Rising Phoenix

by Kyle Mills

  The room looked like something out of a 1950s gangster movie. It was a simple small cube. A sink stood in the corner with a large painted pitcher teetering on its edge. There was no television,- the furniture consisted only of the bed, a lamp resting on a night-stand, and a broken wooden chair sitting next to the window.

  Glancing at his watch, Hobart saw that he had a few hours before his meeting. He hated to take a nap—it always seemed to prolong jet lag—but he decided that he should stay sharp. It would probably be impossible to sleep anyway. The disguise he was wearing had been driving him crazy since he put it on. Effective, though. It was getting so he didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

  A gray wig of nearly shoulder-length hair adorned his head and was tied back in a neat ponytail. The full beard was a bit darker. The proprietor of the costume store had insisted that no one ever had a perfectly matched beard.

  He wore wire-rimmed glasses with clear glass, and beneath them his eyes were tinted green by contacts. Having perfect vision, he’d never had to deal with contacts before. So far they had been more trouble than they were probably worth.

  The disguise was completed by a tan corduroy jacket covering a reddish wool sweater and well-worn jeans. It was a bit stereotypical, but he doubted that his new associate would notice. It seemed that the Europeans looked at Americans as one stereotype or another anyway. They seemed disappointed when they saw one that didn’t fit their categories.

  Hobart awoke to the sound of knocking on his door accompanied by a comically accented voice. “Yoo hoo. Professor Stapleton—are you asleeping?”

  He had never actually spoken with Lech Orloski on the phone, but the voice was exactly what he had expected.

  Hobart had located the man on the Internet through a loosely knit group devoted to exotic mushrooms. The strange and elaborate subcultures that inhabited the world never ceased to amaze him. There seemed to be a club, organization, or magazine built around every subject imaginable.

  When Manion had first suggested using orellanin, Hobart had been concerned about the complexity of gathering the mushrooms. In the end it had been simple. His Internet search had no potential to expose his true identity, and all communications, until now, had been carried out by computer.

  Hobart had simply e-mailed Orloski as to the type of mushroom that he was interested in and the fact that he needed about a ton. This had produced more than a few questions, but he had managed to answer them to the Pole’s satisfaction.

  Orloski had, of course, been familiar with this particular type of fungus and had e-mailed Hobart that it would be a simple matter to collect them. He had even arranged for a shipping method that would bypass U.S. customs. That last little service had cost plenty.

  Hobart swung his stockinged feet off the bed and walked quickly to the door, effecting a scholarly stoop in his shoulders. He opened it to find Orloski just as he had pictured him—tall, round, and with an enormous beard spilling across his chest.

  “Professor!” the Pole cried as the door opened. “It is so good to finally see your face!” He grabbed Hobart’s shoulders and kissed him hard on both cheeks.

  Hobart took a step backward when the Pole released him, still trying to shake the gauze out of his brain. “It’s good to finally meet you, too, Mr. Orloski.”

  “Please, call me Lech. My car awaits. Are you ready?”

  Hobart grabbed his shoes and coat off the floor and motioned toward the door.

  The wind was blowing with surprising force, making it necessary for Orloski to put his full weight behind opening the front door of the hotel. He held it long enough for Hobart to slip through, and then made for a tiny European car illegally parked in front of the hotel. Hobart watched the man pour himself into the car and expand into the limited space inside. When Orloski was down to one leg outside the vehicle, Hobart jogged around to the passenger side. His diminutive stature benefited him occasionally, and this was definitely one of those times. Orloski’s bulk spilled over the console between the seats, and Hobart found himself sandwiched between the Pole’s fleshy shoulder and the car door, the handle of which had settled uncomfortably into his ribs.

  “Are you comfortable?” Orloski’s tone suggested that the car was a Rolls. The pained look on his passenger’s face seemed to escape him.

  “Oh, sure, Lech. Just fine.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Armed with the knowledge that his client was happy, Orloski jumped on the gas and sent the small car hurtling into traffic. He took the long route through the city, detouring around endless traffic circles and pointing out historically significant sights by the dozens. He would get halfway through a dissertation on one landmark when another would appear. The prior story was instantly forgotten as he began a half lecture on the next. This went on for about an hour before they broke out of the city and into the rolling countryside.

  The wind that had been blowing in Warsaw grew stronger, unhampered by the narrow streets and sturdy stone buildings. The gentle rocking of the car and Orloski’s habit of racing up behind other vehicles and slamming on his brakes was making Hobart queasy. He concentrated on the mist-covered landscape and ignored his host’s dissertation on Polish family life and the sad history of his ancestors.

  After about forty-five minutes, they passed a large group of peasants collected on the top of a windy knoll to their right. They walked bent at the waist, reaping phantom crops from the scrub that blanketed this part of Poland. Orloski changed subjects without taking a breath.

  “There are your mushrooms.” A fat finger pointed to the slowly circling peasants, almost touching the glass of the passenger-side window. He swung the car carefully onto a muddy side road and stopped. Throwing the door open, he began the laborious project of getting out. He had to hurry to catch Hobart, who had started immediately up the road toward the center of activity. Orloski was breathing heavily as he pulled alongside.

  “I found this place a few days after we spoke,” he said between gasps. “The man who owns the land allowed us to pick the mushrooms for a small fee. In fact, I believe that I hired some of his family to help.” Orloski scanned the distant men and women intently, trying to pick out one of the owner’s family members. Not interested in meeting anyone else in Poland, Hobart changed the subject.

  “How many people do you have working here?”

  “Oh, quite a few. I would guess around fifty. You needed the mushrooms so quickly, you know. I think I am employing nearly every person over ten and under seventy from Takestek.

  “Takestek?”

  “A nearby village. The citizens are very happy to work for the fair wage I pay them.”

  Hobart wondered what he considered a fair wage. A dollar a day? Less?

  As they crested the hill, Hobart could clearly see the workers’ path. In front of the brightly dressed peasants, the mushrooms grew surprisingly thick. Behind them lay a smooth brown-green carpet of grass. About fifty yards ahead, an old flatbed truck was parked in the middle of the muddy road. A young man in jeans and knee-high rubber boots was picking through a pile of mushrooms at his feet.

  He looked up from his task briefly, catching a glimpse of Orloski. He waved .and stepped carefully around the pile. They met halfway and the boy, who looked much younger close-up, kissed the Pole on both cheeks and then offered his hand to Hobart.

  “This is my eldest son, Paul. Paul, I’d like you to meet Dr. Stapleton.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” His English was only lightly accented.

  They walked side by side back to the truck, listening intently to Paul’s status report.

  “I believe that we have about the amount you asked for in the truck, but we have paid the workers until three o’clock, so I thought we’d keep going until then. I assume that you won’t mind a few extra kilos?” He looked at Hobart, obviously expecting a show of gratitude for his extra work. Going above and beyond for a customer wasn’t a concept that had taken Poland by storm.

  “That would be fanta
stic,” Hobart gushed. “The more of these I can get, the more people I can help.”

  Hobart had told Orloski that the mushrooms were part of a research project at the University of North Carolina Medical School. The mushrooms, he had said, contained a chemical that could be helpful in treating cancer.

  “How much longer?” Orloski asked.

  “It’s two-fifteen now—forty-five minutes.”

  “Would you like to inspect them now or wait until Paul is done?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that I want to inspect them at all,” Hobart said. “I’m a chemist, not a botanist. That’s why I hired the foremost expert in Eastern Europe.”

  Orloski swelled with pride. “Let’s return to my car, then. I have a bottle there that will help keep this damp chill away.”

  Hobart’s second drink, and Orloski’s fifth, was interrupted by a shout from Paul. The large pile of mushrooms in front of him had dwindled to nothing, and the workers had straightened up and were walking slowly across the field. Back to their village, Hobart assumed. The two men walked quickly up to Paul and the truck.

  “All ready,” he announced. The mushrooms had been sealed into six large wooden crates that were tied securely to the back of the truck.

  “Wonderful! Dr. Stapleton and I will be taking the truck to the docks so that they, can be shipped out immediately. Very perishable, must hurry.”

  Paul nodded knowingly, and took the keys offered by his father. After a short good-bye, he ran down the hill and sped off in the little car that had brought them there.

  Lech pointed to the open door of the driver’s side. “After you.” Hobart looked at him with a confused expression. “The passenger’s side door doesn’t open, I’m afraid,” Orloski explained.

  Hobart surveyed the truck skeptically. It looked as if it had been welded together from spare parts. Rust had eaten away the bottom of the body, which now seemed to float magically above the chassis. All in all, though, it looked a hell of a lot safer than the go-cart they had arrived in, so he climbed aboard. Orloski followed, having some trouble getting himself into the elevated cab. The whiskey hadn’t improved his limited mobility.

  With a loud grinding noise, they were off. The truck swayed down the mud and gravel road and onto the highway. Orloski pressed the accelerator to the floor, increasing their speed to the truck’s maximum of forty. It seemed too fast.

  “There haven’t been any problems with the shipping arrangements, I hope,” Hobart said.

  “Of course not. Everything has been taken care of.”

  Hobart nodded gravely. “Normally, I would never ask your help on something like this. It’s just that U.S. Customs can be so unreasonable sometimes. I’m afraid that your mushrooms might sit in quarantine forever before they release them. If they begin to rot and lose their potency, my experiment will be ruined.”

  The first indication that they were approaching their destination was the smell. The fragrant dampness of the Polish countryside began to fade, replaced by the stench of industry. A cloud of smog on the horizon closely followed the noxious odor, and Orloski started into an animated history about the small river port that was their destination.

  The city lacked the hustle of Warsaw. It also lacked the architecture and recent renovation. It was a town of abandoned houses, cracked concrete, and most of all a pervading stink that seeped into every crevice of the old truck. Occasionally a small child could be seen playing in a large pile of bricks or rolling an old tire. Mostly, though, the streets were empty. Orloski pointed the truck down a desolate road leading to the docks. His speech on the history of the area had ended somewhere in the 1600s. He seemed to have no interest in the city as it existed in the present. Hobart was thankful for the silence.

  “Here we are,” Orloski announced, parking the truck next to a group of wooden crates with large red lettering on all sides. Docked at the end of the pier was a smallish gray-and-white freighter. Rust began at the decks and sprayed out over the sides as though someone had dumped brown paint from the edge.

  “Please wait here, I’ll be back in a moment,” Orloski said, sliding out of the cab and hurrying across the dock to a small knot of men huddled near the ship. He disappeared into the middle of the group. About five minutes later, he reemerged with one of the men in tow and hurried back to the car.

  His companion was enormous—well over six feet tall, with heavily tattooed forearms that looked as thick as telephone poles.

  Hobart jumped out of the cab, relieved to nearly be done with this phase of the operation.

  “John, I’d like you to meet Mikhail. He is the man I told you about.”

  Hobart offered his hand, but Mikhail just stared down at him. It appeared that he was waiting for Hobart to speak.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mikhail. I understand that you can help expedite my shipment’s arrival in the U.S.” Orloski translated as he spoke. Mikhail listened intently and replied in Polish.

  “Mikhail would like to know where you would like your shipment delivered.”

  “Norfolk, Virginia.”

  This needed no translation. The man nodded slowly and spoke directly to Orloski.

  “He says that there is quite a bit of Naval activity in that area, making his job more difficult. It will cost you another five thousand dollars.” Orloski looked apologetic.

  Hobart knew that he was being played. Aircraft carriers were not in the business of stopping freighters to look for illegal produce shipments. If there was any additional expense, it was the result of his translator taking a healthy cut of the proceeds.

  He was not inclined to generate any ill will by haggling over insignificant amounts of money. It was critical that the product reach the U.S. More important, Hobart wanted Orloski happy. The FBI would undoubtedly be speaking with him in the coming months, and the happier he was now, the more forgetful he might be then.

  “That seems fair, Lech, but there is something I need to know,” Hobart said in a serious tone.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your friend here is reliable, right? You know how important my research is.”

  Orloski looked insulted. “Of course he is! I personally guarantee their safe arrival.”

  Hobart considered himself a good judge of character—a near prodigy, in fact. Orloski would skim as much as he could, but he would deliver. In fact, if he had it to do over again, he would have never made a physical appearance in Poland.

  The shipping arrangements had been a difficult decision. Hobart had originally considered taking the mushrooms into the U.S. legally. In the end, though, he had decided that the added scrutiny was a risk he’d rather not take. His passport was good, but he wasn’t anxious to subject himself to any undue attention from customs or any other government agency. While smuggling carried its own risks, they weren’t resting on his shoulders.

  “When can I expect my crates to arrive in Norfolk?”

  As Lech translated, Mikhail produced a full-sized clipboard from behind his back. His brow creased with concentration as he silently ran a finger down the grease-streaked papers.

  “December fifth,” Orloski translated.

  “Fine. I have traveler’s checks amounting to three thousand dollars with me. I’ll give him the other two upon delivery.” Lech looked doubtful, but translated as Hobart spoke.

  Mikhail shook his head furiously. He and Orloski argued for almost five minutes in Polish. Mikhail seemed to be winning.

  “Lech,” Hobart broke in. “Tell him that he gets an additional three thousand if they’re on time.”

  Orloski smiled and started in on their heated conversation again, every once in a while shooting a glance in Hobart’s direction. Finally the debate ended and Mikhail yelled something to the group of men behind him. For a moment Hobart thought that they were going to be physically thrown off the dock.

  “He has agreed to your terms,” Orloski said happily. “It wasn’t easy, but I finally convinced him that you are an upstanding member of the American a
cademic community. You would be surprised at Mikhail’s respect for higher learning.”

  The group of men hurried past them and began pulling the crates off the truck.

  “Mikhail would like to know where he can reach you.”

  “He can’t. I’m going to be on the road for the next month,” Hobart lied, leaning against the truck. “I was hoping that I could stay in touch with you, and you could let me know when my assistant should meet the ship.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged,” Orloski replied. “We’ll discuss it on the ride home. And you can describe to me what it is like to live in North Carolina—I hear it is a wonderful place.”

  Hobart walked toward the truck, glancing back one last time at the crates being moved across the dock. Leaving them there with no receipts, not even a handshake, was tying his stomach in knots.

  Hobart snatched his last suitcase off the conveyor and headed toward the glass facade of the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He started to jog as he passed through the automatic doors, his heavy luggage throwing him slightly off balance. The plane had been almost an hour late arriving, having sat on the runway in New York for what seemed like a lifetime. Bob Swenson was expecting to meet him in ten minutes.

  He gunned his Jeep up 295, and in fifteen minutes was only a few miles from the warehouse. It had been nearly two weeks and five thousand miles since he’d left his hunting cabin. It felt like two years.

  As he pulled up to the rented warehouse in Canton, little had changed. The only noticeable difference in the building was the new front and loading dock doors, and the tasteful but sturdy-looking bars on the first-floor windows. Venetian blinds had been installed inside, and were closed.

  He jumped out of the car and walked up to the new front door. A small metal box, painted the color of brick, was discreetly bolted to the door frame. He rapped on the door. Swenson let him in almost immediately.

  The outer office had been completely renovated. A fresh coat of white paint covered the walls. Two antique sofas sat on plush beige carpeting. A small tree grew in the corner, enjoying the light filtering through the blinds.