FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2)

by Jack Flanagan

  “Hey, Rich!” My brother called to me as if we were at a stadium. “How does it feel to be pushed around by your wife? How come you get a ride, and I don’t?”

  Looking back, I’m sure Kyle meant no harm, but, at the time, I was in no mood for his stupid remarks. “I feel honored,” I said. “And you’re right, you should be in this chair, but who would be capable of pushing you around.”

  Kyle became quiet, Peterson, who was seating next to my brother, snickered, and Morgana gave me a stinging flick to my ear with her finger. “You’re almost sixty and you still act at times as if you were sixteen.”

  “You keep me young, Morgana; you keep me young.”

  Morgana steered me right next Mrs. Prosper. “There you are, Dear,” said my wife as she abandoned me for a seat behind me in the next row. “If you need me, just holler.” When she got to her place, she leaned and whispered in my ear, “Be good, Dear, or I’ll dump you over.”

  With the few moments before the meeting started, I got the lay of the land, so to speak. Sitting on the other side of Mrs. Prosper, sat Agent Wagner. An attractive, middle-aged brunette, Wagner, I would have to say, had that peculiar quality that often confused male suitors about which team she was on when it came to the game of romance.

  Looking around the room, I saw the staff of the Whyte Post Inn. They were all seated in rows facing the empty podium. And, of course, there were Kyle and Peterson, the two of them sharing a row by themselves.

  I watched Moira fiddle with the crude cross that she wore around her neck and saw Hograve sitting almost comatose; worries about his business were written all over his face. The incomparable Mrs. Prosper, on my left, was busy whispering to Agent Wagner about something that I couldn’t get a handle on. I felt pity for this personification of the federal government. My instincts told me that Wagner was the person in charge of this little get-together and the keeper the of well-dressed gentlemen who positioned about the room. With gentle nods, she acknowledged the discourse of her elderly neighbor sitting next to her, while she silently gave directions, via a series of hand gestures, to her associates in the conference room.

  One person whom I did not see in this assembly, which greatly bothered me, was Bo. I said a prayer that she was okay, wherever she was.

  My intuition proved correct. Agent Wagner stood up, went to the podium, and introduced herself to the group.

  “Good morning. I’m Special Agent Ilsa Wagner of the FBI, and I would like to thank you all for your attendance today and for your cooperation in this matter. I know all of you must have many questions about what has happened to you over the past two days or so, and I will try to answer them to the best of my ability. But — ”

  There is always a ‘but’ I said to myself. The provocative sounding conjunction started me wondering about Agent Wagner. Did she work out regularly? Or was she just blessed? What will she look like when she turns fifty?

  Morgana must have sensed that I was beginning to daydream. “Richard, pay attention,” she harshly whispered, giving my chair a shake. I grunted my alertness and tried to re-focus on government’s message and not on its messenger.

  “. . . since this affair concerns national security,” continued Wagner. “I am not at liberty to say much about the matter, and the government is asking you all to do the same once you all leave this room . . . .” Agent Wagner rambled on, shedding not much light on anything that we all went through. Particularly troubling to me, was her not mentioning who the bad guys were, why they did what they did, what had happened to them, or who our mysterious rescuers were. But she did say, in no uncertain terms, that no one was to say anything in the slightest about the incident.

  “In a moment, you will all be handed a personalized folder. Carefully read the papers that are found inside, sign the last two pages, return the papers to its folder and give the folders back to me before you leave the room.”

  When Wagner finished, one of the gentlemen who had been standing guard in the room, distributed blue folders. When I received mine, I saw that it was personalized with my name and, to my surprise, my photo on its cover.

  “Where in hell did they get this picture of me?”

  “You, at least, look half-way decent,” said Morgana, peering over my shoulder. “I look like I fell out of bed.”

  “That is not what I meant. I don’t remember my picture being taken.”

  “I took them,” Mrs. Prosper chimed in with a ring of pride in her voice, “with my new cell phone — ” Morgana and I were dumbfounded. “Don’t fret, my Dear,” added Mrs. Prosper, “your picture is quite complimentary. It highlights your beautiful eyes.”

  I had to admit that the photo did catch an alluring, youthful glint in Morgana’s eyes, but my concerns about our photos were soon replaced by those which arose from reading the material in the folder. My right hand flew skyward as fast as a panicky eighth-grade girl’s, signaling for permission use the facilities. When the hand didn’t work, I resorted to a less diplomatic tact.

  “Agent Wagner, Agent Wagner,” I called out, but she paid me no attention, as she chatted to one of her cohorts standing next to her.

  Thinking that extraordinary times require extraordinary measures, I got out of my chair and called again, a little louder, “Agent Wagner.”

  “Sit down, Richard,” reprimanded Morgana as she pulled on my sleeve.

  “Agent Wagner!”

  With a scowl, Wagner ceased her conversation and turned her head in my direction. “Yes, Mr. ah,” she eyes quickly glanced at a sheet of paper laying out on top of the podium, “Mr. MacKenzie, what can I do for you?”

  “The documents in these folders say that we — as a group or as individuals — can never reveal anything to anyone about what had actually happened at the Whyte Post Inn or took place here,at the center, during the last the forty-eight hours. It even says, in these papers, there are even restrictions about discussing the events that occurred among ourselves. And to add insult to injury, the documents warn that any violation of these restrictions could earn the transgressor a very long vacation in a federal penitentiary, or a humongous fine, or both.”

  Wagner flashed a self-satisfied smile. “You’re a quick read, I see, Mr. MacKenzie.”

  “You take too much for granted, Agent Wagner. What gives you the authority to threaten us for exercising our right of freedom of speech?”

  “Your country needs your silence, Mr. MacKenzie — ”

  “It’s Doctor MacKenzie, and if my country needs my silence, it should ask for it, not threaten arbitrarily to take my voice away. I’m not signing this,” I waved the folder in my hand, “I don’t agree to the terms.”

  By this time, I assumed that most of the people in the room must have had finished reading their personalized folders because there was a low murmur of discontent emanating from the group.

  “This is a matter of national security — ”

  “This is a matter of financial security for Mr. Hograve and his staff. His historic inn becomes a battlefield in the war on terror or whatever, and according to your papers here, he will not be able to collect money from his insurance to rebuild. And the reason he can’t is because he is prohibited to report the details of how the damage to his inn actually occurred.”

  Morgana tugged on my sleeve, “Sit down, Richard. You’re not helping the situation.”

  But I had a full head of steam; I wasn’t going to relinquish the floor. “It isn’t right.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, Dr. MacKenzie.”

  “Sorry doesn’t come close. This document is nothing more than a veiled threat to deport Arezoo and Babak Tehrani and the other foreign-born members of the Whyte Post staff if they don’t comply with the government’s request for their silence.”

  “Dr. MacKenzie, we never said that we would deport — ”

  “Your documents say that Homeland Security and the FBI will reexamine their citizenship requests, work permits, and visas. You and I know that is polite government talk for �
��Do what the government asks or you are out.’”

  Agent Wagner gave me a cold stare. With a slight nod of her head, two of her gentlemen companions started to approach me. Outnumbered and beginning to feel a little woozy, I made a tactical withdrawal and sat back down in the chair while continuing my protest.

  “We all nearly get ourselves killed, and now the government, who is supposed to be our protector, becomes another adversary. Big Brother may be able to intimidate the others, but I won’t be silent. What can you do to me?”

  “Since you brought it up, Mr. . . . eh, Dr. MacKenzie, would you please reread page 4 item D.“

  I flipped open the folder and went to the mentioned section. Taking a little more time to digest the legal gobbledygook than I had before, a veiled threat became apparent.

  “My pension!”

  “And your taxes . . . state and federal,” countered Agent Wagner. “They may need a very strict, by the book, audit.”

  “See what happens when you don’t think things through, Richard,” added Morgana.

  “I don’t care about the money!” – Yeah, those words surprised not only Morgana, but they even surprised me. They may have gotten me blacklisted forever from returning to my ancestral lands in Scotland. Nevertheless, I slogged on. “You would think that the representatives of this great country’s security agencies would be more understanding and accommodating considering what we all went through. And you would think that I would get a little more respect considering that I know where the damn thing that caused all this grief is!”

  After a very noticeable silence, Wagner asked, “What thing?”

  “The item . . . the thing, the article in question . . . that whatever that Foley, Smith, Dolan, and God only knows who else, were looking for just a day ago.” I watched Wagner’s face. I knew that I had hit a nerve. “And another thing, where is that guy named Dolan? The man who tried to kill me and kidnap me?”

  No response.

  Then came another revelation. “Just like the missing thing, you people haven’t found him either, have you?”

  “That will be enough. There will be no more discussion of this nature.”

  “I will not sign the papers; I will not be quiet until I get some satisfactory answers.”

  “Mr. Mackenzie, whether you signed the documents in front of you or not, you still can be in violation of several sections of the Espionage Act of 1917, the 1950 McCarran Internal Security Act, and the Patriot Act.”

  “It’s Dr. MacKenzie and I don’t care if I’m violating The Stamp Act of 1765. I will speak my mind.” As soon as I said that, I knew that I shouldn’t have.

  Thank God for Morgana’s keen sense in appraising difficult situations. She quickly and discreetly came to my aid and had me take a different tact. “Richard, don’t be a damn idiot! Do you want to go to prison . . . or worse, you thick-headed damn fool.”

  Say what I will, Morgana’s comforting words gave me a chance to back peddle from an indefensible position. “I will tell you what,” I said, trying to appear that I had the upper hand. “I will make you a deal.”

  “Mr. MacKenzie the US government doesn’t make deals — ”

  “Ilsa,” was all that Mrs. Prosper said to stop Wagner from going on about government policy. That one word from that old lady had the harsh bite of a winter’s night. Mrs. Prosper gave a slight nod the nearest gentleman in a suit — without delay, he approached. “Agent Colon, please go over the packets with our friends here.” Then she turned to me. “Dr. MacKenzie, you and I must have a private chat in the adjoining room.”

  #

  CHAPTER 19

  Before I had a chance to protest my pending relocation, I was whisked away to the room next door by Agent Phil, a tall, mean looking fellow who resembled a clean shaven Hercules stuffed into a dark blue suit.

  I suppose it was portentous that I was being brought to a place that had a brass sign on its door, which read Consultation Room. The room was small compared to the one where I had just been. Its institutional light green walls were decorated with numerous framed magazine articles about the medical center and various of certificates with gold seals and broad signatures. Agent Wagner, Phil, and I gathered around an oblong table which was set in the middle of the room. As we got to our seats, my indignation began to wane as I was taken with the idea that I should have kept my mouth shut, when I had the chance.

  “Now, MacKenzie, what do you want to tell us?” asked Wagner, in a weak show of politeness.

  I took a deep breathe and sized up the situation. I wanted to think things through, to speak calmly, and not to be irascible, or worse, to sound irrational. As I was just about to speak who gets rolled into the room, none other than Mrs. Prosper. She was pushed by another stern looking fellow in a dark suit, who obviously didn’t belong to the hospital staff.

  “Mrs. Prosper?” I said.

  “I’ve asked Mrs. Prosper to attend,” spouted Wagner, “to, eh, verify what you say. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all,” I smugly replied. “But if I did, would it change anything?”

  “No,” answered Wagner, flatly.

  “Don’t let me stop you, Dr. MacKenzie,” said Prosper as she slowly rolled up next to me.

  “Ah, yes,” I continued. “First, I would like the government to take some responsibility for the damage to the Whyte Post Inn.”

  “You do,” Wagner said mockingly. “You want the government to repair the Whyte Post Inn?” The agent put both her hands on the table and leaned forward. “That won’t happen. There is no obligation for the government to do so. Besides, the government can’t find the funds to fix bridges on the interstate highways, never mind an old inn.”

  “Yes, have the place repaired,” I said again. “Is that too much to ask? Hograve doesn’t have the money to do repairs without filing an insurance claim. And he can’t file a claim because he is forbidden to explain how his place of business got damaged.”

  “I’m sorry, but that is the way it must happen.”

  “That inn is a part of our county’s and state’s culture. It has national historical significance. Mrs. Prosper can tell you all about the important personages that have called The Whyte Post Inn their home over the centuries. Poor Hograve didn’t turn his place into a war zone. He shouldn’t have to suffer financial hardships because of your cloak and dagger escapades.”

  “The US government saved his life. That should be enough.”

  At this point something curious then happened. I observed Mrs. Prosper reach toward Wagner’s left hand and tap it several times with her finger. Wagner eased herself back into her chair.

  “Did you have anything else in mind, Mackenzie?” Wagner asked.

  I didn’t answer right away. I wondered what was really going on.

  “Please, Dr. MacKenzie, continue,” said Mrs. Prosper with overt sincerity. “Agent Wagner can’t help you if you don’t speak your mind. My beloved Fred always kept things to himself. He never spoke about what was troubling him. He was a quiet man. I remember one time when we were shopping, it must have been around Christmas time in 1967 or so. . . . No, it was in 1968. Yes, that’s when it was. We went shopping, and I was wearing a red woolen scarf from Liberty’s. Fred was starting to come down with a sore throat, but for some reason he didn’t want to tell me — ”

  “Leave the people who work at the inn alone,” I blurted. “No Homeland Security, no Immigration, FBI, or IRS harassment.” I was in no mood to go down memory lane with Mrs. Prosper. I realized then that I could never be a spy. I could never withstand torture.

  “Why that sounds reasonable, doesn’t it, Agent Wagner?” Prosper remarked.

  Wagner sat as if she were frozen, stared into my eyes, and said, “Is there anything else that you would want to put on the table for discussion?”

  “Other than all our medical bills be taken care of — no.”

  “And if these . . . ah, requests are taken care of, the government has your complete cooperation and s
ilence in this matter?”

  “I can’t honestly speak for the others, but only for myself of course, but I think that they would all agree.”

  “I think you are correct in that assumption, Dr. MacKenzie,” said Mrs. Prosper. “What do you say, Agent Wagner? The government should be able to do what Dr. MacKenzie has asked, don’t you think?”

  “I will have to check with upstairs,” said Wagner.

  “Oh, I am sure that they will agree,” said Mrs. Prosper self-assuredly.

  “Well, since that is cleared up, you can hand it over,” demanded Wagner.

  “Hand over what?”

  “You know . . . the item in question,” said Wagner, betraying annoyance.

  “You people have had me stripped and searched, I’m sure, when I arrived here yesterday in a semi-conscious state, you know I don’t have it. And I didn’t say that I did. I said I think I knew where it was.”

  “To be precise, Dr. MacKenzie, you said that you . . . knew . . . where it was,” Mrs. Prosper corrected me with a steely glint in her eyes.

  “Well, maybe, I was guilty using my poetic license.”

  “Maybe you need to have your license pulled,” snarled Agent Wagner.

  “Please, Ilsa, Dr. MacKenzie has gone through a great deal. He had placed himself in great danger and at personal risk to protect me and the others at the inn. He wants to help you. Isn’t that right, Richard?”

  “Yes, yes, I do . . . naturally.”

  Prosper’s use of my Christian name took me a little by surprise, and it got me trying to recall Prosper’s first name.

  “Fine,” said Wagner. “What do you have to tell us, Dr. MacKenzie?”

  “This item, that everyone is looking for is a . . . flash drive . . . correct?” I said.

  “Yes,” answered Wagner as she rolled her eyes.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do you have something say about the whereabouts of the item?” Wagner was getting impatient.

  “I just wanted — ”

  “Do you know where the item is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where?”