Chapter 6
Angel Island
Derek tried yet again to focus on the pages he held in his hand, but he soon
found his eyes drifting toward the window to gaze at the mist shrouded tree tops and
his thoughts to a different way of life which he had encountered during the past few
days. He simply wasn't in the mood to deal with financial statements and their row
after row of figures and notations. However, he had procrastinated for far too long. The
Luna Foundation's chief accountant had dropped the reports off, along with a terse
note, two days before Thanksgiving. He had set the folders aside with the excuse that
he and Kym were off to New York to spend the holiday with her family.
It had been with a sense of trepidation that he had consented to go, certain that
he would be uncomfortable amongst that tumultuous, tightly knit family. He had
known them all for years, as Derek Rayne, Legacy colleague, then precept, but not this
way... with intimacy and vulnerability, as Derek Rayne, son, brother, cousin....
Instead, he had to admit to himself that he had had fun... plain, simple fun for
five whole days. Sadly, he had realized that it had been an entirely new experience for
him. Derek had found his place in music. He had quickly discovered that Kym's sister-in-law, Ariel, played the violin and her childhood friend, Isabel, played flute quite well,
while her brother, Kevin, played viola, not so well... but it hadn't mattered. They had
put together a quartet that had attempted everything from Bach to Gershwin to the
Beatles and Culture Club. He smiled to think what some of it must have sounded like.
Next year he might play the host. This immense house deserved to have life and
happiness within its walls. Yes... next year the whole crowd could come here. Perhaps
he would start a new tradition... one Thanksgiving at Stuyvesant Square, the next on
Angel Island.
Now, however, the board of directors was demanding decisions. Derek sorted
through the statements yet again. It wasn't that he didn't understand the things, after
about the third time through... he just had to be in a certain frame of mind to deal with
it. At the moment, that particular state escaped him. He supposed that's why the
London Financial Times had referred to him last year as an "intuitive financier".
Finally, he decided a walk would help. He spun his chair around and tossed the
papers on his desk, but before he could rise, the telephone rang. He picked up the
receiver. "Derek Rayne," he said.
"Derek... it's Ingrid," came a feminine voice, like his own, slightly tinged with
a Dutch accent.
"This is a surprise," he said, happy, but concerned that his sister had called. "Is
everything all right?"
"Yes," she replied. "How are you? And Mother?"
"Fine... I spoke with her on Sunday," Derek said. "She might come over for the
holidays."
"Good. How's Kymberlee? Is married life agreeing with you?" Ingrid questioned
in a tone that betrayed sincere interest.
"Everything's fine... had a great time in New York. I think Kym was homesick.
You know... she'd like to meet you... more than that introduction at the wedding. Shall
I bring her next time I visit?" Derek asked. "She's very curious about why one would
choose the cloister."
"Certainly... but I'm not sure I'll give her the answers she's expecting," said
Sister Ingrid. "Listen... I'm on Mother Superior's phone, so I have to hurry... I have
a friend who might need your help."
"Of course... go on."
"Aggie came to visit me the other day... that's Sister Mary-Agnes Lordan... good
Irish Catholic family... as novices we were close friends... we had a lot in common.
She's administrator for the mission down at San Juan Bautista. There's a young girl
down there who's having a problem. Aggie thought you might be interested, since the
psychiatrists are throwing up their hands and the Church doesn't seem to be inclined
to involve itself."
"What sort of problem?" Derek asked, pleased that a potential Legacy case
might rescue him from his financial doldrums.
"I'm not really sure. Aggie said it's sort of strange to pin down," his sister
replied. "It sounds like a case of multiple personalities, but the onset was sudden and
she refuses to accept that theory. She'd like you to come down and talk to the girl,
whom she says has always been quite level headed, and still seems to be despite
everything."
"Of course," said Derek, casting an evil eye at the pile of statements, resigned
to the fact that they had to come first. "We can drive down Friday."
"I'm sure that will be fine. Aggie has her own house just down the from the
mission," Ingrid continued. "She said it's on Polk Street... the fourth house from the
corner of Second and Polk. It's a white cottage with a blue door. She said if she's not
there she'll be in the offices at the mission. I have to go.
"Take care of yourself, Broederetje
<< + >>
"Hold the rug higher," Hassan instructed. "Let the shadow fall across the symbols. I can compensate more for underexposure than over."
Akim repositioned himself and watched with interest as the older man snapped three photos of the mysterious designs as a group, then snapped three of each individual carving. "What do you think they mean?" he finally asked.
"I don't know," replied ibn Aziz. "Lay the rug down so we can kneel on it and let me show you how to do the rubbings."
The boy did as he was told, while Hassan spread the paper across the first symbol. "You have photos... why do we do this as well?" asked Akim, ever full of questions.
Hassan prided himself on his patience, and his education. "Because," he explained, "photos are one thing, but this will give the exact size. Then I shall send it all to an old friend, who might know what they mean. The first two have obviously been defaced, but he should still be able to make them out."
Handing the boy the crayon, Hassan ruffled the his black hair and said, "Now rub it across the paper over the symbols... make sure the edges are crisp and clean." He knelt beside Akim to trace his finger down the incisions. A sense of apprehension drifted over him. It seemed to whisper that this was something not to be touched. He sat back on his heels and studied the strange markings. The first, which Akim was now copying, was a triangle with horns. It had been damaged by several crosshatched lines cut across it. The second, similarly disfigured, was also based upon the triangle... a triangle with a circle balanced on the point... a horizontal line with turned up ends passed between the two geometric shapes. The third symbol was unblemished, cut more deeply, and totally unlike the other two. Curiously it seemed familiar. It was a Latin style L, pierced by a dagger.
Akim was working quickly. He was already scraping the crayon across the third image. "Sir," he said without looking up. "Are they going to blow this up?"
"I hope not... I told Mr. Kalil to wait," replied Hassan. "I don't like the feel of this place. It sets my teeth on edge. What else did my little gossip monger overhear?"
The boy smiled. "I heard that the Commandant wants one of the Irishmen... the one who knows how to blow things up... to blow a hole in the rock so that someone can be lowered down. He thinks there might be treasure there... maybe a tomb or something... then he could buy better weapons... more bullets."
"I see," Hassan said, understanding why the terrorist did not wish the Libyan authorities to know about the discovery. "Well," he continued, "I would, of course, happily obtain such merchandise for him at the proper price, but I doubt it will be treasure that he finds." He laid a hand on the teenager's shoulder and said sincerely, "Akim, if they do this thing... if they blast a hole in this rock, I want you to be far from here. Find some excuse to come to Al-Jawf to stay with your mother for a while. Do not be here when they open this place."
< < + > >
U.S. 101
Kym looked over her shoulder at the traffic behind. "What became of Johnny?" she asked. "We seem to have lost him."
"He probably got off at Gilroy," Derek replied. "It's the garlic capital of the world. I imagine he stopped to have lunch at a little place he particularly likes there... garlic is their specialty." Her husband chuckled, "So, Kym, lieverd, next time you see him don't breathe if you're closer than ten feet."
Kym chuckled. "Can I ask you something? If his name is Robert, how come you call him Johnny?"
"He said he'd kill anybody that ever called him Bobby Boyle... and I believe him. Did I tell you how glad I am that you could come?" he asked, reaching across to give her hand a squeeze.
"No," Kym said, pleased at Derek's sudden romantic turn, "not within the last twenty minutes."
As they drove south on US 101 on this early December afternoon, her soul felt as though there was too much joy for it to contain. Her visit home had been a delight, her husband was beside her, the sun was warm through the windshield, and the sports car's engine vibrated with a soothing purr.
In her few months in San Francisco, she had never ventured much beyond the congested edges of the bay. This California had seemed a fantasy, but here it was... the air was crisp and clean, wisps of fog clung to golden hills beneath a sapphire sky, cattle grazed beneath ancient oaks trees... a whole other world... and it was December! She slipped off into a doze until she felt Derek break for the exit to State Road 156.
"How far?" she asked, not wanting the drive to end.
"Oh, maybe ten minutes," he replied.
"Derek, how come people in California measure distance by time? I asked you how far and you answered ten minutes."
"I don't know, Liefje," he said. "I never thought about it."
"Well," she pursued, "when you go to Amsterdam and someone asks you how far Paris is, do you answer in miles or hours?"
"In kilometers, I suppose."
"Then why is it different here?" Kym asked. "Not that I much appreciate the metric system, anyway."
Derek grinned at her. "The metric system is a thousand times more logical than the English one. Give me a break... nothing about it makes sense... twelve inches equal a foot... three feet equal a yard... at least with metrics everything is in tens. You don't even know how far a kilometer is, do you?"
"A mile is five thousand two hundred eighty feet, and that's the way I like it," Kym said firmly.
Derek chuckled... Kym picked the oddest things to stand up for.
"But you still haven't answered my question." she pressed. "Why did you answer me in minutes as opposed to miles?"
"I don't know. Why do people in New York stand 'on line,' when there is no line on the ground upon which you are standing. It's obvious that you are standing 'in line'."
A moment later, they both burst out laughing. "Chaçon à son goût. To each his own," said Derek, quoting a Strauss operetta. He slowed as the winding two lane road approached the farm town of San Juan Bautista.
< < + > >
Jebel Al-Taj Liberation Complex
With the torn remains of a black and white checked kuffieyah, Patrick Murphy wiped the perspiration from his neck. He then dipped the rag in the bucket of water at his feet and tied it, still dripping, around his head.
"Hey, Sean," he said, "come take a look at this."
Stepping from the darkness of the concrete explosives bunker, Sean Harris shielded his eyes from the sun's brilliance. Below them, at the base of the low rocky knoll on which they stood, stretched the training ring and obstacle course. In the midday heat a group of fifteen to twenty young men and boys staggered... through tires, a wall of flames, under coiled barbed wire, over a ten foot barrier, and across man-made quicksand, which had already claimed one twelve-year-old victim.
"Jesus," said Sean, "I'm glad we never had to go through that. I'd be in the bottom of the bloody quicksand too. We'd better get back to this inventory, if we want to figure out what we're going to do about that slab out there at the well." He started to turn, but a familiar gesture caught his attention. He swung back to study the figure below, who watched the tormented youths from the shade of the mess tent.
"What is it?" Patrick asked, following the older man's gaze.
"A ghost, Pat... a bloomin' ghost."
"What?"
"See the bloke down there in the shade... with the big straw hat?" Sean pointed toward the tent. "See... the one with the limp?"
"Aye," replied the younger Irishman.
"That's Ulrika Meinhof... of the Baader-Meinhof gang. She's supposed to be dead," Harris explained. "She would be too, if the Libyans ever found out she was here. She was part of 'Carlos the Jackel's' raid on OPEC headquarters in Vienna in seventy-five. They were demanding twenty-five million dollars in ransom, but it went wrong. They say Carlos himself killed the senior Libyan delegate, but rumor has it that it was Ulrika there. Her life wouldn't be worth spit if Khaddafi knew."
Just then a commotion in the hand-to-hand combat area drew their attention away from the West German. A man they knew only as a member of the Japanese Red Army, whose skills were given in exchange for weapons, was instructing the trainees in techniques drawn from a variety of martial arts. Upon a platform with a palm frond roof, the Commandant stood overlooking the training ring. These were the "students" who had recently returned from their sixth week leave... now they belonged to him... in flesh and soul. He had deliberately paired off those youths who had become friends.
"That man gives me the willies," commented Sean, his accent thickening. "He's got no soul. He revels in the cruelty... just like that brute of a fella from Derry what got his jollies kneecappin' people an' blowin' elbows off. Just you watch... somebody'll die there too... an' it won't be no accident."
| CHAPTER 7 |
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