Marc introduced Ann Marie and Laura.
“So nice to meet y’all. This is quite an accomplishment for Jake and I’m sure y’all are very proud of him.”
Laura started to interject, but the man raised his hand. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but we’re short on time. If you’d all be so kind, please follow me.”
When they arrived back at the eighteenth hole, Marc noticed the three top finishers were already standing behind a table that had been set up at the center of the green. The table held three trophies and a large gold cup.
Marc noticed the event’s emcee was also the Club president and a long-time member. Using a microphone, the president thanked the gallery for their support, then proclaimed in a rich voice laced with an educated Georgian accent, “Ladies and gentlemen, the tournament is complete, and we have a winner!” One by one, he introduced the third and second place finishers, then the winner of the tournament. Lastly, he introduced Jake as the Low Amateur Champion of the event. There were handshakes all around. Afterwards, a group photo was taken of the four men together.
The Club President hinted at the prospect of “some very special guests,” who would be assisting in awarding the champions’ trophies.
This announcement resulted in a low hum of “ooh’s” followed with muted applause.
The president continued, “But first, as is tradition at the Savannah River Golf Links, it is my honor to present the low amateur winner of this year’s Monarch Golf Championship, Mr. Jake McKay of Ontario, Canada.” He went to the table holding the trophies and grabbed the golden cup, raised it over his head, and with theatrical poise, presented it to Jake. This brought a polite, if not a subdued round of applause from the gallery. There were also a few shouts of “Oh Canada” from the crowd.
Nice to see that a few Canucks made the trip, Marc mused.
The President/emcee stood next to Jake as the club’s photographer snapped a few photos of the two with Jake holding the cup up with both hands. He then motioned for Marc, Laura and Ann Marie to come for a group photo, guiding them to stand on either side of himself and Jake as the photographer captured another shot.
“We’re always happy to see our friends from north of the border. Isn’t that right folks?”, the Club President announced to the crowd. This elicited another polite round of applause.
The President brought the group in for a huddle, and in hushed tones, said, “If you would be so kind as to exit back toward the scoring tent, that way you won’t have to fight the crowd. Congratulations again, and thanks for coming.”
Holding his arm out toward the exit, he announced, “Folks, how about another round of applause for this year’s amateur champion.”
Jake and Marc waved to the applauding gallery as they led Laura and Ann Marie between the two lines of yellow ropes.
Making their retreat toward the scoring tent, Marc noticed more uniformed security officers lined up along the ropes on both sides of the path.
“Wow, this is quite a send-off for being the low amateur,” Jake said.
“I doubt this security is for us,” Marc said.
When they arrived near the scoring tent, a husky young man in a suit and tie ushered the four of them off to one side. “Sorry folks, U.S. Secret Service. If you could please hold still for a moment.” Just then, Marc saw a cadre of security officers dressed in black suits and ties, equipped with mirrored sunglasses, earpieces and red lapel pins leave the scorer’s tent and move past them back toward the green. In the center of the group, Marc recognized a white-haired gentleman dressed in smart golf attire walking with another man, the apparent mystery guests the Club President had alluded to earlier.
“Who the hell was that?” Laura asked.
“I believe one of them was the U.S. Secretary of State,” Marc said.
“Yeah, so why’s he here? He a big fan or something?”
“It’s called politics, playing to the crowd,” Marc said, thinking back to the conversation he had with Sammy, the shoeshine guy he’d met at the club three days before. “From what I understand, he’s in the area for a meeting at the Savannah River Site. Something about a collaborative agreement with the Israeli government. But I don’t know who the other guy is. Let’s hang around a few minutes and see what’s going on.”
“Dad, I’m bushed. Would you mind if Jake and I head back to the SUV? We’ll wait for you there.”
Figuring his daughter really wanted to be alone with Jake, Marc handed her the keys, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Dad, really?” she said, rolling her eyes. She then turned toward the parking lot holding Jake’s free hand. His other hand held the cup he had just won.
Marc and Laura turned their attention back to the Club President’s announcement. “Before we get started with the presentations of the winners, we have not one, but two, very distinguished guests on hand who hardly need introduction. First is our own U.S. Secretary of State, and, as an added surprise, we also have the Prime Minister of Israel.”
This statement was followed by a roar of approval from the gallery. There were also a few shouts of “Mazel Tov.”
The Secretary of State was introduced, and said a few words of appreciation to the course committee for inviting him. After a brief explanation of what brought the men to the course, he returned the microphone to the Club President.
“Well, this is quite a surprise,” Laura said. “It’s one thing to have your Secretary of State on hand, but quite another for the Prime Minister of Israel to attend. Just seems a little unusual for a golf tournament though, don’t you think?”
“Makes sense, in a way. I believe they’re both in town for the nuclear collaboration agreement out at the Site. Looking at it from their point of view, why not take advantage of a photo-op at the tournament? Kind of a twofer for both men, I’d say,”
Laura and Marc listened as the Club President started to speak. “Mr. Prime Minister, it’s an honor to have you visit us and we want to wish you a warm welcome to the Savannah River Golf Links and the Monarch Golf Tournament. Would you like to say a few words?”
Marc heard microphone noises as it was passed from one man to the other, then the sound of heavy breathing. The old guy apparently hadn’t quite recovered from the brisk walk to the green.
“Thank you for that kind invitation. As some of you may know, I am here in the United States to participate in our country’s first nuclear collaboration with the U.S. government at the Savannah River Site. However, upon learning that our own Eli Cohen had finished in the top ten at this, the prestigious Monarch Golf Tournament, and being the first Israeli to do so, I could not pass up the opportunity to be on hand to congratulate him for this achievement. As you know, the sport of golf in Israel is just getting started, and with Eli’s performance these last four days, I am hoping that Israeli players will be a force in the PGA in the years to come. Mr. Eli Cohen, would you please come to the center of the green?”
Marc heard the galleries’ approval of this announcement with polite applause. There were more rustling noises as the microphone was passed to Cohen. Just then however, Marc heard a few shouts, then a scream from someone in the gallery. Somebody yelled, “It’s the sprinklers!”
“Marc, what the hell is going on down there?” Laura asked.
Mixed in with the colorful golf shirts of those in the gallery, Marc detected a faint yellow haze begin to billow up from the area around the green.
Again, there were more rustling noises from the microphone.
“Sorry folks, we seem to have a problem with the sprinkler system,” the emcee was saying when he too began coughing uncontrollably.
The sounds of people coughing and gagging increased. The huge gallery began to move in a wave, slowly at first, then Marc could see people running and stumbling, attempting to get away from the eighteenth green.
Marc caught a whiff of something peculiar. It smelled like bleach.
“Chlorine gas,” Marc whispered.
“Mar
c, did you say something?” Laura asked.
“Someone’s piping chlorine gas through the sprinkler system. Those people have to get upwind, it’s their only chance. Get to the SUV and get the kids off the course!”
Marc removed his handkerchief from his back pocket and soaked it in his cup of beer, then quickly wrung it out.
“Marc what are you doing? Laura asked.
Ignoring Laura’s question, Marc covered his nose with the handkerchief and started off in the direction of the green. “Get the kids back to Aiken, I’ll see you there,” Marc shouted over his shoulder as he ran.
Chapter Seventeen
Heading down the slope toward the green, Marc ran headlong into the crowd of spectators trying to escape the gas. Above the tide of screaming patrons, he sensed a distant thumping that seemed strangely familiar. After successfully dodging the onslaught, Marc arrived at the backside of a set of bleachers set up next to the green. Although his eyes were stinging from the gas, he was able to make out the shape of a large wind fan that had been stored under the bleachers. Marc knew fans were used to keep the bentgrass greens from overheating and figured the fan had been stored there for that purpose.
Afraid the effects of the gas could soon overtake him, he frantically searched for a way to activate the fan in an attempt to blow the gas away. Masked by the screams and shouts of the fleeing gallery, the persistent thumping sound continued to occupy a corner of his mind.
Could be the effects of my beer-soaked handkerchief, or the chlorine.
Then the air around him began to swirl, slowly at first. The thumping grew steadily louder as discarded brochures, paper cups, sandwich wrappings—anything that wasn’t tied down—flew past. As the noise intensified, Marc saw the table that had been set up to hold the winners’ trophies, the speakers, the microphone and wires that just moments before were used to announce the tournament winners, had been caught up in the wind’s swirl. He felt he was in the center of a tornado.
Golf spectators, attempting to flee the now dissipating gas, were running in all directions, many holding onto their caps and sunhats, a few successfully. But, with the swirling winds, the cloud of offending gas appeared to dissipate. Wiping away more tears, Marc glanced upwards toward the noise. Although his eyes were burning, he could make out the now familiar sight of the green Sea King helicopter, the one that he suspected had transported the Secretary of State to the airfield earlier in the day.
Shielding his eyes from the wind and flying debris caused by the helicopter’s rotary downwash, he glanced toward the center of the green where the club’s president had addressed the throng of spectators moments before. The green was now empty, save for the figure of a man lying motionless in its center along with another man who looked to be attending to him. Marc ran to where the body lay and instantly recognized the fallen man. It was the Israeli Prime Minister. He recalled that the short walk to the green had left him labored moments before the gas attack. Marc recognized the man with the PM was a member of his security team. The air around the green became calmer as the helicopter continued to move away, back toward the fairway.
Marc knelt next to the man. “Can he get up?” Marc yelled over the noise of the helicopter.
“He’s been overcome by the gas,” the security man replied. “He has chronic COPD. We need to get him to a hospital. I found a pulse, but it’s weak.”
Marc pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed 911. There was no answer, only a recorded message indicating there were no operators available.
Calls for help at the golf course had overloaded the system.
Marc glanced upward again. The helicopter had moved well away from the green and was hovering over the fairway. He stood and ran toward the aircraft. Waving both arms, he frantically motioned for the pilot to land the helicopter.
It seemed to take the pilot a few moments to translate Marc’s intentions before the craft slowly descended. Shortly after it landed, a side door opened and a short flight of steps unfolded, extending to the fairway. One of the crewmen met Marc at the bottom of the steps.
“What the hell’s happened?” The crewman asked, apparently unaware of the cause of the melee.
“There’s been a gas attack. The Israeli Prime Minister is down!” Marc yelled over the noise of the helicopter’s engine and pointed to the man lying on green. “He’s having serious respiratory problems and needs immediate medical attention. We need to get him to the hospital, now.”
The crewman, using his helmet intercom, relayed the information to the pilot. Marc could see one of the men behind the controls signal that he had received the message. A moment later, another crewman carried a stretcher down the helicopter’s stairway.
Laying the stretcher next to the stricken diplomat, Marc, the security man and a crewman lifted the still unconscious Prime Minister onto it and secured him with tie-down straps.
As the Prime Minister was being lifted into the helicopter, two more men dressed in suits and dark sunglasses came to where Marc was standing. Both wore ear buds and were holding their handkerchiefs over their noses. Judging by the bulge under their jackets, Marc guessed they were armed.
“Where are you taking him?” One of the men asked through his handkerchief.
“Doctors Hospital. They have a helipad close by,” the security man replied.
“You with the Secret Service?” Marc asked.
The suited man glanced at Marc, and behind his darkened sunglasses, seemed to notice him for the first time, “State Department Security. Who are you?”
“Nobody, just a bystander trying to help,” Marc answered.
He watched as another serviceman appeared at the helicopter’s door. The stretcher was hoisted up, then pulled inside. The Prime Minister’s security man followed the stretcher into the helicopter. A few seconds later, the stairs folded back and the craft lifted off.
Marc and the remaining security men ducked and turned to shield their faces from the swirling wind and debris caused by the downwash.
Shortly after the craft had left and the noise dissipated, the State Department Security man approached Marc again and asked for some ID.
Marc reached in his back pocket and produced his New York State Police retirement ID and shield.
“Little out of your territory, aren’t you, Mister LaRose?” He compared Marc’s face to the photo on his ID.
“My daughter’s boyfriend was playing in today’s tournament.”
The man returned Marc’s ID. “So, what the hell happened?”
“We were watching the awards ceremonies from the top of that knoll,” Marc said, pointing to where he had been standing just a few minutes before. “The Club’s President had just introduced Eli Cohen, an Israeli player who played and finished in the top ten. About then I saw a yellowish cloud coming from the sprinkler heads around the green. I believe it was chlorine gas. That’s when people started feeling its effects. Many panicked and ran. Luckily that helicopter was close by, or things could have been much worse.”
“Actually, the helicopter’s stop here was pre-planned. The Prime Minister and the Secretary of State were scheduled to mark the U.S./Israeli coalition at the Savannah River Site. But I doubt that’s going to happen now.”
Although the gas had mostly dissipated, the distant sound of the receding helicopter could not mask the coughing and gagging of the golf fans still in the area.
“Yeah, it looks like a lot of things aren’t going to happen now,” Marc said.
The agent gave Marc his card. “We may need to talk with you some more. You staying in the area?
“We’re at the Rose Hill in Aiken, but we plan on heading back to upstate New York tomorrow.”
“What’s your cell number?”
Marc gave the agent his business card. The agent entered the number into his cell. “We need to get to the hospital and check on the PM’s condition. We’ll be in touch.”
With that, the two agents left, heading back the way they’d come.
; Suddenly, Marc was standing alone in the middle of the green, where just moments before, a grand ceremony had taken place, followed by what appeared to have been a terrorist attack.
He wiped the remaining tears from his eyes.
Nothing more to do here. I better go find Laura and the kids.
As he turned to leave, he saw Bill Goodspeed pull up in the course maintenance vehicle and stop next to a sprinkler head that just minutes before had emitted the cloud of noxious gas. Goodspeed appeared haggard as he got off the cart. He pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and covered his nose. Getting down on his knees he commenced to inspect the offending sprinkler.
Marc went to where Goodspeed was kneeling. “Bill, what happened?”
“Beats the fuck out of me. I was dealing with that sprinkler back in the fairway,” he said, motioning toward the area where Teddy Doubles’ ball had plugged, “and just like that, I saw all hell break loose. Somehow the sprinklers around the eighteenth green were activated, not by me, or anyone else working here.”
“Okay, so how do you think chlorine gas got into the irrigation system?” Marc asked.
Goodspeed coughed. “Can we talk somewhere else? I have to get away from here. This gas is nauseating.”
Marc got in the maintenance vehicle’s passenger seat. “Let’s go upwind.” He pointed toward the eighteenth hole tee box.
Goodspeed turned the vehicle into the wind and stopped a couple hundred yards away. He scratched his head and looked down the fairway at the now empty green. “To answer your question, we use injectors to regulate the flow of fertilizer to each area of the golf course. The only thing I can come up with is someone tampered with one of the underground tanks that feeds that green, replacing the fertilizer with something else.”
“Yeah, chlorine and acid,” Marc replied. “I believe that’s the combination that produces chlorine gas.”
Goodspeed seemed to think about Marc’s words. “Now that you mention it, I remember one of the tanks feeding this green was replaced recently.”
Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery Page 15
