*
Meanwhile, I later learn from Liz, the distance between Voodoomama and her disappears. There is an ineffable bond between mother and daughter that, even if broken, heals itself with love. They quickly catch up on the past.
“What happened in Oklahoma? Why did you get Zac involved when that wasn't the directive?” Voodoomama asks.
“Something was wrong,” Liz replies. “I didn't know exactly what it was at the time, but Zac's appearance gave me the opportunity I was looking for. And I was right. I trusted my team explicitly, like family, and when we discovered Doc was a mole, that's when everything began to unravel.”
“He's not part of our world Lizzy. There's too much you can’t disclose.”
“That's exactly why Zac and I connect so well. Secrecy and deceit are the currencies of my profession and yours. But Zac is honest. He couldn't deceive me if he tried, unlike everyone else in our world.”
“What else did you learn?” Voodoomama questions.
“That General Madison is and has been manipulating the government programs he oversees for personal gain.”
*
By the time Liz and Voodoomama reappear, I'm two Vespers and two ice-cold vodka tonics deep, floating on a raft. I hear their echo in the distance; they laugh like children.
“Hey Zac!” Liz brays. I give ‘em thumbs up and the ladies twitter.
Whatever spell Voodoomama has put on Liz, I approve. “C' mon Zac, it's dinner time,” Liz chimes.
Voodoomama has changed into a bikini and sheer wrap, revealing a stunning figure. Although she's 29 years older, she could easily pass as Liz's sister.
As we enter the dining room, Liz sees a sword in a glass case. “You still have the Saber of Fate,” she says, smiling at Voodoomama.
“I keep it with me everywhere I live,” her mother replies in a severe tone.
Liz opens the glass case which houses the sword and an ornate black box. She opens the box, taps its handle to something in the box, then pulls the saber out of its sheath.
“Be careful, Liz.”
Liz explaines. “This is the only one ever made, and it's over 1500 years old. Made of mysterious alloys that make it lighter than aluminum yet stronger than titanium and the blade is sharper than a modern-day razor. Only its owner can use this sword; no other can remove it from its sheath. When presented to the Chinese warrior emperor who commissioned it, he beheaded the artisan with the sword so no other would be forged.”
Liz walks over to a tall, thick candle in tall silver candelabra on the dining room table and takes a swing with the sword.
“Ha, you missed,” I laugh.
Liz taps the candle with the tip of the sword and falls to the floor, cut so cleanly that the sword strike hadn’t moved it. She puts away the sword and pulls out the black wooden box, opening it to reveal a petrified hand and an ornate silver ring with Lapis Lazuli stone.
“It’s the emperor’s hand with the Keystone ring,” Liz states. “Only the wearer of the ring can remove the sword from its sheath; otherwise, it's locked. This sword has slain tens of thousands, toppled dynasties and commanded great wealth.” Voodoomama chimes in, “Both the ring and sword are made from the same unknown alloy, and when they come in contact, there is a magnetic reaction. When in its sheath, there’s a positive-negative magnetic force so strong the sword can’t be removed. When touched by the ring, it reverses polarity and glides easily out. I've had the sword and ring examined by many scientists, but none can explain it.”
We sit down at the dinner table. “Ok… So, Voodomama,” I begin, “what is it exactly that you’re doing out here in India?” The ladies look at each other and smile.
“Zac, my daughter likes you, and the last thing I want to do after all these years is to be dishonest or deceptive with you. I can't talk about it, ever. So let’s talk about you. What’s next for the international moto/photo-journalist?”
“Well, I need to focus on our Himalayan travel story. The guy who runs Himalayan Roadrunners met his wife on a trek to Mt. Everest 24 years ago. She was his Sherpa; they married, had a son and lived in both Kathmandu and Vermont. I'm writing an in-depth feature on being Tibetan and American, and the politics and conflicts of culture.”
“Interesting,” she replies. “I’ve read your ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycling China.’ Well done. I liked your personality profiles and perspective on the current Chinese economic state. You look into the heart of the cultures you visit and that's commendable. You're both welcome to stay here as long as you wish, but if I may make a suggestion… The owner of this house has a beautiful home in Nice, France that's staffed year-round. He never goes there, and it's a shame. He has an extensive motorcycle collection, all maintained. It would seem to be the perfect place to settle in for several months, finish your Himalayan story and write a few more. Liz, you speak French of course, plus the south of France has far better weather and food than India.” They laugh.
“Mama taught me how to ride at age 7.”
“Lizzy was bored with bicycles. I got her a Honda 90, and she started winning motocross races at 10 until she eventually got kicked out.”
“Yeah, I was running over all the boys, literally. Hit the sweet spot on the inside corner full throttle, the rear tire spins into the bike next to you, and they go down.”
The girls howl in glee. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I like it. We spend the next several days relaxing and it’s very healing for Liz, as if she and her mother were never apart. All of our belongings are sent from Kathmandu and we’re booked for a flight to Nice, France.
“When will I see you again?” Liz anxiously asks.
“Soon. I will be in Nice next month.”
They hold a long hug; I can tell Liz is hiding her tears. We board the plane to France and again, she is quiet. I guess I better get used to the silent treatment while airborne.
We land at the Nice International Airport (Aeroport de Nice Cote d'Azur) located 20 minutes west of the city center and settle into a quiet taxi ride.
I love motorcycling in the south of France. Nice, Cannes Monte Carlo all have stunning coastal roads that skirt the French Riviera. The rolling hills of the Provence and the twisting mountain roads of the Alps are all within a day's ride and is some of the most spectacular motorcycling in Europe. The Col de Turini in the French Alps is one of the most famous balcony roads—hair-raising lanes cut into the sides of sheer cliffs—in the country. The French Rivera reminds me of home, Malibu and the Pacific Coast Highway.
We pull into an estate that makes Voodoomama's mansion look like a guest house. “Holy shit, who are these people?” I exclaim.
Liz retorts, “We probably don’t want to know.” We settle into one of the spacious bedrooms, but I am dying to see this so-called motorcycle collection. One of the staff takes us along a path to a separate barn-sized building. There must be a hundred motorcycles here. I can hardly breathe; this moto-journalist has died and gone to 2-wheeled heaven.
“Most will run, with a little TLC,” the caretaker of the collection says in an almost indecipherable French accent. As I walk down the line, I can name almost every bike and year. My god, it's a 1915 Cyclone. Only 300 Cyclones were built, and only eight originals are known to exist. The Cyclone has a massive 1000cc engine and is able to hit 125 mph.
“Look, Liz! Two black Ducatis, just like yours!”
She kneels to examine the serial numbers. “These are mine. When did they arrive here?” she asks the caretaker.
“Three weeks ago,” he replies.
“So that means Mama had this all planned before we even went to the Himalayas. How could she have known? Damn her. Do you now understand whom you're dealing with, Zac? El Rey Del Mudos, my Ducati's… We are in the South of France for a reason. A far bigger picture is being painted, and we're merely brushes in the hands of a master artist.”
*
Curiosity, the catalyst of great journalism, has me investigating every room in the mansion. Many ar
e locked while curio cabinets filled with antiquities and other valuables are left open. The dining room drawers are filled with ornate silver cutlery. It is the library housing thousands of books, though, that intrigues me. Sitting at a massive oak desk, I find all the drawers locked. Then I spy something lying face down inside a bookshelf cubby, in perfect line of sight from the desk’s plush high-backed chair yet hidden from view elsewhere in the room. It’s a photograph of Dick Cheney, General Madison and the President in the oval office. I show Liz and ask, “Do you think this could be Cheney's home?”
“That makes perfect sense. He could easily afford to live this lavishly.”
“Why do you think Voodoomama sent us here?” I wonder.
Liz shakes her head in distrust. “I do not doubt that we will find out soon enough.”
Chapter 12 - Truth Be Told
This is a moto-journalist's dream—living in a palatial estate in Nice, France that houses an incredible motorcycle collection I can ride… I ride and gone to heaven. I have the time to write my Himalayan series and every week take another trip on a classic motorcycle to England, Germany, Italy or Switzerland. My publisher loves me. She thinks it all a fabrication, but there I am in the photos. My bank account has never been happier, and neither has Liz. She's a better rider than I am, and we know each other’s riding rhythms. If Liz wants to ride aggressively, she goes and we catch up in the next village. If I want to hammer the throttle, I forget she's behind me. It's awesome. When not riding, we're at one of the super trendy night clubs in Nice. We're treated like royalty everywhere we go. Handsome European men are magnetized to Liz. She sashays about dispensing kisses and hugs (very French). Exposing my jealous American tendencies, Liz sets me straight.
“Zac, don't be intimidated by these men. Yes, they're incredibly wealthy, handsome and young. Yes, any one of them would take me home in a New York second. Yes, I could marry one and spend my time gallivanting the world on yachts, drinking champagne until I’m bored stiff, divorce one and marry another. That doesn't appeal to me in the least. It's not your bank account that attracts me, and don't get me wrong. You're handsome enough. But what appeals to me is your passion. In French, we call it ‘Joie De Vivre,' or ‘joy of living.' I love your adventurous creative spirit. You’re an open book, Zac. You wear your heart on your sleeve, not like these other pathetic posers. I don’t give a shit about these assholes, so don’t you ever worry about us, unless you stop being the Zac I love.”
From that moment on, I trust Liz explicitly. I write and ride while she relaxes on the French Rivera—though her iPhone photos still made me very jealous. For a month, we live frivolously like wealthy Bourgeoisie.
“We're invited to a dinner party tonight,” Liz advises.
“Another party? You feel like going?”
“Oh, we're going,” she replies. “Your tux and my evening gown were delivered with the invite and a limo will be here at six to pick us up.”
I have never seen Liz more beautiful. Her gown looks as though it's tailor-made for her. She is a goddess. I also look relatively handsome in the Jean Yves tux. We enter a gated estate that reminds me of the Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California.
“There is more security and secret service here than a mid-east summit,” Liz observes. We enter a dramatic foyer and funnel through full-body scanners unlike any I've ever seen. We filter into an elegant grand ballroom filled with classy clientele as a band plays cool jazz.
“Let’s get a drink, but sip sparingly until we find out why we are here,” Liz cautions. I order a vodka tonic and she orders champagne. She is in agent mode, on high alert, and disappears into the crowd. As I sip my drink, billionaire media mogul Richard Branson saunters up to the bar and orders a Glenmorangie Signet on the rocks. Richard freakin’ Branson! He is my hero!
“Hi, Mr. Branson,” I stammer. “I bought Tubular Bells before you licensed it to the film The Exorcist, and I still have that original Virgin record release.”
“Actually, it wasn't released in the U.S. until after the movie. Nevertheless, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Music is still a passionate endeavor of mine.” He is yanked away by a supermodel. I can't freakin' believe it—Richard Branson!
“Do you know whom I just spoke with?” I blubber.
“Richard Branson. Look to your left. You may recognize Oprah Winfrey? She is talking to Abu Dhabi's Sheikh Zayed Al Nahyan; he’s worth 23 billion and next to him is the President of France.”
“My god, what event is this?” As soon as I say this Voodoomama appears.
“Lizzy, Zac, it’s so good to see you! Both of you look splendid! My French tailor couldn’t have done a better fitting.” Voodoomama kisses me on both cheeks and as she hugs Liz, whispers in her ear, “We need to talk, now.” Liz excuses herself with that classic one finger gesture implying she’ll be back in a moment.
“Lizzy, you need to know that Dick Cheney died today of heart failure. I am only telling you this because he was supposed to be here tonight with me. Any related conversations or speculation are to be ignored. This is still classified…”
“That's not possible,” Liz interrupts. “He had a Goldlance heart transplant.”
“I can’t discuss this further. It’s classified,” Voodoomama replies.
“Are we staying at his house?”
“No, you are not.”
This is like a David Lynch movie, and I don't know whether to laugh hysterically or sit in a corner with my tail between my legs. I guess it's time for a Vesper martini. Liz is not so cavalier. The laundry list of who’s who keeps growing and she knows something is up. After a fabulous dinner, while cappuccino is served, a secret service agent approaches Liz and directs her to follow.
“I'm being summoned,” Liz remarks. “The truth is about to be revealed. You enjoy yourself. I am sure there is a cigar bar, but don’t have too many drinks.” She kisses me and takes leave. I order another Vesper martini and hunt down Richard Branson.
Liz describes to me later how she is escorted to another wing of the estate. She passes through another full body scanner and is then asked to lay her hand on what seems to be a fingerprint scanner, but it pricks her finger for a blood sample. Liz is then led into a vast library. A small group of about thirty people mingles cordially. Voodoomama is talking with General James Madison.
“Lizzy, please sit with us,” Voodoomama requests. “I believe you know General Madison.” Liz nods in contempt and is seated. If there were list of global powerbrokers, this crowd would be it. Liz notices that some people are being escorted out of the library. General Madison leans over to Liz, saying, “By the way, Miss. Duran, you are reinstated as active duty CSS with Level III security clearances.”
A middle-aged, balding man with thick glasses and clipboard takes the podium. “Please be seated and let's get to business. Thank you for being here. I believe you all know each other, although I must introduce Akira Mori from Japan and Liz Duran, the daughter of Voodoomama. Please stand up. Mr. Mori heads the Japanese Defense Intelligence Division, and Miss Duran is a top-level CSS agent. We are pleased to have you here. You all have high-level security clearances and the information here does not leave this room. This is Cosmic Top Secret. I repeat: code Cosmic Top Secret. I want to introduce Dr. Carl Zimmer for some preliminary background information on Operation Thundertaker.”
Thick bushy white hair contrasts Dr. Zimmer's black and white tuxedo. “Thank you,” he begins. “While working on a government project called Parasite Rex, I was investigating the remarkable ability parasites have to manipulate the behavior of their hosts. The Lancet Fluke (Dicrocoelium Dendriticum), for example, forces its ant host to clamp itself to the tip of grass blades, where a grazing mammal might eat it. It's in the fluke's interest to get eaten, because only by getting into the intestines of a sheep or some other grazer can it complete its life cycle. I began studying the virus Toxoplasmosis Gondii in the late 1990s.”
Liz raises her hand. “Toxoplasmosis is a parasite found in cat feces
. It’s why pregnant women are told not to handle cat litter. It can affect their unborn fetuses.”
Midnight Rider on a Graveyard Run Page 2
