Old Earth

by Gary Grossman

  “Are they married?”

  “Yup. I’m the holdout.”

  “Why?” Katrina asked unashamedly. What the fuck, she thought. A few hours ago we were running for our lives.

  “I suppose I’ve been waiting for the right one to knock on my door.”

  Katrina smiled inwardly. A reference? An inference?

  “And your history?” he asked.

  “Not so fast. I want to hear more about you.”

  “Alright, why not?” he replied. “I had a shot at a career as a ball player.”

  “That’s a career?”

  “Baseball? Absolutely! Especially if you make it to the majors.”

  “You were that good?”

  “Well, that’s something I didn’t really put to a full test. But if I had and been successful, I’d probably be retired by now and running a car dealership. ‘Come on down to Quinn’s and check out the fins!’” He laughed. “But, looking down the line early on, it wasn’t what I wanted. So I went for my PhD in a related field.”

  “Paleontology is related to baseball?”

  “No, but teamwork is.”

  She was seeing the real Quinn McCauley and liking him. Maybe more than she would admit.

  “But enough of you,” she said avoiding the possibility of addressing her own feelings. “Want to hear my story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, you choose which is right.”

  “What?” McCauley responded.

  “A game. See if you can correctly determine who I am and where I came from.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Okay, here we go.”

  “Give me a second.” She stopped to think or to bluff. He didn’t know which.

  “A. I was born in North London, the daughter of a sometimes fill-in sessions guitar player for the Kinks. You know the rock band.”

  McCauley did.

  “Of course, I came along well after their ’60s hits. My father actually had a real affinity for engineering. He gave up the dream of going further in music—I guess, kind of like you with baseball—he went to college and founded one of the first computer companies in England. Dad made a ton of money, met my mother at his company, and she started rolling out babies. Four of us. My three brothers and me. I’m number three. That’s usually the one that’s trouble. We grew up in Cambridge and I’ve never left. That’s choice A.”

  “Okay, not sure, though congratulations for knowing one of your country’s greatest R&B crossover bands. What’s B?”

  “B is sadder and still difficult for me talk about. My mum was married to a British soldier who was killed defending the Falklands against Argentina. She struggled for years, got remarried to a local insurance agent, but I always felt her heart was with her first husband, not my dad. It caused problems through the years and they finally divorced six years ago.”

  “Sisters or brothers?”

  “Oh, yes. My identical twin sister Nicole. She’s older by four minutes.”

  “Another you. I can’t imagine.”

  Katrina hit him in the arm. “Shut up and listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My mother’s proudest moment was seeing us both graduate from university with PhDs Nicole’s is in molecular biology. And mine, well, you know. Nicky’s married with a second child on the way.”

  Katrina gave McCauley a confident smile. “What do you think?”

  “Plausible, uplifting at the end. Do you have a C?”

  “Of course. You’ll love C. My father is a member of Parliament. The House of Commons. He used his influence to get me into Cambridge and ultimately secure an appointment. My mother was a food columnist for News of the World in London until Murdoch shut it down after the wire taping scandal. Now she’s got a food blog and a regular spot on the BBC. We can watch her on the channel website.”

  “Siblings?”

  “One. Younger. Jake. He’s a fashion photographer.”

  “Married?” Quinn asked.

  “No, but he gets laid a lot.”

  McCauley laughed while keeping his eye on the road. “I bet.”

  “So, Dr. McCauley. Which is it? A, B, or C?”

  After debating the possibilities, judging her delivery, and considering the finer points of history, McCauley chose correctly.

  Forty

  Interstate 5

  Half way to Los Angeles, Katrina fell asleep. It had been a long, life-threatening, exhausting day. He was sufficiently worried for their well-being as well as the students under his care. They all faced danger. He didn’t know from whom, but the why was becoming increasingly evident.

  About an hour out of LA, just beyond the section on the I-5 known as The Grapevine, a memory triggered. Years ago he’d seen a History Channel documentary about a British World War II officer with a unique talent. Maybe. Just maybe.

  He decided to call Al Jaffe and talk through a plan.

  • • •

  Minutes later

  “Holy, shit!” was all Jaffe could muster when McCauley explained.

  “Now listen carefully, Al. I need your help, just yours. No one else. Nothing illegal to worry about, but it’s vitally important you don’t tell anyone. Are you up for it?”

  Jaffe had never been asked to fulfill such a request. “I guess…”

  “Al, this is for everyone’s safety. Please. Immediately. I’m trusting you.”

  “What about Rich?”

  “No. Only you.”

  McCauley’s real reason for not including Rich Tamburro was his growing suspicion about Anna Chohany. Why did she go into the cave that night?

  McCauley didn’t share his reason for keeping it from Tamburro, but he’d have to explain it somehow. That would require more thought.

  “Okay. What should I do?” Jaffe asked.

  “First, tell everyone we’ll be back in a day. We’re working on travel plans now. But they have to stay clear of the new site.”

  “Got it.”

  “Finish cataloguing what everyone’s working on. Trent’s a speedster at that. Move him into even higher gear. Then box up and get ready to break camp.”

  “We’re leaving?”

  “We may have to.”

  “They’ll want to know why.”

  “Potential gas in the caves.”

  “Really, Dr. McCauley?”

  McCauley ignored the question.

  “The next thing—listen carefully—look up a man named Jasper Maskelyne. You’ll easily find him on the Internet. I want you to check out an operation he executed during World War II.” McCauley explained more. “Okay?”

  “Can do,” Jaffe said with true excitement.

  “Any concerns about going solo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Now pass the word to pack up. And good luck.”

  • • •

  Jaffe pulled everyone together under the home base tent.

  “Doc called. He’s driving down to LA from Bakersfield. They met Greene and based on what he learned, we have to stay clear of the cave.”

  “Why?” Lobel asked.

  “Well, apparently there’s an issue with gas. Or the possibility there could be.”

  “Gas?” asked Cohen.

  “Something to do with similar facilities. Yes, we may have stumbled across a sophisticated monitoring station through a separate entrance.”

  “That shuts down electronics?” Cohen continued.

  “Doc said sophisticated. We need to read it as a warning.”

  “This is fucked,” Carlos complained.

  Leslie Cohen added, “If there’s an issue with gas, I’m outta here.”

  “We all might be going?”

  “What?” Trent asked.

  “Dr. McCauley will fill us in tomorrow. For now, let’s do what he said.”

  The team broke up. Al Jaffe went to McCauley’s tent for privacy. There he googled the British officer named Maskelyne.

  • • •

  McCauley made another strategic
call on the way to LA.

  “Hi, Rich. How’s Anna doing?”

  “Okay. Disappointed and a little depressed that she’s not out with us.”

  “I’m sure. Give her my best. I know it’s not easy.”

  “Hey, neither is searching for one hundred million year old bones no one else has discovered,” he joked. “What’s up?”

  “Rich, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t consider it terribly important.”

  “What?

  “Be careful what you tell Anna from here on out.”

  “Why?” He raised his voice, immediately sensitive to criticism.

  “Because…” McCauley stopped short, concerned how best to frame his misgivings, considering Tamburro’s romantic relationship with Chohany. “It’s hard to explain. I’ll do better when we get back.”

  “You can’t just drop that bomb and leave it like that. Why?”

  McCauley gave an answer with as much conviction as possible. “We’ve been advised to keep this under wraps for now.”

  “I get that,” Tamburro said, “but Anna just wants to know.”

  “Of course. But there are two other reasons.” The first was a lie. “We don’t want to worry her and there’s the chance, probably unintentionally, she told someone what we blundered into.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I said probably unintentionally, Rich. And I have no reason to think otherwise, but remember, she was the one who went into the tunnel on her own. You have to wonder why, too.”

  Tamburro considered the point. “And the second reason?”

  “Well, there was a problem.” McCauley told Tamburro about the attack on Greene.

  The young man was appalled and defensive. “And you think Anna… ?”

  “I never said that.”

  “Bullshit. You implied. That’s enough.”

  “Look, Rich, I’m sure you’re right. But we’re feeling a little edgy right now and I’m thinking about everyone’s welfare. Including Anna’s.”

  They hung up. In spite of his indignation, Tamburro began to wonder why Anna had struck out on her own.

  • • •

  Katrina Alpert called the television producer Greene mentioned. The conversation didn’t go far. It was short and frustrating.

  “Felt like the third degree from the receptionist.”

  “Do you think you’ll get a call back?” McCauley asked.

  “Doubtful.”

  Alpert was correct. The message went unanswered through check-in at The Sportsman’s Lodge in Studio City and dinner at The Daily Grill on Ventura Boulevard.

  They returned to the legendary San Fernando Valley hotel, worn out, yet more alert and aware of their surroundings. McCauley worked out how they should survey the environment and signal each other if they saw anything out of the ordinary. Now everything and everyone was suspect: The man sitting alone in the lobby with a newspaper. Was he reading or watching them? The woman on her cell in the corner. Was she reporting to someone on their whereabouts? The security guard who seemed to take an active interest in them. Had some cash turned him into an informer?

  “Keep talking and walking,” McCauley said.

  “Take my hand,” she added.

  That wasn’t hard at all. It eased the anxiety they both felt. Two minutes later, they were still hand in hand as they exited the elevator. They continued to walk to Katrina’s room, next to and adjoining Quinn’s.

  This is where it became awkward. He released her hand.

  “Well, here we are.”

  “Yes. Here we are.”

  They sounded like bumbling high school students on a first date. Thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence didn’t improve the situation.

  Finally, McCauley said, “I think we should call it a night.”

  “Right. It’s been a long day. I’ve got a few emails to send if I can even keep my eyes open.”

  “Same here.”

  “Well, good night,” he said.

  “Good night.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  “Sure. You?” Katrina asked in return.

  “Yup. But make sure you double lock.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll leave my door unlocked though, just in case.”

  “Just in case.”

  Forty-one

  Voyages offices

  London

  The next day

  Felicia Dunbar had summoned Kavanaugh to her outer office, another breach of protocol that infuriated him like everything she did. “Mr. Kavanaugh, you have an appointment at Brown’s in an hour.”

  “No I don’t,” he shot back to the contemptible assistant he’d inherited.

  “It’s the regular date that Mr. Gruber always kept and you’re…”

  “Ms. Dunbar, apparently I need to remind you that Mr. Gruber is no longer with us, you may put his calendar away. I’ll keep my own.”

  She straightened up in her office chair, which served to eliminate all the folds in her expensive gray jacket. Kavanaugh really had no idea who she was, where she came from, whether she was single or married, or how she lived. All he knew was what he saw in her body language, which he despised.

  “Another thing,” Kavanaugh continued, “I’ve been thinking that it would be best to make some changes here at the magazine. I’m sure you can understand that I need to have my own team.”

  “Oh,” she said, removing her reading glasses. She folded the frames and put them on her desk in the exact place where they always were.

  “You faithfully served Mr. Gruber for years. No one can question your devotion. I assure you I’ll review your file and provide you with a more than adequate severance package and a letter of recommendation.”

  She listened to him showing no emotion.

  “You obviously had a strong working relationship with Mr. Gruber. Those bonds are hard to break. I understand. I hope you recognize my position.”

  Still no response.

  “I’m sure we can tidy this up amicably by the end of the week.” Kavanaugh smiled insincerely.

  “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Kavanaugh,” Dunbar finally replied. “However, proper arrangements have already been made.” She matched his callous smile. “My path has been set for years.”

  Kavanaugh felt the lingering presence of Martin Gruber from his grave. Will he ever go away?

  He prepared to leave, but Dunbar began the conversation again. “As I stated, Mr. Kavanaugh, you have an appointment at Brown’s. Eighteen-thirty sharp. Your regular table.”

  “I’ll be there,” he replied with open hostility.

  Although he didn’t watch, he just knew that she’d picked up her glasses again, rolled closer to the computer and got back to the job she wasn’t going to leave on his account.

  • • •

  Los Angeles, CA

  The same time

  Quinn and Katrina drove to the TV production company office a few miles away on Lankershim Blvd. They were there by 10:15 A.M., without a meeting scheduled.

  Alpert took the lead with the receptionist.

  “I’m Dr. Katrina Alpert from Cambridge University in England. This is Dr. Quinn McCauley from Yale. We’re both paleontologists. I left a message yesterday for Mr. Krein. Since we’re on a tight research time frame, we do need to see him this morning. Can you let him know? We won’t take much time, but it’s urgent.”

  She had stressed two words in particular: need and urgent.

  Alpert wasn’t certain if she was addressing the same person she’d spoken to on the phone, so she added more. “Oh, and please mention that Robert Greene said it was very important that we get together.”

  “Once again, you are?”

  McCauley looked away totally frustrated. The young redhead had just fulfilled his stereotypical image of a Hollywood airhead.

  Alpert slowly repeated their names.

  “Please take a seat, Dr. Al-bert,” she said immediately underscoring McCauley’s impression.

  �
��It’s Alpert. Doctors Alpert and McCauley. We’re,” she decided not to say paleontologists again. “We’re dinosaur scientists.”

  “I’ll try Mr. Krein’s assistant,” the young woman said.

  “Thank you,” Katrina said.

  They waited ten minutes, mostly watching the receptionist text between calls. Finally, another woman, barely a few years older, came through the doors. She had black hair with red streaks and wore a short navy blue skirt, a yellow button-down linen shirt and two inch heels.

  “Dr. Al-bert?” She automatically addressed McCauley.

  “Yes,” Katrina said offering her hand. “It’s Dr. Alpert.” She stressed the correction. “And Dr. McCauley.”

  “I’m Autumn, Gene’s assistant.”

  “Autumn?” Katrina tried to stifle a laugh. “Very pretty name.” Very LA. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you. But I’m sorry to say Gene can’t fit you in today. He’s in edit hell with network notes.”

  McCauley quickly deduced that Autumn was the gatekeeper and Krein was dodging them. He was about to respond, but Katrina beat him.

  “Excuse me? What does that mean?”

  Autumn seemed surprised by the question. Everyone knew what network notes were, didn’t they? “Sorry, he’s dealing with changes from the network.”

  Katrina smirked. She raised her finger to make a point. Autumn cut her off.

  “He can’t leave the edit bay.” Her eyes darted. Now she acted more stressed than surprised. “And he’s really under the gun.”

  Under the gun? McCauley thought it was an interesting choice of words. However, he responded tactfully. “Of course, we understand. We’ll only take ten minutes. Robert Greene said Mr. Krein—ah, Gene—was the best person in television to meet.” He decided to throw in some bait. “We’re onto something that he will be very interested in hearing.”

  “Well, we have a website portal where you can pitch your ideas.”

  Shit! That didn’t work.

  “Listen, I apologize if I don’t have the TV jargon down, but this isn’t about pitching or submitting, or whatever you call it.” McCauley gave up the niceties. “I can’t emphasize strongly enough that we need to speak with Mr. Krein. Ten minutes, that’s all. Ten minutes.”