by Dan Alatorre
Dad always cracked his window so the cigarette fumes would escape as he drove. The smoke obeyed, too, curling upwards from the glowing tip of the cigarette and dancing in the sunlight before getting sucked out near the side view mirror. But the smell lingered anyway, and the children all got plenty of second-hand smoke during the long drives. When they jumped into the pool at the Holiday Inn that night, their young faces would turn up and frown as the water unlocked the smoke smell from their hair and ran it down their cheeks.
She wore her hair down to her butt back then, so hers smelled the most. But they were kids. They didn’t know any better. Children don’t know about the dangers of the world, and they aren’t supposed to.
Children.
She stared at the picture. “Children are a precious gift—of constant worry,” a friend had joked a few weeks after her oldest was born. “Welcome to parenthood.”
Sleepless nights filled with feedings, or diaper interruptions in the middle of dinner, those were nothing compared to worrying if the baby’s reflux was preventing her medicines from fully being digested, or waking up every hour to see if her fever had subsided. After the divorce—she married too young, to her high school sweetheart—it was just the two of them, a young mother and her daughter, and the bond between them grew, but the concerns multiplied. Worrying if she was growing fast enough, learning to ice skate as well as the other kids in her class, worrying about good grades and making friends at school and talking to boys. When life dealt her a good turn and she was able to go back to school, she still worried about her baby. About teaching her to drive and calling before curfew and applying to colleges and getting a good job out of school.
A gift of constant worry? It wasn’t so. The worry ends.
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. A few more minutes.
She took another puff, the tip of the cigarette glowing. Closing her eyes, she eased her head into the soft leather seat and blew the smoke out, letting it fill the car.
The face from the picture smiled in her mind, growing from toddler to adult in the blink of an eye, but she used to play and laugh with her two young brothers. The three children were close, as siblings should be. Loving.
The picture was the last one taken with all three together. Her babies. She couldn’t bear to look at the more recent pictures that displayed only two of her children. That wasn’t fair, she knew, but the pain was still too much. Too intense. Too raw. Pain like that never goes away. A parent learns to live with it, but it’s always there, raising its volume occasionally to stab at the heart and break it all over again.
The other two said they understood, and they did. They shared the loss. But they didn’t really. Not as fully as she did. They couldn’t, at their age.
Another look at the clock. How much time should she let pass? She allowed herself fifteen minutes for smoke breaks, at mid-morning, to establish the pattern. But today she sat in the car past the allotted time. The cold weather seemed too refreshing to pass on, so she stubbed out her cigarette and cracked the window, allowing the icy breeze to float through the car.
She hated smoking. But habits are habits.
As she slid the picture back into her wallet, the voice of Dr. Hauser came to her. She hadn’t noticed him pull in; normally Marcus would have been there hours ago. In the corner of the garage, he and another man spoke, with a man and a woman nearby, watching.
Their conversation was quiet from that distance, but the words carried through the concrete garage. They were too far away to hear everything, but she could hear enough.
All she saw was the face of her daughter, the oldest, smiling from the photo. The last photo she had of her family together.
She slid down in her seat and listened as the men spoke.
Killing a child is a terrible thing. Threatening to kill the other two surviving children will get most parents to agree to anything.
For a while.
Then the hands of fate work their magic. Fighters gotta fight, and she was a fighter. If she hadn’t been one before, she became a fighter after her daughter’s murder.
The death of a child will do that, too. Especially when you got the kid a job at your company.
The conversation ended. The old man limped across the parking garage, pounding the concrete with his cane. The noise echoed through the cold, still morning like shots being fired at a gun range.
When he was gone, she sat for a while, staring at the clock and wondering how long to wait before she entered the Angelus Genetics headquarters building. Five minutes more, maybe ten. Or possibly she’d run an errand to pretend she hadn’t been sitting in the parking lot at all.
Ten minutes might not even be enough, but Dr. Marcus Hauser was a very important, very busy man. He wouldn’t be sitting in the lobby watching for her, and she wouldn’t mention where she’d taken her break. No one would ask, but if they did, maybe she could say she walked around outside for a few minutes. She’d done that before on cold days. No one would question it.
Ten minutes, then, and a short walk after. That should do it.
It took an eternity for the ten minutes to pass, but when they did, she got out of her car and exited the far side of the garage, away from the spot with the sign that said “Reserved for the Chairman of the Board, Angelus Genetics.”
She circled around to approach the front doors from the other side, as if she’d been walking. Simple and effective.
The wind picked up, tossing her hair, her heels clicking and clacking over the hard sidewalk. Drawing a deep breath, she approached the big glass doors and checked her reflection. Normal, and yet nothing of the sort. Not anymore. Not for a long time now—Hauser had seen to that. But she was functional, performing her job as before to all eyes who cared to watch, and that’s what mattered.
Pretending to be a smoker so she could escape the corporate walls and covertly pass information along to others about the illegal side of Angelus Genetics, that was simply a habit created of necessity, and had been for quite some time.
One does what one must.
She pulled the heavy door open and stepped inside, smiling at the receptionist. The young man in the headset smiled back, then punched a button on the phone console and waved at her.
“You have a call on line three, Dr. Carerra.”
Chapter 24
The jet had barely touched down at the Ngurah Rai airport before the agents were up and moving. The man seated in front of DeShear stood and stretched. “Time to put on our party dresses for the big dance.”
The door opened and the humidity of the island swept into the plane, like entering a bathroom during someone else’s shower. A United States Marine Lieutenant in khaki green camo gear boarded the jet. He matched the image on his phone to the woman standing in front of him. “Welcome to Bali, Bureau Chief Madison. I don’t know how much local interaction you and your people will have, but the fine people of Indonesia primarily speak Indonesian—although many speak decent English. Be advised, fair skin and American accents will stick out. Enjoy your lunch, and good luck.”
The Lieutenant left the plane, followed by the agents. DeShear and Lanaya exited last, with Camilla.
“You two stay with the team.” Camilla put on her sunglasses. “The other agents will be landing in a moment. I need to rendezvous with a representative of the Indonesian government.”
DeShear squinted in the bright light, holding a hand up to shield his eyes. On the shadeless airfield, the sun was hotter than a summer swamp. “You meeting anybody I’d have heard of?”
Camilla scrolled through pages of maps on her phone. “Dina Wulan, special assistant to the prime minister.”
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
“Her.”
A Mercedes limo approached, flying the red and white flag of Indonesia from the side of its hood. A Marine waved to Camilla as he led several people toward the vehicle.
“Looks like this might be her now,” Camilla said. “I’ll see you two back at the hangar.”<
br />
DeShear followed the agents from his plane across the scorching tarmac to the Delta hangar as another Cessna jet pulled up. A small jet landed on the runway behind them.
“Hamilton,” Lanaya hurried her pace to stay next to him, looking around the airfield. “Are you the least bit nervous?”
“I’m definitely a little out of my element.” He spoke loudly, to be heard over the whine of the jet engines. “But that’s not unusual in my line of work. How are you holding up?”
“Oh, very nervous.” She rubbed her arms like she was chilly. “Death threats tend to do that to me.”
He stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be okay while we’re with these guys.” He pointed to the group of agents assembling in the hangar. “Focus on what Camilla told us. When we get to the lab, it’ll be our job to notice what’s out of place.”
“She said that was my job.”
“I get to help you.” He smiled, patting her shoulder. “We’re a team.”
The hangar was hot and stuffy, but it offered a way to get out of the blazing sun. DeShear wiped his brow, glancing around. Dust blew in from every hole and crack in the aging airplane garage. Across the runways, the trees of the thick jungle swayed in the breeze.
Folding tables and chairs had been set up to allow the team members to eat. DeShear approached a table where a Marine laid out small bags. “Are these any good?”
“Best chow in the world, sir.”
“Really?”
“Yes sir. Much better than dog chow or cat chow—but it’s still chow.”
“People chow, huh? Great.” He took two of the rectangular bags from the young man. The next table offered unchilled bottles of water. He grabbed two and took a seat next to Lanaya, handing her a bottle and an MRE. “Lunch is served.”
A woman in camouflage approached them. “Ms. Kim?”
“Yes,” Lanaya said.
“These are for you.” She handed Lanaya an large manila envelope. “From Bureau Chief Madison.”
“Thank you.” Lanaya opened the envelope and pulled out a set of blueprints. “It’s the plans for the Angelus Genetics lab here, dated from before they left Arizona. I bet they didn’t stick to these.”
“Maybe not,” DeShear said. “But we can get some current satellite images and see what’s changed. Let’s have a look at your laptop.”
A Marine captain in green fatigues called out from the front of the hangar. “Listen up. The buses for Bureau Chief Madison and her teams will report in five. Be ready to move.”
DeShear waved at him. “Captain, we need wifi.”
“Hot spot in the rear office, sir. But we still leave in five.”
“Got it.” DeShear stood, turning to Lanaya. “Let’s see if we can get an overview image of the facility and take screen shots to review it on the bus. Maybe load it into my phone if we get a chance, too.”
The IRS agents remained seated, studying spreadsheets on their laptops, while a crowd of FBI people gathered near the hangar exit.
“Come on.” Lanaya stood. “We’d better hurry up and find that hot spot.”
* * * * *
The Mercedes stretch limo cruised around the perimeter of the airport. Inside, a small woman in a dark gray business suit extended her hand to Camilla. “Ms. Madison. It is very nice to meet you. I trust our accommodations have been satisfactory so far.”
“Yes, madam assistant director.” Camilla shook hands and settled back into her seat. “The IRS is very grateful for the cooperation of your government, and the Vice President sends his regards.”
“Ah, yes.” The assistant nodded. “A good golfer, your Vice President. It must have been very difficult to lose to the Prime Minister, without appearing to do so, the last time they played.”
“Well,” Camilla said. “Our Vice President was once a diplomat, ma’am.”
“I see.” She folded her petite hands in her lap. “Can you tell me what your plans are for your stay? I understand you brought many people with guns. The country of Indonesia does not want trouble with our friend the United States.”
“Of course not. We are only here to conduct an audit.”
“Does an audit require so many people and weapons? Our friends to the north are nervous about so many jets landing. It almost appears to be an advance team before an invasion.”
Camilla took a deep breath. “Those concerns are understandable. In this case, we need to move fast, but we fear the subject of the audit, a U. S. company, may object to our presence and offer some resistance. We intend to make an impression with a show of strength to them, nothing more.” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I was told your government was informed of all this.”
“Sometimes things have a way of changing. In my position, it’s best to keep informed. You are planning quite a show, as you say.”
The car stopped. The uniformed driver got out and opened Camilla’s door.
“I will relay your words to our Prime Minister,” the assistant said. “Do your best to see that the show of strength remains a show only. Indonesia does not want a war.”
Chapter 25
As his escort vehicle bounced its way along the road to the genetics lab, Dr. Hauser’s phone rang. He checked the screen but didn’t answer, scowling at the driver instead. “Can you find any more potholes to hit? Don’t you people know how to pave a road?”
Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Dr. Hauser pressed a button on the phone and held it to his ear. “Dina, how are you?”
“Welcome again to Indonesia, my friend. All of Bali welcomes you. Was your flight enjoyable?”
“I’m afraid not. These old bones don’t travel as well as they used to.”
“A pity,” Dina said. “Perhaps a visit to one of our many waterfalls will renew you, Doctor. Some are said to contain the powers of magical healing. Remember, the one in Nungnung is not far from your facility.”
“You tell me every time I come. The pictures look beautiful—a giant river that takes a long, steep drop into a vast pool, surrounded by lush tropical foliage. Very pretty.”
“And magical. People write their problem on a piece of wood from the pala tree and throw it in the river, because whatever goes over the falls is never seen again.”
“But it’s still located in the hills at the end of a long footpath, right?” He stared at his cane. “And ever since I’ve taken to needing a walking stick, places like that will remain a longer jaunt than I care for. Maybe you can arrange a tour of it for one of my next trips. We can ride in one of those military helicopters my company convinced Uncle Sam to give you.”
“Excellent suggestion, Doctor.”
A low-hanging palm tree branch slapped the side of the car as it passed. “I understand you’ve had some other American visitors arrive today, Dina. What of our friends?”
“A Miss Madison of the IRS has landed. She brings many agents from FBI and ATF. Many small jets, with big jets coming. We are, of course, concerned. We value our relationship with all of our friends—the American government, and of course our generous business friends who bring jobs to this country.”
Hauser frowned, raising his voice. “The IRS is trying to embarrass me and my executives to our shareholders. Well, I have a small army arriving at ten A. M. tomorrow.” He jabbed the car seat with his index finger. “Then we’ll see this Miss Madison and her little band of bookworms tuck their tails between their legs and run home.”
“Please choose your pejoratives carefully, Doctor. Words such as ‘army’ are very distressing for the people I report to. Indonesia does not want a war.”
“Figure of speech.” The doctor leaned back, tugging his linen guayabera shirt to send puffs of air across his chest. “I simply mean I have a business to run, and I don’t need distractions like this. I’m sure your boss understands.”
“My superior reads words in American newspapers like the New York Times, that tell the world Indonesia is still a semi-dictatorship, and that your company is engaged in illegal a
ctivities here. Of course, we both know neither of these things are true, and that your IRS will not find anything at your facility to the contrary.”
“You have my word. News reports are merely a pack of lies and gossip, written by morons hoping to get a Pulitzer prize. Whoever can embarrass the biggest fish, wins. We should do it like you, with more government control of the press. Then nothing would get out that we don’t want out.”
“Of course, Indonesia has a free press now, Doctor.”
“Uh huh. But either way, tomorrow morning, my ar—my set of auditors—will land. And shortly after that, a speedy resolution of these unpleasantries will occur.”
“Do you expect Miss Madison’s people to wait? We were told—”
“I don’t care what they do.” Hauser dabbed his upper lip with the handkerchief. “I’ll stall them with presentations about our operation and its vast importance to the world of science, but a bunch of number crunchers won’t have the technical expertise to begin to understand the intricacies of the genetic selection process. Following the presentation is a fancy reception and dinner at the Viceroy. I want to appear friendly and cooperative, but perhaps you could arrange for the power at their hotel to go out, so there’s no air conditioning and they can’t sleep. Cranky auditors tend to want to go home quickly.” He chuckled. “But either way, their report will end up saying whatever we want.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Oh, we have plenty of friends in Washington, as we do here. We can get an IRS report slow-walked to the point that a snail would look speedy by comparison. Maybe even bog it down until a new administration gets elected. One that’s more open-minded about our operations.”
“As always, you have thought of everything, Dr. Hauser.”
“Glad I could offer you and the people of Indonesia a lesson in strategic planning, Dina. Feel free to come to the dinner tonight. It should be quite elaborate by third world dictatorship standards.”
