Knight's Scheme

by Phil Lollar

  Wilson cuffed him on the shoulder, ending his reverie. “So how about you?” the older man asked. “Still working for that government agency? What is it you do there, anyway? Something exciting and clandestine, no doubt!”

  Jason grinned. “It’s actually a lot of reading and analysis. Pretty boring stuff, really.”

  Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “I see . . . you know, your Dad says the same thing on occasion—usually after he has disappeared for a while and no one knows where he went. I’m not sure I believe either one of you.”

  Concern replaced Jason’s smile. “Well, actually, as much as I love Provenance, there is another reason I came.”

  Wilson stuck his finger in the air. “Ah-ha! I knew it! Well then, what say we go into Hoops Diner for a slice of pie and a cuppa joe, and you can tell me why you’re really here?”

  Hoops was another place where walking through the front door was like being transported back in time—to the 1930s, to be precise. A long wooden counter and stools, not unlike the ones at Whit’s End, lined one side of the room; a row of wooden booths and tables lined the other side. Once Wilson and Jason parked themselves in a booth and ordered slices of berry and apple pie and two coffees, Wilson fixed his nephew with a conspiratorial stare and said, “Well?”

  Jason grinned. “Okay. First, why I’m really here has nothing to do with my job. I’m actually looking for Uncle Jack. I got a near-panicked phone call from Dad about him. When Dad found out I was on the West Coast headed back to DC, he asked if I would look in on Jack at the orphanage he ran in Nebraska.”

  The waitress arrived with their order and set their coffee and pie in front of them. Jason took a sip of coffee and continued. “But when I got there, they told me Jack resigned and left three years ago to move to Provenance. Only he didn’t leave a forwarding address or phone number. I still can’t find him. Is he here?”

  Wilson swallowed a forkful of berry pie and shook his head. “Not anymore. He left about three weeks ago.”

  “Left? Where’d he go?”

  Wilson shrugged. “He didn’t say. He tried to turn the old Granville Mansion into an antique and historical artifact shop. But as it turned out, very few people around here were interested in antiques or historical artifacts—certainly not enough to keep a business up and running. And then when the shop was broken into some months ago, he decided enough was enough, closed it down, and moved on.”

  Jason picked up his fork and poked at his pie. “Someone broke into the shop?”

  Wilson nodded. “Even Provenance suffers from crime.”

  “Uncle Jack wasn’t hurt, was he?”

  “No, no, it happened at night when no one was there.”

  “What was stolen?”

  “That is what was strange,” Wilson answered, chewing another bite. “Jack said only one thing was taken—a map.”

  Jason had speared an apple slice and was in the process of bringing it to his mouth when he stopped and slowly lowered the fork. “Map? What kind of map?”

  Wilson took a gulp of coffee and replied, “Believe it or not, it was some kind of map of that town where your dad lives—Oddity?”

  “Odyssey!”

  “That’s it.”

  Jason leaned in. “That’s the map Dad gave Jack right after the Clara incident! It was supposed to be some sort of peace offering!”

  Wilson shook his head slowly and muttered, “Well, I’ll be . . .” Then his brow furrowed. “But why would someone want to take that?”

  “Yes,” Jason muttered thoughtfully, “why, indeed . . .”

  Uncle and nephew sat quietly for several minutes, nibbling at their pie and sipping the remainder of their coffee. Finally, Wilson took a deep breath and said, “Well, I don’t think either one of us has enough information to solve this puzzle. Are you staying the night? I’d love to have you up to my place.”

  Jason smiled and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to get back to DC. I have a trip I’ve got to get ready for.”

  “Where are you headed, if I may ask?”

  “The Middle East. You?”

  “Burma,” Wilson replied, “well, Myanmar, now.”

  Jason gave a low whistle. “They just had a revolution there, y’know.”

  Wilson smirked. “I’m aware. I’m going with a humanitarian aid organization doing relief work at a prison.”

  Jason’s eyebrows rose. “San Wing?”

  Wilson nodded, surprised. “You know it?”

  “Of it. Dangerous place—very rough. It’s one of the worst prisons in the world.”

  “That’s why we’re going,” Wilson said. “They need help the most.”

  “Be careful, Unc.”

  “No worries. You, too. The Middle East is no picnic, either.”

  “Don’t I know it! Keep me in your prayers?”

  “Of course. And me in yours.”

  “Always.”

  “So, Jack is all right, then?”

  “As far as I can tell, Dad. He didn’t leave a forwarding address or number this time, either.”

  Whit sighed into the phone receiver. “Yeah, that’s Jack—always trying to disappear into the woodwork. I pray God keeps him safe.”

  “You really should reconcile with him, you know.”

  “I know. And we will, if I can ever find him.”

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on with this map?”

  “I can’t, son. Not yet.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. Listen, I’d like to keep looking for Uncle Jack, but I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “I understand. Agency keeping you busy?”

  Now Jason sighed. “You know how it is. There’s always something going on in the world we need to look into.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You can walk away, you know. Even if it’s just for a little while. Come home to Odyssey to rejuvenate. No place like a small town to do that.”

  Jason chuckled. “That’s just what Uncle Wilson said about Provenance.”

  “He’s right.”

  There was a pause, and then Jason almost whispered, “I have thought about it, actually. The timing is not right now, but . . . maybe I will—one day.”

  “Soon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I love you, son. God bless you and keep you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you too.”

  The phone line clicked dead, and Whit slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. He said a quick prayer for Jason, Wilson, and Jack, and then his thoughts turned to the map. No doubt one of Blackgaard’s henchmen stole it from Jack. But how did Blackgaard know Jack had the map in the first place? And aside from a means of escape, what would Blackgaard need in the tunnel under Whit’s End? Blackgaard wasn’t the careless type, so it was highly unlikely he dropped the map by accident. Is he taunting me? Whit wondered. The frightening thought returned, but he suppressed it. No sense in jumping to conclusions. He would have to be patient and trust in God.

  Whit sighed heavily. This was like an epic chess match, only one where his opponent could see all of his moves, but he couldn’t see any of his opponent’s moves. “So the obvious question,” he muttered, “is which piece moves next?”

  Chapter Four

  WASHINGTON, DC: EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  “I’m sorry, Professor, but the new compound didn’t work.” Tasha Forbes pushed a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear, cradled the phone receiver between her shoulder and pretty, heart-shaped face, and consulted her notes. “The computer simulator showed that the covalent bond simply wouldn’t stabilize.”

  “I was certain zis was zee one!” Hans Tessler’s French accent intoned from the receiver. “It seemed so right! Are you certain you can trust zis computer simulator?”

  “Oh, yes. It is part of a very powerful computer program.”

  “Are you certain you can trust zee programmer?”

  “John Avery Whittaker? Absolutely. I worked with him as he develo
ped the technology. Trust me—the simulator works.”

  “Oui, of course.”

  Tasha sighed and leaned her petite but solid frame back in her chair. “We may have to face the unpleasant fact that the right compound simply doesn’t exist.”

  “Non! Don’t say zat, ma chère! As Edison learned with his light bulb filament, we have to keep looking!”

  “Yes, but where?”

  “Zere is one more place,” Tessler replied. “In zee papers of a colleague of mine from zee Center of Scientific Understanding.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “You wouldn’t know him. A brilliant man, but he had troubles after ze war. Had to go into hiding, but he donated all of his papers to zee COSU before he left. I remember going through zem. He was very excited about some discovery he had made. I can’t recall what it was. Unfortunately, much of what he wrote about it was charabia—gibberish, almost fantaisie. But I do remember him mentioning a catalyst—a neutralizing agent he discovered in a soil sample.”

  “Soil from where?”

  “Again, I can’t recall. I will have to look at his papers to know for certain.”

  Tasha took hold of the receiver. “Well, let me know what you find.”

  “But of course!”

  There was a long pause, so long Tasha thought they had been disconnected. “Professor? Are you there?”

  “Oui, ma chère. I was just thinking . . . I hope your government appreciates all we are doing for it.”

  Uh-oh, thought Tasha, instantly sitting upright. Trouble. “I can assure you it does,” she said aloud. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “No reason . . . it’s just zat . . . zis information we are working on is very important. If we are successful, it could change zee balance of power in le monde—zee world.” Tessler took a deep breath. “I would hate to see it fall into zee wrong hands.”

  “And by ‘the wrong hands,’ I assume you mean any hands other than those of my government?”

  “Oui.”

  “Is there any danger of that happening?”

  “Le monde est dangereux—zee world is a dangerous place, mon amie.”

  “Has someone approached you?”

  “Non, non,” Tessler said dismissively. “Nothing like zat.” Then his tone changed to utter seriousness. “I just want to impress upon your government zat zese secrets must be kept safe . . . at any cost.”

  And there it is, Tasha thought. Money. She took a deep breath. “I agree, Professor, and that is precisely what my government will do. We would be very displeased were this information to wind up, as you put it, in the wrong hands, and we would find out precisely how that happened—at any cost.”

  Another pause, and then Tessler’s dismissive tone reappeared. “Oui, oui, but of course. Don’t mind me, ma chère. Ignore zee ramblings of an old man. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I shouldn’t have said anything. When are you coming to see me?”

  “I’m making plans to do so right now.”

  “Merveilleux! Wonderful! I look forward to seeing you zoon! Meanwhile, I will look through zose papers and let you know what I find! Zis will be . . . what number?”

  Tasha consulted her notes again. “Um . . . number 415.”

  “TA-415. Très bien, eh?”

  “Yes, Professor. Very good.”

  “Do ye think he’s been compromised?”

  Tasha suppressed a grin at her boss’s Scottish accent and then took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Donovan. He could have been sincerely concerned about security—for himself and the project. Still, all of that talk about appreciating the work, and how important it is, and protecting it at any cost . . . I just don’t know.”

  Her boss, aka ‘Headman’, retrieved a thistle pipe from a holder on his desk, brought it to his mouth, struck a match, and lit it. The delicious aroma of pipe tobacco filled the air almost instantly. He blew a thin stream of gray smoke from his lips, leaned back in his chair, and stroked the white, neatly trimmed beard that framed his ruddy face. “Oh, I think ye do. And I also think ye know what the next step is.”

  Tasha nodded. “I need to go to Geneva. I already told Tessler I was coming.”

  “And staying.”

  Tasha blinked. “For how long?”

  “For as long as it takes, lass. This project is too important to be handled long-distance anymore.” He leaned forward and pointed at a stack of files on a credenza opposite his desk. “Take a look at those.”

  Tasha retrieved the files and rifled through them as Donovan continued. “We’ve gotten a good deal of intel on activities in the Middle East.”

  Tasha glanced up and grinned. “Jason’s doing his usual thorough job.”

  Donovan nodded. “I’d expect no less. As ye can see, a great number of fresh terrorist cells are forming.”

  “That’s nothing new. Cells are always popping up in that region. They fade away just as quickly.”

  “True enough. But there is one in there that is behaving a bit differently. File 34.”

  Tasha shuffled through the stack, put number 34 on top, and flipped it open. “Red Scorpion?”

  Donovan took a pull on his pipe and puffed out a small cloud of smoke. “Silly name, I know, but the leader is doing things a bit differently than the others.”

  Tasha scanned the file. “Mustafa . . . no last name. Interesting. Indicates he thinks he’s special . . . from Raqistan . . . large family . . . educated in—” She stopped and looked up at Donovan again. “Geneva.”

  Donovan nodded. “And he makes frequent trips there. He comes from a wealthy clan—oil money. He’s smart, and he has a small, but devoted, group of followers that he has handpicked from other radical cells. Any dissent from them is dealt with ruthlessly. We don’t know what he’s up to or if he is connected to any other group.”

  “Yet,” Tasha said knowingly. She smirked. “I can certainly see why you need me in Geneva.” She rose and replaced the files on the credenza. “I’d better go pack.”

  She headed for the door, but Donovan stopped her. “One thing more, Tasha.”

  She knew what was coming. “Yes?”

  Donovan set his pipe back on the holder and stood. “I had another visit from General Howell this morning.”

  “Oh?” she said, feigning innocence. “How is he?”

  “Angry. He wants Applesauce.”

  “Well, he should go to the cafeteria; I’m sure they have some—”

  “Dinna play games with me, young lady!” Donovan snapped. “It’s been eight months since ye took the program off Whittaker’s computer. The general wants what his department paid for—and is entitled to.”

  Tasha took a deep breath. “I can’t give it to him, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is a very complex program, tightly interwoven. Separating what the general is entitled to has proven to be a very delicate operation.”

  “Then bring in someone who can unweave it.”

  Tasha shook her head. “With all due respect, sir, that wouldn’t be wise. Applesauce is incredibly powerful. Few people should know about it, and even fewer have access to it.” Especially a bungler like General Howell, she thought.

  Donovan growled. “If the general doesn’t get what he is entitled to, then he will be well within his rights to demand the whole program!”

  “That would be an even bigger security risk, Donovan! We can’t have multiple copies floating around out there!”

  “If that is true, then ye won’t be taking Applesauce with ye to Geneva.”

  Tasha’s jaw dropped. “But I need it!”

  Donovan brushed away her comment as though he were batting away an annoying fly. “Ye canna have it both ways, lass. If it’s a security risk for the general to have, then it is a security risk for you to take as well.” His steel-gray eyes looked at her with unshakable resolve. “Make your choice.”

  Tasha scowled and looked at her feet. She loved working for Donovan, but sometimes he could be a real pill.


  “Well?”

  Tasha took a deep breath. “All right . . . I’ll give him the program.”

  Donovan nodded curtly. “Good.” He returned to his chair and his pipe. “See to it ye have it ready for him before ye leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” She started for the door and then stopped. “May I ask a favor, Headman?”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell Jason I said ‘hi.’”

  Donovan’s hard look softened, as did his voice, and he nodded again. “Will do, lass.” She opened the door, and this time he stopped her. “Tasha.”

  “Sir?”

  “Be careful.”

  She smiled. “As Jason is fond of saying, ‘Always.’”

  Chapter Five

  One of the great ironies of life, Whit often pondered, is how things we consider to be advantages can also turn into drawbacks. For instance, the great advantage of living in a small town like Odyssey was that you got away from the rat race of a big city. The pace was slower, people were friendlier, and it was easy to forget that there were bad things going on in the world and bad people making those things happen. And therein lay the drawback.

  Though Whit did not completely forget what had happened at Blackgaard’s Castle, during the course of the following year, he allowed the ups and downs and joys and sorrows of everyday life in Odyssey to push the warning signals to the back of his thoughts . . .

  . . . until an incident occurred that uncovered the next chess move. Then the signals started blaring again. To paraphrase his friend and custodial services provider Bernard Walton, it was like “goin’ to a four-alarm fire, sirens blazin’!”