Truthseekers (18 page)

Stacey looked across at Abbey.

“How’s my nose?”

“Nothing a good concealer won’t fix, my dear…. And you are in New York anyway. You will just look a bit Jewish, so you will fit in perfectly.”

David hugged Abbey. South Africans could be so beautifully politically incorrect.

* * *

Later that morning a car dropped Stacey and Rocko to the Baton Rouge regional airport for their flight to New York. Rocko upgraded Stacey and himself to first class and dropped David a text saying all the economy seats were gone. It was an old trick that he’d used on his boss in corporate days, and David was in the air anyway by now. He wouldn’t see it for a few hours and by then it was done.

David and Abbey had refuelled the Learjet and set off for the small town of Duluth on the shores of Lake Superior. Whilst the get-together was not open to a public gallery, Stacey had been able to convince the local tribes that David was there only to discuss certain points he had discovered that were significant to their history. It worked, and in a few hours he and Abbey would be meeting some powerfully stubborn men.

After landing in New York, Rocko avoided heading to Jersey even though his favourite bar was calling him. He loved Corner Sports. He had drunk there most of his youth and now even though he was hardly in Jersey, the place had changed so little that when he did come home people would mostly not look up from their glasses and someone would yell “Your round, Rizotto.” That’s the way they rolled in Jersey.

Instead Rocko checked him and Stacey into the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, one of New York’s most historic and prestigious. He insisted on adjoining rooms and whilst he would never try his moves on Stacey, he did want to keep her close as in his heart he had a strange intuition about this evening. The hotel helped them with suit and cocktail dress hires. Rocko did love this place. He used to go hang out at the piano above the stairs. His dad was once a bellboy in the hotel and Cole Porter used to live there and sit on that piano for ages, sometimes being joined by anyone from Sinatra to Nat King Cole. Rocko had come home.

22

Abbey and David started to feel that they really had flown halfway around the world as they were on final approach for Duluth regional airport on the southern shores of Lake Superior near the Canadian border. Stacey had checked them into a small motel under another name entirely and she hadn’t even needed a credit card to secure the booking. It seemed that in this part of the woods, most people who said they were coming actually turned up.

That day there were already a couple of jets on the tarmac. He assumed they didn’t get many in those parts, yet there was some media interest in the conference and he could see some CNN people unloading one of the planes with a variety of camera gear. They had a taxi
organised and quickly hit the motel picking up a few supplies on the way. It was 7pm and they both wanted an early night.

Their pick-up was at 5am for a transfer by boat to the stunning Isle Royale National Park, in the middle of the lake some 150 kilometres from where they were staying. It was a fast ferry and would be full of TV crews. They had to get straight on what they were doing, but even so, the call of love and a room without bullets flying and Rocko snoring was too much to give up. They fell into each other’s arms and made love.

Abbey fell asleep in David’s arms. She felt the world was at peace for once. There was something unique about this feeling for her, during her last moments of consciousness. She simply couldn’t recall the last time she had ever felt that safe, that secure or that loved. Her dreams were filled with horses and picnics and wind-swept beaches and laughter with David.

The alarm was a rude awakening for both of them at 4am. Both joked that they would have much rather taken a few days out and with nothing to do in this part of the world it would have been perfect.

In the Waldorf Astoria 301 Park Ave New York, Stacey was woken at that exact moment, not by an alarm, but by a Rocko. The man was like a bull in a china shop, Stacey thought. He was obviously just getting home. She heard the shower go on, and him clumping around singing. She really wished he hadn’t got adjoining rooms.

Abbey and David were quiet on their transfer to the dock. Yet the scene at the dock was anything but quiet. There must have been five news crews all bustling for the best spot on the fast ferry. The trip would take a little over two hours.

They hadn’t brought much for the tour. In fact they didn’t have much. It was a matter of travel real light. David simply had his phone and a jacket. Abbey carried a small pistol, well concealed in her jeans and a denim jacket. After alighting from the ferry and going through the almost non-existent boarding procedures they tried to slip away from the main group by heading upstairs. This part of the world was never really warm and at around seventy kilometres an hour they knew they would be hugging in pretty tight. Their plan didn’t work. Within a few minutes
a young man, whom they had noticed on the aft deck upon boarding, bolted up the stairs to them. He had that radio announcer voice and ears that could have helped him fly to the island. He wasn’t more than twenty-three.

“What the hell are you guys doing up here? Come downstairs, you will freeze up here. What station are you from? My guess would be somewhere in Florida.” He bristled up so fast that David couldn’t even sidestep him. The enthusiastic young man already had his hand out. Abbey spoke first.

“We are from the University of Auckland. Pedro here (using David’s fake passport name) is a visiting professor of indigenous studies. I’m his assistant. We have been meeting with a few cultures here. We figured we should come up for the summit.”

“Pedro eh! Wow I never would have picked that one. My name is Brian Altin. I’m with NBC. These are the types of jobs I get because I am new.”

David shook his hand and Abbey followed. “Altin… you said,” David replied summing up the young man. “That’s a very famous showbiz family in this country.” David well knew the Altins were of Jewish origin and firmly entrenched in owning most of the country’s media. The young man seemed surprised to have that said to him.

“Well, I guess… but it’s done me no favours. My grandfather was a distant cousin to the wealthy side of the family so I wouldn’t know what that lot were up to.”

“Well your name got you here I guess,” David replied. He felt Abbey firmly nudge him. It was one of those times he wished he’d kept quiet.

“What he means to say Brian is that he’s pleased to meet you. He doesn’t care who your family is and he’s sorry he brought it up, because he’s had a long trip and wasn’t thinking straight and he would like to buy you a coffee.” Abbey smiled her beautiful smile and Brian’s indignation seemed to disappear.

“Oh, that’s all right. I just haven’t had that for a while. I’m going to head downstairs. You guys really should come down. It will get pretty cold up here,” said Brian

“That’s all right,” David replied. “I think I may need to freshen up.”

Brian smiled and turned on his heel, disappearing down the steps with the same bristling energy.

“Keeping a low profile, eh?” Abbey looked at David and they burst out laughing.

* * *

In New York Stacey was up early. There was no point sleeping more with the freight train just through the other room. She showered and ordered a room service breakfast. She opened her loan laptop and went about her work of ensuring they had tickets for the evening function, then back onto some background information David would need for his meeting. Outside the hubbub of a busy city waking up grew louder and Stacey pondered her long lost trip to South Africa and how she would really just like to walk down Park Avenue and do a bit of window shopping.

* * *

The time on the boat went relatively fast. After about thirty minutes braving the deck Abbey and David were turning a desirable shade of blue. They decided they would venture downstairs. The clear air and chill did, however, serve their souls. It made them feel alive. The lake was rugged, choppy and huge. This was both of their first times on Lake Superior and they were impressed. It seemed very much in the middle of nowhere, with little farms and red barns dotting the shoreline. The ferry really sped along, and the captain hugged the shoreline keeping some one hundred metres off the shore to avoid the choppiness farther out.

David was about to usher Abbey downstairs when his cell phone beeped. It was a message from Stacey. She was up early.

“It’s confirmed,” David told Abbey. “I have a meeting with Lone Bear. He’s the most senior elder of the Chippewa, the last surviving band of Ojibwe that go back to about the time of the Templar occupation.
It is said they migrated around the same time over a few hundred years from the Atlantic Coast. I am also meeting one of the five Hopi prophets from New Mexico. He is here for the first time in twenty years.”

David looked at the rugged shoreline lined with pines and continued.

“There is something going on, Abbey, and I am pretty sure all these newspeople are not here to record the speeches of old men. They have been sent for an entirely different reason. Altin is on a mission. I can feel it.” David wrapped his arms around Abbey and held her tight. She shuddered as the cold left her.

“David, we both know this feels like a recon mission of sorts for these guys. What we don’t know is who is on side with the darkness and who is not. Let’s play it straight down the line.” Abbey stroked his curls, which were blowing freely in the wind. David’s strong jaw signified a leader. He could never be anything else with a jaw like his. She pulled her hand down to his chin and waggled it.

“Come on… I’m bloody cold. Let’s get a coffee.”

Abbey and David went inside. To them it felt like one of those bar scenes where everyone goes quiet the minute you enter. Then up bounced Brian Altin with a couple of cups of coffee in his hands.

“Here you go. You guys look frozen. At least you should be awake by now. Anyway, come and tell the boys what you do. It’s a room full of journalists and they all want to know how you guys got here and I’m damned if I can make sense of it,” Brian quipped loud enough to engage most of the people in the cabin huddled around the bar.

* * *

It was now 10am in New York and Stacey had left Rocko a note. She was off for a quick bit of shopping. David had his contacts and she deserved some time out. She loved the boys but they were always pretty hectic and full on. A walk down Park Avenue would do her good.

In an office across town William Chant II was on the phone to his number one security adviser, a Slovak named John. It was true that John had been in the wars lately. He was in a car returning to the city from
Newark. His face ached on both sides. He had hardly had time to gather his thoughts and heal from his shark experience, hanging off the back of Abbey’s boat watching his friend Jack being shredded by the monster of the deep, when he was party to another failed attempt on her and the researcher. This time he again escaped from a sniper he could not see, being the only one. At least his ankle was almost back to full use.

“It’s good you are back, John,” said Chant. “Those idiot Georgians underestimated these people and paid the ultimate price. Black has got rid of the Georgian from our board. It will be two years before he is taken seriously again. But this means you must not fail me. I am relying on you to find them and destroy them before they uncover us.”

“Mr Chant, Sir. We may not have to wait long. I have just been sent the list for tonight’s event. There are two unknowns that have been added to the list, a Peruvian man and woman. Their plane came in to the USA yesterday in Louisiana. I have tracked it back to Cusco and that’s where our team never laid eyes on them.”

“Excellent – the flies come to the spider,” Chant hissed. “And the other two? Where are they?”

“I’m not sure Mr Chant. My Intel tracked the jet to a small airport on Lake Superior. Duluth, I believe. It could be a hoax. They have done it before. They are very clever. The woman is ex SAS from South Africa. Their most highly awarded female. I will not underestimate her again, Sir.” John almost winced admitting that Abbey had the better of him.

“Yes yes,” said Chant. “All of our egos have taken a hammering. Including Black’s. Let’s end this.” He looked at a light flashing on his desk. It was his mobile phone. That almost never rang. He tenderly picked it up. He had no numbers stored on it, but he vaguely recognised the number.

“Yes.”

“Uncle William, it’s Brian Altin.” Brian was one of three children born to Chant’s sister, who had married into the significant Altin family. He hadn’t seen Brian since getting him a job for one of his media outlets.

“I don’t have time now, Brian. What is it?”

“Sir, I don’t know why I am calling except for a hunch, but I’m on Lake Superior on assignment for Mr Black. There’s a big Indian meeting here he wanted intel on. Rumour is there is going to be a big announcement by Chief Ghost Wolf of the Hopi. There’s a New Zealand professor here and a pretty South African. He has a Latino name. It doesn’t make sense. I called Mr Black but his secretary won’t put me through. I felt one of our families should be aware. It just feels wrong. These two are meeting with the tribes and their elders.”

“You will receive instructions. Don’t let him out of your sight and beware of that woman. She is extremely dangerous.” Chant hung up. Picking up the other phone to John he said:

“Your assassin has shown up. Can you get to Lake Superior?”

“No Sir, Mr Chant,” John had added up the logistics in his mind immediately. “I would not get there until late afternoon, and then I would make a scene as well. I am not 100% fit yet. I will think of something, however. Please leave it up to me. Let me talk to the contact in the area.”

“I will, but you cannot fail me again. They need to be taken care of. They may just find out information today that will leave us very exposed.”

Chant hung up. He turned and looked at the wall of his office. Hanging there was a Rembrandt self-portrait. It was part of the spoils of art Hitler stole during World War 2. He almost never had visitors and the plaque said it was a copy done in the 1920s anyway. He looked at the power of the piece. Surely a man who had this much power could not be undone by a group of wannabe sleuths, even if one of them was a crack militia.