.”
“At dat mowment, mon finds his charactar.”
“And character is what keeps him out of the abyss.” The passcode exchange between the two confirmed their identities to one another.
The Jamaican peered over his left shoulder at two patrons seated across the long room, cigarette smoke rising from their ashtray. They paid him no attention.
“I am toold you wanna speak wit me,” said Bastian.
“You don’t look like the type of person I’d want to talk to,” said Waseem, turning his head toward the man.
Bastian’s head snapped, eye to eye with Waseem, dreadlocks bouncing.
“Don’ hand me dat double-talk crap!” he said.
Both glared at each other, sizing the other up. Suddenly, Bastian grabbed Waseem’s drab green military jacket by the lapel and dragged him down the hall, knocking over a chair at a nearby table. A man, whose back was to them, spun around, startled. Once in the men’s room, Bastian pushed the light-framed Waseem against the cold surface of the tile wall.
“YOU called me, mon,” barked Bastian. “I don’ wanna hear none of dat sheet bout you don’ truss me. In fact, why don’ you tell me who de hell YOU are.” His anger was visceral. “What de hell you got unda here, mon?” he asked, searching Waseem’s coat and clothes. “You de heet, mon! You got on a wire?”
Bastian’s hand vanished into his Rasta hippie-top shirt producing a switchblade, which flicked open with a metallic crack. He held it against Waseem’s already raw throat.
“Tell me who de hell you is, mon,” said Bastian, easing pressure off Waseem’s throat, allowing him to cough.
“You know who the hell I am,” said Waseem. “My brother Kasra knows you. He told you I was coming. He told you what I looked like. And he told you to relax, you fucking pig! Now take that damn blade off of my throat!” Waseem’s nostrils flared, eying Bastian hard. They stared at each other. Finally, Bastian backed off and slid the blade out of sight.
Waseem exhaled and said, “Let’s go for a walk, I don’t like talking inside a closed space like this.”
The two meandered back past the bar, and a few glances followed them outside. They crossed McLendon Avenue, cut down a side street, and walked behind a couple of theatre buildings. Having reached the baseball fields, Bastian headed through the dugout and onto the field towards the pitcher’s mound.
He looked in all directions. Just as he suspected, the area was deserted. The lone exception was a female seated in the far distance who shifted her wavy hair in the breeze. As Bastian looked away, she removed the bag from across her shoulder and placed it on the ground where she had spread out a small blanket. The thermos and Tupperware added to the appearance of just a woman on a short lunch break. She removed a particularly expensive laser microphone built for eavesdropping from the bag and extended the small, attached tripod. Her camera had a large lens, but at two hundred yards, she would draw no attention from the men.
10
Cal took his time as he made his way to Kennestone Hospital. There wasn’t much traffic, and he liked driving the back roads in Marietta where the town square was a throwback to another era. It had been burned to the ground during the Civil War, with the exception of the corner hotel. The hotel owner had acted as a spy for the Union. General Sherman spared the hotel from the fires. But, after he left, the townspeople burned that one down themselves. The Marietta Square boasted a large green space in the center, which made for a great little park. The surrounding buildings were mostly filled with small businesses, a sign of a good economy. Nothing on the square stood taller than two stories, and history was evident with mismatched brick adjoining one building to the next. The sides of buildings still evidenced old hand-painted advertisements for RC Cola, something of a sacrilege this close to Atlanta where Coca-Cola is consumed as if it were a life-sustaining sustenance.
Cal came to the square more often than he cared to admit. He hadn’t spent much time around the square until these doctor visits started becoming a thing of regularity. The Strand Theatre had stood proudly on the corner since the 1930s. Apparently, the first flicker show ever played here was a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musical. Cal parked on the street in front of the theatre and sat with his hands on the steering wheel. He thought back thirty years to when he had taken a cute girl named Susan Felker on their first date. The theatre hadn’t changed a bit. It had been remodeled, perhaps, but in the true spirit of the history of the place, it looked the same.
Cal opened the car door and walked to the heavy glass doors. The door handles dripped with ornate brass. Cal knew without looking that they were the same door handles he had pulled open for Susan on that night. For just a moment, he smelled the perfume she wore. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. He walked inside, taking in the vivid red carpet, the heavy columns in the lobby, and the sight of that same glass concession counter being stocked with candy for tonight’s show.
“Help you?” came a voice from behind the counter.
The young man was dressed in candy-striper red and white, complete with bow tie and hat. It was all circa 1960. He paused a moment and blinked his eyes because standing behind the counter was actually a young man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Cal’s daydream of that night long ago had ended.
He snapped back into reality and said, “No. Sorry, mind if I take a look inside?”
The man glanced at him as if to find a reason to say no, but couldn’t. “Help yourself,” said the
man, too busy to worry about it, and too polite to say no.
Cal pushed his way through the double doors into the theatre. A grand sight it was, and bigger than he remembered. The Strand had seating for at least a thousand if you included the grand balcony above. The seats were more modern now, but the charm of the place oozed from the velvet red walls. Down the center and to his right were the seats they sat in that night. That was when Cal had become intoxicated with feelings for Susan. He was a goner from then on.
His head drooped as he considered everything that had happened since that night so many years ago. His sobbing was low, quiet, personal. There were so many memories, so many joys, and so many mistakes. Not realizing he had been standing there several minutes, a soft hand touched his shoulder.
“Sir, is everything all right?” It was the young man.
“What, huh?” Cal’s embarrassment was not necessary as the young man’s voice was soft and carried an understanding that said “whatever is going on, this person needs to be here at this moment.”
“Ah, ahem, no, I’m fine. Really, I appreciate it. Just wanted to take a look at the place, you know, for old time’s sake.”
“Yes, sir, it’s fine. Sir, you don’t need to leave or anything. Just take your time.”
But the moment had broken. Cal knew what he had to do.
He looked at the young man through tear-filled eyes, “Thank you, son,” and then headed out to what he knew would be bad news.
11
The office of Dr. Thomas Inman had become a familiar place for Cal in recent months. The name Inman was well known throughout Atlanta and smelled of old southern money. Inman Park was the most well-known representation of the name, but the family had become very wealthy decades earlier through various business interests and was known for generosity. The more prominent universities in the area were prime benefactors of family money, including Cal’s alma mater, Georgia Tech. Without Inman money, the school may have never been founded.
Tom Inman, MD, carried nothing in his walk of the pretense of old family money. He grew up in a wealthy family to be sure, but his father, having seen disastrous results of raising children in that type of environment, resolved things would be different. They moved into a nice, upper-middle-class neighborhood and more or less hid their wealth. No, they wanted their kids to be shielded from all of that.
Tom went to public school, and earned his way into Stanford University the hard way. Since he was footing his own bill, and in order to afford the exorbitant costs of medical school, he decided to let Uncle Sam pay the tuition for him. Tom signed a commission in the US Navy, promising to serve five years after med school. So, like Cal, Tom had served onboard a ship. And unknown to either of them at the time, they had served onboard that same ship in the Persian Gulf. They never met during that six-month deployment because, frankly, Cal was never sick. Not until now anyway.
Cal walked into the waiting room, glanced at the receptionist, and had a seat. He didn’t bother giving his name; she knew it. A short while later he was ushered down the hall and into Tom’s personal office. Today wasn’t a day for an exam—the exams were through. Today was the day Cal would learn what he feared would be his final diagnosis. The cancer was probably everywhere by now, and there was nothing Tom or anyone else was going to be able to do about it. Up until now, Cal hadn’t wanted to tell Cade. There was no sense in worrying him. But now, it looked like he’d have to break his silence.
“Hello, Cal,” came Tom’s familiar voice.
After discovering their overlapping tour of duty, and having spent so much time together, the two had become fast friends.
“Hey, Tom.”
“That’s Dr. Inman to you, scumbag,” Tom joked.
“Tom, I know we’ve got serious business to discuss.”
Tom had hoped to get in some small talk first. He hated this part. During his residency he had trained himself to emotionally detach from his patients. As an oncologist, he’d had to tell his share of patients the bad news. But it was different with them. Cal was a friend, he was dying, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
12
Cade walked to the elevator and hit the button. “What the hell was that all about?” he said aloud. His breathing was irregular and his palms sweaty. The elevator door opened, and he stepped in, standing there for a moment, staring at the buttons. Something is very, very wrong up here, his eyes fixed on the button numbered sixteen. The doors closed, but he just stood, motionless. Finally, he raised his hand but stopped it just shy of pressing the button. His hand was shaking. He had to get outside for a bit and go cool off.
Working at Thoughtstorm isn’t supposed to be this stressful. He hit the button for the lobby and, instead of heading to the cafeteria where he might normally grab a coffee, he went straight out the front doors and onto Peachtree Street.
Outside, the spring breeze hit him. Peachtree Street was busy at lunch time. Hell, it was busy most of the time. He shook his head, still baffled over what he’d just experienced. What was going on up there? Why had there been so much pressure over that e-mail job? What was in that e-mail anyway? He had to find out. Although, Cade wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. Whatever was going on, it was way more than the normal fire drill where some e-mail marketer was having a hissy fit about his e-mail not executing at the scheduled time.
Cade crossed Peachtree and walked a few blocks down Buckhead Avenue to Fado, a familiar Irish pub that had been on this corner for as long as he could remember. The pub food could be described as “not bad,” but the beer was cold and creamy. It was early yet, but Cade didn’t care. He needed to cool off and think things through. The lunch crowd was yet to arrive, and most booths were empty. He loved coming here after work to hang out with the guys from the office. It’s not that the wait staff knew him, but still, he’d been here enough for the place to hold a lot of memories.
He put his hands in his hair and leaned his elbows on the table, something his mother would have never approved. Cade’s mom had been a stable rock for most of his early life. Up until high school, he’d had an otherwise normal childhood. Things went bad that year with Mom. It was as if she had reached the end of her allotted stability and then just stopped caring. Trying to raise a child for all those years with an absentee husband had taken its toll. She blamed Cal for leaving her alone as he went on all those long deployments. It wasn’t easy being a Navy wife. Cal seemed to not recognize how much pain his absences were causing. After a while, it was like she just zoned out. The day after Cade went away to school, she moved out of the house and left Cade’s dad. The divorce was filed, and Cal was left in a pool of misery, not that he didn’t see it coming or deserve it.
Cal’s long absences took their toll on Cade as well. When he was younger, Cade saw how sad his mom was, and it made him angry. Those same feelings continued into adulthood and would flare when the stress level was high. Cade took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled in one long, slow motion. The wait staff, busy filling ketchup bottles and salt shakers, hadn’t noticed him entering.
He was really confused from the morning’s events. One thing was certain, he had to know what was going on. He had to find out who those guys were. Then something occurred to him—he now had the security access. If he snooped around the network from his laptop, he may be able to hide his tracks. As an administrator, he could even hide his activities from the log files. He would log in and look at the e-mail content of the job that had caused such uproar. Maybe there was something he missed. The thought scared him a little bit. He’d always had access to see whatever was heading out across the company servers, but that was always done in service to the customer, never in prying. There was a lot of data customers considered very private—most importantly, extensive customer e-mail lists: a virtual treasure trove of e-mail addresses. People paid a lot of money for lists like that. Cade never dared pry into a customer’s e-mails or data. He wondered if he’d have the guts to do it.
His iPhon
e buzzed and startled him back into reality. He fished out the phone and looked at the screen. It was his dad. He and his dad hadn’t spoken in many months. The anger buried deep within would probably poison their relationship for the rest of their lives. He let the phone ring a couple of times, just staring at it. Then, inexplicably, he decided to answer the call.
“Hello?” Cade knew who it was but didn’t want to admit it.
“Cade? It’s your dad.”
Silence hung in the air like a thick morning fog. Cade looked down and picked at the crack in the heavy wooden table.
“Cade, ah . . . listen, I’m sorry to bother you at work. I know I’m not someone you want to talk to. It’s just that, that . . . look, I want to talk. I need to talk to you. Can we do that?”
Cade hesitated. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Not now, not over the phone. Cade, I need to see you.”
Something in the way the voice trailed off made Cade realize whatever it was, it was important. The last time they talked, Cade ended up yelling at him for never being around when Mom needed him. The truth was Cade’s mom had an affair the summer of his tenth grade year. It wasn’t until Cade was older that he realized his mom was just a flesh and blood woman and was so very alone. His anger, once directed at his mother, had been redirected at his dad who put service to his country above service to his family, year after year after year. It was like she was getting back at Cal for all the hurt inside her. The affair was very short lived, but it festered and continued to cling to life inside Cade’s gut.
The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller Page 5