The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  Contrary to office protocol, he extended a hand. “I’m Igor.”

  She took the hand and whispered in his ear. “I knew that.”

  “Oh.”

  “However,” she continued, her dazzling green eyes flashing up and down the hallway, “I don’t recommend the natural smell.”

  At least she was subtle.

  She leaned back on her heels and patted him on the chest, ostensibly to straighten his tie. Her hands grazed over his muscles that were wiry and cut. “Mr. Sullivan!” she exclaimed, and threw him a sideways smile.

  His hours in the gym and five miles of jogging three times a week were finally paying off.

  “How about drinks at quitting time?” She said it so directly, that once again he missed a chance for a witty response.

  “I’ll pick you up,” he said.

  She nodded, and then swished away in her heart-shaped skirt that hugged her hips and knees.

  Why didn’t he put in more requests from the research department? He made a mental note to set an earlier quitting time that evening. Say six. No, five-thirty. He gave a deep, pleasurable sigh.

  Why had she dropped by? The past few minutes were all a blur to him. Oh, yes. The diaries. He took his eyes off her retreating figure and closeted himself in his office. A neat stack of papers sat on his desk. Ordinarily he didn’t enjoy reading hard copy, but the thought of her bringing the pages and arranging them so neatly, gave the job enormous appeal.

  He lowered his fingers reverently over the stack and began to read.

  The documents turned out to be photocopies of Truman’s diaries and letters from the early postwar period. He skipped ahead to Truman’s trip to Berlin.

  After staring at the horror of a flattened Berlin, Truman had arrived at Potsdam, an idyllic suburb that had escaped bombing during the war. There he seemed more at ease, conversing with other world leaders at guesthouses and meeting rooms. The obscure Himalayan kingdom seemed the furthest thing from his mind.

  Old Harry Truman was a very busy man. He was meeting with British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Premier Josef Stalin to settle unresolved matters at the end of the European conflict.

  First they hammered out details on dividing Germany and administering the agreed-upon zones of occupation. Then they dealt with the movement of displaced populations from countries formerly occupied by Germany.

  While at the meeting, he was told by Henry L. Stimson, his Secretary of War, that the Manhattan Project had been tested successfully and had exceeded all expectations.

  Sullivan squinted to make out the small, spiky handwriting. He was caught up in the moment playing out before his eyes. He blazed through the description of the dark German bread and the fruit cocktail and finally reached a passage that riveted him. While Truman weighed whether or not to drop the bomb on Japan, Stalin intervened on his thoughts with yet another issue.

  As Truman put it in his diary, “I asked him if he had the agenda for the meeting. He said he had and that he had some more questions to present. I told him to fire away. He did and it is dynamite.”

  The details of the meeting were never to become public, but Truman, happy that he might soon see a conclusion to the War in the Pacific, characteristically provided hints in an annotated letter to his wife Bess back in Missouri:

  “…I’ve gotten what I came for—Stalin goes to war [against Japan] August 15 with no strings on it. He wanted a Chinese settlement [in return for entering the Pacific war, China would give Russia some land and other concessions]—and it is practically made—in a better form than I expected. [Chinese Foreign Minister] Soong did better than I asked him. I’ll say that we’ll end the war a year sooner now, and think of the kids who won’t be killed! That is the important thing.”

  From the letter, it became clear to Sullivan that while Truman was intent on ending the war in the Pacific, Stalin’s mind was clearly on China. So, to finish the marathon meeting, the threesome issued the Potsdam Proclamation calling on Japan to surrender unconditionally.

  Sullivan continued to pour over the diary and subsequent letters, but found no further mention of what “dynamite” Stalin had brought up at the meeting.

  There was one more diary entry that scholars might easily have overlooked. Later in the day, Truman wrote, “Stalin’s quest has gone unfulfilled. To further this effort, we sign agreement. Couldn’t use a secretary—had to type it up myself. I’m such a hunt-and-pecker.”

  Sullivan sat back with his hands behind his thick black hair and let his imagination reenact the moment. The Potsdam Conference agreements had all been typed up and signed the same day. According to conventional history, there were no further agreements to sign. And yet, Truman mentioned typing one up himself.

  Perhaps historians attributed the passage to overwork or memory failure on the part of the president. Or maybe they wrote it off as just more of his homespun Missouri humor.

  Sullivan took a deep breath. He had seen the secret agreement. It was the Shangri-la Code. Truman’s diary entry at the end of the day had all but spelled it out.

  End of the day? He looked at his wall clock.

  Six-thirty.

  He’d forgotten all about his date with Linda.

  He grabbed a paperclip to bookmark the diary entry and hustled out of the office.

  He had no trouble negotiating the hallways. They were empty.

  He vaguely recalled that the research department was located on the first floor. The elevator never arrived, so he took the stairs inside the glass façade of the building.

  At that early evening hour, the parking lot was empty except for his white Ford and a little red convertible parked right beside it. Linda leaned against the red fender and waved at him.

  He put his legs in high gear.

  He finally reached the grassy, park-like setting. An evening breeze gently lifted her hair. How could he have stood up such a lovely creature?

  He vowed never to let it happen again.

  Like his son who was due to get married, he was falling head over heels in love.

  Chapter 43

  Brad knew that the best way to disappear in a market was not to run pell-mell through the crowd. He and May would have to slow down.

  They walked briskly among the stalls. The bargaining was low-key, but vendors were raking it in. Ruddy-faced shoppers inspected the animals, birds, and turtles for sale.

  May turned down a cross street dominated by watches and CD sales. It began to feel more cosmopolitan, a place where Brad belonged. One man sold crossbows with telescopic lenses. Not something one saw in Beijing.

  Roads became cleaner and wider. And architecture changed from two-story wooden structures with grass on the roofs to tile covered apartment buildings with shops at ground level.

  Her sleek white figure slipped between the clear plastic strips that hung from a doorframe. Brad followed her, just as soldiers trotted past in search of them.

  He peered into the gloom. Framed photographs showed smiling newlyweds. A corner was set up with studio lights and the image of a waterfall as a backdrop. Fancy, yet worn-looking, white lace dresses hung from racks. It was a bridal shop.

  “Look at this veil,” came May’s voice from deep in the shop.

  Hey, how did she know that word?

  She was trying on a fluffy white dress. “You are a vision,” he said.

  “You try a jacket,” she suggested, and indicated a red and gold mandarin outfit.

  He stared longingly at the black tuxedo.

  One of the shop girls handed him a Chinese hat, the kind of multi-colored beanie cap that had a fake pigtail. Reluctant, he put it on and checked the mirror. It turned him into a dork. In the reflection, however, he caught two soldiers slowly retracing their steps and checking inside stores.

  He tried on the jacket, with silk pants for good measure.

  The shop girl covered her mouth to hide a smile.

  Okay. He looked like Bozo the Clown. But a Chinese clown. He was just reac
hing for a folding fan when a soldier popped into the store. Brad unfurled the fan and covered his face.

  The soldier barked a question into the room. His dry, crackly voice used a dialect that Brad couldn’t place. The attendants looked at each other, but didn’t respond.

  Brad glided into position beside his fiancée, who was prettied up before the waterfall backdrop and smiled at the camera. The studio lights came on.

  The soldier dismissed them with a growl and left the shop.

  The camerawoman puffed May’s dress up and draped Brad’s pigtail over one shoulder. He glanced out the window. More soldiers hurried through the market, rifles drawn and serious looks on their faces.

  The camerawoman took her remote shutter release and struck a girlish pose, knees bent and huge smile on her face. May stiffened and a smile broke out on her rosy lips. Brad turned to the camera with pride. One day very soon, he would actually marry the girl. A strobe light let out a series of flashes, then one big burst of light.

  “Sank you,” the camerawoman said.

  And it was all over. Brad and May’s official wedding photo was taken.

  May turned to him, her eyes full of tears. Clearly she wanted to commemorate the occasion with a kiss.

  The plastic flaps of the doorway slapped open.

  May flipped her veil back and approached Brad with a helpless smile. As their lips met, he knew that she was as smitten as he was, and no matter how he looked or dressed, she had made up her mind that he was the one for her.

  At the entrance, a man shouted something into the room, his voice rude and harsh.

  “Shh,” all the shop girls said.

  May’s lips melted against Brad’s.

  He was barely cognizant of the man’s reaction. When her jaw slackened, he moved in closer and managed to sit on the hem of her dress. That pulled her bodice down low.

  Flash, flash, flash, flash. Burst of light.

  The camerawoman had stolen another picture.

  “Aah,” the man said by the entrance, and left.

  When Brad and May finally disengaged, the room broke out in applause. They had achieved the wedding pose of the year.

  A shop girl approached and kneeled with a tea tray. He took a cup and sipped the tea while the roomful of women watched them admiringly. Then the girl returned with a bowl of brown lumps.

  He turned to his bride for a cue.

  She seemed as perplexed as he was. Judging from the slight aroma, the lumps were a fruit. She inquired in Chinese and received an answer that even she didn’t seem to understand. “We must eat it.”

  Okay. He took one and peeled the skin away. The inside was crisp and white. He took a nibble. It had a hint of cider, like a cross between an apple and a water chestnut.

  Meanwhile, the camerawoman fiddled with a computer, trying to get their photographs printed out.

  Brad sat with May in front of the cascade frozen in time and began to contemplate their next move.

  “That was fun. Now what?”

  She screwed up her face. “The army is all over. Of course we must hide out.”

  “Sure, but how can we find Liang while we’re in hiding?”

  She thought for a moment. “He is not finding Shangri-la here in Kunming, for goodness sake.”

  He nodded. “Maybe we should head for the hills and wait for word from my father.”

  “We have buses and trains.”

  He remembered how conductors checked and recorded identity cards. “Trains might be risky.”

  “We will go to the bus,” she decided.

  “Dressed like this?”

  She glanced up at him. She was so close, her eyes almost crossed. “Why not?”

  Sure, why not? Bozo could traipse around town with this angelic vision and not attract the slightest bit of attention.

  “We can go like this to the bus station,” she said. “Do not worry. This is normal.”

  He had seen wedding couples posing for pictures all around China. They would stand in whatever park or garden or traffic median they could find, as long as there was something green in the picture. Why not do the same?

  “It’s a deal. We’ll catch the first bus out of town.”

  The camerawoman brought over two enlarged photos. May took them, careful not to smudge their glossy finish.

  One showed them in a stiff and formal pose. They looked like her ancestors in an arranged marriage. Without a word, she set it aside to check the other picture.

  “Whoa baby!” Brad said.

  Her lips were sucking his breath out and her breasts were crushed like plump balloons against him. He was every bit the manly Chinese movie star conquering the heroine. They fit together in the steamy embrace like statues captured in stone.

  He would treasure the picture forever, and show it to all his friends.

  Embarrassed, May worked out a deal with the shopowner to purchase the two prints and mail them to Beijing as well as to rent the clothes for the day. She turned to Brad. “You have money?”

  “Money?” All he had was a handful of euros.

  The shop girl shook her head at the foreign currency.

  “Here,” he said. “Take it all.” It would do him no good in China. He gave her all but a few bills.

  Reluctantly, the girl took the money. Then she arranged for a taxi to pick them up, and with much fanfare and tears, they left the store. Passersby paused to watch the star couple climb into the cab.

  May ordered the driver to the bus station, and together they waved goodbye. Even the soldiers waved back.

  Just as the taxi pulled away, a military officer aggressively approached the shop girls.

  “Step on it,” Brad said through gritted teeth.

  Like most bus stations in China, the intercity terminal was a vast parking lot filled with buses loading and unloading passengers, drivers stretching their legs, tickets passing hands, passengers rolling suitcases or carrying backpacks, and vendors plying soft drinks and snacks and fresh fruit to anyone who needed to load up for the trip.

  Overdressed as they were, May and Brad did not stand out particularly in the crowd. Everyone seemed focused and in a hurry. She found a bus to Dali.

  He hesitated before boarding. “Why Dali?”

  “It is in the mountains.”

  “Close to Shangri-la?”

  “How should I know?” And she prodded him in the back.

  He loved it. Their first quarrel as a married couple. Well, not quite married, but close enough.

  She pushed past him and led him to an empty seat. The noonday sun highlighted oil spots on the poorly manufactured window. It created a rainbow effect that gave May’s dress a colorful sheen.

  The driver stood outside shouting at a buddy on another bus. His stopover in Kunming seemed to be determined by the length of time it took to smoke a cigarette.

  In the meantime, a fat grandmother boarded with a goose atop her head. She smiled at the passengers and tried to get a reaction. When the mixture of construction workers and students looked away, she began to dance and hum a native tune. She wheeled around in circles, but the soot-gray goose didn’t budge. It was quite an act.

  When the driver finally climbed in his personal side door, he shoved the woman out.

  The bus lurched back and forth until they were free of other buses. Then they launched out a gate into traffic. A military truck and several police motorcycles pulled up to the station that very moment and slammed the gate shut behind them. Brad tilted his cap down over his eyes and leaned back to relax.

  It would take some time to interview the horde and find out if a bride and groom had passed through.

  Meanwhile, Brad and May’s bus headed for the distant green hills on the northwestern horizon, and Brad’s thoughts turned to their destination.

  He had gone on several digs in the mountains of China, and he had heard of Dali before.

  It gradually came back to him. Dali was the seat of the old Nanzhao Kingdom along the southern Silk Road. Later,
Dali became famous as the terminus of the Burma Road, built by American and Chinese soldiers to supply Chiang Kai Shek’s army in the war against the Japanese and Communists.

  He was beginning to visualize a map of where they were going. Yunnan Province was a small pocket of land wedged between Vietnam, Burma, China and Tibet. That made for a rich blend of cultures and a storied past.

  Was it possible that the legendary Shangri-la actually did exist?

  Chapter 44

  Beau Buford was a busy man.

  From his standpoint, the Shangri-la Society’s symposium had been a success. Despite the gruesome murder that had taken place on the final day of the meeting, none of the adverse publicity was directed at him, and he was able to slip out of Paris that day on the TGV train to Geneva. From there, he had taken an express train up to Zurich, and by midnight, his bodyguards brought him into his leased villa.

  They wheeled him into an airy study that looked across the water at distant lights of towns that rimmed Lake Zurich.

  “Thanks, y’all,” he said. “You can set me right here.”

  The pair of bodybuilders, one American and the other French, nodded and closed the door behind them.

  Safely hidden from view, he could finally heave himself out of the wheelchair and rise again. He stood lock-kneed in the study for a full minute to let blood circulate down to his toes and up to his heart and lungs.

  He unwrapped his scarf and threw it and his tan fedora onto a divan. Then he walked stiff-legged in a big circle, trying to work some flexibility back into his joints. It would take several days before he could do deep knee bends again. At least he was free of that infernal contraption that had wheeled him, along with his new identity, out of the United States and into the salons of Paris.

  He wasn’t the least bit sleepy, and there were phone calls to make before America finished up her business day. He had to reach his major clients in the White House and Cabinet to boardrooms in New York. Then he would call several tycoons on the West Coast. He would reach his European clients later in the morning.

  He sat down at the desk and ticked off a list of his accomplishments. He had amassed a fortune from these men, who had paid handsomely to be members of his club where they would live in paradise for eternity. On his signal, they were prepared to turn the rest of their fortunes over to him. Throwing caution to the wind, they would loot their country’s treasuries, wire him enormous sums of money, deed him vast tracts of land, and fly off to Shangri-la.