The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

Brad stumbled through the charred house and caught up with his stepfather.

  Richter chafed at the handcuffs that pinned his wrists behind him.

  The soundman swung his boom overhead to catch every word.

  Brad felt his stepfather’s shame. No parent wanted to be seen as a criminal.

  Nevertheless, Brad had to make something public. He had to clear Dr. Yu’s name and expose Richter’s full role in the events of the past week. “Since when are you a minister? You don’t really believe in all that hooey about the supremacy of American religion. This was just your way of getting back at Dr. Yu.”

  Richter returned fire with both barrels. “There’s no way to prove that he’s right, either.” He smiled smugly at the camera and turned to leave.

  “How can you say that?” Brad poked him in the back. “You based your entire scheme on his powers of mental telepathy, his ability to control minds, and even his ability to harness the power of nature.”

  That stopped Richter dead in his tracks.

  “And your scheme almost worked,” Brad finished.

  “What do you mean it almost worked?” Richter’s face glowed with vindication as he played his final card. “What about the tsunami that will destroy the world as we know it?”

  “You are behind that, too?”

  “You bet I am.” Richter turned to the television audience. “When the ocean erases California from the map, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  A cop gave him an inquiring look and began to lead him away saying, “You have the right to remain silent. But I doubt you will.”

  Brad caught his breath. He turned and ran back through the house for a better look at the sea.

  Richter was right. How could anyone stop the tsunami?

  May held her father by the shoulders as he muttered his last incantations. “I love you, Daddy.”

  The final earth tremors ceased. And with them so did the shower of rocks outside. Their view from the cave was mostly obscured. She joined Jade in picking up rocks and tossing them outside down the hill.

  Finally, she could poke her head out and inspect the damage to the trail. Boulders had rolled down and blocked the path up to the hotel. Their only escape was down where most of the trail remained intact.

  Across the horizon, clouds began to disperse. Patterns of light shone on the water, and it turned from gray to deep blue. Not far away, a pair of whales breached the surface. Mist gushed from their blowholes. Their flukes gave a friendly wave, and then they dove back to their underwater home.

  Her father’s prayers had been answered.

  In the light breeze that remained, she heard the first strains of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” She closed her eyes to avoid looking at the caller ID. The love of her life must have survived. It had to be him calling.

  She answered with an impulsive, “Brad!”

  Nobody mattered but him. She held her breath. If he hadn’t survived, she would throw herself off the cliff.

  “That’s right, you silly goose.”

  It was Brad.

  “Liang’s gone,” he said with a note of finality.

  She fought off a surge of tears. Her most fervent hope had become reality.

  “There is one last thing,” Brad said over the phone.

  “What is that?”

  “How can we stop the tsunami?”

  What was he talking about? She dried her tears away. The ocean was at peace again. Whales frolicked on the surface. “It is calm here.”

  “Here, too,” he said. “But what about the wave racing toward China and America at five hundred miles per hour?”

  She leaned into the cave. “Father, we have to stop the tsunami.”

  “Already done, my little Apple Blossom.”

  She turned back to the phone. “He says it is already done.”

  “Whew. That’s a relief. I guess there’s no more to worry about.”

  She couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.

  “Your dad must have contacted Pele just in time,” he said. “That was some woman.”

  “My father is exhaust.” Then she became curious. “Is she still in your head?”

  “No. There are no women in my head any longer.”

  She smiled. Come to think of it, the same was true with her. But she needn’t tell him about all that.

  “You’re the only one I want,” he said.

  She was too moved to respond.

  “Tell the others that all’s well here,” he said. “And thank your father for me.”

  She put the phone away and turned to her friends. They stood arrayed behind her, listening.

  “Well?” Earl said.

  Suddenly sunshine broke over them. It felt warm against her wet hair and damp clothes. “Brad has saved the world, once again.”

  “Along with your dad,” Earl added.

  Her father! May looked past her friends. Where was he? She scrambled back into the cave, only to find him muttering another prayer. No! They didn’t need to set any more gods or spirits loose in the world.

  But Dr. Yapo held a hand out to restrain her. “He is offering his thanks.”

  She could hardly wait for her father to emerge from his trance. She wanted him back, safe, no longer beholden to a world that had hurt her and others so deeply and threatened so much harm.

  At last the old man’s eyes opened and he looked up at her. His daughter was a trembling wet thing. The two were from another land half a world away, but they felt deeply at home.

  “The spirits are weary,” he said. “They’ll need a little nap before we tackle our next problem.”

  Epilogue

  After finding a safe deposit box in Washington to store his shiny new Congressional Medal of Freedom, Brad left the United States for his next expedition with Dr. Yu.

  The scientist was certain that he could apply his pull with the spirits to create some sort of catalyst that would convert much of the atmosphere’s greenhouse gasses into oxygen. To familiarize himself with the exact chemistry involved, he needed to return to Beijing to consult fellow scientists and reach higher friends.

  Back in Beijing with May by his side, Brad visited President Qian, who would have given him the party’s highest medal of patriotism, if he weren’t a foreigner.

  Although Liang’s body was never recovered from the waters off Oahu, it hardly seemed likely that he could have survived. In Atlanta, Barney Boone suffered a nervous breakdown as he watched Gospel University turn into a center for New Age studies. Unfortunately, a federal prosecutor’s case against Professor Richter, alias Terry Smith, ran into considerable constitutional roadblocks, as cases involving religion and insanity are prone to do.

  Americans took a deeper look at their reliance on foreign trade and went to the national polls looking for just the right balance of support for the American worker.

  Surgeons removed the microchip from May’s brain without damaging the soft tissue, but not before Brad suggested he first test it out personally. In the end, he decided that he wanted a girlfriend who chose to love him rather than was told to do so.

  Earl followed Jade to flight training school in southern California. To supplement his meager stipend at the University of California at San Diego, they contemplated earning extra money as exotic dancers, but in the end Jade decided that she didn’t want to share his fabulous body with others.

  And Igor Sullivan got to work on a strange new phenomenon being reported out of Tibet—recent cases of extreme longevity suggesting the possible existence of a fountain of youth.

  Book Three

  THE FINAL QUEST

  The Shangri-la Code

  Everyone is helpful, everyone is kind

  On the road to Shambala.

  —Lyrics in song “Shambhala”

  Chapter 1

  August 1961

  It was a sweltering morning in early August when a young East German professor named Hans Fried shuffled toward a checkpoint that blocked people from leaving the Soviet Sector of B
erlin.

  Fried stood out among the workers who streamed toward day jobs in the West. He was the only one wearing a homburg hat. Only professionals wore such hats, and academics like him were seldom allowed to visit the American Sector.

  But the hat served an important purpose. Inside the hat was a hand grenade. If the border guard discovered a secret envelope tucked under his belt, Fried was prepared to blow himself up.

  When he finally reached the guard, he swallowed hard and pulled his identity booklet out of his pocket. The Russian was younger than him and had a rifle slung over one shoulder. He probably couldn’t read German, but flipped through the pages anyway.

  Suddenly the booklet snapped shut and the guard faced him directly. Fried caught his breath. The soldier tapped the booklet against his gloved hand. Fried gulped.

  A man nudged him from behind.

  It took a few seconds for Fried to realize that the soldier was handing the booklet back to him.

  He let out his breath, took the booklet and stumbled into the West. He would live that day. And he was free. But most importantly, he would be able to carry out his world-changing mission.

  The crowd carried him onto the new street, where there was a sweet smell in the air. He hadn’t smelled sweet pastries in years. He felt lightheaded.

  Half a block into the city and he grew disoriented. Was he just too giddy? He had lived there as a child. That was before the war, fifteen years ago. The buildings he remembered had all been replaced.

  “Bitte?” Please? He got the attention of a stranger. “Where is the American Consulate?”

  The burly man turned. He was a street sweeper for the Americans, an enviable job for any German. The man pointed to a bend in the road where others were headed. “It’s on Clayallee.”

  Even the street names had changed.

  Fried tipped his hat, and the grenade rolled forward. He flinched and caught it with his free hand. His blood froze, but the thing didn’t explode.

  The sweeper gawked at him. This was awkward.

  Fried attempted a smile. “Would you dispose of this for me?”

  The fellow grabbed the grenade and studied it with an experienced eye. Fried’s hopes sank. He had escaped the Soviets, only to land in an American military prison.

  The man turned the grenade over to read its label. The lettering was in Cyrillic. His eyes flashed up to Fried.

  All he could do was stand there fingering his hat.

  At last the guy grunted and tossed the grenade into a trash bin. It landed with a dull thud.

  “Russian-made,” the man said. “Worthless.”

  Fried donned his hat and hurried away before his fellow countryman thought better of it and turned him in.

  It was ten a.m. when he found the U.S. Mission in Berlin. How much longer would his luck hold out? He straightened his tie and tried to tidy his wrinkled suit, then gave up and entered.

  Chapter 2

  Half an hour after Hans Fried entered the U.S. mission, a first-tour CIA officer was looking out his office window. Across the street, he studied the scars of war left by the Battle of Berlin, the brutal offensive that finally crushed the Third Reich. That was 1945. This was 1961. With cheap labor in abundant supply, the Americans were rebuilding their sector of the city, with progress visible every day.

  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he quickly slicked back his nicely oiled hair.

  “Come in.”

  Sleeves rolled up, David Pringle from the visa office brought in a young, narrow-chested man in a rumpled suit and dusty pants.

  “This is Hans Fried,” David announced.

  “Professor Hans Fried,” the man corrected.

  The CIA case officer stepped forward and offered his hand. “Bradley West, Vice Consul.”

  The return grip was flaccid and sweaty.

  Bradley West had seen the type before. Only government officials in the Soviet Sector felt duty-bound not to cross into the western sectors. Others entered West Berlin each day. Most were laborers. Professionals like this man occasionally trickled in. They would show up at the mission’s doorstep and request refugee status. Visas were given to those with American relatives, but for others a visa was available only at a price. And it was up to him to set that price. If a party had something important or useful, he was prepared to give a boost toward American citizenship. But like the others, this man would have precious little to offer.

  “Sitzen Sie,” West told the German. Take a seat.

  “Thank you,” the man responded in heavily accented English. He had the inflection and demeanor of a scholar, not uncommon in the academic-rich city. However, the unwashed clothes told a different story.

  West had seen a fresh-faced young chemist just the day before and welcomed him warmly. Keeping the German brain trust out of the hands of the Soviets was a high priority. The week before, he had met a defector from the East German HVA, the foreign intelligence arm of the Stasi. A double agent embedded in the secret police lived better than an autoworker in Detroit, and the man happily returned to his apartment in the Prenzlauer Berg neighborhood to collect intelligence for the Americans.

  But the gaunt and unkempt man nervously fingering his hat looked of little use.

  West steered Pringle off to one side. “Why this fellow? He looks like he’s just off the farm.”

  “Just hear him out,” Pringle returned with a wink.

  “What has he told you?”

  “You speak German. Hear him out.” With a grin, Pringle slipped back into the consular section.

  West sighed and headed back to his desk. On the way, he studied the German. Thick brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, sloping shoulders, a neck so thin he could see the tendons straining under the skin. The man looked emaciated.

  West’s mind flashed back to the personality-profiling course he had just completed in Washington. The instructor had taught the class how to tell a man’s personality from his physical structure. Each new would-be defector served as a test case for that theory.

  West took his seat and studied the man’s face. Interesting. His eyes were wide-set and observant. Light played in the light blue pools. His squared-off jaw bespoke a firmness of character.

  “I have urgent news for you,” the man blurted out in his thick accent.

  At least he could get it out in English. West had only received five weeks of German-language training before being shipped to post.

  “And what is your news?”

  “Hitler is alive.”

  West nearly snorted, but stopped himself when he saw the magnified eyes blinking so innocently at him. Was this character for real? Twelve months on the job had alerted West to all the usual ploys. One applicant had told him that JFK was due to be shot by communist hit men. Still another had warned him that Sputnik was going to drop an atomic bomb on New York.

  But nobody had tried such a far-fetched line as this.

  Of course there were always conspiracy theories circulating about Adolf Hitler. After all, his final days had been spent in seclusion in a bunker fifteen meters below the garden of Berlin’s Reichskanzlei. And nobody had found his remains, which had been burned and buried according to the SS guards who claimed they were acting on Hitler’s orders.

  West tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice. He was going to get David Pringle back for this one. He glanced at the dossier that Pringle had tossed on his desk. The form said Hans Fried was an Oriental scholar.

  “And how do you know that Adolf Hitler is still alive, Professor?” He leaned his elbows on his desk. This could prove entertaining.

  “I cannot tell you any more. I am sworn to secrecy.”

  “Oh. I see.” West sat back. “That’s very helpful.”

  “There is one more thing.” The professor reached into the waistband of his pants. “I must deliver this.” He pulled out a carefully concealed envelope, an older style used during the war.

  “Thank you.” West reached for it.

  “I am sorr
y,” the man said, and tucked it back under his belt.

  “Can’t I read it?”

  “No. I must bring it personally to China.”

  West rocked back in his chair and let out a laugh. Of all the gambits, this one was the most transparent. Here was an Oriental scholar seeking a free ticket at Uncle Sam’s expense to continue his research in the Orient.

  A nervous look transformed the man’s lean face. His eyes shifted to the street just outside the window. Strange. If people had something to hide, they were tense from the moment they entered his office. But the professor became unnerved only when West didn’t seem to buy his story.

  “You must believe me,” the man said, his voice trembling.

  “Believe what? About Hitler still rattling around or about your needing to go to China?”

  The man suddenly seemed to recognize how ludicrous his story sounded. But that didn’t prevent him from embellishing it. “The fate of the entire world rests on my reaching China.”

  It was truly sad. If West were reading a transcript of the conversation back in officer’s training school, the man’s claim would have cracked up the class. He felt like telling the man to put a lid on it before he completely humiliated himself. But the sincerity of Fried’s delivery intrigued him. And here he had to listen to his intuition.

  “How do you expect me to believe your story?”

  “It is not a story.”

  How naïve did Fried think he was? His pity was rapidly changing to anger, but he decided to give the guy one last chance. “Tell me where Hitler is, and I’ll personally buy you a ticket to China.”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “So you don’t know where he is.”

  “I know exactly where he is, but I cannot tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of this.” Fried partially exposed the envelope.

  West stood up. “Let me see that.” He held out a hand.

  Once again it slid out of sight.

  “This is ridiculous,” West concluded.