The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (2 page)

B
ernard Dean wore his fifties
with elegance. There were no lines on his face, but he was beginning to get moles on his forearms, the first signs of age. His accumulated years only strengthened his character, and the white hair at his temples didn’t bother him. He watched the Hudson from the windows of his massive office. As a black man at the head of one of America’s most successful financial firms, Bernard was proud of his background. Every day he spent a few minutes of his valuable time reflecting on how he had gotten to where he was and meditating on his success. He was a bold man, perhaps even a bit arrogant. He had overcome his beginnings and had proved to the world that persistence and hard work still had value. Sometimes he wondered if his kind of success would be possible in the future. He wouldn’t bet on it. After all, his work was a major cause of unemployment, exclusion and social injustice. But maybe a dedicated black president could kick-start the old kind of American dream Bernard had once believed in.

For the past six months, his morning meditations had been increasingly clouded by his worries for Jeremy. He’d hired brilliant young Jeremy for his dynamism but also for his sensitivity, a rare quality in the world of finance. In a way, Bernard saw himself in Jeremy, who was white, of course, but still—nobody’s perfect. They had both grown up without fathers and shared a fierce desire to succeed on their own terms. It took only a week for the two of them to forge bonds that went far deeper than their professional ties. Hypersensitive people tend to be drawn to one another, and with time Bernard had developed fatherly feelings for Jeremy. Maybe he was only filling a hole in his life, but their relationship was sincere. If he had had a son, Bernard Dean would have wanted him to be like Jeremy Novacek. That was why Jeremy’s decline weighed so heavily on Bernard, who was frustrated by his inability to ease the young man’s suffering. Lately, Jeremy had walled himself off from the world. Still, Bernard kept faith.

As the president of the board at Eckhart, Dean and Aldrin, he clung to the hope that one day peace and forgiveness would finally be granted to both of them.

The phone rang and snapped Bernard out of his daydream. He picked up and hung up without speaking a word. Then he turned back to the windows with his hands behind his back. His office door opened. “Good morning, Jeremy. You’re early today. It’s not even noon.”

“It’s a big day. Celebrations are in order.” Jeremy’s tone shifted. “I have to go to Poughkeepsie to see my mom. I’ll be gone a few days.”

Bernard turned, expecting to see Jeremy in his usual state of decrepitude. He was astonished to find him wearing an impeccable suit, his face freshly shaven and his hair neatly arranged. He repressed a desire to raise an eyebrow. “Well look at you, Mr. GQ. To what do we owe the honor?”

“Dad died, and I have to go break the news to Mom.”

The news hit Bernard, and his smile vanished. “Well, stay longer than that if you have to. Your mother needs you. She’ll be devastated.”

“You mean she’s crazy.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s what the doctors say.”

“Your mother is an admirable woman. She’s just wrapped up in her worries. Even you can understand that.”

Jeremy didn’t react. “No, I can’t. But now Dad is gone, so at least she’ll have a good reason to cry. I’ll be back to business as usual in two days max.”

Bernard had been calm, but now his face grew rigid with anger. “Listen Jeremy, stop feeling sorry for yourself for two minutes, and think about it. You have enough money to live comfortably to the end of your days. Get out of here, enjoy what life has to offer, and stop torturing yourself. I’m sick of feeling sorry for you. You think you’re the only one with problems? The only guy who feels guilty? Don’t expect any more patience from me. You’ve profited handsomely. Get out of here. Go see your mother, and stay with her as long as it takes. I’ll tell security to throw you out if you’re back before next week.”

The two men stared each other down in silence. Jeremy smiled bitterly and turned to leave. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

“My patience is wearing thin, Jeremy. If you’re trying to get fired, you’re on the right track.”

Jeremy sucked in his breath. “You can’t save me, Bernard. Nobody can. But no matter what you think, I’m glad you tried.”

“You’re the only one who can pull yourself out of the hole.”

Jeremy dropped his head and sighed. “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he muttered. Bernard watched him leave. The man he had tried to help was going through hell, and it was, in part, his fault.

T
he ninety-minute train ride from
Grand Central Station to Poughkeepsie seems to last forever. I only go up to St. Francis Hospital once a month. Truth is, I can’t bear to see the life slipping out of my mother. The hospital has a good reputation. The doctors and staff are competent and attentive. Mom’s been there five years. The Air Force picks up the bill—small compensation for a ten-year stretch with Lieutenant General Corbin. Bernard’s right. She’s not nuts. She has just let the pain gnaw at her and withdrawn into near-permanent silence. Only my visits bring the power of speech back. But the dialogue never lasts long. Conversations always begin with news of New York, then veer into the career of her little Jeremy. Invariably, the topic of dear daddy Daniel comes up. I pile insults on him. My mother begs me to be more understanding. When the conversation hits the wall, she withdraws into her world once more, and I catch the train back to my pitiful life.

Since what I call deep inside “the fucking accident,” of which Mom knows nothing, my visits are fewer and far between. I don’t want to turn up a dirty, drunken loser. So I come less often.

Without really knowing how, I find myself in the middle of a long white hallway, outside room 204. A nurse comes out, startling me. “Hey, your mother will be pleased to see you.” As soon as she’s said it, the young woman takes off down the hallway, a hint of reproach in her eyes.

Before the door closes completely, I grasp the handle and peek inside. Mom’s sitting next to the window. She spends her days looking at the gardens inside the hospital compound.

“Hi, Mom.” Ann Novacek Corbin turns her head toward me. A smile lights up her wrinkled but shapely oval face. It’s not hard to see what a beauty she was. And hard not to be moved by how fragile she is. “Hello, Jeremy, my boy.”

I step forward to kiss her. My throat’s dry. Tears well in my eyes. I manage to hold them back. A long embrace. Neither of us wants it to end. I wish I could cry, lose myself in her gentle, protective arms and let all my hatred and pain gush out. Become a child again. Return to innocence. But I do none of that. We share an affectionate glance in a silence that Mom breaks. “So, how are you, dear?” I straighten up and shrug.

“In great shape. Don’t worry.”

“Your suit’s a marvelous fit. You always looked good in black. It brings out your beautiful eyes. You have your father’s eyes. Did I ever tell you?”

“At least a thousand times, Mom.”

I pause. There are a thousand ways to break the news. But faced with the inevitable pain of the loss, none of them seem like the right one. I look down. “Speaking of Dad, I need to tell you something.”

“We’re not going to fight, are we?”

“No, not today. I brought…Here.” I hand her the folded flag and the official letter. She reads it without batting an eye, then folds it and slips it back into the envelope. Only the slight trembling of those parchment hands betrays her grief. They pick at the flag’s stars like a cat playing with a blanket. A tears rolls down her cheek. “You’re not sad, I suppose.”

“No. He walked out on you twenty-five years ago, Mom. He walked out on us. Don’t ask me to mourn the guy. At the very most, he was my progenitor. Not my father.”

Mom closes her eyes. She mutters a brief prayer. When she opens her eyes again, I flash her a concerned glance. She raises her hands to the nape of her neck and delicately unclasps her necklace. She glides the locket along the long chain she is never without. Her fingers close over the gold medallion. She presses it to her heart, then opens my palm and places in it the most precious thing she has left. The locket infuses me with the warmth of her body. “Here. It’s time you knew.”

“Knew what? What are you talking about?”

I was expecting wailing, sobbing and a fight like the others we’ve had so often. Instead, she blindsides me with her locket. “You’ll understand one day. Now leave me alone. Come back whenever you want. I’m tired now.” She sits in her chair by the window and looks out. I’d waste my breath trying to get another word, the tiniest hint, out of her. I’m rebuffed, dismissed. Despite my curiosity, the blow-off suits me fine. Another minute in this place, and I’ll explode. I kiss my mother on her forehead as her gaze wanders once more over the sparse trees in the yard bathed in the soft summer sun.

Dazed, haggard almost, I climb on the Manhattan-bound train, my heart filled with indescribable grief. Sitting on the train, head against the window, I close my eyes and wonder. What did my father die of? Where is he buried? Two crucial things to know, but until now they’d not even occurred me.

Late afternoon. A taxi drops me outside the building overlooking Central Park, at the summit of which I have my luxury penthouse. That evening, I soak longer than usual under the shower. The lump in my throat’s been there for hours. I pull on a robe and pour myself a scotch. Drink has become the inevitable salute to a dying day. With night comes intoxication. But not this evening. I set the scotch aside and boil water for tea.

Who am I really? I chew on this for long minutes. Sitting on my couch, I enjoy the tea, looking in the steaming beverage for the solace that relentlessly flees me. Who am I? Jay Novacek—never knew his dad, mom lost her mind years ago? Or Jeremy Corbin, son of a respected senior Air Force officer? Neither answer is correct. The truth—the irrefutable truth—is to be found, as always, between two lies.

When I was a boy, the Corbin family lived in a cozy little house in Hampton, Virginia. Every morning, Daniel Corbin set off for the base, wearing his blue beribboned uniform with sober elegance. And every morning, proud as a peacock, I leapt into Daddy’s arms. We had the same buzz-cut blond hair. Then I watched the family Chevy drive away. The rest of the day was spent at school or playing ball. I pointed to every plane that passed overhead. My daddy was flying one of them. Life was the same for lots of kids in the neighborhood. Then, one morning in December 1985, I got up and raced downstairs to kiss Daddy goodbye. And found Mommy crying her eyes out. From that day on, I only kissed a shadow. Adolescence turned sadness into hatred. An engine just like any other to keep going. As soon as I could, I took Mom’s name, Novacek. Dad never showed his face again. Now he’s dead, twenty-five years after walking out on us. My identity flew the coop and took all the markers I’d laid down with it. Military discipline and values hit the can. I wanted success, money and fast living. Straight A’s at Richmond opened the doors to the world of finance. I rose quickly, headed for the holy of holies. Only Wall Street was big enough for my ambition.

Lost in thought, I fiddle with Mom’s locket. My fingers glide around its perfect oval rim. A click, and the locket opens, releasing an object that bounces off the beige leather couch and lands at my feet. Cursing, I lean forward and retrieve a small key. I peer at my strange find. The miniscule flat bow of the key is solid and tinted with rust. I delicately scratch it with my nail. The decomposed matter comes away to reveal an engraved motif. I gaze at it. I’m holding in my fingers a key embossed with a swastika.

Virginia, same day
.

A
mateurism really jerks my chain.
You see, my friend, a hit takes preparation. You watched too many westerns when you were a kid. Cowboys draw, shoot from the hip, and, bam, the baddie’s full of holes. In the real world, it doesn’t work that way. For example, you didn’t take me seriously. You rock up here with a gun in your hand, your ten-gallon hat and your hick boots. You don’t study the lay of the land, and, wham, you wonder how come you’ve got a bullet in your knee. I should be offended, you underestimating me like that. And quit groaning, you’re pissing me off.” Sitting on a tree stump dampened by the mist hanging over the hillside, the giant pulled a lighter from the pocket of his combat pants. He lit the butt of a cigar taken from his canvas jacket. Beside him lay a camouflage-painted sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight. He scanned the lush, moist Virginia forest.

At the smoker’s feet, a man in his early sixties writhed in pain, clutching his left knee with both hands. The red blotch on his gray pants was getting bigger by the second. Judging by the hole and his sorry whining, walking would be a major complication in the future. If he had a future.

“We don’t have much time, so if you want to live one day more, let’s cut to the chase. Where’s the safe, Agent Pettygrow?”

“Jesus, what safe are you talking about? You’re crazy, man. You know that, don’t you?”

“Your tone is very upsetting. But if you want crazy, you haven’t seen anything yet.” The cigar-smoking giant ran his hand over his shaven head. Water moistened his palm. He wiped it on his pants and, in a single movement, whipped out a hunting knife with a serrated blade. He hunkered down next to the wounded man and inserted the tip of the blade into his right nostril.

“A swift recap of the situation will help you understand just how deep in the shit you are. One day, for a reason I don’t know and don’t care to know, you betray your country by selling classified information. You come across a buyer who wants intel on a former Air Force man who’s also working for the CIA. You excavate the file and feel your sphincter clench when you realize how sensitive the information is. You don’t trust your buyer, and you think that by smoking him just after the transaction, you’ll kill two birds with one stone: You keep the money and the secrets. Trouble is, your buyer’s even more paranoid than you, and he blows your kneecap away. And now here I am about to cut your nose wide open. Screaming won’t stop the pain, by the way. Then I’m gonna slice your eyelids off. This is getting gruesome now. Shall I go on, or have you got the general idea?”

A few minutes later, he had answers to his questions. The bald giant gave the wounded man a friendly pat on his plump, bearded cheek and straightened up. “See, that wasn’t hard, was it?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A guy from far away with a mystery to solve. Far, far away. But if you’re keen to know my name, it’s Eytan Morg.”

The wounded man hauled himself up against the tree stump. The blood gushing from his knee seemed to come straight from his cheeks. He was deathly pale. “That doesn’t sound very American.”

“Correct. It’s Polish. From northeastern Poland, to be precise.”

“You work for the commies?”

“Sure! You really are stupid. I work for Mossad, my friend. You realize what that means.”

Eyes closed, William Pettygrow recited a silent prayer. Morg slipped his rifle over his shoulder and drew a 9mm pistol with silencer. The execution was swift and painless. The Israeli agent holstered the weapon and dug into an inside pocket. He pulled out a curious object that looked like a hockey puck and placed it on the body. Then Morg doubled back through the woods and headed for the road a hundred yards or so below. Behind the wheel of his pickup, he scanned the trees. A gray cloud wafted out of the forest and disintegrated as it rose into the sky. Having obtained the information he so badly needed, the killer stepped on the gas and was gone.

Later that afternoon,
a hunter missed a deer. After an unsuccessful chase, he headed for the tree stump, a marker for all the local hunters. He trudged across a small crater, oblivious to the fact that an administrative operative from Langley had been killed there a few hours earlier. Back in Hampton, the guy stopped off for a beer in a hunters’ bar—the only one in the vicinity. To the other regulars he grumbled about his near-miss that afternoon. Close to the sympathetic group, a bald foreigner, taller than any of the other clients, bit into a hamburger and took a slug of Bud. He smiled into his glass. These new explosives really were something else!

Morg hated driving at night on an empty stomach. A quick dessert, one more drink in this rat hole and tomorrow morning, he’d be having breakfast opposite Central Park.