Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

  The following morning, Conor and Jake met for brunch at the Gillingham Street Grill, a small kitchen near Eccleston Square. The food was good, but the service was terrible. In hopes of avoiding more arguments about Armenia and Azerbaijan, the men carried on alone. Tali went shopping; she had a suitcase to fill. Lindy decided to take out her frustrations by exploring Westminster on foot. More than ever, she wanted to visit the Abbey where all the dead English kings were on display.

  In stark contrast to the women, the issues that Jake and Conor faced were not nationalistic, but personal. Though they didn’t really know one another well, nor understand each other’s worlds, the same elephant-in-the-room had burdened both men for a long time – Tom Moynihan. For Conor, it was about guilt. Growing up under Mira’s didactic custody, he felt the stifling yoke as the heir apparent of House Kedar. But even more onerous were his feelings about the loss of his father, and strangely, about the death of his Uncle Elshan.

  For Jake, it was different. In the past few years, he had bent his memories of Azerbaijan to suit his beliefs. Jake was convinced that his father was murdered by Muslims, and maybe by the Kedar family itself – Rasuli and Qurb for sure.

  No longer saddled with the need for polite chitchat, Conor struck the first blow. “So, Jake, tell me about Papa Martin’s treasure.”

  “So you know?”

  “Sam Mansour told me. He said you wanted to go back to school.”

  “That’s right,” Jake insisted. “My cousin, Denis, and I are headed for Trinity in Dublin. I told you that last night.”

  “I don’t believe the ‘going to school’ story for a minute.”

  Jake replied stiffly, “And I don’t believe you have any say in my business.”

  “It was Tom Moynihan’s estate,” Conor said, “don’t I have a say in that?”

  “Why do you care? You have plenty of money… big Muslim money.”

  “This is about Tom’s funeral, isn’t it?”

  “It is about my father’s murder,” Jake insisted, “and I want to know if you or your family had anything to do with it.”

  There it was – the wound finally exposed. Conor felt deeply offended, but Jake had unwittingly stumbled onto Conor’s long and gloomy guilt. Elshan Kedar had killed Tom Moynihan, and Conor bore the burden not only of his father’s death but also of his brother’s hatred.

  When the waiter finally brought the luncheon fish and chips, both Jake nor Conor were thankful for the intervention. They pawed at their food for a time, in silence. Then Conor’s phone pinged. It was Kazimov with a message: “President wants to talk – urgent. Meet me at Ash Park Mansions in one hour.”

  Conor was relieved and troubled at the same time. He looked at Jake, eyes darting anxiously, “I’ve got to go. Aliyev business.”

  Jake tipped his head to the side, not wanting to face his brother. “Me to,” he replied. “I promised Lindy I’d take her shopping before we left for Ireland.”

  It was a lie, of course. But a way to end a tense family conversation. By six that evening, both couples had left London.

  20

  Carpathian

  Rendezvous

  “Not Romanian, she’s Roma,” Mike Bedrosian said. “Calls herself Della; says she’s married to the King of the Gypsies.” Uncle Mike was speaking of the woman who was serving dinner to members of the Vartan Alliance.

  “King of the Gypsies, who’s that?” Jake asked.

  “Name’s Johnny Gann. The guy we do business with… he’s the guy who set up the campsite.” For all intents and purposes, the 40-acre layout at the Rendezvous was similar to Clear Spring Wilderness in southern Illinois, minus the snakes. Mike had seen a few European Adders, but they were tolerably shy and typically vanished into the undergrowth at any hint of danger. Since it was now winter in the Carpathians, all the wiggler species were now in hibernation.

  Lindy said, “I doubt it.”

  “Doubt what?”

  “That ‘King of the Gypsies’ thing,” she said. “I know a guy in Chicago that calls himself King of the Gypsies.”

  “What’s that got to do with our guy?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” Lindy said indifferently,

  Oblivious to the trivia pursued by the others, Jake had been chasing a no less trifling question of his own. “What’s the difference between Romanians and the Roma?” Jake asked.

  Surprisingly, Mike had an answer. “Big difference. The Romanians are Slavs. The Roma people are originally from India. Their languages, traditions, and laws are very different, and most importantly, the Roma were slaves of the Romanians until the mid-19th century.”

  Lindy, bemused by her uncle’s tidy chronicle, questioned its authenticity, “How do you know that?”

  “My guy, Johnny Gann, has schooled me on such things.”

  Lindy laughed, then asked, “Can they be trusted?”

  “As long as we pay them,” said Mike. “They keep to themselves… avoid government entanglements, and that suits us.”

  The rendezvous site was located about 70 miles northeast of Bucharest. The camp was not actually in the Carpathian Mountains but was situated in the foothills just below. Most importantly, the Buzau River was nearby, which has always been the conduit to a free port at the mouth of the Danube. That was where the Vartan Alliance would launch its effort to cross the Black Sea before heading to Armenia.

  After their hasty retreat from London, Jake and Lindy headed for Ireland to see Denis and the de Barras family. They had been in camp for two weeks but hadn’t mentioned that side trip to anyone. But Mike Bedrosian was curious. He wondered why Jake and Lindy had not come directly to the training facility as scheduled. “Did you see your cousin in Dublin?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, “Denis met us at the pier with his aunt, Maggie de Barras.”

  Lindy added, “I don’t know how he does it, but he was driving, and already used to the wrong side of the road.” There was something different about Denis. Jake and Lindy both noticed it after a few days. He was a changed person; saw himself as a Dubliner. He’d been living in the city with his relatives for almost a month. The de Barras family lived on St. Augustine Street in a flat near the Liffey River. Less than 30 minutes away, his commute to Trinity College was uncomplicated, and getting out of dreary Calumet City clearly did him a lot of good. The limp that Denis had been afflicted with most of his life was now barely noticeable. Maybe that’s what Jake and Lindy really noticed.

  To Denis, the infirmity was a drain on his soul. When he was a little boy, he told his father he wanted to be the harbormaster of the Port of Chicago, same as Jake’s grandfather, Gerry Moynihan. But Denis had a clubfoot, which made his early years more traumatic than they should have been. Chicago’s South Side was a tough place to grow up with a clubfoot, and the neighborhood boys tormented him habitually and without shame. Jake was no help. He often sided with the bullies. All the mothers scolded the boys about this, but they did it anyway when no adults were around. Deny had surgeries, of course, and they allowed the foot to grow correctly in the coming years. But he wore a brace until he was seven, and that was the spoiler to his dream of being a man of rivers or lakes or seas.

  Lindy followed on, “When Jake told him that he wasn’t going to stay in Dublin and attend school at Trinity, they had a big fight.”

  “I gave him enough money for two years of college. He didn’t put up much of a fuss. We left after a week.”

  After the meeting with Conor and Tali, Jake and Lindy knew they had a few days to kill before hooking up with Denis. So, they decided to rent a car and tour the rolling hills and lush meadows of the upper Thames. They headed for the famous Cotswolds, but they stopped first at Winchcombe to visit Sudeley Castle. The next morning, they traveled north to Birmingham, and then followed a western route into Wales before turning north again. The plan was simple; catch the ferry at Holyhead and then cross the
Irish Sea in the late afternoon.

  “So you sold the treasure?”

  “Fetched a great price in London,” Jake replied.

  Mike cussed, “So you say.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike. When I’m finished with what I have to do in Azerbaijan, I’ll turn over the balance to Tadesian.” Derisively, Mike thought, Minus the money to Denis de Barras!

  Lindy narrowed her eyes at Jake, and said, “Never mind that. We’ve got work to do here.”

  “How do we deal with all the volunteers we don’t need?” Mike asked.

  “We need engineers, mechanics, and maintenance personnel, not foot soldiers.”

  “Cull them out,” Lindy said tersely. “1000 is the most we can handle.”

  Weeks of AWS training flew by quickly, and then it was time for the boss to arrive. Tad Tadesian, along with his trusted aide JJ Franks, showed up at Coandă International Airport in Bucharest. Johnny Gann and the woman called Della were waiting for them at the arrival hall. After clearing Customs, the foursome quickly found their way out of town and into a frozen, late December in Romania. Winter’s clutch had choked off much of life as they motored northward on what geologists called the Carpathian Uplift. The world of the Carpathian rendezvous was gray, chilly, and entombed by snowy stillness. The drive to camp took a little more than two hours.

  At the guardhouse that evening, Mike Bedrosian and two armed Vartan militiamen were searching the distant highway for the man to arrive. It was almost eight pm when they spotted the lone headlights headed their way. Five minutes later, the SUV pulled up, and Mike stepped to the passenger side window, “Welcome to CR Camp, Mr. Tadesian.” He clapped his gloved hands together to ward off the cold, and said, “Let’s get you inside. It gets really cold after sunset.” Tadesian nodded, and after that, Mike turned to Johnny Gann, “We’re having a late supper at the mess hall. You and Della are welcome to join us.”

  It was ten o’clock when they finished dessert. Everyone was milling around having a late cocktail when Lindy pulled her uncle aside. “It’s getting late,” she said, pointing at locals. “We’ve got to get the show on the road before the wind comes up.”

  Mike understood. He strolled over to Johnny Gann. “We’re happy to have you stay for another drink, but tomorrow we have a tight schedule, so we’ll all be going to bed soon.”

  Gann recognized the message. “Thanks for dinner, but it’s time for us to be going home.” The King of the Gypsies and his wife stopped to say goodbye to Tadesian and then were escorted to the CR gate. Once the lights of their car had disappeared down the hill, one of the guards called the mess hall, “All clear, Mike.”

  The captain banged a tin water goblet on the table to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, CR,” he shouted, “let’s head for the staging area.”

  The contingent of ten VA commanders, Tad Tadesian, JJ Frank, Lindy, Jake, and Mike Bedrosian, followed a well-worn trail some 200 hundred yards into a clearing above the camp. “A perfect night to put on a show,” Lindy said. The moonless, slate sky was ideal for “night flight,” as the operators had named it.

  “Let’s hope everything works. I’m troubled by what effect the cold air may have on the drone systems.”

  “We’ve made the adjustments, Jake. You’re such a worrywart.” The staging area was outdoors, a raised, wooden platform two feet off the frozen ground with 20 folding chairs. Though she didn’t say anything to the others, Lindy was grateful that the weather wasn’t the windy bone-chilling freeze of a Chicago winter. The Vartan Alliance had chosen the Carpathian Uplift because its weather closely matched that of the Armenian Highlands.

  For the next hour, Jake, Lindy, and the control team synchronized an outdoor light show, employing a fleet of 1000 LED-equipped, fire-star drones. Four operators had programmed a demonstration of 2 billion color combinations that illuminated the night sky with captivating 3D shapes overhead. The highlight of the demo was two groups of larger-than-life soldiers engaged in mock battle. Standing at side podium, Mike explained, “Neither team is aware of the other’s action plan. They are reacting in real time.”

  “We have had to adjust for freezing temperatures and wind gusts. It has been a real challenge.

  “It’s incredible,” said JJ Frank. “Watching it, you get a real sense of the future.”

  “We’ve had our work cut out for us. The drones are pre-programmed for on-the-fly solutions – setting and adjusting flight paths, countermeasures, even when partner-drones have been “killed.” We’ve run multiple tests under multiple conditions to ensure peak performance.”

  Tadesian asked, “So, each team is being controlled by one computer and one pilot?”

  “A dangerous flaw in that strategy,” Grigor Davidian, liaison of the Armenian Armed Defense, interjected.

  Tad saw the flaw, “Eliminate the computer…”

  “… or the pilot,” Davidian added, “and you eliminate the fighting unit.”

  Jake was ready for just such a concern. “Tonight, that’s what’s happening.” He looked at Mike for backing. Mike nodded, so Jake carried on, “As you can see, this performance is just an old-fashioned, fireworks display. Tomorrow, we’ll lay out the battlefront blueprint.”

  When it was over, the software engineers, hardware engineers, drone technicians, and pilots put away their equipment. “Watching battle animation light up the sky is one thing,” Tadesian’s aide said. “But to think that it’s done with drones astonishes me.”

  Not everyone within range was so stirred as JJ Frank. About a half-mile below the staging area, Johnny Gann was observing the display through binoculars. Once out of sight, he had pulled his car off the road and turned off the headlamps to spy on CR events. Della asked, “What do you think they’re doing?”

  The king of the gypsies put down his field glasses for a moment, turned to Della, “Well, I don’t think it’s about selling fireworks to the Romanians.”

  At CR camp, there were three rows of barracks where the recruited and volunteer militiamen bunked. There were no segregated quarters for women. For privacy, they simply partitioned themselves off from the men with metal storage cabinets. On the highest ridge above CR, there were a few private cabins for the VA leaders. Jake and Lindy had claimed a cozy shack at the back. It had a private bathroom, plenty of hot water, and even a tub. It was a saddle-cut design, steel with a porcelain-enamel coating. A cheap tub, but large, and likely “borrowed” from one of the fancy houses in Buzau City along the river. The Roma often scrounged for such things. “I’m going to take a bath,” Lindy said. It had been a tiring day. She put on a warm robe and turned the hot water facet full on.

  “I may join you.”

  Lindy assumed he was kidding. “Sure, the tub’s big enough for two.” Next, she searched her duffel bag for some bath oil. She poured a small amount of coconut-scented unction into the water and watched it gurgling up almost instantly. Lindy always took a bubble bath when she wanted to unwind after long, bureaucratic meetings at UAVtech. But her work there seemed to be a thing of the past. This is my work now, she thought, this Vartan Cause. Afterward, Lindy let the robe slip off her back, took a deep breath, and then stepped into the water. Her legs throb at the hotness, so she sat on the tub’s edge and splattered a bit of water onto her legs and up her thighs. Slowly she eased in, letting the warmth flow over her body. As the stress of the day started to abate, Lindy leaned back against the tub and closed her eyes.

  Her thoughts soon turned in a different direction… to Jake, not to his usual crankiness or his stubborn quarrels with others, but to his superb physique and unbridled sexuality. A funny vision unfolded in her head: Jake standing before her naked, except for his tanker boots. Gads, she hated those tankers. Jake was tall, cut, and an attentive lover. In need of more than a vision, she cried out, “Get in here, boy-toy!”

  A moment later, Jake appeared at the door. He threw off his t-shirt and
shorts, and said, “Slide up, and I’ll jump in.”

  As he tumbled in, the water splashed against the walls of the bathtub. “What’s that smell?” Jake asked as he reached around to pull Lindy into his arms.

  “Coconut bath oil.”

  “Smells like home,” he said while pointing to the bottle of body wash at the front of the tub. She passed it back, and he emptied a tiny measure into his palms. It lathered quickly, and afterward Jake began massaging Lindy’s tight shoulders and then her neck. She closed her eyes again, relaxing instantly in his firm, vigorous hand rub. She no longer had to conjure up Jake’s image; her boy-toy was right on the job.

  Next, he pulled her closer and with her head resting on his chest, he began rubbing ever so gently against her breasts. She inhaled deeply, and her chest bowed upward naturally, pushing her now erect nipples above the water. He reacted intuitively, kneading first one and then the other – all gentleness at that point set aside. He cupped her left breast with one hand and glided his other down her chest, lingering momentarily, playfully on the sternum. She exalted in suspense. But then Lindy began tensing, her long legs stretching out together, her toes pushing up against the wall of the tub. As she felt his erection rising between her buttocks, Lindy could sense her heart rate accelerating unchecked.

  Jake stopped for a moment, reached down and firmly grasped her knees, and pulled her legs apart. She took in a mouthful of air. Next, Jake wrestled his legs over hers and pinned them to the side of the bathtub. Although her hands were free, Lindy felt willfully powerless to move. Jake squeezed more of the bath oil into his hands, reached down to her belly, and then worked his palms between her legs. Lindy grabbed the sides of the tub with both hands and groaned passionately. Vagina opened fully, his fingers began a stimulating dance against her clitoris. She stiffened suddenly as the pressure grew. “Wait, wait, wait!”