To make matters worse, he had to come home to an empty apartment. He knew Cecelia was doing a lot of good for the Sentinels’ cause in Indonesia, but he still worried about her daily. One morning on his way into the office Mike, half asleep, walked past a newsstand. Jacques’s picture stared out at him. What’s he done this time? Mike thought as he reached into his pocket for some change. But when he read the headline and the first part of the article, the realization of what had happened to his friend was too much for him.
Feeling light-headed and as though his knees were going to buckle, he slowly moved over to a nearby bench, sat down, and carefully reread the article. There had to be some rational explanation. Jacques would have enough sense to realize you can’t sail a small boat in a mistral. He’s from France, for Christ’s sake—he knows about those sorts of things! There has to be some other explanation. I need to talk to Cecelia. Maybe she knows something.
As the time for her departure approached, Ted noticed a growing sense of fatigue enveloping Cecelia. He had also heard her complaining of a strange tingling in her fingers and toes. As they stood on the tarmac in front of the waiting plane, he said, “Wouldn’t you prefer to let us put your briefcase with the rest of your baggage in the luggage compartment? You should use the flight home to get some rest.”
Standing at the bottom of the stairway leading up to the U.S. government plane with the blue and white markings, she said, “I need to do some work on the flight home. I need to keep it with me.”
In what appeared an almost frantic motion, Cecelia reached out and grabbed the heavy case, clutched it against her chest, and before anybody could say or do anything, retreated up the stairwell and disappeared into the plane.
Strapped into her seat, the one next to the fold-up table that swung up from the side of the plane, she had already opened the case and was extracting her notebooks when a pretty stewardess asked if she would like a cup of tea before takeoff.
Surprised by the woman’s presence, Cecelia looked up in what would later be described as a deer-in-the-headlights stare. After taking a moment to reorient herself, she said, “Thank you, that would be very nice.”
Pausing only to accept more cups of tea or partake in the light fare of air travel, Cecelia focused the last of her energy on her work. Having put her notebooks in chronological order, she began to condense each one into her version of a descriptive summary. Once she finished this phase of the work, she began to apply her conclusions to a sequential logic chart, in much the same way as she had seen Jacques do so many times before.
Hour after hour, working at a feverish pace, she continued the process until she closed the last notebook and made the last marks on her charted outline. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of a glass of wine.
Reporting to the chief pilot, the stewardess said, “I don’t know what she’s doing, but whatever it is, it must be very important. It’s certainly producing a marked change in her physical appearance. I’ve only seen that look once in my life; it was when I was hunting with my brother and he had trapped some kind of a mountain cat in a cage. I will never forget the look in its eyes—the same look I see in her eyes. When you have a moment, maybe you should come back in the cabin and see for yourself. I’m not certain of what we should be doing.”
Knowing that they would be landing shortly in Hawaii, the chief pilot made his way to the rear of the plane. “Good morning, Miss Chang. I hope you have enjoyed your flight. We will be landing in Honolulu in a few minutes to refuel and change crews. I was wondering if there is anything we can do for you during our short layover?”
Confused by the look in her eyes and her failure to respond, he reached forward in an effort to relieve her of the effort of holding what appeared to be a very heavy briefcase. Recoiling, Cecelia made an effort to clutch the briefcase even more tightly to her chest. At the same time she emitted a strange hissing sound.
Motioning for the stewardess to follow him forward, the pilot said, “I’ll call ground control and request they arrange for a doctor to be standing by when we land. Maybe he’ll be able to advise us about what should be done. In the mean time, I suggest that, other than serving her food and drink, we plan on leaving her alone. Maybe she’ll fall asleep and the added rest will cure whatever it is that is bothering her.”
Once the plane landed in Hawaii, Cecelia resisted the suggestion that she disembark with the rest of the crew. Insisting that she had to work, she remained on the plane. Withdrawing a fresh notebook from her briefcase, she began to compose the first of what would eventually become three separate reports.
Apprised of Cecelia’s situation, the new cabin attendant, trying to think what might distract her only passenger, purchased several newspapers in the airport before boarding the plane. Maybe reading these will help get her mind off whatever seems to be bothering her.
Several hours after takeoff, physically and mentally exhausted, Cecelia put her last report in her briefcase and took one last sip of tea before she noticed the newspapers lying in the adjacent seat. It took a moment for her overloaded mind to comprehend what she was reading. The article reporting Jacques’s disappearance was prominently displayed on the front pages.
The jolt of the plane’s wheels hitting the runway of San Francisco International Airport failed to awaken Cecelia. When the fresh air from the open cabin door failed to revive her, an anxious stewardess walked back to where she was sitting. When Cecelia didn’t respond to her soft words, she reached forward for her wrist to check her pulse. It was weak, but she was definitely alive.
Thoroughly trained to deal with crises, the stewardess pushed the emergency button before reaching for the oxygen bottle stored nearby. After turning on the oxygen and placing the mask over Cecelia’s face, she loosened her collar, unbuttoned her waistband, pulled up the armrests between the seats, and laid her down across the three seats. She placed a pillow under her head and covered her with one of the blankets stored in an overhead compartment. Satisfied she had done everything she could do, she turned and proceeded to the front of the plane in search of help.
Mike, who had been standing at the bottom of the stairs, sensed something was wrong. He climbed the stairs, entered the cabin, and walked through the deserted plane to find Cecelia lying across the seats. Kneeling down so he could hold her in his arms, he whispered in her ear. “It’s Mike, I’m here to take care of you. You’re safe in San Francisco; as soon as we can, we will get you to a hospital where they can take better care of you.”
Despite everything that had happened, she still had a tight grip on the handle of her heavy leather briefcase. Mike tried to loosen her grip, but he was startled by the hissing sound she made as she clutched the case to her chest.
When the ambulance crew entered the plane with a narrow gurney, Mike—hoping to avoid any further agitation—instructed them to lay the briefcase on top of her before suggesting they take her to the Peralta hospital, the same hospital in Oakland where she was taken after her kidnapping. “They’re familiar with her case,” he said. “The doctors there will know what to do!”
Riding in the back of the ambulance, Mike anxiously held Cecelia’s hand and worried about how much damage had been done. Having been separated for weeks by vast oceans, totally absorbed in solving entirely different sets of problems, Mike was not entirely unprepared for what had happened. Although he hadn’t wanted to think about this possibility, in his heart he suspected it could happen. Any sign of recognition, a squeeze of the hand or a few words, would be a very encouraging sign, he thought.
As soon as she awoke on the morning of the fourth day, Cecelia was aware she was approaching the abyss of emotional trauma. Instinctively, she knew she could be in real trouble. The strain of my trip and the shock of Jacques’s disappearance must be overloading my circuits. This feeling reminds me of how I felt just before I entered that trance-like state during my kidnapping. I must be way out there on the thin ice of emotional safety.
For the next three days, Cecelia s
lept, only waking for brief intervals for bathroom breaks, to drink large glasses of water in an attempt to cure what seemed like unquenchable thirst, and—strangely enough—to devour peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
With the attacks and all her worry about Jacques, Cecelia knew three days of rest hadn’t provided her with enough time to recuperate. The minute I begin to worry, I can feel myself moving out toward the thin ice. I need more time.
In Cecelia’s presence, Mike didn’t have the luxury of his own feelings. He was completely exhausted and depressed over the Jacques situation. Despite his effort to hide his concern about his friend, Cecelia could sense his depression. I can’t remember ever seeing him appear as anything less than the warrior in the center of the ring, trying to corner his opponent, she thought. His new sense of helplessness is scaring me. Are things worse than they appear?
Monitoring her situation, the medical staff was becoming convinced she might make better progress in the familiar setting of her own apartment. Partly to cheer her up and partly because there wasn’t much else they could do to help her, early one morning they announced she was free to leave the hospital.
For the next four days, Cecelia and Mike only left their apartment to do the necessary shopping at the small neighborhood markets, buy newspapers, and go for walks. In a strange way they were hoping the phone wouldn’t ring. A ringing phone was likely to bring bad news.
Two days passed before they allowed themselves to talk about their work. Mike seemed anxious to discuss the implications of what he and Juan Pablo had discovered in Venezuela. “Cecelia, forget the financial damages—do you realize how our proof of fraud is going to affect the future of the major oil companies? The day is rapidly coming when they will not be able to get away with operating beyond the letter of the law. Suspicious suppliers, customers, operating partners, and government regulatory agencies are going to be checking everything they do.
“You have no idea how much of an impression that information made on our meetings in Geneva. Finally, oil-producing countries have the excuse they need to look beyond the Oil Club. If there was ever a time when Big Oil’s arrogant attitudes can be challenged and new alternatives introduced, this is it. No longer will these oil-rich governments, even on a begrudging basis, be willing to trust them. Talk about creating a new environment … I think that our day may have finally arrived.”
“Mike,” said Cecelia, “for completely different reasons, what you are describing is similar to what I was exposed to on my trip to Indonesia. The future political status of Indonesia is going to be decided by how the attitudes of the major oil companies are managed. Believe it or not, the presence of a competing independent oil consortium can be used to separate local governance issues from historic resource claims and future petroleum-development aspirations.
“As you can imagine, I had a lot of time on the flights back from Hong Kong to study and organize my notes. I really need to talk to someone in the State Department about what I learned in Indonesia. Do you think Roger Malone could arrange a meeting?”
Pausing to make certain Cecelia was finished, Mike said, “I don’t see why not. Before we have our Sentinel planning session, I’m going to meet with Roger and our other government friends. That would be a good opportunity to provide them with a copy of your summary analysis. After they understand the relevance of your report, I wouldn’t be surprised if they pass it along. And it should only be a question of time before they contact you to present the rest of your report.”
Chapter 30
ADRIFT
The mistral had finally blown itself out. Jacques’s craft was bobbing around in the quiet, its boom swinging slowly in the gently rolling sea. The sun had been out for several hours and there was practically no breeze.
When Jacques began to regain consciousness, his first sensation was that of feeling parched, gagging from thirst, with a terrible pain on the right side of his head. Instinctively, he grabbed the free line of the swinging boom and resecured it to the starboard cleat.
Looking around, all he could see was water in every direction. Jacques had no idea where he was, or how he had gotten there. He was confused by the pain in his head and the sensation of warmth as blood continued to ooze from the open wound.
No amount of searching revealed anything he could use to clean the wound or apply as a bandage. It occurred to him that his underwear was the only thing he could use.
Taking off his pants, normally something he would do without thinking, had become a difficult chore. Any effort to lower his head was immediately met by terrible pain, light-headedness, and an oncoming sense of unconsciousness. By sitting up he was able to push his pants and underwear down to his thighs. By raising his knees he succeeded in pushing the garments below his knees, and by standing up and putting one foot on the cuff of his pants, he succeeded in pulling them off, one leg at a time.
Using the knife he found in one of his dungaree pockets, he cut his boxer shorts into a series of long strips. Next, he dipped one of the remaining oddly shaped pieces into the saltwater and began to gently clean his wound as best he could. The briny water stung like crazy. Folding over another strip of underwear, he made a small pad-like bandage that would at least protect the wound from the sun. Selecting two of the longer strips, he tied them around his head to hold the bandage in place.
When he was finished, he placed the remaining pieces in his rear pockets to be saved for another day. Instinctively, he reached for his canteen and took several slugs of water before realizing that the remaining supply of fresh water would become his most precious possession.
As confused as he was, Jacques nevertheless began taking inventory. He had found a compass in his other dungaree front pocket. Next to a canteen he found a map of southern France, wrapped in sealskin, and a stick of salami, a brick of cheese, and part of a baguette, all wrapped in wax paper. Pulling up the line secured to the stern cleat, he found the large canvas bag with holes cut in its bottom. I have no idea who I am or where I am, but I do have food, water, a compass, a map, one good sail, and a makeshift sea anchor.
He presumed from studying the map that he must be in the Mediterranean and that by sailing north, sooner or later he should run into some part of the French, Italian, or Spanish coastline. Using what little strength he had, he raised the mainsail. With the aid of his compass, he began to sail north, tacking against the prevailing offshore northern breezes. Using his watch, he timed his tacks to port, always trying to limit each tack to ten minutes. From the readings on his compass, he was able to determine how many points off North he was forced to sail. When ten minutes had expired, he tacked to starboard, being careful to set his course exactly the same number of degrees on the opposite side of North and limit his progress to another ten minutes. I may not know where I’m going, he thought, but at least I know I’m sailing there in a straight line.
On the morning of the third day, with his meager supply of water running low and no rain in sight, Jacques began to worry about how many more days it would take to reach the French coastline.
What Jacques had no way of knowing was that while his tacking was taking him north, the currents were pushing him westward. The combination of the two succeeded in moving his boat well away from the designated search area.
Chapter 31
THE CONFRONTATION
It was eleven o’clock at night in New York City. The phone on the nightstand next to Jack Hardy’s bed began to ring. Such a late-night at-home call could only signal serious trouble for the chairman and president of Titus Oil.
“Hardy here,” he grumbled, half asleep. “Excuse me, who did you say is calling?” All of a sudden he was wide awake. “What? The FBI has arrested Sam Clarke? How on earth could they have known that?”
Hardy could feel the blood drain from his face as he listened to his lawyer give him the details of the arrest of Samson America’s managing partner and about the taped phone conversations the FBI had found. If the government can make the connection bet
ween Samson and me, the Oil Club could be in a lot of trouble! thought Hardy.
“Are those tapes admissible as evidence in a court of law?” he said. After a few seconds, he asked, “As far as you know, have there been any other arrests or warrants issued?”
After a sleepless night, Hardy showered, shaved, dressed, and went to work with a sense of foreboding. He always kept three laundered and pressed shirts in the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk. Prone to perspire when he was under stress, he would dry himself off and change shirts between meetings. At ten o’clock that morning, when his secretary told him Roger Malone was waiting, Hardy had already changed his shirt once.
“He knows he doesn’t have an appointment, Mr. Hardy, but he was wondering if you would see him anyway. He wouldn’t tell me the purpose of his visit.”
As Roger Malone walked through the open door of Hardy’s office a moment later, the Titus Oil chairman rose to greet him.
“Good morning, Roger, what brings you to New York?” Jack asked cheerfully, trying his best to conceal his anxiety as he extended his hand toward his old friend in anticipation of the customary handshake.
Ignoring his gesture, Roger placed a copy of the Paris Herald Tribune, the edition that described Jacques Roth’s mysterious disappearance, on Jack Hardy’s wide desktop. Jacques’s picture and the headline lay face-up.
“Jack, this is not a social call. I am here to talk about Jacques Roth, the Samson organization, and its association with Titus and the other major oil companies.”
Watching Jack react to his opening statement, Roger knew his verbal bullet had found its mark. To prevent Hardy from regaining his composure, Roger continued, “Before you react, let me tell you about the evidence we have regarding your secret meeting with the other major oil company executives and your employment of the Samson organization. We have a recording of your conversation with Fred Clarke regarding his assignment. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be the member of the government calling on you. If this didn’t involve Jacques Roth, I would have been pleased to leave the pursuit of this case to the appropriate authorities.”
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