Love, Destiny, and Murder

This Gets Interesting...

8 - Life During Wartime

Bumper Sticker on Barnett Lay’s 1990 Lexus LS400

“That’s right. This is an antique car and you are old.”

Major VanderRye’s orders were exact on the qualifications. A new unit of the United States Armed Forces was being formed for an extended test. Soldiers selected for the program had to have combat experience, a college education, the ability to keep a secret, and not a trace of claustrophobia.

“Forty days in a hole,” is how the Major summarized the assignment to Sargent Peterson. “You have passed all of the tests. Can you endure forty days at the bottom of a mine shaft?”

“Yes, sir,” responded the young Sargent.

“Good. Pack your bags. You’re part of the team.”

And with that, the Sargent became the fortieth and the last member of the team. An hour later the team was on their way to an abandoned mine shaft in Colorado. For thirty-nine days they would simulate, practice, and discuss the new strategy, the new tactics, and most of all, the new weapons. Continuous improvement of the team was critical. They had to act as a single entity because, on the fortieth day, they had a mission.

#

The next day was bright and warm. I took a taxi to breakfast and walked to the office. My heart had a good feeling from having met with Natasha the night before. My mind was optimistic. Along with a smile on my face, I walked into the office with a cut over my left eye and a large contusion where my face had hit the concrete.

Wendy spotted me first.

“What the hell happened to you?” she shrieked.

I explained to her that I had run into some old friends of mine. Specifically, Dimitri, the head of the Russian mob in Cleveland. Apparently, Dimitri was in town looking for me. As I came out of the coffee shop down the street two goons got out of a very large black car and offered me a free ride.

At this point, Alisha came into the room.

“Oh my God, is that blood?” she said.

“Mostly,” I replied.

 “You’re gonna need stitches,” said Wendy.

“I can fix him up,” countered Alisha.

Alisha went into the other room to get a towel and some warm water. When she came back, she began to dab the blood off my white shirt and face. As she did so I proceeded with my story. I explained to them that for some reason Dimitri and suddenly taken an interest in my line of work. Specifically, the work I was now doing for the government.

He wanted to know about the potential terrorist attack in the United States. So, I told him everything. This seemed to surprise the two women. I assured them that Dimitri and I are on the best of terms despite appearances. Also, when you believe someone is trying to kill you, it’s a good idea to cooperate.

“It looks like they beat it out of you anyways,” said Wendy.

I assured her that all the injuries came from when they threw me out of the car. Of course, it probably wasn’t a good idea to question the sexuality of my two large assailants. It was at this point I noticed that Alisha was breathing a little deeper than normal. Her eyes glistened, indicating she enjoyed working with blood.

She put a butterfly bandage on the cut over my eye and then applied an antibiotic ointment to the sidewalk rash on my face. I would have to put aside her obvious delight in her task. She had already lasted two weeks at the office and was well on her way to breaking the record for longest time working with Harrison.

“Why do they want to know so bad?” asked Wendy.

“I’m not sure. But I’m willing to bet it has something to do with the relations between our country and Russia.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alisha.

I explained to her that there is something about the way he was asking questions that lead me to believe it wasn’t just him that was interested in the terror team. Instead, he was answering to a higher authority. Someone in Russia, wanted him to reach out to me to find out what was going on. Chances are Russian intelligence suspected that such a terror team was in place.

“What do they want you to do about it?” asked Wendy.

“Call them every time I learn something new.”

“How are you gonna do that without telling the government you’re in contact with Russian mobsters?”

“I’m going to call Jones and Smith and let them know what happened. I’m not about to be accused of being a spy.”

By that point, Alisha had worked her magic on my wounds. I thanked her and then asked Wendy to bring me the phone. I flipped a coin and decided to call Jones. I provided a summary of my exciting morning. I’m not sure how he took it, he just kept saying, “Hmmm.” Then he hung up.

An hour later Smith called back. He wanted me to repeat my story. After I gave him my day’s summary of the news he told me that I needed to inform them of any contact or information I provided the Russians. I tried to ask him what the government was going to do at their end. But as usual he told me not to worry and they would take care of everything. If only.

“Look, Smith, I need to get access to those databases if I am going to be able to help you.”

“We are not getting you clearance.”

“Do you want to stop these people or not?”

“We are not getting you clearance.”

“Come on…”

“We are not getting you clearance.”

Clearly, I needed to try something else. This would have to wait.

#

Kissing the pavement was just the first step in a long descent. The secretary providing information about me to her spying boyfriend was herself an agent for China. She didn’t know she was an agent for China. That’s how cleverly the Chinese had turned her. Living next door to her was an older and a very friendly Asian woman who said she was from Vietnam, an immigrant to this country. For two years, this Asian woman, Mrs. Tran had befriended the secretary.

Mrs. Tran was really Ms. Wong, who was working for a Chinese military intelligence agency. She had been planted next door to make sure she won the trust of her neighbor. It worked beautifully. Mrs. Tran would provide meals and stories and many hours of friendship. In return, the secretary told her about her life and her job.

Like panning for gold, Mrs. Tran would pick out tiny flecks of information from the many conversations. She did not pry or directly ask any improper questions. Instead, she just talked and listened. Just like a couple of days ago when the secretary told the story of the annoying consultant her boss had employed because the consultant was crazy and his boss wanted to know how crazy people thought.

“Whatever for?” asked Mrs. Tran.

“I would love to tell you, but it is secured information.”

Mrs. Tran apologized for her transgression. Meanwhile, her spy brain was noting the details, so a different group could learn the identity of this mysterious consultant. After all, Mrs. Tran’s main mission was to watch for any detection of the team now inside the United States. And, the terror team’s support network did their job well. Another agent that cleaned offices in Mr. Smith’s building looked at the daily phone log. One name stood out.

Barnett Lay.

#

For the first twenty days, underground the military team practiced and discussed their new tactics. Each team member was instructed not to talk about what they were doing, especially in the off-hours. On day twenty, they were introduced to a special simulated mission. This one involved an attack on a facility located under a mountain.

It didn’t require discussion for the team members to realize that practicing underground away from prying eyes and satellites might not be the only reasons for their current location. In fact, most could guess that the mountain was an extremely high-value target. It is very expensive to build something under a mountain.

The only real question was where that mountain was located. Wherever it was, the people there were not likely to offer a friendly welcome.

#

The rest of my day was uneventful. I spent the bulk of the day addressing some of the smaller contracts we acquired before the legal system had so boldly interrupted my life. There was the task of producing the summary report on how to fix the bagel recipe for a large chain of coffee stores. A company in Wisconsin wanted their training materials for learning how to control a scrap rate of 72%.

It took my mind off aching bits of my body. So much so that I hadn’t given much thought to the night before until another Natasha email arrived.

“Tell me about your dissertation,” she requested.

“Over dinner?” I replied. It was an hour before I received a counter-reply.

“Red Ginger. 7 pm. Tie.”

I paused for a moment. This was obviously some sort of test. No one can get into Red Ginger without at least a three-month lead time. Did she want me to make the reservation to see if I could pull strings, or had she already made reservations?

I picked up the phone and searched for the restaurant. I pushed Call and waited, heart picking up the pace by a half a notch. The man answering didn’t identify the establishment. He just said, “Yes?”

“I was calling to confirm Natasha’s reservation for tonight at 7 pm,” I offered.

“Will you be her guest?”

That caught me by surprise. They knew her by first name only and it seems that this was a regular event on her calendar.

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Lay,” I replied.

“Any special dietary needs?”

“Butter-free.”

“Thank you,” he said as he hung up.

Okay, that takes care of the restaurant and the time. Now, does “Tie” mean wear a tie, or that in whatever game we are playing we are tied as far as points?

I decided to go with wearing a tie. I also downloaded my Masters’ thesis and sent it to our fast laser printer. She would be the fourth person in history to read its contents. The thesis, on the surface, dealt with the effect of disasters on public management systems. Its hidden theme was the incredibly predictable and stupid things people will do under stress.

#

I had Wendy run me home at 4 o’clock so I could shower, shave, and find my suit and tie. This was some sort of test by Natasha. Red Ginger was two hours north of town in one of the tourist towns. Wendy would be earning overtime getting me up there tonight.

By 6:45 we had reached the destination. We were early so Wendy parked the car facing Lake Michigan at the local park. I wanted to arrive at just the right moment. Wendy was full of curiosity about this trip.

“So, is she testing your ability to look good in a really nice restaurant?” she blurted.

“Maybe,” I answered.

“Well? What’s she like?”

That was a hard question. I could describe her in detail, but I was struggling to come up with a way to do that without offending every woman on the planet. Being evasive seemed like a good idea.

“Interesting woman. Refuses to talk on the grounds that verbal communications are not required for women.”

“I like her already,” said Wendy. “What does she look like?”

“Tall. Dark hair and physically fit,” were the best I could offer.

“Is she pretty?”

I wanted to say something like “stunning,” or “beautiful beyond description” but, that would start to sound like an exaggeration.

“Fairly pretty,” I said.

“So, is this getting serious?” Wendy probed.

I looked at the wristwatch I wasn’t wearing and declared, “Oh, look at the time.”

Wendy shook her head and fired up the car. We wheeled our way over to the front door of Red Ginger. Wendy double parked so I could climb out.

“Call me when you finish. I’ll be shopping downtown,” she called out as she pulled away.

Red Ginger is not so much a restaurant as a temple to the religion of eating. Not dining, where the intent is to have a ceremony of fine foods presented according to a set script. No, this is eating of the highest order. The customer is presented with a menu of items with no real groupings other than “small plate” and “entrée.”

It is up to each customer to put together the combination of dishes that matches their most secret food desires. You can pair Kobe beef cooked on a hot stone with seaweed salad or match a sushi selection with Pad Thai featuring the best shrimp in the Midwest. Even that touchstone of a restaurant’s quality, iced tea, is done to perfection.

The walls are sandblasted brick from the general store that occupied the spot over one hundred years ago. Large windows overlooked the Boardman River directly behind the building and the Grand Traverse Bay of Lake Michigan, just one hundred yards beyond. Low lighting and flowers everywhere made it a romantic dream, but any hopes of romance were staying on this floor tonight.

I informed the hostess that the Lay party had arrived. She signaled an older man. He came over and escorted me to the elevator. We went up to the second floor and a private dining room overlooking Lake Michigan. Natasha was waiting. The room could easily hold twenty people yet, it was set up for just two. No music or soft lights here. Instead, well lit corporate dining for the exclusive and the wealthy.

As I sat down, she handed me her menu and made a gesture that said, “Order for me.”

This test I knew well. It’s a test of whether you can think on your feet and calculate the tastes of your dinner companion. Many men have been wrecked upon the rocks of this test. Luckily, I am the exception to most rules. I have used the same test on young women with very mixed results.

Should you ever find yourself in this situation, this is how you respond. Stick to vegetarian dishes, make sure nothing will clash, and ask if they take wine with dinner. If they do drink wine, then go with a fall harvest Riesling as an opening move.

Following my own advice, I ordered Natasha a vegetarian stir fry, mango maki roll, and Bibb salad. And to double down, I ordered the same for myself. The Riesling didn’t cause her to look at me like I was a total i***t, so I knew I was close to what she usually preferred.

As we waited for dinner, I handed her a copy of my thesis. She placed it in a briefcase neatly tucked under the table. As we ate, we engaged in a long conversation about my beliefs and general plans for the rest of my life. Naturally, I did all the talking. She made no indications on her own plans. This left me with the feeling that I was being vetted.

Was she looking for romance, a business partner, a boy toy, or someone to clean the gutters of her house? I decided that it might be time to press the issue.

“So, why am I here tonight?” I asked her.

She put down her piece of maki roll and cleared her throat. She then leaned forward and placed her hand on my face, the same way she had done before. After staring in my eyes for several seconds she placed her other hand on the wounded side of my face and removed the other hand. She gently spread her fingers lightly on the damaged skin. A few seconds later she slowly pulled that hand away, closing the fingers together until all five fingertips touched. Then she gestured towards her own face.

Without thinking I said, “The way I am damaged, you can repair?”

I don’t know why I said it, but it was the first time I realized I was fully tuned into her communications frequency. She was right. No words are necessary.

With my question, she tapped her nose and then pointed back to me. Interpretation: “That’s right.”

“How?” I asked.

She waved a finger in the air, slowly. Decoded: “Not yet, maybe soon.”

With that, she went back to eating.

After dinner, Natasha and I were standing at the entrance of the restaurant. Natasha’s car was an Audi R8 sports car parked right by the front door. Just then Wendy rounded the corner and double parked to a symphony of beeping horns. Natasha did her usual wave goodbye as she turned to get into her car.

I jumped into my car and Wendy pulled away. There was no doubt in my mind that Wendy had gotten a good look at Natasha. This was confirmed as soon as we stopped at a red light down the street.

“Was that her getting in the Audi?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said.

“Man, if you’re not sleeping with her, I will.”