Discovery

by Maurice Barkley

  We hallucinated.

  EPILOGUE

  The big Marine helicopter delivered Amisi, me and the GPR unit safely to its parking place behind the GPR plant. Their workers took possession of the dusty machine and the sales manager, Mr. Johnson, was there with his Cadillac. He radiated curiosity, but we were not at liberty to divulge any information and so remained silent for the entire trip. He tried a humorous comment on our suntans, but all he received in return were two smiles.

  Once in our house, we dropped our bags just inside the door. Amisi sat down at the kitchen table and asked me to make a pot of coffee. I assembled the ingredients, put the percolator on the stove and set two cups on the table. While I waited, I took time to pluck the bronze coin and the engraved stone base out of my satchel. I put them on the kitchen window ledge. I also pulled out an envelope Alice had given me as we boarded our flight. She said it was a photo of the two important passengers whose ashes were now in Washington. It was a gift from the director. I pulled it out and laid it on the table. Looking back at us from long ago were a smiling Adolf and Eva. The director had signed his name and under it had written, “And now we know.”

  “Sit down, please,” Amisi said, “and talk to me.” I sat. “I'm scared to death, Biti. It was less than two weeks for me, but they have changed everything. I want us to be together in this new life, but I'm afraid that if I return to this house and Alice doesn't call, the old life might return. I'm expressing this poorly, but I want to be with you, but not as the person I was when I left you six years ago. I know this sounds selfish.” The coffee finished perking and I poured for both of us. “So, what do you think?” she said. “Please tell me what we can do.”

  What would the real James Cagney do? Why, he would take charge. “Here's what will happen if we don't hear from DC. Tonight, since it's Friday, we go to Batts for fun and dinner. After, I take you to your apartment and you can spend the rest of the evening explaining to Harriet why you have such a deep tan. Next, we try to determine our salary and find where the money resides. After that, we take it as it comes.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, “I feel so much better now.”

  We sat comfortably, sipping our coffee and looking forward to the evening at Batts.

  Both of our cell phones rang. I pulled mine out of my belt holster while Amisi grabbed hers from a small bag, hung around her neck.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi,” it was M1. “M2 is calling Amisi with the same message.”

  “Okay,” I said, “what?”

  “Pick up your bags and join us, we're in your driveway.”

  I looked at Amisi. “Like I said, ‘take it as it comes’.”

  “What is to become of Jesus?” she asked.

  “I hope Harriet is a really good friend.” I said. “We could have two troopers visit her and tell her that cat care would provide a patriotic service.”

  “But that would be a lie,” she said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “And who are we now?”

  She laughed and nodded.

  The coffee things got a quick rinse. I grabbed the bronze coin and then we picked up our bags and left the house, never having gotten past the kitchen. M2 popped the trunk of GPR's Ford and we filled it with our stuff.

  “Another of the Marine choppers is waiting for us at GPR,” M1 said, while I was holding a rear door for Amisi.

  As she put a foot in the car, she looked up past my shoulder. “Oh, hello, Molly.”

  I looked and there she was on her porch, looking intently at these dark strangers. I waved to her then walked around and got in the other side.

  “How's this for an idea?” M1 said. “We let the chopper wait while we go to Batts for a plate of pasta? All in favor say garlic.”

  He got three garlics.

  Mrs. Watson watched us pull out of the driveway. As we motored down the road, heading back to our new life, our laughter floated out of all four windows to mingle with the late afternoon sounds drifting down the street where I used to live.

  The Dance Band had a new gig.

  COMING SOON

  LOST AND FORGOTTEN

  Book 2 (The Secret Path)

  A PARABLE

  There was once a wealthy miser who lived in a house by the side of a country road. He had no family. He had no friends.

  One day, his business required a journey to a distant land. Before leaving, he placed all of his gold and all of his jewels into a large chest that he then carried to the forest behind the house. There, the foolish man buried the chest in a deep hole next to a great old tree. After scattering dead leaves over the spot where he had dug, he made a mark on the tree, put on his cloak and went on his journey.

  Fate in the form of a bandit’s dagger ended the miser’s lonely life and he never returned to claim his treasure. A new family now lives in the house by the side of the country road. Small children run and play beneath the trees in the forest. The great old tree still stands there, showing the mark to any eyes that may look, but the mark has meaning only to he who had made it. It does not say to the little ones, “Children, dig here, for a great treasure lies below.” The mark is silent and as the years go by, the great old tree only grows larger and its roots embrace the chest even tighter.

  Tell me if you can, the value of something lost and forgotten.

  Tell me if you can, the strange and unlikely happenings that could lead to discovery.

  Tell me if you can.

  Part I

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  I've always thought of BV's bar and sometimes grill as an unassuming establishment. It’s a place known only to the residents of the small Upstate New York village where it sits. The BV stands for Batasario Villiarie, the owner and operator, but everyone calls him Batts. Some call the bar, Batts, but either way, everyone knows. The traditional patrons are locals who gather there, especially for Friday's presentation. It consists of a fabulous Italian meal, a glass of Chianti and soothing, though usually forgettable, conversation.

  There was nothing to indicate that our Ford sedan, borrowed from the folks at Ground Penetrating Radar, Inc., held anything other than more hungry locals as it pulled into a space in front of the building. An elderly man on a bench by the entrance looked at the four of us with no more than passing curiosity. I'm sure it would interest him to know that the two young men were agents of the FBI. I'm sure it would interest him even more that the brown man and woman were two of his elderly white neighbours in disguise. I'm sure his curiosity would go off the charts if we were free to tell him where we were going, but, first things first, dinner at Batts.

  Even though this was just the agent’s second visit, and even though they tried their best to remain incognito, Batts recognized them right away. “Hey, Marines,” he called from his station behind the bar. An expectant smile was on his face as he looked at the two brown strangers. Batts and the rest of the world knew nothing of our trip to Egypt to reclaim the radar unit, our strange findings in Panama and the Hollow Mountain in Germany, or our involvement with the FBI. We were not free to enlighten him, but we could still have some fun. I was the counterfeit Egyptian, Biti. With my close-cropped, white hair, I vaguely looked like myself—Jim Cagney, retired Army Ranger. The dye bath that turned my skin brown left me looking more like a poor man’s Omar Sharif. My dye-bathed companion, Amisi, with her short hair fitting her head like a silver helmet, looked so exotic, that her closest friends would not recognize her as my wife, Jean. My wife? Well, I’m not sure that’s quite right. She left six years ago. We were both career military, which often means that the calm harbor of retirement is not a happy place. The storm warnings are more than just a threat—it's complicated.

  Angie, the only other employee, was stacking pasta dishes behind the bar. There was no flicker of recognition for me and my gal, but she had a welcoming smile for the young agents, who she knew only as M1 and M2. Those are labels I gave Don Clark and Mike Gunner at our first meeting. They approved and the nick
names stuck.

  “Hi, Batts,” M1 said, with a wave of his hand. “Four of your house reds please. We're famished and we brought along a couple of friends.”

  “Make mine a draft beer,” M2 said. “I’ll have wine with my pasta.”

  Batts saluted with his long wooden spoon. “I got a freezer full of spare chicken heads so you can bring in as many friends as you want to. Why don't you introduce me to the lovely lady?”

  “Sure thing, my friend,” M1 moved between Jean and me. “This is Amisi, just in from Alexandria.” Batts leaned over the bar to shake hands. “Amisi, this is Batts, the best chef west of Naples.”

  Amisi uttered an Arabic word that none of us understood. “Indeed,” she added. It pleases me to meet the man about whom I have heard the most complementary stories.”

  Poor Batts almost dropped his spoon. M1 proceeded to introduce her to Angie, then turned his attention to me. Batts reached over the bar to shake my hand. I backed up a step and gave him the lewd Italian gesture that was our customary greeting when I was not in disguise. At first, both he and Angie stood frozen and silent. Five heartbeats later, Batts slowly recognized his longtime customer, James Cagney. His eyes widened and his left eyeball rotated slightly.

  “YOU DIRTY RAT, YOU!” he shouted, while coming out from behind the bar. Halfway on his journey he paused and looked back at my partner. “JEAN!” he again shouted, while swerving to grab her by her shoulders. “What the hell did he do to you? I love it. Come with me to Bovalino by the Sea. There, I will cook for you forever.”

  “Bovalino by the Sea?” I asked. “Is that where you're from?”

  “NO! I come from Rome, Palermo and Siracusa, or maybe Brooklyn.” He pulled up my shirt to check the extent of the color. “Marone, is your thing brown too?”

  “Batts, you too nosy,” Angie sang out from behind the bar. “I'll check it later and let you know.”

  Jean and my pals roared with laughter while the more curious regulars gathered close and blocked our way to our drinks sitting on the bar.

  “It’s a bit risky,” M2 said, “to stand between me and my beer.”

  Batts, too, was one of the trapped. “Atten—hut!” he shouted. “Lemme get back behind the bar, you guys.”

  The mostly male crowd parted to let him return to his station, but they all stayed close to us and especially close to Jean. I felt a twinge of either irritation or jealousy. This was puzzling, but then and there was not the time to reflect on it.

  Following a quick swig from his cocktail, Batts returned the glass to its place on a small shelf next to the stove. After vigorously stirring a bubbling pot, he turned to our group. “Okay, you four come up to the bar, get your drinks and then you explain what happened—and it better be good.”

  On the drive over, we had cobbled together a likely story and I was the poor fish nominated to be the spokesman. “Jean and I are participating in a test of a new sunscreen. The color will wear off in two or three weeks and thereafter, we will never require sun block.”

  Batts looked at us with a sly grin. “Who got to rub it on you?”

  “No such luck,” Jean said. “We had to soak in a hot tub and that part wasn't much fun at all.”

  “Okay, maybe I believe you,” Batts said, while tipping his glass once more. “Anyway, Jean, you sit here close to me so I can see you better.”

  We all claimed our bar stools, made a toast to Rome, Palermo, Siracusa, or maybe Brooklyn and took a sip of the rich Chianti, drawn from the large cask behind the bar. As Angie placed small wedges of hard cheese and bread sticks before us, she took the time to reach over to pat my cheeks. “I like you like this, Jimmie,” she said, in a sultry tone. “Perhaps you would do well to stay as you are, eh?”

  The crowd of regulars, still grouped tightly around us, gave forth with a chorus of “Ooooooos”. This was the power of Angie, whose dark eyes, surrounded by a swirl of long black hair, could stir men's passion with just a look.

  “You know,” M2 said, as the wine conversation began, “I recall that Alice once suggested she buy a big house in Manassas, Virginia and we all should live there together. I vote that, instead of Manassas, we all chip in and buy one of the upper floors right here at BVs.”

  That statement was a mistake. Both Angie and Batts were listening closely and both moved to stand directly in front of him. “Who is this Alice you mentioned?” Angie asked.

  “Hoo-boy!” M2 said, to the rest of us. “I forgot that loose lips sink ships. Help me out here.”

  We three just looked innocently off into space.

  M2 took a sip from his glass. “Look, Batts, we all have our little secrets—our little mysteries, the same as you and Angie. Now, you wouldn't want us to go poking around Bovalino by the Sea, so why not call it a draw?”

  “You got yourself a deal, gumshoe,” our chef said, while turning to examine the contents of his pots. “Besides, the pasta is ready and Jean gets the first plate.”

  That first plate appeared, piled high with thin spaghetti, covered with a sauce as thick as mashed potatoes and finished with two meatballs the size of Valencia oranges. The chef and his assistant were very busy for the next few minutes. Soon, every now silent customer had a plate, a salad, a basket of crusty bread and a full glass.

  Biti (my temporary Egyptian name) had never dined so well. The tragic part was that eventually, the plate was empty, the stomach was full and our Marine helicopter was waiting. We sadly said our farewells among many promises to return as soon as possible. For the first time ever, both Angie and Batts walked us to the door. Batts took Jean's hand and deposited a grand kiss, while Angie patted me on the back and gave me a hip nudge and a wink. A guy could read a lot into something like that.

  Back in the Ford sedan, we headed for the GPR plant and our ride.

  “For the past several days,” I said, “we've been busy doing lots of things in lots of places. Amisi and I have been absent from here the whole time. Jesus the cat has had proper care, but I have a mailbox at the post office, jammed with junk mail, my phone bill and who knows what else. My Toyota sits in my garage as its battery slowly depletes. My checkbook lies abandoned in my desk drawer and I still don't know about my salary, where they put the money they pay me, or how I get at it.”

  I have a solution,” M1 said, over his shoulder. “I know all about your personal lives before you joined the band. I also know that Amisi's roommate, Harriet, retired years ago and lives on a limited income, so here's what will happen. Harriet will give up the apartment and move into Biti's house—rent-free. Of course, Jesus goes with her. Biti will set up automatic withdrawal for the utilities. That should cover it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. “I wonder if she drives a car.”

  “She drives,” Amisi said, “but she doesn't own one. I can just let her use mine.”

  “See how easy that was?” M2 said, as we pulled behind the GPR plant.

  Once on our way, the big, delicious meal and the plentiful wine induced a large dose of lethargy in us, so we all slumped happily in our seats. I let my mind loose to roam in my memories.

  CHAPTER 2

  The one and only Alice Dance was there to meet and greet. “Welcome back kids. Sorry to shorten your vacation, but if the director hadn't requested your presence, I would have dragooned you myself. It's time to strike up the band—follow me.”

  As usual, it was a long walk to any destination in that building. As we went along, Alice kept glancing at me. M1 noticed her glances as well. “Something is stirring underneath that white hair,” he said to her. “I know the signs.”

  My mind reading partners were correct. “I do have something to discuss with you all, but it may take a while.”

  “You'll get your chance,” she said, “but first we check in and see what the director has to say.”

  Director Monroe, his adjutant and the personnel who debriefed us, were waiting in the conference room. The little coffee cart was present and fully loaded. After handshakes all around,
we filled our cups and made ourselves comfortable. There was still no room for more food. After a meal at Batts, the goodies from a coffee cart compared poorly.

  A little side table sat next to the director's chair. A small object lay on its surface. As he looked at us in turn, he tapped it with his index finger. “This so called bar of soap you brought back from Panama has created a sensation, the likes of which I have never seen. It has been intensively studied, but we still know only that it's an anti-gravity device that Sergeant Weis called a lifter—a good name for it. We can turn it on, adjust the lift and turn it off—that's it. There are no seams and x-rays do not penetrate. We also have the one Carl gave you which I’ll give back to M1. If we can’t figure out the first one, the second won’t help us, but it may be useful to you. Of course, it remains ultra-top secret. At this point, just twenty-two people, in addition to the Dance Band, know they exist.

  “Add this to your findings in Egypt and Germany and obviously, we are looking at the surface of something extremely important. We have to move on this, but I need more input from you before we act. There are two places that need our attention, but which one is first, who goes there and do we bring things back? There are many questions like that. I can't imagine the turmoil if this leaked. Eventually, I hope we can enlist the aid of the Germans and the Egyptians, but we could be courting disaster.” He looked at each of us in turn. “You know, the band has already produced such marvelous results that I'm hoping you can carry on with your magic act.”

  When he paused for a sip of coffee, Alice spoke up. “Sir, our man Biti was peculiarly quiet while we traveled here. Something is on his mind and I'm willing to bet that it has to do with our problem.”

  The director turned his attention to me. “Will Jean and you still use your Egyptian names?”