by Ted Bernard
“Has she been in touch since the seventeenth?” asked Katherine.
“No, and that’s what worries me, although she’s never been a reliable communicator.”
“Have you tried contacting somebody who knows her?”
“I would. But I have no clue about her family or friends. I don’t even know where she grew up.”
Astrid quietly hopped on Google and was scurrying from site to site, opening and arraying them one on top of another. “Ah ha!” she shrieked. “Lara, check this out.” She made haste around the table, laptop in hand, to show Lara the Virgin Islands Police Department blotter.
October 21: 09:16 — MISSING PERSON
A missing person, Ms. A. Foster, was reported to the desk sergeant by Mr. J. Morse, of Bartley Bay Road. Ms. Foster had been a guest of Mr. Morse. Detective Wesley Rollins assigned to case.
“Was Adrienne’s last name Foster?” Astrid asked.
“Yes”, replied Lara as she buried her face in both hands.
3
The room fell silent. Katherine wrapped her arm around Lara’s shoulders. Lara emitted short breaths, almost inaudibly. I found a tissue and passed it across. Frank tried to diffuse the tension in a room that felt like a tomb. “Are we in some kind of Masterpiece Mystery episode?” he asked. Few around the table could make sense of that, typical of Frank’s frames of reference.
José smirked and asked. “What galaxy gave birth to you, Frank?”
“Check it out. Great BBC mystery dramas, every Sunday night.”
“Sunday nights, every night in fact, I’m rehearsing,” José said.
“Back to basics,” Nick cut in, still gazing at Katherine and Lara, perplexed by the open-heartedness of the women, a state of being foreign to him and driven by motivations without a trace in himself. “Okay,” he sputtered, “we’ve got powerful information here and because the permits for drilling have been issued, it’s time to deploy it. Astrid, would it be better to focus on the banking hacks, thus avoiding Iran, international boycotts, shadowy shell games with oil revenues, and organized crime?”
“I doubt it,” she replied.
“Why?” asked Nick.
“For one thing, the pathways of hacking into accounts in big banks are serpentine and difficult to justify. Secondly, my expert colleagues, who may understand how that works, are hesitant to speak about it.”
“They’re into this kind of hacking, then?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Why then do you suspect that Gruppo Crogiolo is into this?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Because you know and it’s a trade secret or because you just do not know?”
“Both, actually. I wasn’t informed of the way my colleagues arrived at that conclusion. I have to assume it is proprietary information.”
“So, what’s the use of this intelligence if we can’t use it?”
“Good question,” Astrid pursed her lips and nodded repeatedly, her left hand wrapped around her chin. The naïve glee of her initial revelations three weeks earlier had gradually dissipated. Now the current series of reality checks mired us in a cruel paradox: at hand, evidence of grievous wrongdoing that at the same time would not stand up in court and, in any event, could not indict Morse in time to save Blackwood. Further, if revealed, such evidence could dispatch Astrid and probably everyone else straight to jail.
Taking in Astrid’s gloomy demeanor, the rest of us lapsed again into confusion. After some anxious moments, Em said, “I am not expert in this stuff, but I think our best choice is to contact the detective in Virgin Islands.”
“I agree,” said Astrid. “If I had another few days, I think I could find a way to scare the shit out of Morse. But now, he can deny everything and, though I am quite certain of the pieces of his empire, I’m not to the point where I can penetrate it.”
“Let’s call the detective now,” suggested Julianna, the woman of action who would oversee the occupation of Centennial Quad in just a few hours.
“Let me try,” offered Lara.
Lara left the room.
Fifteen minutes later she returned. “I managed to catch Detective Rollins just as he was leaving the office,” she said. “He took my particulars and asked a bunch of questions. I read the letter to him and informed him that I had reason to believe Adrienne had been in danger. The letter seemed to justify that, he said. He asked what ‘perverse hobbies’ in the letter meant. I told him that I could not answer that, but that I knew that Morse had paid for her services in the past. ‘Is she a professional prostitute?’ he asked. I told him not that I know of.”
“What about Adrienne?” Katherine asked.
“He said no trace whatsoever.”
“Has he interviewed Morse?”
“Yes. The investigation is continuing but Morse has apparently left the island and so far, Rollins had been unable to contact him. I snapped a photo of the letter and sent it to his phone.”
“Morse is on the run,” José said.
“Probably,” replied Lara. “And if so, one is tempted to assume guilt. Oh God …” she whispered.
“That could be too reductionist a solution,” Zachary suggested. “Maybe he’s gone to The Caymans to move some money or is in Europe or North Dakota, doing what he does.”
“That too is possible,” admitted Katherine. “What next?”
“I have something, Katherine,” I said. “A couple of weeks ago, the day of the president’s press conference in fact, Dr. Tulkinghorn came into the office with an express mail package. I paid little attention to it but later I noted the empty envelope in the recycling bin. Like Sydney Fitzpatrick, I carefully inspected it and wrote down the return address.”
“Sydney Fitzpatrick?” Katherine asked.
“My favorite FBI special agent. Just read The Bone Chamber.xi You’ll become hooked.”
“What was the address and why do you think this is important?”
I read from my journal. “Well, it was from an Ibrahim al-Nazer at Amerabic Corporation in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. When I brought Dr. T. coffee that morning, I found him intensely reading the document.”
“It may just be academic correspondence or something to do with Tulkinghorn’s consulting,” argued Zachary.
“Is there any way you could find out?” Nick asked.
“Let me try.” I excused myself.
“Ibrahim al-Nazer,” interjected Astrid, reading from her laptop. “Former Minister of Petroleum for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Presently, assistant to the CEO of Amerabic Petroleum, Ltd., the world’s fourth largest oil company, wholly owned by the Kingdom.”
Nick asked, “Katherine, have you made that call to President Redlaw?”
“No, I wanted to wait until after this meeting.”
“I suggest you make the call soon. Tell him our plans for the weekend: the march and rally tonight, the occupation of Centennial Quad, our presence at the Halloween block party, and the teach-in Monday. Tell him also that the police in the Virgin Islands are investigating the disappearance of a friend of ours who was in the company of Jasper Morse on October 17th, and provide the name and phone contact of the detective.”
“So, we’re holding back on Gruppo Crogiolo?” asked Astrid.
“That would be my recommendation,” Katherine replied. “At least until you achieve the level of penetration you mentioned.”
“Should I keep working on that?”
“Absolutely. That’s just my opinion.”
I returned to the room, bringing proceedings to a halt.
“Anything?” Nick inquired.
“Not quite, but soon maybe.”
When my phone rang, people came to attention. I left the room again.
4
Breaking away from my friends, I hurled myself toward McWhorter. It was after five. I hated to be causing Greta to stay late. When I got to the CNRD office, I found it locked. I tapped gently on the door. Greta cautiously opened it. The office was dark except for a desk lamp
illuminating a small circle at the work-study carrel. Greta led me there.
“Here is the document from the Saudi oil executive. It was in a locked drawer in his desk. Read it here. If you want to take notes, it’s okay. I don’t dare make a copy. When you’re finished, I’ll return it. Before you touch it, put on these gloves.”
“You too?” I said looking at Greta’s hands.
“We can’t be too careful.”
I began reading the single-spaced pages. As I read, what came out of my mouth was the occasional “Ewww,” “Ohhh,” and “Yuk”. In my diary, I jotted a few phrases with arrows connecting one to another.
“This totally grosses me out. Until one of my roommates told me about BDSM last year, I was clueless. She forced me to read Fifty Shades of Grey. It made me sick, not horny. In Morse’s operation the women appear to have been sex slaves.”
“It’s not for the faint of heart. Nor for women with a strong sense of self, like you.”
“Strong sense of self, Greta? Not exactly. But I’m strong enough to be totally disgusted by sex trafficking, bondage, and assault. What I don’t understand is: Isn’t Saudi Arabia one of the most conservative and repressive countries in the world? So, how do you suppose Morse got away with this? How did he escape imprisonment or beheading or something?”
“There’s a probable explanation, on the third page. It says something about the princes and the syndicate.”
“Who are the princes? Is the syndicate Morse’s whore house?”
“I assume the princes are male members of the royal family. And yes, I think the syndicate is a euphemism for the concubinary or whatever one may call it. In any event, this was probably the information used to blackmail Morse.”
A knock on the door.
“Quick”, Greta commanded. “Remove your gloves. Boot up the computer. Pretend to be working. I’ll hide the document.” After some moments, she opened the door a crack.
A voice in the hallway. “Oh, hello Greta,” someone whispered. “Hannah asked me to meet her here.”
Katherine came into the darkened office. We greeted one another.
Greta showed her the document. When Katherine had read it, dumbstruck, all she could say was, “How utterly hideous.”
5
Stefan’s Journal
Nuclear Codes
Stretched out on the couch, I am feeling bone-tired.
Friday evening, home alone. The throaty vibes of jazz pianist and singer Diana Krall float across my little apartment. She wails, There ain’t no sweet man that’s worth the salt of my tears. Feeling a little blue and a lot drowsy, I half-heartedly read a book review in last Sunday’s New York Times. The book, Good-bye the Academy, argues that colleges and universities, as specific places people gather to learn, will soon be history. In future, all but an elite few will be learning via online university programs and courses open to the masses. The days of professors and students in traditional mortar and brick buildings and classrooms are over according to this author, an educational theorist with a think tank in Palo Alto. God, if this woman’s predictions were to happen, here’s just one more piece of the dystopian future. Dependence on “the cloud”, an assumption of this book, is one hell of a risky business plan for universities of the future. But, of course, that never enters her argument. Feeling out of sorts, I flip the newspaper onto the coffee table and doze off.
My phone trills.
“Stefan, Katherine here. I’m about to make the call and I wanted to check in quickly before I do.”
“The call?” I’m half-asleep.
“Yes, to Redlaw.”
I cannot come up with words.
“Oh, sorry,” she apologizes. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no. It’s okay. I had just dozed off. How can I help?”
“I’m reluctant to share details on this channel, if you know what I mean.”
“I get it. Yeah.”
“Look, Stefan, could you possibly come here? I need to run some things by you before calling the man.”
“Where’s here?”
“My apartment.”
“That would be more than a bit risky, Katherine. Any roommates or nosey neighbors around?” My mind went back to Burt’s observation that any excuse for Katherine and me to find each other would serve. Living proof. As ever, I feel the eternal tug of war: the ethics of my profession versus my obsession with a woman who happens to be my student. What to do? Every time I am with her, I feel a direct current passing between us, a sensation I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t deny. Even if we don’t touch, don’t speak, we can feel the electrons snapping across space, accelerating our heartbeats.
“No, no nosey neighbors. No roommates either,” Katherine responds without hesitation. With heart-cheering brightness, she asserts, “Everybody around here seems to have gone uptown. The sun has set. It’s getting dark. You’ll be fine.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” My lethargy has scampered away on the heels of virtue.
I lean my bicycle at the railing and ring her doorbell. Katherine calls down, “Door's open. Come on up.” At the top of the stairs I find her crossing the small kitchen toward the entryway. If in our last encounter in class she was a bit lugubrious, there is none of it now. She’s aglow to see me but then she curiously stops short and says, “Here, let me take your jacket. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink — a beer?”
“Sure.” I fold myself onto a kitchen chair while sizing up the shabby student apartment with endearing touches of Katherine: a colorful bowl, yellow damask curtains, some framed Italian scenes on the kitchen wall above the table, candles everywhere, photos of smiling people on the fridge. I wonder about her mix of hospitality and brusqueness. I tell her that I was unable to find out why Dr. Tulkinghorn had been balmy the other afternoon.
From the refrigerator, she calls back, “No matter. We already know.”
She comes across with two beers. We tap our bottles, briefly locking eyes. She says, “Thanks again for coming on short notice. It seems like d-day and h-hour for us, Stefan. The steering committee believes that because of the permits, we’re on a short leash trying to slow down or stop drilling at Blackwood. We’ve got protests of various sorts and an occupation of Centennial Quad planned from tonight through Monday. One would think that waiting until Monday to call Redlaw, when the impact of these protests will be better known, might make more sense. But there are two new developments that have accelerated things.”
“New developments?”
“Yes. Prepare yourself.” She summarizes the news about Morse’s possible involvement in Adrienne’s disappearance and of the likelihood that Dr. Tulkinghorn had blackmailed Jasper Morse in return for the Larnaca Chair.
“Ah, so that’s why Tulkinghorn was giddy the other day.”
“Yes, apparently, though he has not been specifically named. In any event, this is the information I am meant to convey to the president.”
I take a swig of beer and shake my head. I spurt a response emanating from my boyhood. “Them're some wicked cawkar tales, Katherine.”
“What? You think I made all that up?” I note the off-kilter smile on her lips. In spite of herself, she breaks up. I smile, relieved that the awkwardness of my being here, the stilted atmosphere, have evaporated.
Just as quickly, Katherine’s eyes become dark. “God, Stefan, I cannot help but think that Adrienne is either in serious jeopardy or dead.” She shakes her head, turns briefly away, brushes a tear from her eye. “Shit! Pardon my language but Morse has become the personification of evil in my mind and now it’s not just about Blackwood. It’s all so obviously simplistic, so juvenile, like a young adult mystery or something: this brute of an antagonist.”
I look back across the table at her face, shadowed in sorrow, her lips trembling. Katherine had never come close to swearing in my presence. I feel the surge again: my intoxication with her amalgam of grit and tender heartedness. I try to calm my racing heart. “Maybe it
’s not so simplistic. Do you think Morse is a murderer?”
“He was apparently the last person to have seen Adrienne. Who knows?”
“What about all the evidence on his global empire?”
“Because of its sensitivity and some gaps in our knowledge as well as the risk of bringing federal agencies or the governor’s office down on us, we have decided to hold it back, at least temporarily. What do you think? Is this the right time? Is the president likely to take us seriously?”
“I’ve never met or even seen the man.” I regret my brusqueness and soften my tone. “Aren’t you a better judge than I of how he’ll respond?”
“I suppose I am. And I do trust him. Again, that may be naïve. I’ve got absolutely no points of reference. But tactically, do we want him to have this information just as we’re launching what we hope will be game-changing protests and the occupation?”
“Game-changing?”
“Well, we are Facebooking and Tweeting with hundreds of followers. Go to #blackwoodforever. You’ll see. “
“Hmm, Katherine. Me following something on Twitter is as likely as me dressing up as Jasper Morse on Federal Street tomorrow night.”
“You are one dedicated Luddite, aren’t you?”
“I choose to stay away from social media but, unlike Ned Ludd, I’ll not be wrecking their machinery.”
“Good. We need all those geeky connections.”
“When do you plan to release information about Morse to the media?”
Katherine pauses a moment, seeming to parse her words carefully. “After our steering committee meeting broke up this afternoon, Lara came to me. She is understandably the most frazzled and has the most to lose in Blackwood. She doesn’t want Professor Shesky to know of her involvement. By rights, she should be running the show, not me. In any event, she advised, how shall I say? That I promise the president that we will refrain from talking to the press about what we know for, say, twenty-four hours to allow him and his administration time to check our facts. She thinks I should issue that as an ultimatum.”
“By gory, things are sure coming to a head.”
