Leave Her Out

by Daniel Davidsohn

  44

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  Vicky, Mohe, and Stella were seated on the living room floor, forming a semicircle, while Oto remaining on a chair. Pages of the memoirs were spread in the center of the improvised formation. Stella and Vicky were exchanging vague speculations about the identities of Isaac, the young slave/apprentice; Kesia, his mother; and Marshall, his overseer/father. Mohe was quiet, highlighting passages on a page with a yellow pen.

  Oto had been tirelessly observing the three on the floor for hours. Though the TV was on, with its volume turned down, all his attention was on the debate about the memoirs. He hadn’t read a page of the manuscript, but by then Oto had heard enough. When Vicky was about to say something for the hundredth time, he cleared his throat. The others looked up, and the old shaman spoke.

  “The slave Isaac is Anthony. It’s not just symbolism. He isn’t Isaac just because he wrote he was. He truly believes he once lived as Isaac. Or he wants us to think that he believes it.”

  “Us?” Vicky said.

  “Yes. The three of us. You always write or speak to others. He was thinking of us when he wrote it.”

  No one said anything.

  There was a glimmer of light in Stella’s eyes. Vicky, though, wasn’t particularly impressed. To her, such an interpretation from Oto was colorful and allegoric, but didn’t really contribute to their understanding. Nevertheless, it was Oto speaking. There was magic almost every time he opened his mouth.

  “What about Kesia?” Vicky asked.

  “Isaac’s mother, Kesia, is you, Vicky.”

  “You think Kesia is me?” The Slovenian was utterly surprised. “Why? With respect, Oto, I don’t see any similarities.”

  “Don’t look for the color of the skin and the hair. You won’t find any connections there.”

  “No. Of course not, but—”

  “Kesia stands for the enduring love of a mother. The kind of love that isn’t affected by time and circumstances. Kesia sent Isaac away because she knew it was the right thing to do. For his own sake.”

  “I get it. Who wouldn’t want their son to be free? But I’m not even a mother.”

  “Kesia sacrificed her attachment to her son because she loved him that much. And she loved him enough to wait patiently, for as long as it took.”

  “And you think Kesia represents me because…”

  “It seems to me, Vicky, that you have been patiently waiting too.”

  Vicky stared at Oto. “For what?”

  “You’ve been serving Tony for quite some time. You’re loyal. And you’ve been waiting for things to unfold. Your realistic love is what keeps you on track. You could say that’s your mission: to accept destiny, whatever its outcome. You’re not expecting gratification for your waiting; you’ve simply embraced your path. Tony is somewhere on that path.”

  By now, Vicky had flushed a deep red. Oto had just exposed her love for Tony. There was a lot more she wanted to ask, but the shaman suddenly turned his gaze to Mohe, who was studying the highlighted passages on a page.

  “Son, I believe that Marshall represents you.”

  Just like Vicky, Mohe disagreed with Oto, seeing no hint of a connection between the slave overseer and himself. But he knew better than to argue, and instead raised a questioning eyebrow at his father.

  Oto continued: “Marshall is the reason Isaac will blossom as a trader, and in many instances, Marshall acts as Isaac’s protector and mentor. I’m not aware of anybody else in Anthony’s life who played that role, despite his being older than you. You’re the older soul of the two of you.”

  Mohe nodded. “There’s something I don’t understand. Why go to all the trouble of inventing fictitious people?”

  “Well, son, Tony became a sort of sociopath when he got to power. Manifesting truthful feelings can be quite a challenge for politicians like him who’ve been leaders. Sometimes, it’s easier to go around than be direct with those he cares about.”

  Mohe gestured to the papers on the floor. “So, all of this is…?”

  “An emotional shield. Tony is protecting himself. He would feel vulnerable if you knew how he felt about each of you. That’s how his heart works. And he’s still a hostage to his pride.”

  45

  COCHISE COUNTY, ARIZONA

  The Noctis jet would be landing in around twenty minutes, according to the stewardess. She was in the galley now, talking to the two operatives. I seized the moment alone to check in on Charles, who seemed calmer—or was at least doing a better job of hiding his agitation.

  “Any idea where we’re landing?”

  “Sierra Vista Municipal Airport,” he replied. “We’re heading to Fort Huachuca. That’s fifteen miles north of the Mexican border.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Land of the Army Intelligence Center, a training base, and the Network Enterprise Technology Command. We’re near the Libby Airfield runway, which served as a backup landing site for the space shuttles. Never used for that purpose, though.”

  “I feel protected already.”

  Charles puffed out a breath. “Yeah. We’re going straight to hell, pal.”

  “Is that supposed to mean…?”

  Charles pointed downwards. “Oh yeah. You and I are going underground.”

  “Again?”

  “Big time underground, Tony.”

  As the jet approached the airport, the two operatives returned to their seats behind us.

  “I always wanted to visit a place like this,” I said.

  We landed minutes later. When the plane came to a full stop, a military armored vehicle was waiting for us. We climbed into the back.

  “Welcome to Fort Huachuca, Mr. President,” a staff sergeant said. It was nice to be greeted with some respect.

  The ride took approximately twenty minutes, and I had no idea of the route, because there were no windows to look out of. When we stepped outside the vehicle, we found ourselves inside a huge underground base. A thick metal door opened. The staff sergeant didn’t waste time.

  “Please, follow me.”

  Apparently, they were expecting us. We skipped the security check, going through a side gate which was opened for us to pass. A few yards ahead, we stepped onto an escalator that turned out to be unbelievably long, descending in a narrow tunnel that was modern and well-lit, looking more mall-like than military base.

  “Have you been here before?” I asked Charles.

  “Yes. Once.”

  We reached the bottom of the escalator—a good ten to twelve floors down—and passed through another security gate. Again, all doors were open to us. Beyond that gate, we boarded a train.

  “No wonder the military keeps asking for more money,” I said. The staff sergeant escorting us didn’t seem to mind the comment. In fact, I was pretty sure the young man was concealing a smile. “All the way to Paris?” I asked Charles.

  “More likely, all the way to the east and north,” he said.

  I turned to the polite military man. “Any chance of a stop soon? I’m an old man; I’d appreciate taking a leak and a good shower.”

  “We’re almost there, sir.”

  “And where’s there?”

  “Your sleeping quarters.”

  “Is Gregory Olsen showing up anytime soon?”

  “Who?” The staff sergeant looked genuinely unaware of that name.

  “Never mind.”

  The train journey lasted no more than three minutes, which was a relief to me. We disembarked and reached a small corridor with doors. It looked like a simple hotel. Considering that we were underground, it was good enough.

  “Sir? Your room is number three. It’s right here. There are no keys.”

  “No sharing?” I asked when I saw him taking Charles to the next room.

  “Mr. Dulles is staying in room number four. There’s a security guard right at the end of this corridor in case you need anything.”

  “What time is dinner served?”

  Charles didn’t
like that question. He was returning to that creepy state he was in when we got on the Noctis jet. Before we each entered our rooms, he said, “You’re in no way back in the White House, Tony.”

  “There are snacks and beverages in the room,” the staff sergeant said before walking away.

  “Fantastic.”

  Charles sighed and turned to me once we were by ourselves. “I’m passing out. I’ll try to get some sleep. You should try to rest too.”

  “It’s not like there’s much else to do around here anyway.”

  “Don’t knock on my door unless you find good scotch.”

  I laughed briefly. That was our joke when we toured the US during my campaign. With all things in context, we didn’t really know what was going to happen once we closed our doors. This could well be the last time Charles and I saw each other. Hopefully, though, we’d get to see Gregory Olsen together in a little while. The man of the hour. I preferred it when I was The Man.

  We closed our doors. No ceremony needed. This was harvesting time for both of us. I honestly didn’t feel angry with Charles. I would save that for another day—if I was gifted such a day.

  Inside, the room looked like an ordinary small hotel room. I was only mildly disturbed by the sound of the air-conditioning system and other noises I couldn’t immediately identify. It was easy to forget where you were once you closed that door. But this could be, as Charles put it earlier, hell.

  46

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  Stella, Vicky, and Oto carried on their third day locked in Anthony’s house in front of the TV. The morning news anchor was as baffled as they were.

  “It’s now three days since former President Anthony Morris reportedly disappeared from a wheat field in the small city of Havre, Montana, and still the search continues. Local and state investigators, as well as the FBI and the Secret Service, are on the case—but so far, they appear to have no leads.

  “So, we ask, where is President Morris? Where was the Secret Service when he was sighted in Havre? Is his disappearance related to his daughter, Stella Morris, being reported missing a week ago? So far, reporters in front of the former president’s house in Glasgow have been unable to obtain any information, and we are left with the most pressing question of all: How is the current state of security in this country?”

  “Enough,” said Mohe, striding into the room. Since Stella had told him that she believed there was method to the madness in the memoirs, he’d been determined to see what she saw and figure out what it meant. For the past two hours, since breakfast, he’d been at the kitchen table, studying the manuscript. Now, he shut off the TV, forcing all eyes to focus on him.

  “You said you believed Tony was being specific,” Mohe said to Stella.

  “I did. Have you found something?”

  “Maybe. Listen to this: I’m establishing commercial routes for a partner in the United States. He was very specific about the location of these routes—Panama, Dominica, Anguilla, and the British Virgin Islands. Then he went on to say, and I quote, the important thing to remember is that there’s a reason for us to visit these places.”

  Mohe looked up and waited for a reaction. Vicky was the first one to speak up.

  “Why would anyone say they’re visiting a place because there’s a reason to visit it? Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Exceedingly obvious. Then he adds right after that, quote, we’re going to these islands in a specific order.”

  “I knew I’d read specific somewhere in it,” Stella said. “Why would these particular islands be important, and why would he establish an order of some kind for the visits?”

  “If we’re talking specifics, which we are, then there’s more. And I’ll let you know in a moment what I think all of this means. Bear with me. Tony writes, in—yes, specifics again—that they’ll spend two days in Panama, five days in Roseau, seven days in The Valley, and exactly thirty-six days in Road Town.”

  Vicky and Stella exchanged a look. Vicky said, “Listening to Mohe reading, it does feel precise and meaningful in some way.”

  Mohe went on: “Then Tony offers further details involving cities and numbers. Listen to this: I work fast, son. Every day we spend in each place will be as good as three days.”

  “OK, Mohe. What do you think he’s trying to say here?” Stella asked.

  Mohe lowered the papers. “What’s in the Caribbean?”

  “We’ve been through that. You think this has to do with bank accounts. Locations and account numbers.”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “Does this have anything to do with his will?” Stella said and frowned. When Charles Dulles told her about her father taking money on the side, he mentioned that Anthony had spent a lot of time in the Caribbean before his campaign.

  “No. I’m sure it doesn’t.”

  Stella was confused. “How can we be sure of anything at this point?”

  “Because Tony told us to whom these accounts belong.”

  “When?”

  Mohe raised a manuscript page and read a highlighted part. “Charles Dickens…blah blah blah…an English novelist. A very efficient person. To which Isaac said, Efficient? And Marshall answered, It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that Charles is the key.”

  “He’s clearly making a reference to Charles. Our Charles,” Stella said.

  “Not only that. He’s asking us to act upon this information. He writes: By following this specific route and working fast, we’ll be as efficient as Charles.” Mohe eyed Vicky. “Didn’t you say that Tony asked you to keep a copy of the manuscript for his protection—or Stella’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think Tony is asking us all to trust him on this. Look at what Isaac says: All I knew was that everything that Marshall said or did was exactly as he promised me. I was beginning to trust him—just like we’re beginning to trust these memoirs. He goes on: I think he trusted me too. So, trust, efficiency, and initiative are essential.”

  “This is an insurance policy. Against Charles Dulles,” Stella concluded.

  Mohe nodded in total agreement. “Tony’s telling us to do something. And to do it now. Note that he says trust, efficiency, and initiative ARE essential. Not a tense slip. He’s talking directly to us.”

  “Mohe, do you think you can come up with specific bank accounts? If you can, we’ll presume they belong to Charles. And if the IRS isn’t aware of these accounts, then we have something over Charles we can use to bargain with him.”

  “I was never very good with numbers,” Mohe said.

  “Let me do the math, then.”

  Mohe handed her the pages and Stella went off to the guest room. The others remained in the living room. Vicky turned the TV back on, looking for reports on the Morris family.

  47

  COCHISE COUNTY, ARIZONA

  The phone next to my bed rang, waking me up. It took me a few seconds to get a sense of where I was. An underground base. Bedroom. Charles next door.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. President. Someone will be there shortly to take you to your meeting.”

  I didn’t know for how long I had slept or what time of the day it was. I got dressed, prepared coffee, and ate some fruit.

  Twenty minutes later, I heard a knock on my door. It was a stern-faced, middle-aged civilian; a Noctis operative, I assumed.

  “Shall we go, sir?” he said.

  I left my room and tried to keep up with his hurried steps. The door next to mine was open. I peeped inside and saw that Charles wasn’t there. Maybe he went ahead of me to prepare the terrain for my negotiation.

  I entered an elevator. I had hoped to see the light of day, but the metal box went down. How low you could go here, I had no idea. Moments later, the elevator door opened into a hall. I stepped out, following the operative, who stopped and turned to me.

  “You’re here.”

  I nodded. He returned to the elevator and left.

  I took in the hall. No exit doors.
No decor. Empty, but for a cluster of tables and chairs in front of a wall covered with screens—and before them, a single man. Not Charles, but a stranger. Gregory, then, I guessed; the head of Noctis.

  He didn’t move, which indicated that I would be the only one doing the walking. So much for establishing power. It was some walk across the hall to him, my footsteps echoing in the cold space. Gregory could well have been a statue; the only movement in his vicinity was the smoke from his pipe. As I neared him, I noticed how tall he was. He was impeccably dressed; his suit jacket—stiff, with defined shoulders, most likely British-made—gave him a controlled look I was sure was calculated.

  When our eyes finally met, I saw very little life there. I thought: This is a man with a lot of mileage on his soul.

  I extended my hand, and he shook it.

  “Mr. President,” he said in a very respectful tone, which came in good time. That barren hall underneath the mountain was making me feel oppressed.

  “Mr. Olson,” I said. “Thank you for having me.”

  “Please, sit down.”

  He pointed to a chair in front of his desk. I couldn’t avoid staring at the wall of screens in the background. They showed video feeds of various places and data I couldn’t understand.

  “You look like a very well-informed man,” I said, trying to break the ice.

  Gregory glanced briefly at the screens. “I’m not so much in the business of knowing,” he said. “I produce information. Before somebody else does.”

  That reminded me of what Charles had said, that Noctis was always one or more steps ahead of anybody else.

  “I was hoping that Charles would be joining us,” I said.

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  That was weird. “I’m sure you’re aware that we came to this base together.”

  Gregory puffed on his pipe and then calmly rested it on an ashtray, tapping it a few times to remove the burned tobacco from inside. Still looking at his pipe, he said, “What can I do for you?”