The Liberty Intrigue

by Tom Grace

  Skimming through the satellite guide, Mike settled on The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

  “‘Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges!’” Mike quoted in a poor imitation of the infamous bandito.

  “Don’t quit your day job,” Jacob opined as he looked over his fishing lures.

  Mike turned on the small propane heater and set the temperature. It wasn’t enough to turn the igloo into a sauna, but it would keep his father comfortable. That was the trick with his father’s condition. Jacob Unden was a tough old bird—just not as tough as he once was.

  “Better get going if you want to get your ride in before the game.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Mike tugged his gloves back on. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Like you can hear me over your sled.”

  “Love you, Pa,” Mike said as he headed out the door.

  Jacob paused and waited for the sound of his son’s snowmobile. He heard the muffled thunder of the engine, the shift in pitch and volume as the sled quickly raced away.

  “I love you, too, son.”

  Jacob settled on a lure, tied his line, and baited the hook. The igloo had all the comforts of home, including a battered La-Z-Boy chair whose cushions fit Jacob’s body like a glove. Mounted to the floor beside the chair stood a rod holder. He dropped his line into the hole and set his rod.

  Too early to justify a beer, he poured a cup of black coffee from a Thermos and surveyed his tiny refuge. He enjoyed many fond memories of this place, including, he smiled, the conception of his son one January morning when the fish just weren’t biting.

  He walked over to the heater and warmed himself. Outside, a wispy trail of smoke rose out of the exhaust vent. Jacob set his coffee cup down on the counter and pulled a small screwdriver out of his tackle box. He gently loosened the screw on the crimp collar that held the heater’s flexible exhaust pipe in place by a half turn and slid the end of the pipe back. Immediately, he felt the hot exhaust leaking through the gap. Jacob put the screwdriver away, picked up his coffee cup, and settled into his chair.

  Around noon, Mike Unden drove his sled up to the igloo and parked. He’d enjoyed a great ride both on the trails and racing across open stretches of the lake. It was cold, but the wind was light under a perfectly blue Dakota sky. He slipped off his helmet and opened the outer door.

  “Hope you got that chili simmering, Pa, “’cause I’m hungry.”

  Mike did not smell the tangy aroma of his father’s four-alarm chili as he entered the igloo. In fact, he smelled nothing at all. His father sat slumped in his chair, head back, lifeless. Shards of a broken coffee cup lay on the plywood floor.

  Almost immediately, Mike felt he was having trouble breathing. His head spinning, he lunged back through the doors outside and drew in as much fresh air as his lungs could hold. After his mind cleared, he disconnected the propane tank to kill the heater. Then he dialed 911.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  COPPERHEAD, MONTANA

  Homer Hopps reclined in a leather club chair in the main hall of the ski lodge, warming himself by a roaring fire. At six-eight, his long, jean-clad legs stretched across the floor, ending in a pair of worn cowboy boots. With a vintage National guitar lying across his lap, he seemed lost in thought as he strummed a haunting melody.

  The lodge, with its stone floors and soaring timber vaults, had been designed to accommodate hundreds of skiers and snowboarders, though only a handful enjoyed its partially completed runs. Envisioned as a year-round resort destination, Copperhead had fallen victim to the faltering economy. And when financial assistance promised from the state failed to materialize, the dreams from which it was born evaporated in a spiral of default and foreclosure.

  Like the Torrances in Stephen King’s The Shining, Homer and his wife, Suzy, served as caretakers of the ill-fated resort. And both were thankful that no paranormal evil had taken root. Instead, the couple in their mid-fifties with children grown and gone had to deal with spiders, miners, and rogues.

  “It’s almost six,” Suzy announced.

  Homer looked up and smiled as his wife approached, firelight glinting off his round spectacles. His melody transitioned into George Harrison’s love song “Something.”

  Suzy bowed down and kissed Homer’s balding pate. A shoulder-length fringe tied back in a ponytail was all that remained of his once-lustrous head of hair.

  “Dinner’s ready, and you’ve got a long night ahead,” she said.

  “Call me a lot of things, my love, but never late for a meal.”

  Homer strummed a final flourish as he pulled himself vertical, then set the steel-body guitar back in its lined case. He unclipped a two-way radio from his belt and pressed the talk button.

  “Double-H to Captain America. You read me, cap’n? Over.”

  Up the mountain from the lodge, a small group of snowboarders reveled under the lights in the confines of their private half-pipe. Aside from the adjacent intermediate slope, it was Copperhead’s only functional downhill run.

  A boarder clad in arctic-white camo raced up the right side of the half-pipe, cleared the edge, and sailed into the air. In a fluid motion, the airborne body twisted into a 520-degree rotation and bent into a back-flip. Feeling the tug of gravity, the boarder spun upright and floated down the near-vertical side of the run.

  “Way to rock that Kassaroll, Captain America!” shouted another boarder from atop the halfpipe.

  Heart racing with adrenaline, Deb McColl responded with a howl and pumped her fists after successfully landing the trick. Her reverie was short-lived as a jolt of static crackled inside her star-spangled helmet and Homer Hopps’s voice filled her ears. She shot for the end of the pipe and slid to a stop.

  “Talk to me, Double-H,” McColl responded.

  “Soup’s on and it’s almost time to go to work. Round up your posse and head back to the ranch.”

  “Loud and clear, Double-H. See you in ten.”

  McColl signaled the rest of the boarders that this was their last run, then turned and headed down to the lodge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PALM BEACH, FLORIDA

  Ross Egan sat beneath a poolside pergola staring out at the Atlantic Ocean. Though it was a cool night by Florida standards and cold compared to Dutannuru, he sat comfortably in a pair of khakis and a golf shirt with a pullover windbreaker. In one hand, he swirled a fine California Syrah in a broad-bowled wineglass while the other held an exquisite Ramon Allones Gigante Double Corona. Modest waves crashed ashore in a predictable, soothing rhythm.

  “… and if he stays healthy, the Packers could make it to the Super Bowl,” Leon Egan opined. “Isn’t that right, son?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Ross replied, drawn out of his thoughts to answer his father.

  “That’s a stirring vote of confidence,” conservative talk radio host Garr Denby shot back as he flicked a long ash off the end of his cigar. He then turned to their host. “What do you think?”

  “The Pack has played well all year,” Burton Randell conceded, “but they had a relatively easy schedule. Carolina dropped a couple more games, but when they lost, it was either in the final seconds of regulation or in OT, and against a quality opponent. Any of those games could have gone their way. The Panthers are the most dangerous wild-card team I’ve seen in years.”

  Following an evening of good food and college bowl games, the gentlemanly quartet had retreated to the pergola to enjoy the waning hours of the year with good wine and cigars. To the west stood the Florida retreat of Maya Randell and her husband. The Raffles Hotel in Singapore, where the Randells enjoyed their twenty-fifth anniversary, served as the architectural inspiration for the colonial-style villa.

  Egan was there with his parents, Leon and Rhetta, who wintered in a condominium just up the coast, near Vero Beach. The Randells’ twin daughters were in Palm Beach with their husbands celebrating the arrival of the new year, their young children left in the capable hands of their doting grandparents.

  Ross’s
cell phone buzzed like an angry hornet. He glanced at the screen and smiled before he answered.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Mensah’s hearty laugh poured through the receiver. “You only have about seven more hours to say that. Then I will just be another old man in Dutannuru. I am calling to wish you a most happy New Year, my friend.”

  “And to you, as well. I was just thinking about you. How are things in the capital?”

  “The new year arrived five hours ago, and the celebration shows no sign of abating. I think it will just flow into today’s inaugural celebration.”

  “The people of Dutannuru have much to celebrate, not the least of which is your years of good stewardship. Today is the first time they’ve greeted a new year without the threat of war.”

  “Yes, this is a happy day,” Mensah said. “But also a busy one for me.”

  “I appreciate your call and I look forward to spending time with you after your return to private life.”

  “That will be good. I must go now, but I will see you soon.”

  “Can’t wait,” Ross replied.

  “If only it was our president,” Denby remarked sarcastically as Ross pocketed his phone. “I’d be out celebrating in the streets if I thought his last hours in office were ticking away.”

  “You’ve got another year before that happens,” Burton said, “and only if most of the voters feel as you do.”

  “Gallup and Rasmussen seem to think so, and my Arbitron numbers have never been higher,” Denby offered. “The mood of conservatives across the country is absolutely electric. The only problem is there’s no Reagan to galvanize it.” Denby turned to Egan. “Or somebody like your pal Mensah.”

  “I can guess how you feel about the President and Governor Lynn,” Ross said, “but what about the six Republicans?”

  “Vegas is having an easier time picking the Super Bowl winner than figuring the GOP nominee,” Denby replied. “There are two governors, an old senator, a quirky congresswoman, a four-star general, and a media billionaire. Any of ’em would be better than what we got now, but no one is a clear favorite. I read your book, and you would stand as good a chance as any of them, and better than most after what you did in Africa.”

  Maya stepped out onto the terrace and glided toward the four men.

  “The management of Raffles Palm Beach is sorry to inform you gentlemen that it is closing time at the Winston Churchill Bar,” she announced. “So if you are quite through discussing the state of the British Empire, it’s time to stub out those nasty cigars and come inside. The ball drops in five minutes.”

  In response, the quartet each took a final draw on their cigars and lofted four perfect rings of smoke into the air.

  “‘A woman is only a woman,’” Burton offered, “‘but a cigar is a smoke.’”

  “You can quote Kipling all you like,” Maya shot back at her husband, “but you better not have smoky lips if you expect to get some sugar at midnight.”

  Burton looked at his wife and the remnant of the Corona in his fingertips, and stubbed the cigar out.

  Homer Hopps stood in front of a large flat-screen television watching a band he could not name play live from an outdoor stage near New York’s Times Square. He tried to keep an open mind with regard to music but some trends in popular culture simply eluded him. He was the only person in the windowless meeting room watching the celebration. Deb McColl and the rest of her rogue programmers sat glued to laptops and workstations, young men and women fueled on energy drinks and salty junk food.

  “Go or no go time, people,” Hopps announced. “Con Ed?”

  “Go,” a twenty-two-year-old Cal Tech grad replied.

  “EMS?”

  “Go,” another rogue answered.

  “Network feeds?”

  “Go.”

  “Package?”

  McColl looked up from her screen at Hopps. “Go.”

  A devilish smile curled the ends of Hopps’s mouth. “All systems are go. On my mark, we are T-minus two minutes. And … mark.”

  “Where are the kids?” Leon asked as he sat on the couch beside his wife.

  “Camped out in the playroom. They held on as long as they could,” Rhetta explained, “but the last one nodded off about forty minutes ago.”

  They gathered in the den, an immense flat screen displaying the scene in Times Square. Despite the cold, a record crowd filled Broadway and the intersecting streets in the great annual tradition.

  “Ross, would you do the honors?” Maya asked as she handed out noisemakers.

  “My pleasure.”

  Ross gently twisted the cork from a bottle of Roederer Estate Brut and felt it release with a soft pop. He then filled six champagne flutes with the effervescent liquid and distributed them.

  “The ball’s dropping!” Rhetta said excitedly. “I love this part.”

  “… five … four … three … two … one …” they counted down with the crowd in New York City.

  At the stroke of midnight, Times Square went dark. The celebratory shout died in its first syllable as the mood shifted from joy to confusion.

  “What the hell,” the host of the program exclaimed before the network cut his microphone feed.

  Television cameras powered by stand-alone generators continued to broadcast the eerie scene of a packed Times Square plunged into darkness. Celebrants wearing illuminated necklaces and deely bobbers appeared like tiny fireflies flickering in the shadow.

  Calls from police officers to remain calm could be heard over the murmuring crowd.

  “I hope this isn’t …” Rhetta said, her voice quavering.

  “Power’s gone out, dear,” Leon reassured his wife. “That’s all.”

  The first seconds of the new year passed like an eternity. There was no panic, no sudden rush to flee the darkness, just a stillness of anticipation. The people in Times Square were waiting for a sign. And then it came.

  It started with the jumbotron screens that covered the Times building, then spread from screen to screen. A cryptic message:

  WHO IS I?

  “My God,” Denby roared. “It’s a college prank. Probably one of those egghead schools, like Stanford or MIT. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Maya replied.

  Burton set his champagne flute down on the bar and checked an incoming message on his cell phone.

  “But what does it mean?” Rhetta asked.

  “It means those brainy engineers flunked freshman English,” Denby answered sardonically.

  The conservative talk show host’s sharp humor was a clear sign of his relief that a tragic event was not unfolding. Instead, the Times Square blackout would provide a rich vein of humor for his next broadcast.

  The surreal scene continued for another thirty seconds before the messages disappeared. Then the lights of Times Square blared back on to full intensity and the LED illuminated ball completed its descent. Fireworks erupted from the rooftop and the celebration, somewhat subdued, resumed.

  “Whoever’s responsible for that stunt ought to be strung up,” Leon grumbled. “The memory of 9/11 is still too fresh for the folks in New York. Like when those idiots flew Air Force One low over the city just to take a picture of it.”

  “They blew what could have been a perfect PR moment,” Denby agreed. “Most of the people in New York City voted for the President, and his ham-handed staff goes and scares them half to death. If they’d gone public, they would have had thousands of people out cheering as the plane flew over.”

  “Regardless of whoever is responsible for this little shenanigan,” Maya announced, “this is still the start of a new year. You all have my best wishes for one filled with love, family, and happiness.”

  “Hear, hear,” Denby seconded.

  “Bravo,” Maya whispered into her husband’s ear. “Please extend my congratulations and continued good wishes for the new year to our team.”

  “Already done,” Burton replied proudly. “And I’m sure they’re not waiting
another two hours to pop the corks in Montana.”

  Champagne glasses clinked and a round of kisses and embraces were exchanged. Maya saved Ross for last and approached him with a mix of expectation and concern.

  “Happy New Year,” Ross said as he embraced her.

  Maya kissed him on the cheek and then whispered in his ear.

  “Last year was a good one for you, and God knows you deserved it. May this year bring with it all that we hope.”

  “Amen to that,” Ross replied softly.

  Maya gave Ross a tight squeeze before slipping from his embrace and turning toward the others.

  “I must beg your indulgence for a moment. Now that it is officially the new year, Ross and I must attend to a small business matter. We will return to you shortly. For those who feel the need for something sweet, I whipped up a decadent chocolate mousse that’s in the refrigerator.”

  “Decadent is the operative word here,” Burton agreed as he pulled a tray of chilled glass vessels containing a dark frothy substance topped with a raspberry. “Maya makes it from her grandmother’s recipe and a whole mess of dark chocolate went into this.”

  “I’ll bet it pairs nicely with the brut,” Denby speculated.

  “You’d win that bet,” Maya replied. “Now save us some. We’ll be right back.”

  Maya led Ross to a small room on the north end of the villa. Three sides of the room featured large arch windows that, in daylight, overlooked a colorful garden. It had bamboo plank flooring and a ceiling paneled in painted beadboard. The plaster walls and wood trim were finished in off-white and pastel hues. What could have easily been a sunroom retreat was instead the home office from which Maya and her husband managed their business empire.

  Ross sat on a white wicker sofa as Maya retrieved a thick leather folio from a locked desk drawer. She sat beside him and carefully laid out a set of bound contracts on the glass-topped coffee table. Beside the contracts, she set a pair of fountain pens made from wood taken from the original US Navy frigate USS Constitution.

  “So, this is it,” Ross said.