'A' for Argonaut

by Michael J. Stedman

  How long can I hold out before Vangaler gets in?

  He heard the door open.

  How did he find us now?

  The answer came as soon as the question materialized.

  The car rental agent.

  Using his Walter Q.R. Jackson credit card, he had told the agent to notify Enterprise he would drop the car off at the airport in Knokke-Heist.

  They got my “Jackson” cover!

  They would have uncovered his “Davis” legend as well.

  Panic threatened. All he could think of was Amber and her son‌—‌and his slaughtered team. He concentrated with all his remaining strength.

  Victoriae!

  The door crashed. He heard the men’s laughter at discovering Amber naked. Then he heard Vangaler’s by now familiar Afrikaner accent: “Where is he?”

  “What does it matter?” another man spoke up. “We’ve got her now‌—‌right where we want her!”

  “Never mind that shit!” Vangaler snapped.

  Maran heard the refrigerator door open. When he heard the bottle break, his whole body began to quiver. The hands that were holding him sixty feet in the air threatened to fail. It had to be now. Drawing on the thin reservoir of resources he had left, he willed himself to persevere, clenching his teeth so tightly he was afraid they would crack. Slowly the tremors gave way to an internal calm, an assurance that this time right would prevail. He’d make sure of it.

  “Spread the bitch’s legs,” Vangaler ordered the other man.

  “Aiyeeee!!!” Amber screamed.

  It was all the prodding Maran’s taut body needed. He propelled himself up the roped sheet over the sill as if shot from a sling through the window. He grabbed his gun from the sill as he flew into the room, rolling across the floor. His body flipped, crashing into a lamp. The lamp smashed a mirror, toppled a vase. Coming up on his feet in a cat-like crouch, he backed up to the wall, clenching the gun with two steady hands. Tension had twisted his face until it looked like a wild beast’s. His lips grimaced, baring his teeth, jade eyes burning like molten sulfur behind the slits that were his eyelids.

  “You killed my people in Cabinda,” said Vangaler, with a deadpan face. It was one of the most ironic lies Maran had ever heard. The terrorist was moving to Maran’s left. Almost imperceptibly, the other man moved to the right.

  Maran snarled. “That was just the beginning,” he growled furiously. “Back up.” He moved slowly, rising from a crouch till he stood between Amber and the two men. The second man wore dreadlocks, goateed, short and heavy with the kind of heft you get from a lot of weight lifting. He wore knee-length shorts. A Hawaiian shirt stretched over a gut that rolled over his belt. Vangaler stood on Maran’s far left, holding the broken beer bottle in his hand.

  “Stay behind me, Amber. We’re getting out,” Maran promised.

  The space between the men had widened. Maran had no idea whether they were armed, and, if so, with what.

  “Funny man,” Vangaler taunted. Vangaler’s hand flashed out, spinning the broken bottle neck at Maran’s throat.

  Maran’s gun hand whipped around. The barrel caught the missile like a baseball, smashing it to smithereens. Freed momentarily from the threat of Maran’s gun, the fat one pulled a pistol. Vangaler lunged across Maran’s legs toppling him to the floor. The fat one fired. The bullet tore between the two combatants, ripping through both their shirtfronts and creasing Maran’s chest. Blood stained his shirt. In a blur, Maran leveled the H&K as he fell. He fired.

  The fat one screamed as he sagged to the floor, a red dot in the center of his forehead.

  Vangaler had advanced in the meantime and kicked the pistol out of Maran’s hand. It clattered on the floor two feet away. Amber jumped from the bed and grabbed it. She lifted it with both hands. Aimed. Before she could fire, Vangaler was on his feet and out the door.

  She ran into the bathroom and came out with a towel which she handed to him.

  “Thanks,” he said as he pressed the terry to his new wound, his face contorted. She touched the still healing wound on his cheek, a previous gift from Vangaler, a/k/a Diederichs.

  They quickly grabbed all their stuff and got out. Downstairs in the hotel lobby they pushed their way through the gathering crowd and were out on the street minutes later. Maran hailed a cab. They had to get to Boston immediately. Before they left, they needed new fictitious credentials. Amber knew what to do. One of her contacts in Antwerp had a colleague in Knokke-Heist who could help.

  THE COUNTERFEITER, LIEVE MARCHAND, ran a small, cheap hostel for student hikers on the seedy side of Lommergang, a world as far away from the La Luxe and its private golf club as you could get. Marchand occupied one small apartment amongst a beehive of rooms and dormitories on three floors above a bar, inaptly named Le Cap Bruges, specializing, Maran assumed, though a rusty, flaking sign advertised sardines, in pickled eel. He was hurting from his long run. She helped him to limp up the stairs.

  “Idiot,” she admonished.

  “Not the first time that has been said,” he admitted.

  Marchand had everything needed to guarantee a rapid turnaround: cameras, printers, computerized engraving, and chip manufacturing included. They took a cab from the hotel and got out three blocks from the hostel. The proprietor could have been out of a horror movie, teeth cracked and yellowed like a rodent’s, face bombarded by leathery warts and watery wens, eyes reddened like runny fertilized robin’s eggs. He was an ancient leftover, a near cadaver from better days as a diamond cutter in Antwerp before his lower end of the gemstone business was sucked off to Mumbai and Tel Aviv and he was cast off to Knokke-Heist in near hospice conditions.

  Compose. Breathe. Trust your instincts. Trust Amber.

  THREE HOURS LATER, AFTER Maran turned over a small cloth bag of three rough diamonds, the walking corpse had provided them with false visas, passports, driver’s licenses, social security cards, even colored contact lenses, and wigs. Maran’s new credentials had one problem. They identified him as Silva Salazar Menezes, a Portuguese name. He didn’t look Portuguese. It would have to do.

  A Chinese scientist working at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory and General Diamond Corporation in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Why?

  The question haunted him. He knew the answer to the riddle lay with her.

  For her disguise, Amber chose a sweeping blond wig, long and straight, parted in the middle, framing her face like an exotic version of Gwyneth Paltrow. The tough choice of disguising him was between completely changing his looks and attracting attention or just toning down and blending in. Maran had donned a goatee with a connecting mustache that covered a third of his face. He shaved his head; his cocoa scalp shone under light making him look like a cross between Dr. Fu Manchu and Vin Diesel. They had to get rid of the car now. If Vangaler could find his hotel, he certainly knew the details on Maran’s rental car. They were forced to take a circuitous route through Europe, leave the car in the parking lot at the train station in Bruges, take the train to Luxembourg, take changes for Mannheim, Strasbourg, Nancy, and on to Gare de l’Est, and from there to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Boston

  They took three days to complete their circuitous, hopefully untraceable, route through Europe for a flight to Boston. They arrived at the Park Plaza Hotel in Copley Square with enough time to rent the formal evening wear they would need and get a night’s sleep in preparation for the affair at the MFA where they planned to meet up with Alberta Chiang.

  The next day, after playing tourist walking Boston’s red brick Freedom Trail, they drove through the rain along Huntington Avenue, past the Northeastern University campus. Amber sat next to him in the Town Car rental for which he left a hefty cash deposit. Thinking ahead, he picked the car neither for comfort nor for show. Mogadishu, Somalia, taught him that a heavy car is a lot more effective in crashing a roadblock. As they passed the front of the entrance to the MFA, Maran glanced at the large, bronze Cyrus Dallin st
atue of the Indian chief on horseback, arms stretched, face to the heavens: “Appeal to the Great Spirit,” known to irreverent Bostonians as “Chief Rain-in-the-Face.”

  The Museum was holding its Biennial Perspective, an event that attracted New England’s pickiest art savants. The MFA lot was crowded. A sign on the lawn noted the event: “A testimonial honoring Anita Li, scientist and lover of the arts.” Tuxedoed guests crowded toward the front steps; men held umbrellas over their wives’ heads. Maran and Amber got out of their car, he cursing that he had forgotten an umbrella, as usual. They walked up the stairs to stand under the roof of the entryway.

  They still wore their disguises, Maran with dark brown contact lenses and shaved head, Amber with the blond wig. Maran wore a single-breasted tuxedo with traditional black tie. She glowed in a shocking blue sequined, skin-tight slinky gown, backless with a draped plunge front accented with rhinestones and high split legs. She couldn’t help herself. Sparkles twinkled across her copious cleavage and dusted her eyelids.

  “Check,” Maran told her.

  “Done and done,” she said, assuring him that the mini GPS mobile tracking transmitter he put in her bra was secure. She had tucked it under the vintage diamond floral brooch her father had given to her mother. He pocketed its receiver.

  Sergei hadn’t yet arrived. Maran looked at his watch. Twelve to six. Early. Maran was as anxious about time as he was about everything else. He wasn’t the only one.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Maran noticed a tall, black man hurrying up the steps carrying a bass fiddle. Three other burly men accompanied him.

  That face?

  Maran turned to look again. Too late. The man had already been swept inside by the crowd.

  “Mack!” Sergei came up the steps, stopped cold, stunned. He had never met her. He was with another man, but his attention was drawn to Amber Chu.

  “My name is Sergei. I assume you’re the lovely Amber Chu?”

  “Nice to be recognized,” she said and threw a glance at Maran.

  “Well, we’ve done that. It’s good to see you, Serge,” Maran said. “Did you bring the invitations?”

  Sergei produced the tickets. They entered between the massive columns through the neo-classical front entrance. In the lobby, they were welcomed by Henry Forbes Gavion, a trustee. He shook their hands as they passed, exchanging meaningless pleasantries and politely greeting two armed security guards.

  “Thank you,” Sergei remarked, crediting the value of their roles today.

  On the floor of the open pavilion tuxedoed waiters carried trays amongst the several hundred guests who helped themselves to sushi and champagne. Over the chatter, a speaker raised his voice into a microphone. Maran still couldn’t hear the words.

  A tall Asian woman stood in front of the buffet table, long, jet black hair, a dramatic white blaze running down the middle.

  “Alberta Chiang!” Amber hissed.

  On a stage erected for this event, the speaker introduced the museum director. He waited for the applause to subside. Then he launched into an announcement of the museum’s latest fund drive, its largest in history. Maran strained to hear.

  “This is an historic moment for the Museum as well as for the people of Boston. We’re honored to have here tonight, the lynchpin, the keystone, the maestro of our four hundred twenty-five million dollar Master Site Plan drive. Please welcome our own, the distinguished Chinese scientist‌—‌the Boston art community’s adopted daughter, Anita Li.”

  “It’s her. That’s Chiang!” Amber whispered.

  The director stepped away from the microphone, beckoned the tall Asian to come up to the stage. He held a large plaque up for the audience to see.

  Anita Li, patron of the arts, a/k/a Alberta Chiang, approached the stage. She mounted the side steps. The three musicians burst onto the stage from behind the theatrical curtains. Maran recognized the South African R6 assault rifles they brandished. They were there, he realized, to eliminate Alberta Chiang.

  “Vangaler!” Maran exploded and ran at him.

  “You again! Asswipe. Not this time you don’t,” Vangaler shouted, leveling his rifle at the stage.

  Maran reached out and sliced an ax-like hand across Vangaler’s wrist as the terrorist fired a volley towards Alberta Chiang. The bullets missed, pockmarking the wall behind her.

  All around them people hit the floor, dove under tables. Screams for security guards rent the air. Those near the exits ran out the doors.

  A claxon alarm wailed.

  Vangaler turned away from Alberta Chiang and trained his R6 on Maran. The terrorists spread out across the stage.

  The guest of honor somersaulted off the stage into the crowd.

  “No!” Maran screamed, his H&K now in hand as he saw the tongues of fire flash from the ugly weapons. He felt the spray of blood against his face. On the stage, the museum director had run into the line of fire. His body shook violently. Arms flailing, legs pedaling, he back-walked off the stage.

  Art patrons, society celebrities, local dignitaries fell throughout the courtyard. Maran saw Alberta Chiang as she dashed through an open door. Bullets splintered nearby buffet tables, splashed fruit and salad bowls, chipped into the marble of the adjacent walls.

  Sergei leaped protectively at Amber. He dragged her to the floor, shielded her body.

  Another bullet hit a patron in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Maran dropped to one knee, fired.

  The five terrorists jumped from the stage as two security guards appeared. They fired blindly into the crowd as they followed the men through the door she had used for her escape.

  Amber pushed Sergei aside.

  “Get off! I have to help him.” Amber’s surface crumbled. Tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes met with the wounded director’s. The pain she saw was her own. She could feel it. She rose and pulled him to safety. Maran sprung from the floor; he ran after Vangaler and his men. Sergei followed. They kicked open the door and ran down a hallway lined by Impressionist paintings.

  Nothing!

  They followed the hallway until they hit an intersection. Two more security guards joined them.

  “Serge, the two of you go that way!” Maran ordered. He grabbed the other guard, headed down the next corridor. They ran past a black Greek vase. Maran remembered the orange pigment on the vase that showed several naked satyrs as they chased a frantic woman.

  Omen?

  Another juncture in the hallway. Maran and the guard split up.

  Now Maran was alone. He heard the stamp of feet ahead. Sweat ran down the sides of his chest, the back of his neck. He pushed himself to his limits, spurted down the hall and raced into a hall filled with African tribal war masks. He flew around the corner into the hall, braked sharply to avoid a carved wood Dan mask. He slipped, threw an arm in the air for balance, drew the other hand in to protect the gun and tumbled to the floor.

  Vangaler’s weapon spat. Maran struggled up. One of the bullets grazed through an inch of his shoulder flesh. Others smashed holes in the walls, a series of stone sculptures. Sirens screamed. Vangaler stepped from behind a large wooden statue of a Congo fertility icon. Maran fired. One of his shots blew the R6 out of Vangaler’s hand. The weapon skittered across the floor. The brute was on Maran before he could get off another shot. He kicked Maran’s gun out of his hand.

  “You die now, Ass-fuck Face Maran,” Vangaler grunted. He slammed Maran’s stomach with another kick. Maran was wounded, one of his arms rendered useless. Vangaler was no better. The injuries forced them each to fight with one arm and their feet.

  Maran heard a click. Vangaler’s good hand produced a gravity knife. He drove it at Maran’s neck. Maran dove to the side; he swerved away from the thrust. He grabbed the knife hand, shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, swung Vangaler’s body over. Before he could finish the maneuver, Vangaler was up. He kicked Maran so hard in the groin it lifted him off the ground. As Maran fell, the African poleaxed him in the head and fled down the
empty hallway.

  Maran was still alone and down for ten minutes when Sergei joined him. The other security guards were gone, looking for the terrorists.

  Sergei helped him up as Maran came to.

  Guests and patrons were screaming, piling up at the exits on Huntington Avenue and through the hallways leading to the back exits on the Fenway. Outside sirens began to blare.

  Guards shouted orders. Several new uniforms arrived. They surrounded Maran and Sergei, guns drawn, demanding I.D.s until Henry Forbes Gavion, the trustee who greeted them at the front door, ran over to join them.

  Maran was on his feet, holding on to Sergei’s shoulders with one arm.

  “These are not the men who were shooting,” Gavion shouted. “Let them go! Go after the gunmen!”

  He turned to Maran and Sergei and apologized.

  “There are ambulances out front on Huntington Avenue. Go out there and have an EMT take a look to see if you have a concussion,” he suggested, breathlessly. He rushed away to see how he could help.

  “Chiang!” Maran exclaimed.

  “Gone,” Sergei said.

  As his head cleared, the worst shock of all struck Maran full force. It hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “Amber!”

  “Also gone. The bastards took her.”

  Outside, Maran commandeered an ambulance from the paramedics who had rushed to treat the survivors. Sergei took the wheel. Maran rode shotgun. As they careened through the city streets, Maran fought panic, more brutal than anything he had ever experienced. He retrieved an emergency dressing in a first aid kit in the console between them. He quickly pulled off his tuxedo jacket and shirt and wound the tape around his shoulder and under his arm and struggled back into the clothes. The wound in his shoulder burned, bleeding through the gauze. His head burned.

  Sergei sped down Huntington Avenue; Maran concentrated, fighting like a wolverine for control while he studied the directional indicator on the hand-held GPS. If they could get close enough it would home in on a satellite signal from the tiny sending device they had clipped on the inside of Amber’s bra cup. Maran’s hopes dimmed with every minute.