“And where would you have him go?” Varneys asked as he looked up from the papers he had been reading.
Perrone pulled on his chin. “Maybe a military base.”
Varneys laughed. “He’ll never do it. I hear he’s already working on his next project. He won’t leave his lab. It just won’t happen.”
Perrone said, “He’s been at that location too long. It’s given the crazies time to find him.”
Varneys continued to read his papers as if Perrone weren’t there. After a few minutes he looked up and seemed surprised Perrone hadn’t left. “Agent Perrone —you haven’t told me anything I don’t know. We have to deal with reality. Just protect the man.”
Standing in the living room of his palatial suite at the St. Regis Hotel in Washington D.C., McAlister looked out the window across to the Capital building. This used to be my town. I could call the shots. That fucking SOB has ruined everything. The people he wanted to meet told him they preferred a location other than their offices. So one by one, the star performers in McAlister’s video collection came to the hotel to placate and plead with the man who had the power to ruin them. They all said the same thing. “We tried, but we can’t help you. We want to –but we can’t. The momentum is too huge. Austin is unstoppable. You can destroy us but that won’t accomplish anything. It’s not our fault.”
71
Bobby’s skills were rusty, but within two days on the open water, he felt he had them back. As Dreamweaver cut its way through the choppy surf, so many wonderful memories flooded through him. He concentrated on those, rather than on the last trip when Joe had told him of his illness.
Just the two of them, with no work or pressures, amid the solitary beauty of the ocean and the luxury of Dreamweaver, was exactly what Christina and Bobby needed. Their days were languorous, and in the evening Bobby pointed out every celestial site as they lay on deck staring at the canopy of stars, drinking wine and listening to Gato Barbieri. They made love whenever the feeling came over them, which was frequent— often out in the open, basking in the radiant sunshine as the sea breeze cooled them and the salt spray misted their skin, or under the night sky, bundled in blankets, the sea’s movement augmenting their own rhythm. Never before were they so focused on each other.
The weather got progressively warmer as the days passed and Christina noticed that the compass showed they were traveling due south.
“OK mystery man. So where are we headed?”
“I thought we’d cruise down toward Florida.”
“Any particular place?”
“The Keys. I’ve never been there. Have you?” Bobby asked.
“No. But Hemingway liked them,” she said, laughing, her arms wrapped around his chest as she stood behind Bobby while he manned the wheel.
Their first stop was Key West. They anchored off shore and checked into the Reach Resort under Christina’s name. During the day, they did nothing but eat, drink rum punch, snorkel, jet ski and luxuriate in the pristine surf. At night, they went bar hopping in Old Town, joining in the non-stop party that Key West is famous for and staying up to watch the dawn. After three days, Bobby said, “This is amazing, but I’m burning out. Time to slow the roll.”
Back on the boat, they sailed for two days. As they entered a pristine crescent shaped harbor, Bobby began to lower the sails and drop anchor.
“Where are we now?” asked Christina. “This is gorgeous.”
“Islamorada,” replied Bobby.
The next morning, Bobby was up early. While Christina was still sleeping, he brewed a pot of strong coffee in the boat’s galley, filled a mug halfway and then topped it up with Jameson’s and heavy sweet cream. Leaning against the railing, he looked out at the diamond refractions of the sun on the surface of the harbor’s protected waters. He squinted his eyes into narrow slits, not because the sun was too bright, but because it exaggerated the shimmering of the light on the water and he loved that. After taking a long slug of the liquor drenched coffee, his gaze became focused on the big brass bell that Joe used to ring to announce that it was meal time. “Doesn’t Dreamweaver look great Joe? After all these years—we sail again! You and me and that amazing lady of mine. What do you think of her —isn’t she incredible?” Two decades of cold storage had done nothing to chill the warmth of Joe’s presence on the boat. Bobby could feel him all around.
One hundred ten nautical miles away from Dreamweaver, a forty foot long mahogany speed boat cut its engines almost to a halt as it got within two hundred feet of My Time, Colum McAlister’s immaculate white motor yacht that was anchored in international waters off Palm Beach, Florida. Even as it crawled toward My Time to minimize its wake, the speed boat’s engines growled loudly with their power. One of My Time’s crew lowered a ladder and a short wiry man dressed in a white linen suit left the passenger seat of the speed boat and climbed aboard. He was escorted to the back of the yacht where McAlister sat on a large blue and white striped sofa under a peak-roofed awning.
“You’re looking well, Gunther. Prosperity continues to agree with you I see,” said McAlister.
The man’s military nod was his hello. “I can’t complain. Business is too good to retire. The world only gets more complicated.”
Gunther Ramirez was now in his mid sixties. But neither age nor wealth had softened his demeanor. He still looked more dangerous than most men half his age and twice his weight. A transplant to Panama from Buenos Aires when he was a teenager, Ramirez had risen through the ranks of Miguel Noriega’s private guard to become his right-hand man and confidante, instrumental in the planning and implementation of Noriega’s narcotics and money-laundering rackets. After the fall of that regime, Ramirez took his small fortune and his best men and launched an elite service for hire, specializing in what he referred to as “matters of sensitivity.” As the years went by and word of his prowess spread, he attracted a substantial international clientele which included McAlister.
“Gunther, I have a transaction for you but it won’t be easy.”
“When are they ever easy?” replied Ramirez, smiling.
“First, I’ll need you to scope the situation out and see if it’s even possible.”
“Everything is possible,” said Ramirez, as he removed a cigar from a monogrammed gold case in his jacket pocket.
“The person I have in mind is well protected. For sure, by private security forces, but I have reason to believe by the government, also.”
“They did a good job protecting the Kennedys,” said Ramirez.
“You’ve heard of Dr. Robert James Austin?”
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” Ramirez lit the cigar with his gold lighter.
“It’s time for him to go away,” McAlister said.
“You don’t get nicer as you get older, do you, Colum?” replied Ramirez with a laugh. He blew smoke in McAlister’s direction.
“How much will it cost?” McAlister asked.
His chin resting in his right hand and his eyes glazing over, Ramirez appeared to be lost in thought. Finally, he looked up and said, “This is a tough one. Doing the job is one thing. But the afterwards is what worries me. The whole world is going to try to track down Austin’s assassin. It’s as risky as taking out the leader of a major country—maybe riskier. I have to think about it. I’ve come this far. I don’t want to spend my final years in a cage.”
McAlister walked toward the gleaming deck railing. “If the job can be done clean, it’s worth a lot of money to me.”
“Is this on your tab or Bushings’?”
His fist clenched, McAlister snapped back, “That doesn’t concern you. You’ll get paid. You’ve never had an issue with me, right?”
Ramirez smiled. “You’re always dependable Colum. Top of my Christmas card list.”
“Well—how much?”
“Ten Million Euros. Pa
id the usual way.”
McAlister’s face paled as the magnitude of the cost sunk in. He turned toward the ocean’s expanse. Ramirez slid back into the pillowed sofa enjoying his cigar.
After a few minutes, McAlister took a seat next to him. “We don’t want a spectacle, Gunther. It should look like an accident or a natural occurrence.”
Ramirez smiled. “You’re telling an artist how to paint.”
72
At Bud n’ Mary’s Marina, Bobby and Christina rented a car and cruised Islamorada and did some souvenir shopping. Christina made Bobby buy a white captain’s hat complete with anchor insignia and gold braiding, and she bought a white caftan. When they were hungry, Bobby drove for awhile and then they pulled into a gravel parking lot.
“Do you think this place is okay?” Christina asked, as she looked at the tiny roadside eatery.
“I heard it’s really good,” Bobby replied, knowing exactly where they were.
They walked over to the take-out window to check out the menu.
“So how’s the conch chowder today?” Bobby asked as he looked squarely into the eyes of the old timer.
“Fantastic —as usual.”
“Is it really fresh, or do you use frozen?”
Alan Gottshalk’s eyes narrowed at the insinuation and his annoyance wasn’t well hidden. “The Conch Shack is famous for fresh. We never use frozen.”
“Famous— really?” replied Bobby, as he stared back at Alan, enjoying how easy it was to wind him up. “And how’s the crab roll today?”
Alan looked back into the stunningly clear light blue eyes that were probing him. “Delicious as always.”
“Really? I heard all the places around here have their crab shipped in from the mainland,” Bobby said.
“I catch the crabs myself. If you want fresher, put on a bathing suit.”
The two men’s eyes locked for what was a peculiar amount of time. Christina shifted uneasily. There was a weird energy in the air.
“Make it two conch chowders and two crab rolls,” Bobby said.
As they walked away she said, “Bobby—why were you giving that old man such a hard time? It’s just lunch. It’s no big deal.”
The order seemed to take awfully long for a take-out place. Finally, Bobby heard his ticket number get called. He went to the pick-up window.
Alan opened the sliding screen and pushed the items out toward Bobby. “Ok, fella. Here it is.” The sound of Alan’s voice when he said the word, “fella” seared through Bobby. The voice. That’s the voice. He felt his brain spin inside his head. His memory shot back four decades in a split second. He saw himself cradled in Alan’s arms, being fed a bottle as he listened to that voice.
When the take-out window banged shut in front of him, Bobby was jarred back to the present. The next thing he heard was a screen door slam loudly, and then, there in front of him in a stained white apron stood Alan, almost as tall as Bobby, but not standing that straight anymore.
“You’ve grown some, but I know who you are,” Alan said. “I’d recognize those eyes of yours anywhere. Geez, you sure took long enough to come visit me!” Without warning and much to his own surprise, Bobby’s eyes flooded with tears. The two men grasped each other in a bear hug that was so tight, they were white knuckled. That’s when Alan’s emotions overcame him too.
“Oh my God,” Bobby said, as he picked Alan off the ground and swung him around. Christina stood there flabbergasted, having no idea what was going on.
Finally, Bobby broke the embrace. He and Alan had huge smiles on their tear stained faces. “Honey—do you remember the name, Alan Gottshalk from those newspaper articles Susan showed you? This is him.”
Christina gasped. “You knew he was here?” she asked. Bobby smiled.
Turning to Alan, he said, “Alan—-this is Christina Moore, she’s my other angel. She saved my life, too.”
73
Gunther Ramirez wore old poorly fitting jeans, a faded red T-shirt, dirt covered sneakers and a Red Sox baseball cap that looked too big for his head. Like the other four similarly dressed Hispanics who sat with him in the back of the crowded van, he was hot and perspiring. They all worked for Green Thumb Garden Services in Beverly, Massachusetts and this was the busy season—late July. Ramirez had replaced Juan Torres who had fallen gravely ill shortly after eating lunch a few days prior. The owner of Green Thumb felt fortunate that Ramirez (using the name and phony ID of one Marcel Santiago), had come in to apply for a job the morning after Torres was hospitalized. He had hired Ramirez on the spot, seeing that his specialty, like that of Torres, was working on perennial gardens and roses.
Ramirez knew that he’d have all the time he needed. The virus causing the debilitating tropical disease which he had injected into Torres while standing behind him on line in a local convenience store would baffle local doctors for months, assuming, of course, that Torres didn’t die sooner than that.
As was done every week, the Green Thumb van was buzzed through the security gates at the Prides Crossing facility. Ramirez smiled as he saw the place for the first time. The van unloaded the workers and the garden equipment, and the foreman pointed out the various places on the property that would need Ramirez’ special skills. Ramirez was pleased to see that the perennial and rose garden beds were located on three sides of the main building and also around the guest house.
“How fortunate for me,” he muttered to himself.
74
Wearing shorts and no shoes, Alan and Bobby sat on the thin strip of powdery sand that separated the back of Alan’s house from the Atlantic Ocean. As they sipped from beer bottles, Bobby dug his toes into the hot sand and looked out to the horizon. Alan held his leathery face up to the sun, his appreciation of its glistening warmth undiminished even after years of living in the Keys. Over the last few days, they had covered a lot of ground in their conversations, talking about everything that had transpired since Alan handed Bobby over to Natalie Kimball four decades earlier. Bobby mainly spoke about his feelings, which was something that had never come easily for him. But with Alan, Bobby opened up more freely than he ever had.
“Come on—let’s take a walk and get some exercise,” Bobby said, extending his hand to help Alan stand up.
Strolling along the shore line, the wavelets lapping at their feet, Alan said, “You still haven’t told me why you picked now to visit. Why not earlier?”
Bobby looked down at the sand. “I was buried in work. I wanted to get a few more things done.”
“In all the years since you wrote me, there was no time for a quick trip?”
“You have no idea how busy I’ve been,” replied Bobby.
Alan wagged his head. “You think you can BS an old street guy? Come on. What’s the real reason you’re here now?”
Bobby stopped walking and picked up a few small rocks that had been fashioned into perfectly smooth discs by millions of years of tidal tumbling. Throwing them one at a time, they skimmed the water’s surface, sending out ripples each time they landed. “Alan—have you ever thought how incredible it is –you and me? If you hadn’t walked down that street on that day at that particular time, or if you hadn’t noticed that bag—or if you had been afraid, or didn’t want to get involved and had turned away—I would have been dead for sure. And if I had died, none of the work I’ve done would have happened.”
Alan nodded. “After you wrote me that letter, that’s all I thought about. If you had died, who could have done what you did? No one.”
Bobby shook his head slowly. “So why did it happen Alan? Why do I have these abilities? Why were you there? What are the odds on any of this? It’s just so weird.”
Alan stretched his arm across Bobby’s shoulders as they walked along the beach. “Things happen Bobby. They just do. Usually, it’s weird bad things that happen. But sometim
es, weird good things happen. That’s life.”
The two men walked on in silence, the only sound being that of pebbles scrambling on the shoreline as the tide came in. After awhile, Bobby stopped and looked out to the sea. “I’m not a big believer in coincidence.” He turned to Alan as he asked, “What are your family origins, Alan? Where do your people come from?”
Alan waved his hand. “Who cares? What difference does that make?”
“Just tell me,” said Bobby.
“My parents and I were born in the U.S. but my grandparents came from Germany.”
“From Germany.” Bobby paused as he processed the information. “Do you know what Gottschalk means in German?”
“Should I look it up?”
“I’ll save you the trouble. It means ‘God’s servant’.”
As they walked on in silence, Alan sensed that Bobby’s mood had darkened. “Okay Bobby –so what’s bothering you? I’ve seen it in your eyes since you got here.”
For a moment Bobby hesitated, but then he realized there was no point in keeping it to himself. His voice strained, he said, “I feel like things are closing in on me. Really quickly. And I’m scared. I barely made it back last time. I was gone. Christina was the only one who was able to drag me back. She may not be able to again. If I’m going to have any chance of succeeding on my next project, I’ll have to let my mind go very far out there. I can’t control it like I used to. This may be it for me.”
Alan didn’t fully understand what Bobby was saying, but his advice was unequivocal. “Then get out now. Quit. Don’t take the risk.”
Miracle Man Page 30