It was going on all over the place: introductions.
He checked his pamphlet. In ten minutes' time there will be an introduction of guests. Peter walked off to the side of the hall where he saw Silva Goodall standing by himself. The man didn’t look anything like a celebrity.
“Peter.”
“Silva.” Peter raised his glass. “Cheers. How come you are alone here?”
“Look around you, all these people know is high living and making money. I’m just a professor.”
Peter shook his head in mock agreement. “The pollution.”
“Tell me about it.” Silva put his empty glass on a tray that hovered past. “Say, rotten luck with your expedition. Sorry I couldn’t give you support.”
Peter shrugged. It was typical of Goodall to be open with his faults. Peter liked that about the man. Yet, he thought Goodall was a sissy.
“All you had to do was raise your hand up, you know, and vote for the academics.”
Goodall hissed, “You know how it is with Ted Cooper. He hated being crossed.”
Peter shrugged again. The MC went up the stage where the band was playing. He took a wireless microphone and coughed into it. He opened white teeth and showed them to all. Peter didn’t know him. The man looked English. He called for silence.
“Good evening all…”
—
Ted Cooper finally sauntered onto the red carpet with a girl twice as young as him. The girl hung from his elbow like a handbag. She was pretty, probably twenty-three.
He nodded at Peter Williams, eyed his clothes and shoes, decided Peter passed his test, then he gave him his hand to shake.
Peter took it with a smile.
“Looking good, Ted.” Peter looked at the girl. “And who’s the lady, Ted?”
Upon closer inspection, the girl looked like a bulimic. Her clothing hid most of the indication. Black hair, bone-white skin, and eyes the color of a fish belly. Peter wanted to ask if Ted could descend lower.
“This is Carolyn,” Ted said.
“Hello, Carolyn, do you have a surname?”
“Nice to meet you, Professor,” she said through clenched teeth. “Are you having a good time?”
“I sure am.”
Pleased with the girl's performance, Ted smiled and nodded at Peter. He dragged his girl away. Peter cussed Ted. “Prick.”
Someone patted him on the back. When Peter turned around he was looking at the bearded, tanned face of one of the men who had been honored tonight. Peter could not recall his name.
“Professor Peter Williams?”
“Yes, I am.”
They shook hands. The man had straight brown hair that was oiled and combed back. His beard was well trimmed; it bordered his thin lips making him look like Doctor Strange. His eyes were brown and soft, like a grandfather’s.
“Can we get some air, Professor?”
Peter nodded. Of course they could.
—
It was airy on the small, private balcony on the topmost floor of Baughman Center. Stars spangled the black skies, lights sparkled across the city. The balcony was only wide enough for about four people at once.
They had come up a flight of stairs, had seen Barry Dutch on their way up. The dean had raised his brows when he saw Peter’s companion and had given him a thumbs-up.
Peter couldn’t have been more confused.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” asked the man.
Not sure what he meant, the heavens or the city below, Peter said, “Sure is.”
“My name is Frank Miller.”
Peter glanced at the man sharply. “The billionaire?”
“Yes, that one.”
Miller smiled. He rubbed his beard. “I decided to change my look, to confuse the journalists a little bit. They hound me.”
Peter shook his head in wonder. Frank Miller had appeared on the front page of Forbes five times now. He was excessively rich, and elusive. He did everything he could to stay out of the news. The tan was perhaps part of the disguise. He had been given three awards by the university tonight alone.
Peter snickered. “You are really going to donate 100 billion to the school?”
He looked at Peter. “Yes, why not?”
There was an accent but Peter couldn’t place it. Miller suppressed it somehow.
The man continued. “I’m all for great causes, Professor. For example, I would like to support and finance your expedition.”
It was like being punched in the gut. Peter turned his face sharply. The man’s brown eyes held his. His lips formed a determined line on his face.
“How did you know about that?” Peter whispered.
“I understand that the committee in charge denied you the funds. Well, I find the case interesting. Harald Kruger was indeed a patient fellow, God bless his soul. I am making sure that the Baker Home gets more funding too. In fact”—he made a fist—“I have placed all the seniors on a weekly allowance, those there presently and those to come.”
Peter sighed, his thoughts wild with possibilities.
“I know what must be known, Professor Williams. I know you have documents—ones I understand were taken from your office not long ago—and I assure you that is not me. I don’t steal what isn’t mine. Everything I have I worked for. But I can help. Let me help. Olivia Newton and the sheriff, Tom Garcia, would agree.”
First, he felt relief—then anger at the man beside him.
“You’ve been following me? You’ve been following us? How do I know you didn’t kill Harald Kruger? You can’t just go about following people around!”
He raised his hand again.
“Please, be calm. I mean no harm. I’m a powerful man and if I want you harmed I have better ways of achieving it. As I have said, none of those was my doing. I simply want to help—”
“Why?”
Frank Miller was quiet for a moment, but his eyes never left Peter’s face and they remained mild. Though Peter thought he saw something else in them that he could not name at the time.
“Let’s just say I have my reasons, professor Williams. And I’m willing to make the expedition comfortable for you in any way.” Miller leaned closer. “If my information serves me right, you don’t have much time left.”
Peter started. “What are you talking about?”
Miller hesitated before saying, “You are not the only one who knows Harald Kruger’s secret, Professor Williams.”
Flushed with hot anger anew, Peter gazed out towards the city. He was supposed to be happy but he wasn’t. Maybe Olivia could come up with something about Frank Miller’s motive.
Motive was everything. It drove him crazy now that this wealthy man knew so much, had the money to knock him and Olivia off the trail. Feelings of insecurity roused in Peter.
Finally, Peter said, “Alright, I’ll have to think about it.”
“Here.” Miller showed Peter a small card. “Call the number on the card tomorrow. That’s my direct line. And Professor, time is of the essence.”
Frank Miller smiled for the first time. He showed a crooked tooth. He left Peter on the balcony.
—
Peter Williams left the ball early. He ran into Barry Dutch once more as he walked down the stairs. The dean was with a few fat men in expensive suits. Two of them were Asians, wealthy and imperious men.
Barry was doing what he had to do. The faculty needed money, the dean could convince millions out of the pockets of these men.
The dean pulled his hand as he went past the group.
“Hey, Peter, what’s going on? You know who that is, right?”
Peter said he did. “I have to go, Barry.”
“Yeah, what did Miller want? Did he say anything about the Lamar Project? Did you tell him?”
“Yeah,” Peter lied.
“Good boy. You just might get your expedition next time, you know.”
Peter gave the man a sour look. Barry quickly reverted to his group of prospective investors.
—
>
He called Olivia’s phone. It rang continuously for almost a minute before her hoarse voice came on.
“Olivia, hey.”
“It’s late, Professor. Humans have to sleep.”
“We got the expedition.”
Peter felt Olivia’s exciting movement. Her voice became clearer. “Say again!”
“We are back on track, Olivia. But I have to—”
“How did that happen?”
“It’s a long story, I’d like to tell you about it over lunch tomorrow—”
“A date?”
“What? I’m—”
“Deal.”
Peter shook his head in wonder. He said, “I have to get more information from our financier tomorrow before seeing you, okay.”
Olivia was up now, bright-eyed, he imagined. And she was barely holding back from the array of questions that were on her lips.
Peter said, “Tomorrow.” And hung up.
—
The white business card had a border of gold and green. On one side the name Frank Miller was written in gold. Below that was a telephone number.
Peter dialed it.
There were no pleasantries.
Frank Miller’s voice was as fresh as the night before.
“A car will be in the street to pick you up in ten minutes,” he said.
There was a click.
He knows my place, Peter mused. He tapped the business card on the table.
So he was going to Antarctica after all.
—
A black Mercedes was waiting for him when he went down. A dark-suited guy in black sunglasses opened the back door. Peter nodded at the guy who looked more like a CIA agent than a chauffeur.
“Well, this is very subtle,” Peter said to him.
The car joined the traffic on its way towards Miami's financial district.
—
Frank Miller’s office was large enough for three medium-sized families to live in comfortably.
Miller was on the phone at a smaller desk, in an outer office. He raised a finger at Peter. He finished his conversation, looked at Peter briefly before inviting him into his big office.
The carpet was so thick, Peter dug his shoes in it, just to make sure it was real Oriental. Everything in there was made of mahogany, it seemed. Miller’s desk was the size of four billiard tables, shiny with polish.
He looked like a king behind it when he sat in his high-backed chair.
“Please sit, Professor Williams.”
He flicked his wrist to dismiss the chauffeur.
“You have come to a decision?”
“Yes, I have. And I have a condition.”
“Tell me, what is it?” Miller placed the tips of his hands together on the table.
“Olivia Newton comes with me.”
Miller shrugged. He stared at Peter, waiting.
“That’s all,” Peter said.
“Good, I have conditions of mine, Professor. I will do all I have promised, and more, if you let me chose members of the team that will go with you. Of course, the journalist comes with you. What do you say?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I don’t kid, Professor Williams.”
Peter’s suspicion that this man had something to hide nagged at him. He had yet to meet a really altruistic billionaire. They didn’t get to have all that wealth by giving it away. It infuriated him more that Frank Miller had some hidden agenda.
If Peter refused this new clause in the proposition, he risked losing his expedition and, of course, his own academic advancement. He pictured himself in the papers, the man who discovered Hitler’s secret lab. There was no telling what this expedition would do to his entire career. Any chance to shit on Ted Cooper and the rest of them who thought he wasn’t worth his onions.
“It’s just a simple request, Professor,” Miller persuaded.
“Okay, as long as Olivia Newton is on the team.”
Miller smacked the top of the table. “Deal.”
He rose and went around the table. “We must begin preparations then. I will put together the team right away.”
At the door, Frank Miller called him. “Professor?”
Peter turned around, some anger still in his eyes.
“I’d prefer if we keep this matter private. Of course, you would want to let Ms. Olivia Newton know about our discussion. You understand?”
“Crystal.”
PART 2
1
She was the only journalist in the group, and the only one who had been bereaved. They stared at her as though she was a rare species. The initial embarrassment of being gawked at this way had worn off after the first session in the Pundit Alcoholics Anonymous that was held in the basement of the psychology department at the University of Florida.
It had two sessions per week. They had a register and Olivia must sign in every time she came down here.
It was one of the conditions of her reengagement with the Miami Daily. Rob Cohen had emphatically told her this was all she could get.
“Well, everyone, it is sad to let you all know that Ms. Olivia is sitting here for the very last time,” said Phil, an Italian and an albino.
“Ms. Olivia is going away on vacation and won’t be back with us, hopefully, for a long time. Let’s give her a round of applause.”
A spattering of clapping rang in the basement. It was a big place. The wall was fading green and riddled with the subterranean plumbing of the building. Sometimes it smelled of the detritus from up there, at other times the place simply smelled of the members.
Today it smelled of sewer.
The circle of embattled men and women dealing with alcoholism stared at Olivia.
“Do you wanna say something to us, Olivia?”
She brushed the hair out of her face, smiled shyly, and said she’d like to in a voice as tiny as the confidence she had in AA meetings. The pretense had become so tiring and torturous.
“Yes, um, I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past two weeks since I’ve been coming here…”
And on she droned.
Ten minutes later she was in the parking lot, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare and waiting for Tom Garcia. Tom’s Jeep rolled in. It was dusty from the ride in.
“Hop in, we don’t have much time,” Tom said.
Olivia opened a small flask and drank from it.
“How’s the healing process coming?”
Olivia raised the flask. “We are healing fast and efficiently, sir.”
Tom laughed.
“Come on, the professor is waiting. We have thirty minutes to get to the airport.”
Olivia looked in the back seat. “You got my stuff?”
“Yeah, got your stuff. Seatbelt, please.”
Olivia strapped in.
—
Peter Williams was waiting at the Fort Lauderdale airport. It was windy. The sun was high and the brightness was blinding. But Olivia felt good to be rid of the company-imposed AA meetings and going on, what felt like, a vacation.
Tom helped her carry her small luggage from the back of the car.
She stopped in her tracks. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a jet, Olivia.”
“Holy Christ, I never flew in one of those before.”
Peter Williams's grinning face appeared at the door of the aircraft. He waved Olivia over. Tom ran ahead of her.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Peter greeted pleasantly.
Tom smiled. “You take care of her, okay.”
“I can take care of myself,” Olivia yelled over the howl of the wind.
The men shared amused glances.
The engines screamed to life as she went in. A guy in chauffeur clothes appeared from inside the aircraft and pulled the door shut.
Seated and belted in, Olivia breathed. “Chile, here we come.”
Olivia waved at Tom through the window.
Tom watched the aircraft take off before he got into his car and rode back to th
e city.
Olivia, on her part, looked out the window. She wondered what awaited them in Antarctica. All those ice and frozen packs floating on the sea. She had been reading up on the terrain.
She particularly wanted to see the animals, the polar bears, and the seals. She hoped they’d find what they were searching for and get back soon. She had sent off another email to Rob Cohen that morning, thanking him for giving her another chance.
Rob hadn’t replied. Rob wanted exclusive direction over her work out there. But she didn’t come out of everything she’d been through to lick ass again.
She was going to get her own exclusive. Whether Miami Daily wants it or not. When the story busts, she imagined she would be in the market for the highest bidder. Olivia smiled at her approaching fortune.
—
Hours later, Santiago pulled up before her. Through her window she could see the everlasting blue of the Pacific Ocean, the humps of the Andes hemming the city all around.
She looked at Peter. “You sure they have an airport down there?”
Peter laughed. “My thoughts too when I first saw it.”
“So you’ve been here before?”
“Yeah, once anyway,” he demurred. “It was for a South American summit on culture and textiles. The connection between what we wear and everything else about us, you know.”
Olivia didn’t know. She just wanted some of the beaches she saw from up there.
—
A small contingent of black-suited men were waiting at the airport when they landed. They took Olivia and Peter’s baggage without a word, and put them in the back of a waiting limousine.
Olivia made a face at Peter. The professor shrugged his ignorance.
“This Miller guy, you trust him?”
“No.”
“Good. Cos I don’t.”
—
The limousine drove through narrow streets filled with shops and a babble of Spanish that Olivia found exotic. Soon they were driving through a more urban district; palm-lined plazas, neoclassical cathedrals, and deep blue rivers with yachts.
“Where are we going now?” Olivia asked Peter.
“We are meeting the crew, I guess.”
Hunt for the Holy Grail Page 8
