The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott

by Jonathan Lowe

  Doug looked at David askance, but said nothing. They followed the butler across a floor laid in Persian carpet toward a staircase within view of the front of the property. Descending, they witnessed the Big Dipper pulling away from the dock, its darkened control room window already turning, with inscrutable purpose, toward the interconnecting waterway of the World Islands.

  11

  "What now?" David asked.

  They sat at a black glass conference table in the media room. Both the table, which seated twelve, and the room itself were oval in shape. The chairs were high-backed, and generously cushioned in purple velvet. At the center of the table was the outline of a sunken cube, indicating video conferencing monitors. Along one wall of the room were five cubicles, each station with sleek ergonomic office chairs and Macintosh computers. Subdued illumination was supplied from overhead recessed spot lighting fixtures, which looked like laser weapons angled within clear round glass housings. The ceiling was black, as were the walls and floor, but three medieval-looking stone sconces along the wall opposite wall the cubicles hid brilliant arc bulbs that Etherton had turned way up before cutting back.

  "It is a little odd," Doug admitted. "Of course I don't know him that well. Could be the way all billionaires operate."

  "Nasheed?"

  "No, he's younger, and not quite a billionaire, either. Way I heard it, Aazad has four homes, if you count his wife Jamila's condo in Abu Dhabi. Rumor has it his estate in Marbella houses one of his mistresses, since Jamila doesn't care for Spain, and never goes there. He has a son by Jimila, can't remember his name. Think he lives in the States, possibly California. He's dropped out of school there, much to Aazad's chagrin. Other than that, what I know is that Aazad and Nasheed are both members of the Emirates Science Club, a group which once came to Kitt Peak on a private tour. They also toured the LBT on Mount Graham and the MMT atop Mount Hopkins. Scuttlebutt has it the LBT is getting some of its private funding from Aazad, to cover their secondary mirror accident, although Nasheed didn't say how much because I don't think he knows. Nasheed did tell me, though, that the scope in Aazad's observatory out there is a fourteen inch Meade LX two hundred."

  "Pretty modest, for a man of his wealth."

  "Yeah, well, I think he knows it's just a hobby. He isn't convinced he can make any amateur contribution to science here at sea level, with water vapor problems and all."

  "Still," David said, "how unusual is it for a Muslim to be so interested in cosmology or astronomy?"

  "How do we know he's a Muslim?" Doug asked. "Nasheed isn't."

  "He told you that?"

  Doug shook his head. "No, but I've never seen him observing salat, bowing to Mecca, either. Nasheed does wear traditional garb to most social functions, though."

  Curious, David went to the nearest cubical, adjusted the chair, and attempted to access the internet after waking its recessed Mac screen from sleep. "I wonder. . ." he began, expecting to be asked for a password, "if we can even. . ." He broke off when the familiar and simple Google screen appeared. He typed the name Aazad Baloum, and clicked on the button marked I'm Feeling Lucky.

  There were over three hundred hits. Most seemed related to Aazad's shipping business. The few that referenced his personal life seemed scant on details. The most often used words connected to his name were mogul, tycoon, reclusive, and heir, while the dozens of photos taken of him seemed to be official in nature, at state sponsored events. But there were others taken at charity functions, too, or getting in and out of limousines. In those he seemed to be taken by surprise, or attempting to hide his face with an upraised hand or by turning away. Photos of his wife, however, numbered in the hundreds, and included appearances in New York, in Hollywood, and on BBC sets in London. Jamila was movie-star beautiful, a petite and delicate creature with an exquisite complexion. She seemed the Arab counterpart of actress Grace Kelly, and her bio even stated that she had done some acting and commercial cosmetics modeling before being wed to 'reclusive shipping billionaire' Aazad Baloum. Reputedly pregnant at the time of the wedding, Jamila had disappeared from public view for over a year as the couple sailed the world abroad a yacht named. . .

  David stared at the screen in surprise. At the name indicated.

  Ozymandias.

  Was that the original name for Big Dipper? He was about to see when Etherton pointed a finger down toward another name--that of their son. Bakir. David clicked twice on the name, copied it, then returned to Google's main screen, and inserted it, plus Baloum. There were over fifty hits for Bakir Baloum. But David immediately zeroed in on the one Bakir himself had created: his YouTube identity. Clicking on it, David was taken to a channel named PB33AllTime. The profile photo on the channel's main page revealed Bakir as a mahogany-toned young man in his early twenties, with close cropped hair and lifeless eyes. The profile description read:

  hey vidos and freeks, i'm 23, and 33 in the wolrd

  all time playboys an players............enjoy succka

  David clicked on the most recent video, dated six weeks prior, but which nonetheless had over sixty thousand hits. It clocked in at seven minutes in length. The video had been taken by a hand held camera, with no attempt at stability. The self-shot clips were strewn together haphazardly, and gyrated wildly at Bakir's whim.

  The first sequence was taken inside an Airbus first class privacy cubicle. Bakir was drinking a diet soda with one hand while he shot the video with his other. Repeated sweeps over his array of drinks, snacks, his telephone, and his television monitor playing Family Guy interspersed with raised glimpses into other cubicles, where oblivious businessmen slept or operated laptops.

  "On board an Airbus goin' to Hong Kong fer some ding dong," Bakir's unctuous, almost obsequious voice whispered as he turned the camera on himself.

  Next was a clip taken inside a Lamborghini sports car weaving through traffic in jerky accelerations. Bakir made sure the viewer saw the emblem on his steering wheel, along with the high tech blue dash. Then he scanned the road ahead and to the side, revealing that he was driving amid the skyscrapers of downtown Hong Kong. Finally, he propped the camera into a niche between dash and windshield, aimed back at himself.

  "Ya tink you-a playa, I show you a playa, fool," his now glib and smarmy voice schooled.

  Bakir inserted a CD into the car's stereo, blasting gangster rap as his head bobbed to the beat. Then he reached for the camera, and pulled it all the way toward his open mouth, into blackness.

  The next clip followed a Chinese porter shuttling a large leather bag across red carpet, along a luxuriant hallway with gold leaf trim. They came to a wide dark wood door marked Presidential Suite, and the porter waved a card across the tiny red eye to the right. There was a click, and then he opened the door, handing the card to Bakir with a bow. Still filming, Bakir did not tip the porter, but instead moved into the suite, taking in the opulent furnishings, the tapestries, the high-ceiling thousand-crystal chandelier, the ebony bar, the circular revolving bed, and then the bathroom with its two commodes and three sinks, its glassed-in shower island and sunken hot tub. Finally, Bakir picked up the controller which lay beside a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates. He aimed it at a far tapestry, which parted to reveal a wide window overlooking the city center.

  "Will there be anything else, sir?" the porter's voice was heard from behind, from where the man obviously still stood at the door.

  Bakir let the camera angle fall to the floor as he walked back to the entrance. "Here, take it," he commanded, and handed the camera to the porter. "Follow da hands, follow da hands!"

  The porter complied, following Bakir's hand as it went to his wallet, and rose, opening and then skimming through bills. Bakir fished out a hundred dollar bill, returning the wallet to his pocket. Then he held the bill with the forefingers and thumbs of both hands, stretching it, snapping it several times in front of the lens.

  "Beg," Bakir said.

  "Sir?"

  "Beg, beg, beg!"

  "I'm sor
ry, sir." The camera wavered until it aimed again at the floor, limply now. Then it was taken roughly away.

  "Okay, okay," Bakir complained, angling the lens again at his one free hand, which now held out the bill.

  There was a pause before the man took it. Bakir immediately lifted the view to the man's face, but by then he was turning away. Bakir stood at the door, filming the porter as he pushed his golden cart down the hallway. The man did not turn back, although Bakir watched for it, snickering, zooming in on the back of the man's head until he disappeared.

  Bakir slammed the door shut onto darkness. Then suddenly it opened again. But this time a beautiful Asian girl stood there. The girl did not know she was being filmed. The angle was from below, now, aiming up. Bakir waved her into the room with his only free hand, and as she entered one could see that the suite itself was what enthralled her. She walked toward the window, which was now dark. Bakir followed her shapely form with camera lifted, zooming on her as he did. Then, with a swishing blur, Bakir aimed the camera into his own face. He lifted his exaggerated eyebrows twice, grinning. "Fools," he said, lowly. "Ya f-in' dumb-ass fooooools. . ."

  He was staring full-face and tipsily into the lens as the video ended. The screen within the screen went dark, except for a red button asking Replay? Two other of Bakir's twenty-five videos were shown as options. One was titled ski bunnies i have loved, and the other wild nite at the ritz.

  Etherton placed a hand over David's as he was about to click on another video. "I don't think you should," he said.

  "Why not?" David asked.

  "How do we know Aazad doesn't have tracking on these computers? Cookies. Keystroke monitors." He paused. "Although even at Nasheed's place the internet is controlled by Etisalat, so I'm surprised we have access to these videos at all."

  "Isn't Aazad's brother head of Etisalat?"

  Doug nodded, then pointed toward the screen. "Try something for me."

  "What?"

  "Type sex dot com in Google search."

  "What?"

  "Do it."

  David did it. The screen refreshed, indicating two hundred sixty-five thousand plus hits.

  Doug opened his hands. "There you go. Aazad is not limited by Etisalat. He has full access."

  David cut off the computer. "What does that mean?"

  "Well, it might indicate he's not Muslim, for one thing. But what do I know?"

  David shook his head. "What happens now?"

  "Now?" Doug smiled. "Now we pretend to be Bakir Baloum, with keys to the kingdom. Only with a better vocabulary."

  12

  An evening meal, served at the end of a multicolored stone dining table with seating for ten, consisted of three courses, beginning with a shrimp cocktail followed by a swordfish steak served with risotto and mixed salad greens, and ending with a cold cucumber soup. For dessert they requested crème brûlée and espresso. An hour after the meal found them in the pool's adjacent Jacuzzi, where an electronically raised waterproof television tuned to CNN revealed little progress was being made in uncovering the perpetrators responsible for the aerial attacks. A full U.S. military investigation was underway, including satellite imaging of the desert surrounding Dubai--with hints that Iran might be involved--but the talking heads being interviewed, including the commander of U.S. forces in the Gulf, General Richard Markham, could promise nothing more than further cooperation with the UAE in ferreting out the puzzling truth. Meanwhile, funeral services for Swann's family were being planned for Monday.

  Etherton placed a second cell phone call to Shakil Nasheed in China, which again went to voicemail. Closing his phone after recording his message, Doug looked across the illuminated surface of the chilled yet roiling water, then asked, indicating the sky, "Doesn't Mars seem dim these days?"

  David tilted his head back into the molded cradle behind him, feeling the full force of the jets that messaged his neck. He focused on a steadily shining white dot, at the edge of visual perception, amid the few twinkling stars in the still-darkening heavens overhead. "Be almost a year before it begins to brighten again," he said, recalling the relative cycles of the inner planets.

  "Mars, the planet of war," Doug mused. "Did its departure mean peace, though?"

  David didn't answer. He knew Doug was kidding. An atheist and skeptic, Etherton believed only what he could see with his own eyes, and sometimes not even that. Ever since his days at Cal Tech, Doug had reportedly posed rhetorical questions that suggested his amusement at widespread faith in religion, spirituality, or the supernatural. To him, all the reputed phenomena of near death experiences, remote viewing, witchcraft, angels, and astrological signs or ancient hidden secrets held the same validity and deserved respect as believing in the Easter Bunny. What mattered was what could be repeated in the laboratory, or confirmed in other observatories. So David felt reluctant to attempt describing his own experiences, or expressing his opinions, even if he could. Anything bordering the metaphysical was nonsense to Doug. Any perception of hidden truth would also be suspect. The video they'd seen of Aazad's son had produced little effect in Etherton, although it had a chilling effect on his own bout with the past. Seeing Cashman and Innes would be the ultimate test, and in the meantime he reminded himself that he no longer needed to envy such a life, or fear its opposite. But if there was any secret to achieving this view as a permanent possession, he suspected it lay in experiencing a total eclipse of jealousy and doubt by bringing into view a shadowy reality of such gravity and magnitude that any guilt over the military use of his patent or anger over the exploitation of his mother evaporated into it entirely. Only by perspective, by point of view, angle, posture, or line of sight, would the pivotal epiphany come. And as with any eclipse, he needed to be at the right place at the right time.

  ~ * ~

  Breakfast was served on the veranda, and consisted of Eggs Benedict, Belgian waffles, and a tray of assorted homemade pastries with coffee and fresh-squeezed tangerine juice. Doug made his third recording onto Nasheed's voicemail before they took a jet ski tour of the Pacific ocean, around the Hawaiian Islands, then down the California coast and Mexico all the way to Chile. The estates they passed were as diverse in architecture as their pretended countries of origin. One mansion resembled Disney World, complete with a fairy castle. Another was a sprawling Spanish hacienda, with a horse corral and stables. Still another appeared Mayan in influence, the main house being a pyramid topped by a solar reflector resembling the eye on the back of an American one dollar bill. David wondered if any of the islands incorporated animatronic velociraptors, such as those in Dubai's Restless Planet theme park, or if any of the islands yet to be developed planned a hotel similar to the underwater Hydropolis, so visitors could sleep with the fishes while their lives, along with their Gucci and Cartier jewelry, were guaranteed safe from rioting Asian construction workers.

  When Doug turned back west, toward Tahiti, David was about to follow, but let the engine throttle back instead.

  An experiment, he thought.

  Wake dwindling, he drifted to a stop at a point off Chile. The idling engine seemed to protest the action, coughing and chugging. So he turned the key and let it die. Now he was adrift. He looked around, hearing only the diminishing roar of Etherton's jet ski, a plume of spray like a rooster tail behind it. He looked over at another manmade island beach, a row of trees hiding an edifice beyond the shallow aquamarine water. The jet ski bobbed softly in the gentle tide. What was he looking for? He heard the squawk of an unseen bird. He felt the hot sun on his face. After a moment the sound of Etherton's jet ski died too, cut off. He looked in Doug's direction, and saw his companion's distant figure, torso turned, face backward, expression unreadable except by posture.

  My neighbors. . .Rod Stewart being one, David Beckham another, by the way. . .

  With one final glance toward the hidden home, he restarted the jet ski's engine, and gunned the throttle. A moment later he was roaring westward toward the renewed plume before him.

 
By noon and before lunch, they played a few games of hand ball, which Etherton won, then took a swim in the pool. After consuming bison burgers with sweet potato fries, they retired to the den, first for billiards, then bowling. Doug's cell phone rang while they were rolling the tenth frame of a wagered game.

  "Hello?" Doug said, then, "Oh, hi, Shakil, did you get my--" A pause. "Yes, terrible. . . no, we're doing fine. I'm with an old colleague, over for a visit. When are you coming back?" A longer pause, then a look of surprise and confusion. "I see. Okay, Shakil, I'll meet you at the airport on Monday, then. Have a good meeting." He closed the phone, slowly.

  "What's wrong?" David asked, seeing Doug's now vacant expression.

  "Nothing, it's just that he's not coming back until next Monday."

  "What about the funeral?"

  "He'll send flowers."

  David lifted his bowling ball between them, chest high, as though it were a head. Looking at it, he said, "You didn't mention Aazad, again."

  "I wasn't sure what to say about that. Now I guess it doesn't matter."

  "Unless Aazad talks to Nasheed," David suggested.

  "Why would he do that? They know each other, but I don't think they socialize much outside the science club."

  "Whatever you say." David rolled his ball. It was nearly a strike, except for one pin on the back row which canted, almost tipping, then straightened in defiant non-conformity.