by Walter Grant
Henri got up from his chair, walked over to the bar, picked up a Waterford decanter and poured a finger of Rhemy Martin into each of two brandy snifters. He returned to his chair with the two snifters and passed one to his friend.
“Thanks. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of this stuff.”
Henri raised his snifter and said, “Well, here’s to the demise of David Harte and the birth of Max Kayne.”
“To Max Kayne.” Maxwell Alexander Kayne. Jack liked his new name. It was a name with class. Yeah, he liked it just fine. Something he liked even more was the opportunity to break free of the past. He knew he would never be completely free of the past, but he would no longer have to worry about the problems of previous identities. He had been given a new beginning complete with name, social security number, birth certificate, driver’s license, bank account, an apartment of his own, and in a few weeks a new face as well. Yeah, he liked it more with each passing minute.
Swirling the cognac he asked, “Did you know that you can’t smell or taste vodka?” It was a statement rather than a question. He lifted the snifter as he leaned forward, breathing in the bouquet, and then slowly tilted his head back, allowing the liquid to spill into his mouth, savoring the fine flavor for several seconds before letting the brandy trickle down his throat.
“After eight years of Russian vodka I’d forgotten an elixir like this existed.” Treating his taste buds once again, he leaned back in the recliner and asked, “How long has it been since that night in General Boaden’s office?”
“Fourteen years.” Henri answered.
“That was the first time I ever tasted brandy.”
“Yeah, you were pretty green in more ways than one, but you were eager. You sure impressed the general.”
“Where is General Boaden?”
“With the Joint Chiefs of Staff, he’s the Army’s top gun.” Max didn’t hear Henri’s answer. All his attention was focused on the television, and he leaned forward, pointed toward an air force colonel discussing the future role of the military in the space shuttle program at Vandenberg.
“Who is that man?”
“Howard Tolinger,” Henri answered.
“The same Howard Kent Tolinger who sold the Soviets detailed locations of our long-range missiles?”
“Yep, a major then, but the same man. He also sold them NORAD computer access codes.”
“Why isn’t he in prison?”
“Does the name Alger Hiss mean anything to you?”
“Sure, convicted spy, somewhere around 1950, I think.”
“You’ve got part of it right. He was a spy and he was convicted in November of 1949 and served three years and eight months in federal prison for two counts of perjury, but was not found guilty of spying, even though he was guilty as hell. With the exception of the Rosenbergs, it took another thirty-five years to actually convict someone for selling or giving away our national secrets. To convict Tolinger would have exposed some of our own agents in very sensitive positions, so we repaired the damage as best we could without tipping our hand to the air force. We weren’t even sure we could get a conviction.”
“Why didn’t the air force kick him out of the service?”
“We didn’t tell the air force.”
“You didn’t tell them?” Max couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“I know it’s hard for you to accept, but you aren’t aware of some of the attitudes in the country—neither the CIA, the FBI, nor the military have been very popular in the last decade. When you were in Vietnam there were people marching on the capital claiming we were persecuting the North Vietnamese. While you were behind the Iron Curtain these same people were saying the Communists mean us no harm and we should disarm. Since the Communists wanted peace they, too, would disarm and we could all live happily ever after. A lot of politicians trying to get elected, or in many cases reelected—the country be damned—were speaking out along the same lines and some were even meeting with Ho Chi Minh. Hell, we had celebrities going to Hanoi, marching with the Viet Cong and calling for American soldiers to lay down their arms.”
Henri was getting a bit sarcastic, but he felt a need to awaken Max to some of the attitudes in the country. Max was visibly shaken.
“Are you telling me I’ve wasted my life, shamed my parents and friends who think I’m a traitor, disgraced the Corps, given up eight years of my life to help preserve the freedom of my country and nobody gives a damn?”
“A lot of people care. There are countless citizens as well as historians, international traders, and government officials who know and full well understand the only way to a lasting peace is to maintain a strong defense. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. Some of our own citizens and politicians work against peace by trying to subvert our own freedoms; they keep cutting funding for espionage and some even go so far as to suggest we hand our sovereignty over to the United Nations. At the moment, the laws favor those who would rob us of our freedom and hinders those who work to preserve it. But things are looking up. We have a new leader and the country is experiencing a resurgence of patriotism. For the time being, however, all we can do is hang tight, play by the rules, and hope for the best.”
Deep emotion contorted Max Kayne’s face. He spoke softly, but with open contempt for all those who sought to destroy his country and steal his heritage.
“Maybe we should stop playing by the rules.”
Henri admitted he had entertained the same thought more than once, but logic had always won out over emotion. He was a team player and the team always played by the rules. He went ahead to explain how just one such act by a single agent could jeopardize the very existence of the entire agency.
“I’m no longer working for the Company. I’m just Joe Citizen, a guy nobody ever heard about. What could anyone say if I break the rules?”
“They would say you broke the law and, if caught, should and would be punished just like any other criminal.”
“Well, it’s a hell of a way to fight—just stand around with your hands in your pockets while the other guy punches away.
“Hey, come on, lighten up, you’ve earned the right to enjoy life for a while. Once you spend some time in that health resort in Los Angeles, get some of that West Coast sunshine, and meet a few of those California women, you’ll be able to just kick back and forget all about everything.”
“Yeah, right, I’ve already forgotten.” Max wouldn’t forget, but he didn’t want to argue with an old friend. Old friend, hell— Henri was his only friend.
Early the following morning the two men parted company at Dulles Airport, and Max boarded a plane for California.
A lot of cosmetic surgery took place in Los Angeles. Nobody ever grew old in Southern California—at least no one able to afford the price of a face-lift and various other body maintenance programs provided by the luxurious spas and health resorts flourishing in the well-to-do neighborhoods. Several such resorts around LA catered to movie stars and other celebrities demanding discretion. One such resort was Siempre Primavera.
Max stepped from the limousine that had been waiting for him at the airport, mounted a couple of steps and walked across a spacious patio toward large double doors where a young man in his early twenties, smartly dressed in a tuxedo, held one of the doors open as he approached. Max passed through the door and continued across another forty feet of terra cotta tile to a reception area, where another young man in a tuxedo asked, “May I help you, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Doctor Gammons.”
“Yes sir, your name please?”
“Mike Kayde.”
The young man checked the reservation list, picked up the phone, punched a couple of numbers, waited a few seconds and stated, “Mr. Kayde is here.”
Replacing the telephone receiver he replied, “Someone will be with you in a moment, sir. Would you care to wait in our refreshment bar?”
“Thanks.”
The attendant directed Max to an area with several
tables covered with white linen tablecloths and set with sterling silver, fine china, and linen napkins. A fruit and juice bar was set up to one side; Max chose a glass of apple juice and sat down at the nearest table.
“Mr. Michael Justin Kayde?” Max placed his half-empty glass on the table, got up and turned to face a very attractive young woman with short, blonde hair and a bright smile, wearing a leotard that fit her shapely, tanned body like a second skin.
“Yes.”
“Hi, I’m Heather. I’ll show you to your cottage.” Max followed her as she wiggled through two large rooms with various arrangements of overstuffed furniture, across a large covered patio, around a swimming pool, along a walkway, and turned onto another walkway that led to the door of a nice-size cottage. Opening the door and standing to one side she said, “I’m sure you will enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Kayde.”
Max walked into a comfortably sized room with more overstuffed furniture. “If you follow me, please, I’ll show you around.”
Heather walked past a bar at the opposite end of the room and continued through a sliding glass door onto a small, completely private patio. The usual patio furniture, an umbrella table with chairs, and a chaise lounge were placed strategically around two sides of a Jacuzzi. On the opposite side of the Jacuzzi, near another sliding glass door that led to a bathroom and dressing area stood something resembling a hospital examination table. To the left a third sliding glass door opened into the bedroom. The rooms connected in a sort of horseshoe around the patio in a modern-day version of Old California.
Flowers, trees, and shrubs surrounded every building, concealing one from another, and masking the size of the resort. Siempre Primavera was a health resort where the well-heeled came to lose a few pounds and rejuvenate in a pampered environment with a little surgical assistance if so desired, and of course, all in the strictest confidence.
Max followed Heather as she wiggled back across the patio and into the living room. She opened the door, then turned and said, “I’ll tell Doctor Gammons you’re here. If you want or need anything just ask for me; I will personally take care of all your needs while you’re staying with us.”
Max gave Heather one of those, do-you-mean-what-I’m-hoping-you-mean looks when he asked, “All my needs?”
“All your needs,” she repeated with raised eyebrows and a devious grin, then closed the door and was gone.
Doctor Gammons was the first person over thirty he had met since arriving at Siempre Primavera. Well, after all, he surmised, you did expect to see a health resort run by the young and fit, not the out-of-shape middle-aged. After a brief consultation he followed another shapely leotard-clad young lady to a studio where she photographed him from several angles. After the photo session he followed her to an examination room, where she recorded his weight, measurements, and vital signs. He was then led back to Doctor Gammons’ office.
A dozen eight-by-ten close-ups of his face, shot at different angles with little scribbles, arrows, and shaded areas on them were neatly laid out on a drafting table. After half an hour Max and the doctor agreed on the changes. Doctor Gammons liked to refer to them as enhancements. The doctor would straighten and reduce his nose as well as fill in a crease at the bridge of his nose, remove his double chin and remove some cartilage from his chin to create a cleft. His hairline would be changed. His ears would no longer stick out like saucers. The doctor insisted that several other enhancements were also necessary if the surgery was to be successful. He assured Max that none of his old friends would recognize him and he would be more than happy with the results. Looking at a sketch the doctor perceived to be the final result, Max agreed that his appearance not only would be incredibly different, but immensely improved as well.
Surgery was scheduled for the following morning, after which he would rehabilitate three weeks at Siempre Primavera while incisions healed and all telltale signs of surgery disappeared. Doctor Gammons encouraged Max to take advantage of the resort’s services and programs during rehabilitation. Max immediately thought of one amenity of which he hoped to take full advantage.
The young lady in the outer office took charge again, explaining among other things, that all pictures and records would be given him at the end of his stay. As a first-time guest he would be required to pay in advance, and everyone was required to sign a waiver of liability. Max signed the waiver, paid in cash, and received a receipt.
Heather was waiting to escort him back to his cottage. His measurements had provided her with the last details she needed to furnish his cottage with everything he would need during his stay, including clothes. Guests were all required to dress the same, shirts and shorts for men, and leotards for women. Warm-up suits were optional. Running shoes were the required footwear.
“Dinner will be served here on the patio in an hour. We have just enough time for me to give you a massage.” She led him to the examination table, now covered with a soft pad. A serving cart with towels and various ointments stood nearby.
Max lay, naked and face down, on the table while Heather’s fingers worked magic up and down his back. He was fully relaxed, with his eyes closed, almost asleep, when he heard the pumps in the Jacuzzi come to life. He opened his eyes just in time to see Heather remove her leotard and step into the water. No question about it, she was blonde. Dumb questions raced through his mind. “How long before dinner? What had she said, an hour? How much time has passed?” Then, smiling, he whispered to himself, “Hell, what difference does it make anyway.” He slipped off the table and into the hot aerated water.
The limousine pulled away and headed for the airport. With the exception of a couple of hairline scars that would eventually disappear, his memories would be the only evidence he ever visited Siempre Primavera—all pictures and documents had been shredded. Looking back for one last glimpse, although he knew it unlikely, he found himself thinking that one day he might return for a tune-up. According to Heather, the clinic had bent the rules to give him a reservation at short notice, reservations were filled a year in advance except for regular clients, and at two grand a day it was unlikely he would ever become a regular client. Counting surgery, he’d shelled out nearly a hundred thousand dollars. He had collected eight years’ back pay with interest, but at this rate he would be broke in a matter of months—there was no back pay; unbeknownst to Max, Henri Tosi had arranged a onetime compensation from the CIA’s black-ops account, Henri also arranged to have Heather help clear his mind of any cobwebs and dust from the past that might have remained.
Well, tomorrow he would worry about finances, and whether or not he might be destitute in his old age. Yes, there would be plenty of time to think about adjusting to mainstream America, but today he just wanted to enjoy his first day of freedom. To enjoy the first day in the life of Maxwell Alexander Kayne. Today, he had nothing to do but everything and no place to go but everywhere.
SEVEN-MINUTE WATER
It was a typical Southern California day when the sunshine made everything sparkle. The kind of day that made you feel good just to be alive. Max had never been more alive and never felt better. He had put Siempre Primavera’s exercise equipment, weight room, and running track to good use and was back to his normal 185 pounds; his reflexes were quick and his mind sharp. Yes, it was a great day and it was, indeed, good to be alive.
Max watched the Naval Hospital slip past his window as the 727 flew low over Balboa Park before it swooped down into the heart of the city for a landing. He had celebrated his twenty-first birthday at Balboa Naval Hospital while recovering from wounds received at Khe Sanh. When delivered by “Dust Off” to the Evac Hospital at Qui Nhon he had not been expected to live. He’d recovered enough to be moved to Yokosuka via Saigon and after a month was flown back to “the world.” Two years later he was in Europe working for the Central Intelligence Agency.
As he rode down Harbor Drive past the tuna fleet tied up along the embarcadero he sat back and watched the pleasure boats on Glorietta Bay. He remembered when, as a y
oung marine, he had taken a similar ride from the same airport to Camp Pendleton. From his first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean he had fallen in love with Southern California and especially laid-back San Diego. Now he hardly recognized the city. It had changed beyond belief. He wondered if the open, easygoing lifestyle had changed as well.
The taxi driver dropped Max in front of an ultramodern high-rise with an impressive entrance. After several minutes he finally convinced security to open the door. Once inside he was escorted into an office where he produced enough identification to satisfy everyone, after which he received a copy of his lease, a copy of the house rules, and a list of services and telephone numbers, plus a handful of other papers and documents. Two plastic cards with magnetic coding, he was told, served as keys to his condo and all other security locks in the building, including the elevators, parking garage, fitness center, and the various recreational areas.
A cute little redhead named Sherry escorted him to his apartment. He thought about the last young lady to show him to his quarters and took a second look at his sexy little escort and wondered, “Twice in a row? Nah, not a chance.”
The elevator stopped on the eighteenth floor and they stepped out into a foyer with a lot of marble, terrazzo, and potted plants. He followed Sherry to the left along a wide passageway to the last door and had a second opportunity to use his plastic key, the elevator being the first.
Once inside, he followed Sherry through the apartment as she explained some of the gadgetry. Back at the entryway she instructed him on the use of the television monitor, how to view guests and which button allowed them to enter if he wished to receive them. The guest would then be escorted to his apartment by security. Convinced he understood everything, she asked, “Any questions, Mr. Kayne?”