Posts
of all things to happen to a man.
— LEON TROTSKY
21612 TERRA BONITA PLACE,
POWAY, CALIFORNIA
6:21A.M. PDT
[PLEASE NOTE, CHAPTER ONE: JIMMY FINDS OUT, IS OUT OF SEQUENCE AND LOCATED BETWEEN CHAPTERS 13 and 14 AS THE OCTOBER 15, 2010 ENTRY]
GIDEON POPE sipped black coffee while considering the ass-doughnut on the Explorer’s front seat.
The ass-doughnut was a plastic inner-tube enclosed in a plaid-red cover Margie’d sewn that upon first glance appeared nothing more than a simple cushion. In reality, it was salvation for Pope’s horrifically inflamed hemorrhoid without which the eight-hour drive to Tioga Lake would be impossible. The doughnut would be an unwanted-though-necessary guest on the boat, around the campfire, where it was vulnerable to catching flame whenever Pope got up to grab a beer, and as a constant reminder that Pope was 55 and needed things like ass-doughnuts, Preparation H, reading glasses and, sometimes, a warm glass of milk to fall asleep at night.
Inside the house, the phone rang.
Pope looked again to his fine bass-boat, her gunwales armed with fishing rods and an ice-chest awaiting beer for the first time in a half-decade.
The phone rang a second time before Margie leaned out in a robe and worried expression.
“Gideon? It’s Assistant Director Burns. He says it’s urgent.”
Pope frowned. “You tell him I retired yesterday?”
“I did. He repeated that it’s extremely urgent.”
With the FBI, when wasn’t it 'extremely urgent'?
Pope turned to Mike. “Hold off stocking the cold stuff until I take this call, son. Just in case.”
The frown on Mike’s face told the story of an FBI agent’s son and missed baseball games, school plays, and a hundred other things, and to his character, Mike still managed a smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. I know the drill.”
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR BURNS’ voice crackled with static somewhere thirty-thousand feet over Kentucky.
“Look, Gideon, the big boss asked for you himself. Said he’d view it as a personal favor if you’d put retirement off until we can get more troops in from other offices. Besides, your final paperwork’s still on my desk, so technically— though I’d have to check with HR— technically, you’re still Bureau. Listen, Gideon, you know we wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t something of the very highest importance—”
Like the time Margie and the grand-kids were out in the car, ready to leave for a weekend at Disney Land, when Burns called about an Arab prince’s missing Siamese.
“— national security-level importance—”
Something at least as important as the Crown Prince’s missing Siamese.
“— with implications quite possibly bigger than anything we’ve ever encountered.”
In the end, the missing Siamese was discovered not by Pope and the San Diego field office but by housekeeping and in one of Prince Lose-A-Lot’s dresser-drawers.
Pope said, “Gil Streets is in charge now. I doubt he wants me looking over his shoulder.”
“Last month, Gil was A-SAC in the Chicago office while you’ve managed San Diego going on ten years. I don’t need tourists, Gideon, I need locals. Listen, I’m not asking you to run the show, just lend some guidance and a couple of good eyes to track this virus down.”
THEY WERE HEADED SOUTH on the I-15 with Pope at the wheel and Al having none of it.
“A virus? Our trip’s on hold for a virus. Don’t tell me, Tom Collins passed somebody the clap at last month’s convention.”
More quickly than usual, Pope felt his blood pressure rise. “Did you hear me? More deadly than the Spanish Flu, even the Black Plague.”
“Uh-hunh, sure, so they say. Just like they told Jacksonville the president’s belt had a secret recorder in the buckle. How in the hell somebody plants a bug in the president’s belt-buckle let alone how it got into a certain actresses’ closet, I never figured out.”
“It was a rumor, Al. Look, you got away with popping off I was SAC because we’re brothers-in-law and Phyllis’d never let Margie hear the end of it. But that won’t fly with Gil Streets. You want your pension, you’re gonna need to keep your mouth shut.”
Al studied Pope a moment before finally shaking his head and glaring at the traffic wrapped round them on I-15 south.
“Least I had the sense to tell my wife not to answer the goddamn phone.”
AL HAD ARRIVED at the Popes’ with 10 cases of Budweiser in the trunk and wearing a fishing hat, a goofy grin and a t-shirt that read AMERICA: MY COUNTRY RIGHT OR WRONG BUT NEVER LIBERAL, but his grin soured when Pope said,‘Ditch the hat and put this windbreaker on, because the vacation’s postponed.’ To which Al said to Mikey, “Kid, if the KGB were still open and guaranteed three weeks vacation a year, I’d consider defecting. In fact, at this point, I’d consider it for a long weekend’.
Al crossed a leg, ankle on knee, and when he got himself all arranged, said, “So go ahead, let’s hear the details. You know how I love a good story.”
Pope ignored the cynicism. “Police believe Christian Ducroix was the apparent victim of a car-jacking last night at the corner of Norcestor and Imperial just before 12 a.m. A cherry ‘65 Mustang, according to Burns. DNS claims it was a kidnaping.”
“DNS claims?” Al laughed. “Oh, boy, here we go.” He paused. “Wait a minute, Ducroix, Ducroix, where do I know that name?”
“Christian’s father. Dr. Dominic Ducroix.”
“The guy the cop thought killed his girlfriend? Hunh.” Al fiddled with his shoe-lace. “So what’s Burns saying?”
Pope nodded. “That it’s connected to Dominic Ducroix’s disappearance two nights ago from a medical conference in Dallas, part of a joint kidnaping with the idea being to use the kid to force the father to work the science.”
Al looked singularly unimpressed. “Ducroix’s a cancer doc, right?”
Pope nodded. “He’s on the brink of developing a bonafide cure for cancer, the real deal— patient gets a shot of a modified flu virus that contains genetic code. The virus then overwrites the cancer until patient’s body is clear of all traces within 72 hours. And it works against all cancers.”
Al again looked not that impressed. “So they say,” he said, removing his shoe to fill the car with the pungent aroma of sweaty feet and old tennis-shoes. Then added, “Course, if a vaccine like that did work, it’d be worth millions. Maybe billions.” Al considered his shoe. “What’s PharmaCon’s trading symbol?”
Pope rolled the window down to stick his head out. “That’s insider trading, Al. And will you please put your shoe on? The mustard gas is killing me.”
Al looked shocked. “In case you forgot, wise guy, blutarsis is a serious medical condition. You know I gotta let my feet air out every hour or I could get a pus build-up. You want another puss build-up?”
Pope really preferred not to think about Al’s last build-up. “The point is, DNS says the two kidnaping could be Mexican organized crime working in conjunction with Russian intelligence operatives.”
“Pulling out all the stops on this story, aren’t they? Especially when you consider Mexico’s last major scientific breakthrough was the tortilla chip . . .” Al grunted, peeling off the sock to pick at a thick and yellowed toe-nail. “Okay then, the FBI’s got me for a day. But hear me now and hear me loud: first person tries postponing my fishing trip another day will get this fungus-infested toe shoved straight up his or her ass. And that, my friend, is a promise.”
“Fine. Now would you mind rolling down your window?”
