DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  Immediately after surgery Kate had been in the intensive care unit at Georgetown University Hospital. Four days later her doctors had her transferred to hospice where she died a few days after that.

  Before her accident Kate had been an Assistant Professor of history at Georgetown University. When she died it left a hole in me I could not begin to fill.

  Today was special. It was Kate’s birthday and the last time I would visit her. I couldn’t presume what she would have thought, but I would have liked to believe she would have understood.

  Kate’s grave was at the top of a knoll overlooking a tiered hillside that overflowed with flowers in the spring and summer. I stood silently beside her grave for some time, watching the snow drifting down, my thoughts distant and unfocused. From my coat pocket I withdrew the birthday gift I had bought for her more than a year before. A leather bound copy of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall still in its birthday wrapping of blue balloons and yellow candles. Gibbon’s had been a favorite of hers and I had planned giving it to her after her surgery when we would celebrate her birthday together. I stood there in the sanctity of that place, oblivious to the passage of time.

  Before I left I laid her present beside her headstone in the snow. I knew these gestures were for the living. The dead are beyond knowing.

  As I made my way back to the parking area giant snowflakes were floating like parachutes in the still air. Ahead of me the horizon had disappeared, blending indistinguishably with the sky. There is something tranquil about snowfall. It absorbs sound and limits your visual perception, encouraging introspection. If it hadn’t been an impediment to my driving I would have found solace in it.

  Chapter 7

  PRINCE ALI BEN BERUDI

  Portsmouth, United Kingdom

  It was nearly six PM when thirty-one year old, British educated crown prince Ali Ben Berudi turned his black metallic Bugatti Veyron onto one of the narrow concrete piers within the Port of South Hampton. Barely depressing the accelerator the Bugatti rocketed past the grey and brown warehouses, making them a blur of shapes and shades of gray silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Seated beside him the copper skinned woman moved her supple legs against the Bugatti’s Napa leather seat, her body flexing in near sensual delight.

  In the predawn darkness Ali felt a tingle of excitement as he watched the lighted dials on the dashboard register each facet of the turbo charged engine’s performance. Expertly easing through the gears he could feel the power of the Bugatti’s thousand horsepower engine pulsing through the gearshift.

  Nearing the end of the pier Ali tapped the silicon carbide breaks and the car immediately decelerated without loosing traction. Drawing on his memory he turned into the open bay of a large but empty warehouse, parking in one of several open spaces beneath a second story office. With the copper-skinned woman following closely behind he quickly climbed the long wooden staircase leading up to a dimly lit office overlooking fifty thousand square feet of commercial freight storage.

  In the office well-worn blinds had been dropped and closed against any potential exposure of the seven people gathered there. In the center of the room was a long, oval shaped table around which sat six swarthy men in their early twenties speaking rapidly in Arabic. Tall and athletically built the men dressed in expensive leather jackets and designer blue jeans. Large gold watches and gold rings adorned their wrists and fingers while gold chains hung from their necks. The men spoke heatedly, leaning forward and gesticulating wildly with their hands and bodies to give emphasis to their assertions.

  Seated quietly at the far end of the table clearly separated by both distance and culture was a heavyset and overtly uncomfortable man in his mid fifties. In contrast to the others his skin was pale, almost pink, his hair prematurely grey and thinning. He wore a dark suit a full size too small for his girth and white shirt accented by a bright blue bowtie. Wire-rimmed glasses with unusually thick lenses sat slightly forward on his aquiline nose.

  As Ali entered the room the men immediately quieted and almost in unison rose respectfully from their chairs to greet the crown prince. The rotund heavy set man whose back was to the door twisted awkwardly in his chair to see who had entered the room. Recognizing Ali his entire body visibly relaxed and his face broke out in a broad smile of relief.

  Clumsily he pushed himself away from the table and stumbled to his feet, awkwardly extending his arm in a vain attempt to shake the crown prince’s hand. Ali, ignoring the hand that had been thrust toward him signaled the others to be seated.

  “Basimah,” he said signaling to the woman who had accompanied him. “Please escort Mister Porter into the next room and keep him company while I speak with the others.” Basimah smiled, nodded and moved quickly to the disheveled man, taking him firmly by the elbow and leading him from the room.

  Taking a position at one end of the table nearest the entrance Ali stood for a moment taking note of each of the men in the room. Slowly, almost reverently Ali began to speak in his native Arabic.

  “The Western Nations are advancing in their efforts to develop renewable energy,” he began in a slow but deliberate cadence. “There will come a time when, inevitably technology will have found alternatives to fossil fuels. When that day arrives the Emirates will have already transformed our economies. But that day cannot be today. We must do what is necessary to postpone that day until we have developed the necessary infrastructure to replace the bounty Allah has bestowed upon us.”

  Ali stopped here to assess the impact of his words. When he was satisfied he held their undivided attention he continued.

  “For decades Western influences have poisoned our culture,” he began again, his voice rising slightly. “But we are not pawns to be manipulated in a game of geopolitical power, nor subjected to the fortunes of new technological innovation. We will never return to the lifestyle of nomads wandering the desert wastelands, our existence dependent on the vicissitudes of nature.”

  The men’s faces were taunt, their expressions pregnant with anticipation, their eyes glued to him. When he felt he had raised them to a state of euphoric expectation he continued.

  “Tomorrow evening a flaw will be introduced into a series of complex procedures that will result in a systemic failure in the containment vessel of the Tokomak. It will explode and controlled thermonuclear fusion will once again be relegated to the status of science fiction. In the aftermath investigations will reveal nothing more than a procedural error was at fault but by then alternative paths of scientific inquiry will have gained support.”

  Studying the faces of the men gathered in front of him he noted slight but definite signs of uneasiness.

  “You have concerns?” Ali inquired, sensing the tension within the group. There was a long silence before the young prince from Qatar spoke up.

  “We have brought a non-believer into our midst,” he began sternly. “His motives are impure, material and unreliable. What if he looses his nerve in the aftermath of the experiment’s failure or worse, looses his courage before?” The prince protested. “What if he makes a spectacle of his newfound wealth and draws attention to himself? How can we be certain he can be trusted?” Ali noted the men around the table nodding in agreement. He had anticipated this though he had hoped to avoid so public a confrontation.

  “We had little choice but to include Doctor Porter in our plans. You all know it would have been impossible to implement the changes we have made without his taking notice and raising difficult questions. We need his cooperation and his continued silence. Let us not forget he has a great deal at stake. If he goes to the authorities he would be disgraced, possibly imprisoned and certainly forfeit his newly acquired wealth. If he remains silent while the experiment is deemed an unfortunate but not entirely unexpected failure he gains a fortune, retains his bourgeois reputation and retires to the Cote D’Azur where he will undoubtedly attempt to squeeze his ample though colorless body into tiny red bikini.”

  The image of the Englishman in a bikini seemed to
ease the tense atmosphere just as Ali had intended. With the exception of the prince from Qatar the men appeared satisfied.

  Ali knew the prince by reputation as volatile and unpredictable but also brilliant if audacious theoretician. Like the others he was dark and handsome, charismatic and possessed with an extraordinary gift of persuasion.

  Ali realized the prince could be a formidable obstacle to his plans if he did not move quickly to neutralize him. Yet this was neither the time nor the place to air their differences.

  Only after he was confident the prince’s objections had gained no traction with the group did Ali signal and end to their meeting.

  “You all know the plan. When the warning claxon sounds you are all to exit the building immediately. Do not wait for others and do not attempt to assist others. Their fate is in the hands of Allah. You will clear the building and move as quickly as you can away from the premises. Our calculations are not exact but you will have approximately seven minutes to clear the building. The blast radius is quite large so you must be at least a quarter mile from the facility before it explodes. This will be a conventional explosion and we expect no radiation leakage.” A quick survey of their faces assured Ali they were all in agreement.

  “We have our mission,” Ali concluded, signaling an end to the meeting. “God willing we will succeed,” he concluded with a traditional tribute to Allah.

  Excited to be on the cusp of their great undertaking the men rose from their chairs, embraced one another and began filing out of the room heading downstairs to an assortment of luxury vehicles.

  As soon as the last member of the group had departed Ali directed Basimah to bring the Englishman back into the conference room. When Doctor Porter reappeared he seemed confused and ill at ease as he was led back into the room. Noting the others had departed he breathed a sigh of relief. The young Arabs made him decidedly uncomfortable, especially in this setting.

  Though his anxiety had been considerably reduced he did not take his seat as before but rather stood uncomfortably beside Ali, occasionally casting furtive glances at Basimah of whom he seemed genuinely fearful.

  “Please forgive my rudeness Mister Porter,” Ali offered in his most soothing and diplomatic tone. “Your contribution is of great value to us and it was not our intention to make you feel it were otherwise.”

  “I am putting my life at risk Ali,” Porter complained bitterly. “I wouldn’t have expected such shabby treatment from colleagues let alone friends,” he added indignantly. Ali held back a derisive smile at the Englishman’s contention of friendship.

  “Let us not forget you are being handsomely rewarded for your contribution Mister Porter,” Ali admonished him gently. “The five million pounds we have deposited in a numbered Swiss account for you is a considerable testament to that friendship is it not?”

  Ali was eyeing Porter intently, searching for any sign the Englishman was wavering in his commitment to their mission. Porter looked over at Ali, his eyes wide with fright.

  “Of course, of course,” he protested effusively, rivers of nervous sweat flowing freely down his plump cheeks. Ali held up a hand to silence him.

  “We have gone too extraordinary lengths to insure tomorrow’s failure will be attributed to a flawed theoretical miscalculation,” he admonished the lab’s chief physicist. “The experiment will be deemed a failure and so discredit the current path of scientific inquiry that alternative paths to fusion energy will be sought. It may be a decade before the scientific community returns to this line of inquiry.” Ali ended his scolding as this much was already known to the Englishman.

  What Ali Ben Berudi did not share with either the Englishman or his young acolytes was the Emirates’ intention to privately fund and advance fusion technology in secret as soon as the current line of inquiry was abandoned. The young physicists would form the core of this effort to be implemented somewhere in the UAE.

  “Mister Porter,” Ali continued, holding the Englishman in his cold and unwavering gaze. “Do I have reason to be concerned about your commitment to tomorrow evenings events?” The Englishman visibly wilted under Ali’s intent gaze.

  “No, of course not,” he answered quickly, holding his hands palm upward in an unconscious gesture of supplication. “I am confident the facility will be so damaged as to render it unusable.”

  “Do not grow overconfident doctor,” Ali chided him, aware the Englishman was ignorant of the extent of the damage their alterations to the equipment would cause.

  Porter, grateful for what appeared to be an end of their discussion breathed a sigh of relief. He was extremely nervous in this unfamiliar setting and when Ali dismissed him he was only too happy to be back in his car heading home to a late dinner at his favorite restaurant. Soon he would be able to dispense with his mundane lifestyle and enjoy all the benefits that fabulous wealth could bring a man of his eclectic sensibilities.

  Chapter 8

  DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Chantilly, Virginia

  At five PM my three o’clock flight out of Dulles International to Heathrow had been sitting on the tarmac for two hours waiting for flight clearance. The storm over Washington had caused most flights to be cancelled or placed on hold. My flight had been one of the lucky ones, or so I had thought.

  A frigid rain splattered against the small porthole on my left where it quickly froze into a slushy mass before sliding down the side of the aircraft. Outside on the tarmac a deicing truck sprayed chemicals over the jet’s wings and fuselage in an effort to retard the persistent accumulation of ice on the aircraft’s aluminum skin. Off in the distance a winter’s accumulation of dirty white snow was piled high on either side of the runways.

  Sitting idle on the tarmac the jet’s idling engines could not generate enough power to adequately power all of the aircraft’s internal systems. To conserve energy the flight crew had dimmed the cabin lights and minimized the air recirculation system. In the fetid atmosphere I began to sweat. To make matters worse there was a bad smell coming through the aircraft’s ventilation system.

  Sometime after five PM the pilot announced he had received clearance to depart on our seven-hour flight to London. I eased back into the sparsely padded seat, feeling the vibration as the pilot throttled up the 747’s enormous engines.

  Minutes later the pilot slowly maneuvered the nearly five hundred ton aircraft onto the markers denoting the designated runway for departures. Slowly at first and then with surprising acceleration the aircraft plunged down the concrete runway into the darkness until, almost effortlessly the airplane’s giant wheels relinquished their grip on the earth and we were airborne.

  The flight from Chantilly to London took a little over seven hours. Just after seven AM London time the big jet’s wheels screeched down against the runway at Heathrow. The weather in London wasn’t an improvement over Washington. Outside the airport a thin fog hung in a frigid, dense air. Watery pastel sunlight filtered weakly through the mist giving the appearance of twilight.

  I managed to flag a black taxi giving the driver the name of the hotel where I was staying. He didn’t seem to need the address. The late departure and the long flight left me stiff and restless. I never slept well in flight. The seats were too small, the pressurized cabin made my headache and the constant recirculation of fetid air left me dehydrated.

  The ride into town was uneventful. The driver let me off directly in front of the hotel.

  My reservations were at the Savoy in downtown London. The hotel sat on the great sweep of the Thames in the heart of London, walking distance to the Houses of parliament, Covert Garden and the Royal Opera House. When the taxi dropped me in front a doorman dressed in traditional tails smiled broadly swinging open the heavy mahogany doors and tipping his bowler hat while greeting me by name. I was impressed with his knowing my name and immediately self-conscious of my rather pedestrian nylon travel case and well-worn computer bag.

  A quick look around the foyer established there were no traditional
check-in desks. I spotted what appeared to be a registration desk in a small room off to my left just to one side of the stairs leading up from the foyer.

  Before I could fully appreciate the polished mahogany paneling, marble columns and opulent crystal fountain centerpiece of the Savoy’s front hall a man in formal wear spirited up to me, and again greeting me by name ushered me into an elegant side room where a cart of assorted teas awaited and members of the hotel staff greeted me with almost royal deference.

  “Will there be any special requirements Mister Riley?” a young man in formal wear inquired. I had no idea what special requirements people usually had but I was certain I hand none.

  “No, thank you. No special requirements,” I answered politely.

  Despite the opulent atmosphere and the obvious fact guests of great wealth and power patronized the Savoy I had no sense the staff were in the least presumptuous. The mere fact I was a guest seemed enough to qualify me for status equivalent to that of any other guest.

  After I had signed the appropriate registration forms and surrendered my passport I was directed to the bank of elevators off the main hall leading up to the guest rooms. My suite was on the fourth floor and came with a balcony and a view of the Thames.

  The porter had placed my luggage on a small luggage rack in the entryway especially for that purpose. I zipped open my clothing bag and removed my suit jacket and pants thinking I would attempt hanging out the wrinkles before wearing it tomorrow evening.

  I needed a shower after ten hours of being stuck in sparsely padded chair with my knees jammed up against the metal backing of the seat in front of me.

  The bathroom was all marble and brass with a cavernous walk in shower appointed with chrome fittings and Miller Harris amenities. The showerhead came on like a deluge in a rain forest. It felt good washing off the accumulated grit and sweat of the past twenty-four hours.