by Doug Walker
“So we bull ahead?”
“Why not. The cautious seldom err – but they can be boring.”
“Let’s not go there. We’re getting a lot of press on this project. Usually they want to speak to you. You up for a press conference?”
“In a word, no. I would like to go out to our headquarters, out here in that wasteland. Is it habitable? That is can I get a room?”
“Plenty of vacant rooms. There is a bar and kitchen and food, but generally it’s self-serve. You want me to go with you? We could, you know, share.”
Betty’s offer was tempting, in fact overwhelming. She owed her success to me. Was I taking advantage of her? Or was she taking advantage of me? Maybe it was mutual. “My bag’s in the car. How do we get there?”
She was all smiles. “It’ll take me a few seconds to pack. I’ll call for a chopper.”
“Wonderful. We will be lifted and whisked away.” As we waited for the chopper, I thought of all the Harris money we were spending, several fortunes. Then a bromide crossed my mind: A great fortune is great slavery. Not always true, not when one has someone like Betty, a trusted lieutenant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
As if our thoughts were united, Betty mentioned Harris as we cut our bonds with Earth. “He must have been a brilliant man to accumulate all that lucre.”
“Not brilliant. Inherited, just like me. Harris was born on third base and stole second.”
“I love sports metaphors,” she babbled. “You know I think my house might be haunted. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I believe in gravity.” We were still climbing and moving off toward the wastelands she had wisely purchased. “I feel its pull now. I used to believe the world was flat and that man would never fly, but I’ve gone through a process of maturation that is still in play.”
She patted my hand. “Never stop learning, never stop growing, never give up sex.”
Now we were clipping along flat out and it was hard to hear, but I posed a question anyway, “What is abstract expressionism?”
She looked at me with that go to hell gleaming smile. “Don’t you just love art?”
We both fell silent for the rest of the short trip, bid goodbye to our pilot and entered the headquarters building. The exterior was not landscaped and the interior smelled new. Betty introduced me to the cook who seemed to be the only one around. He suggested a room, or rooms, on the second floor balcony overlooking the lobby. It was Betty’s idea that we bunk together.
It seemed the city planners and surveyors were out surveying and planning. We found a couple of cold beers and flopped on a low couch in the lobby. “We need to buy land in Bullhead City or Laughlin, near Davis Dam,” I said.
“I know.” For all her crazy talk, Betty was no dope. “I’ve bought three lots in Laughlin. We needed to be on that side of the river. Our main land, where we sit, gives us the Arizona connection. From Laughlin it’s about sixty miles to Las Vegas. That’s a long stretch for a monorail.”
“Two monorails. We need cars moving swiftly in both directions. I’ve got a friend in Washington.”
“Yeah,” Betty chuckled. “They say if you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.”
“Mutual dependence. Quid pro quo. We need to recruit pols in both states, plus California. Needles isn’t that far away. Anyone with the fare can ride and mighty welcome.”
“Take a trip on the ghost monorail. Anyway, the Laughlin city Dads will find you’re a landowner there. I’ve tried to put lots together so you’ll have a station for your phantom train.”
“You’re a wonder.” We clicked our beer bottles, drank up, then wandered about until we found what passed as a war room with a large table and satellite maps of the area, with lines of demarcation carefully drawn and overlays illustrating possible layouts. “Isn’t it wonderful? To think you and I set this in motion.” Betty just grinned and ran her fingers over the plots.
We spent the next couple of days networking with the city planners and the construction boss and driving over the land in a rugged four-wheeler. The scope of the thing was beyond me. As far as I was concerned it was on automatic pilot. My job was to keep the flow of cash coming and that was no problem.
CHAPTER FORTY
Early in the morning on the fourth day, Chet called and asked me to fly to Washington, even offering to pay my fare. So here was our mutual interest, whatever it was he wanted from me. I hoped it was advice.
The chopper carried me to Vegas, and I touched down at National Airport, the one they had attempted to name after the Great Communicator, at midmorning the following day.
One of those men in black, with the equally mysterious black cars, met me and my sad little carry-on and whisked me off to CIA headquarters. So I never really got into Washington. What lands in Northern Virginia stays in Northern Virginia, a part of the state that the remainder of Virginia wishes would go away.
Perhaps I was expecting to meet with a group, but, as it happened, a secretary ushered me into a small conference room for a one-on-one session with good old Chet. He was all smiles and had high praise for the accomplished mission in Monaco.
“We were backing you all the way,” he chimed, resisting the urge to slap me on the back. What is he up to, I pondered, but soon found out. Another mission, a chance to join his group in earnest.
“You seem to have a sixth sense for this, uh, occupation,” said he.
“Your guys were fairly good at watching me,” I retorted. “A known target in a known location. Also, I’m really not as good as you say. I had some help, I had some luck.” And I really didn’t want to put on the cloak and carry a government issued dagger.
“Luck is often the name of the game, Andy. And you’re that lucky person.”
“Lucky, perhaps, until one turns up dead.”
“No morbid thoughts, please. Let me outline the mission.”
“I’ll listen, but first let me outline my interest. I’m starting a new town in the wilds of Arizona and I will need government help in building a sixty-mile long rapid monorail to link it to Las Vegas where the jobs are. Can you help me?”
Chet was quiet, pondering. Finally, he spoke. “We can do a lot in the name of national security. And we have other assets, basically friends in Congress and in the Administration who owe us.”
“Another big angle here is conservation. The monorail moves thousands without the aid of gasoline. The new town will be greener than green – windmills, solar panels, any energy-saving innovation in or out of the book.”
Chet nodded. “I think we can do business.”
“I mean that much to you?”
“Your cover is ideal. There was a girl in Monaco, Sylvia, we’ve thought of picking her for your partner. How does that sit?”
What could I say? Chet had just iced the cake. Adventure, danger, life on the edge and Sylvia. What red-blooded American boy could refuse?
So Chet laid down the mission.
“To begin with,” Chet said, “we have a saying around these hallowed halls: To fear death is worse than death.”
“Something like,” I responded pertly, “a coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man dies but once.”
“Very nicely put,” Chet agreed, “but not totally original. To get down to cases, I’m aware of your new town concept in Arizona. You might know that Prince Charles of the United Kingdom, what’s left of it, has been working on a self-sustaining, picture-perfect project for years.”
“That land,” I rejoined, “was inhabited before the Roman Empire. My acreage couldn’t even support native Americans.”
“But the Colorado River is nearby. Anyway, we’re getting off topic. There is an assignment and we can get Sylvia on board. The two of you are to go to London and rent a flat, find a young couple, kidnap victims, restore them to their families. That’s it.”
“That simple,” said I. “Why not let Scotland Yard and a Bobbie or two do the job?”
“Large secret, deep in the lodge. But the Yard h
as been informed and is looking around. This is not an ordinary couple.”
“Aliens? Mutants? Crazed Typhoid Marys?”
“Blue bloods. Elitists. Moneyed U.S. aristocracy.”
“Both of them?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I was incredulous. “This is a CIA case?”
“Homeland Security. CIA. Somebody has to do it and the President picked us.”
“But not really us, like in us. Sylvia and me, we’re outsiders. If we fail, you’re off the hook to some extent. If we succeed, you take credit. Is this win-win for you?”
“Not at all,” Chet said grimly, a serious frown creasing his forehead. “We’re talking about the lives of two young people, youngsters on the threshold of adulthood. Gifted young folks with a lifetime ahead of them.”
I was not impressed. “These kidnappings. They usually play out over a very short time span. If things don’t work out the victims, in this case God’s gift to the young adult world, are generally killed and tossed into a ditch or a river, or cremated. Yet you first approached me some time back.”
“True, Andy. I wanted you on board for another matter, but this came up.
And it was flagged ‘urgent.’”
“But still, time has slipped by.”
“This is not your ordinary kidnapping.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chief Inspector Harry Cameron, New Scotland Yard, had just arrived at the American Embassy to find the Goldstein’s and DuPray’s staring listlessly at nothing in particular. Despair was in the air.
“You have word from the kidnappers?” he asked the group of four.
Ambassador DuPray made a hopeless motion with his right hand, then pointed to a letter on the coffee table. “It’s from Mark and Eloise, as advertised.”
The Inspector nodded and gingerly picked up the letter. “I suppose there’ll be no fingerprints.”
“Except Mark’s and Eloise’s,” the ambassador said. “We were informed by the initial note that we would get such a letter and here it is.”
“Yes, indeed,” harrumphed the Inspector. “No prints on the first one either.” He opened the letter and read aloud:
“Dear Mom and Dad –
“We have been treated very well, except for the journey here. We have no idea where we are. Our food is OK. We have a good place to sleep, clean clothing, access to radio and TV. Quite a few videos. Catching up on old films like Casablanca and Gone with the Wind.
“The people here want 50,000 pounds a month. They will send a messenger on the Thursday morning after you receive this letter. If you attempt to molest him in any way, if you attempt to follow him, they will punish us severely. Their options include waterboarding, deprivation of food, locking us in a closet, taking our clothing away and other innovative unpleasant things.
“If the payment, or payments, are made, we will continue to get good treatment, including medical aid if needed, and will eventually be released. So we both hope that our families comply with the instructions. No harm has come to us and we are in good spirits.
“With Love, Mark and Eloise.”
“Are these the true signatures of your children?” the Inspector questioned.
All four parents responded in the affirmative. In fact the body of the letter was handwritten with each of the children doing alternate paragraphs.
The Ambassador, who seemed to be the spokesman for the four, said, “We intend to meet the conditions of the letter to the letter. We will give up the cash and not follow the messenger. We hope you will do the same.”
“In a case like this,” the Inspector replied, “we would tend to respect the wishes of the parents. I’m assuming there will be future letters and future evidence that the two young people are alive and well. Are they both nineteen?”
“Eloise is eighteen,” Mr. Goldstein said. “Mark is nineteen.”
“And good friends,” the Inspector said.
“Very much so,” Mrs. Goldstein allowed.
“Then I’ll say good day. Please make a note of the appearance, height, weight, hair and eye color of the messenger, although I doubt he’s in league with these blackguards. I’ll keep the letters, and keep me informed.”
When he was gone, Mrs. DuPray said, “I think the children are being well cared for.”
The others nodded and the Ambassador rose to pour sherry all around.
In their place of captivity, Mark DuPray III and Eloise Goldstein had finished a full English breakfast and were watching cartoons on the telly. Books and magazines were strewn around the room. Through a barred window they could hear their housekeeper and cook singing to herself as she washed up from breakfast.
The two had been snatched as they exited a club in the Soho area in the early morning hours. Black bags were thrown over their heads and they had been lightly bound and transported far away. The bags had been replaced by sleep masks and they had been cautioned not to remove them or attempt to peek on threat of death.
Then came two or three days of transit, seemingly by truck, maybe a part of it by train, although that would be unusual. They would never be normal passengers, blinded as they were and bundled up in light blankets. They knew the final leg was via boat. Salt air, the smell of fish, the pounding engine, rocking two and fro, sometimes breasting a serious wave. Then hustled into this big old house with only the housekeeper, or better yet cook.
They called her Mama and she fixed their meals and passed them through a narrow slot. She washed up, did their laundry, furnished them with extra clothing, told them that if they kept their room tidy she would let them go for outdoor walks. Apparently, she controlled the lock on the front door with some sort of electrical device.
They puzzled over the walk business. How could this be? They could simply walk and walk and keep on going. Maybe she thought they were like cats, that in time they would consider this room where they were housed in comfort and well fed as home, returning like the swallows to Capistrano. But they would keep the room straight and find out. They would smile at one another and touch hands and say, “Soon we will be walking outside. Delicious.”
The one thing they lacked, or the several things they lacked, were birth control devices. Sleeping together like they were, pregnancy seemed a given. Both sets of parents had objected to their mating. Eloise was a JAP, a Jewish American Princess, her father a mercantile mogul from Brooklyn.
Mark was the scion of an old New England family, right up there with Cabots and Lodges.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Sylvia and I had barely settled into our London flat when we were visited by the CIA agent stationed at the Embassy. He said his name was Dick and he was properly furtive.
“You been with the company long?” he questioned.
Sylvia smiled from the couch and said she’d make tea. I allowed that we are simple private citizens recruited for this task.
Dick was instantly suspicious. “You have special credentials? Special training?”
“Not really. Our handler told me I’m lucky.”
“You’re lucky!” Dick almost rose from his seat. “This flat costs a bundle. What the hell is the company up to? You have inside information?”
“Not a shred.” Sylvia inquired if he’d like cream in his tea. “It is a nice flat though. We’re between Covent Garden and Waterloo Bridge. Quite a jolly walk from here along the Strand to Trafalgar Square. Jolly, that’s a British term, isn’t it?”
“I suppose, but it’s also used in America around Christmas time. And no cream. Filthy English habit. Do you have shortbread?”
“Of course,” Sylvia said pleasantly, then added, “Can you help us crack this case? We’re thinking of traveling to Malta when we’re done.”
Dick looked from me to Sylvia. The company has recruited a couple of lunatics. What’s the real story here?”
“What you see is what you get,” I replied. “We would like to have a look at the letters. Do you have them?”
“No. Chief Inspector C
ameron. New Scotland Yard. I assume you do have ID of some kind?”
I nibbled shortbread and sipped tea. Sylvia drank tea, but thought the shortbread fattening. Of course she was right, a combination of butter, sugar and flour in equal parts isn’t on the Weight Watcher’s agenda.
Dick seemed eager to finish his snack and depart. My guess is that he would soon be on the phone to Northern Virginia. And our next stop was New Scotland Yard and the chief inspector.
We did go to the Yard and we did meet the chief inspector, a gruff old bird who brought both letters out of the property room. We both examined them carefully, made notes of the ink type, as much as we could determine, and the writing paper, and I gave them a good sniff, which puzzled the inspector.
“Remarkable nose you must have. Are they perfumed?”
“No. Just plain paper, not a lady’s stationary. There is a certain odor, but I’m not certain what it might be. But it does offer a clue, I suppose.”
“Bloody Sherlocks, the two of you,” Cameron laughed. “We’ve been told to lay off, not follow the messenger. Just as well. Too much manpower involved.” He looked us both over and shook his head. “Best of luck, you’ll need plenty, dotty sniffer.”
“Thanks, Inspector, you’ve been a great help.”
“Glad to be of service. Drop in again sometime.” He chuckled again. “Brief us on your methods. You could head a seminar for our poor benighted coppers.”
On that cheery note, we departed. For starters, when we learned the agent was coming for the cash, we would attempt surveillance, not to follow, or shadow as they say in the novels, but to station people here and there to keep a watch. Sylvia’s former detective firm would be enlisted for the task.
And I did know the smell from the sniff test I had given the two letters. They smelled like fish.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mark and Eloise had straightened up their room until it could be a piece for Home & Garden. They had found mops and cleaning materials in their bathroom. It had taken two whole days, but they were certain Mama would be pleased and she was.
