Chapter 10: high places; I Know I Dream
Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...
Dakar, Senegal, West Africa, late December, 2014
The last night before Dakar – the city in Senegal where the Argos would dock, before finally heading off on its interrupted mission, further down the coast.
In his private stateroom, Dr. Steele had hosted his three guests for their farewell dinner. All were mending well in the days since they'd flown off the helipad in New York, then out to sea, to meet the Argos. For more than a week now, they'd been steaming back to the coast of West Africa, where the hospital ship would set up for its year-long operation.
Soon, there would be helicopter transports, decks filled with troops ferrying supplies and personnel to the desperate and dying on shore. Ebola. They'd come from England, by way of New York, to contain and eradicate Ebola in Sierra Leone.
But first, this little side-trip to Dakar.
Steele pushed his plate back away from him, and leaned forward onto his folded arms. As usual, the two women had been virtually silent throughout dinner, and John Greer had done most of the talking. Steele was keenly aware that the two women watched every interaction, especially his facial expressions, posture, and gestures. It was all disquieting for a man like Steele, who was used to being the one in charge.
But then, Greer must have signaled them that they needed to ratchet it back – because Steele noticed the scrutiny had stopped and the two women were more animated, bantering back and forth with him as if they'd been friends for years. Steele wondered who these women were. There was nothing normal about them, and he could see now how they took subtle cues from Greer as if the three had choreographed this dance for years, knew each move, could anticipate each step by the others.
They were professionals, whatever these women were. Cold-blooded, lethal, efficient were the words that came to mind. His skin crawled a bit in their presence. And the only thing he could imagine worse than the feeling of these two coming after him would be facing the ones who had stopped them cold in Manhattan. Someone had nearly put them in the ground, and Steele had no death wish – no desire to tangle with any of them. Whatever mission they had had, there was unfinished business, something that threatened to boil over in their midst – and the sooner they were off his ship, the happier he'd be.
He'd seen that look in their eyes before. A certain kind of man – or woman. Like a sniper, or SAS, SBS. With that hunger, an insatiable hunger for something that was just beyond reach. No matter what they'd been sent to do, by whomever had sent them to do it, they were never done. There was always one more mission, one more hot spot or bad guy or mess to be cleaned up, somewhere. And whatever they gave of themselves, it could never be enough. Truth be told, though, there was no other place for them to go. Theirs was a talent with few outlets. Where else could they do what they did best?
So, when the two women rose after dinner, and left him alone with Greer at the table – for coffee and an after-dinner drink or two – Steele didn't mind at all. He was a little relieved. The odds were better with the two of them out of the room; although, he had no doubt that Greer, even at this late stage in his career, could be as cold-blooded, and lethal, and efficient as the women were. Perhaps more so. Steele sat back in his chair, and reached for his own glass when Greer abruptly lifted his in a thank-you toast.
"Richard, I must commend you and your staff for everything you've done for us. Without you and your efforts, I'm certain there would have been funerals to attend instead of this excellent meal. We are grateful for all of your expert care." They clinked glasses, and drank down the cognac. Steele noticed the wince as Greer raised his glass. The chest wound would be painful for weeks, talking to him every time he raised his arm or used it, or even tried to sleep at night. Those fractured ribs, and the strain in the soft tissues lower down, from the chest tube jammed between. Greer hid it well, though. He was used to playing hurt. He was one of those with the hunger in his eyes.
Greer poured another round, while Steele settled back, deciding to nurse his drink along. He kept it in his hand, off the table, away from Greer's pouring hand. Steele preferred to stay fully alert and aware around these three. There was something troubling about them, something he couldn't quite articulate, but was tugging at him.
"The entire operation went off smoothly, John. Once we'd been sent the new orders, we turned around and made good speed back toward New York. We've done maneuvers with Navy Seals before, but frankly, the intel coming to us was sketchy. We didn't know what to expect until you'd already landed and we had the three of you down in our trauma bay."
Greer nodded.
And then Steele watched him tighten up, ever so slightly, perhaps anticipating a push now for more, more details of how they'd come to be wounded like that. A push for more of the story, now that it was their last day on-board, and the two men were alone, out of earshot of the others. But, Steele held back instead. He picked a safer topic.
"We're docking tomorrow morning in Dakar, John. That's as far as we can take you. We're heading for Sierra Leone." Steele looked up at Greer's face while he told him about their next mission.
"I'm sure you've heard of the Ebola epidemic going on in West Africa. We're heading for Sierra Leone to take part in the response to the outbreak. West Africa is not the place to be right now, John. You should head back to safer ground – London, Paris, Brussels. We'll be in the thick of it in days."
"Oh?" Greer raised his eyebrows. "How long, Richard?"
"About a year, perhaps a little more," he said. Greer could see the look in Steele's eyes. The humanity there. Even a hard-boiled surgeon like him. How much suffering had he witnessed through the years? How much more now, with this new mission? Greer shook his head and spoke softly, letting his voice and his face show the strain, his own fatigue. For just a moment it was good not to have to hide it.
"That's a tough assignment, Richard. Poor bastards. Such a weak response from all these hapless governments. Too little, too late. And now, if it's not controlled, you could have Ebola in London, or anywhere in Europe. Terrifying thought, Richard." He tipped his glass back and sipped cognac.
Steele looked into Greer's eyes. Icy blue. The cold look in his eyes didn't match the words from his lips.
Vintage Greer. It gave Steele the same skin crawl the two women had given him earlier.
He smiled to himself.
Steele had no doubt that if he asked Greer, point-blank, about the failed mission in New York, Greer would oblige him with a story: carefully-worded, detailed, all the while intimating that he shouldn't be sharing this, but since Steele was a trusted friend from years ago, and had saved their skins, after all, that Greer owed him.
And Steele knew, of course, that it would be lies – all lies. Lies spoken, sincerely, by Greer with those same icy blue eyes. The ones that didn't match the words from his lips. Steele wondered if men like Greer even remembered the real truth. Or whether the real truth even mattered any more.
He decided he wouldn't bother asking.
Clearly, the Home Office back in London had made their decision. Greer and his people were high value operatives. The U.S. Government had asked for help, and the British had responded. That's all Steele knew, and all he was ever likely to know of this mission. More was above his pay grade.
Strings had been pulled and the right things had happened to save Greer and his two assistants. There had obviously been some kind of firefight somewhere in Manhattan, and U.S. Navy Seals had deployed to get them out. A mission like that must have come from high up in the U.S. Government. High up. John Greer had friends in high places. On both Continents.
Rome, Italy, late December, 2014
Afternoon, after a long flight, but he'd gone straight there, where he knew she'd be.
Her hair was longer, swept up in a bun on the top of her head. He could see they were getting ready for dinner, and she was out calling to the children, walking down the narrow street, calling them again. The boys didn't want to come in. She stood with her hands on her hips, and then after a minute, laughing, she took off after them, and they scattered in all directions away from her, rolling an old soccer ball among them, teasing her. Every time she neared one, another cut across her path and they passed the ball to him, just out of reach. For a few minutes, she tried. And then, she stopped, laughing, winded, bending forward with her hand on her chest; the children surrounding her in the narrow street.
Further down, near the door to their building, a small white van drove up. And then another. And another. The drivers jumped out, and ran around to the backs of the vans. Grace looked over, questioning, walking back toward the courtyard. Then she stopped, frozen in her tracks, and motioned for the children to stay where they were. Harold could see it in her eyes. The momentary thought that this could be something wrong – all over again. Something wrong. And the children would see it, see her struggle, see her dragged away. And then the next thought. Why so many vans? The children. No, not the children, too.
Grace saw the door to their building open, and two young girls came out, arm in arm, calling to her, calling them all in for dinner. Grace turned, and told the boys to scatter, and turned back the other way. The vans were between her and the girls. She shouted to them, in Italian.
"Go back, children. Go back inside." Grace stood frozen to her spot, looking back to the boys, and then to the girls. Harold's heart sank. He could see the panic in her face, and this was all his fault. He should have thought about it, planned it better. He'd just wanted to make her happy.
And then, the gifts began to roll out of the vans, onto the street. Bikes, and balls, and dolls, spilling out in piles onto the street, the drivers cheerfully calling to Grace in Italian. Harold watched the transformation in her face. From panic, to questioning, to relief, and finally, pleasure – as the drivers told her of the gifts sent there from America. A special plane all the way from America, sent there, full of toys for the children – for Christmas.
Harold watched her, from the empty cantina across the street, up high on the third floor, where his footsteps on the floor kicked up dust into the air, the particles dancing in the sunlight streaks from the afternoon sun. The dust tickled his nose, and made his eyes water. Just the dust. That's all it was.
He dared not stand too close to the window, where she could catch sight of him.
Seeing her now, with the flush of excitement in her face, watching the children's faces as they surrounded the piles of toys; it was worth all the work to make it happen.
He had thought of going with Winston to one of the big-box toy stores, walking through the aisles, filling carts with every conceivable toy. Quicker, but not satisfying somehow. It wouldn't have been what Grace would do.
And then, it came to him. Grace's favorite neighborhood children's store, the one she'd been supporting for years, saving it from extinction as traffic went off for cheaper prices to the giant toy stores next to the Malls. The ones like warehouses, with aisle after bursting aisle filled with mindless plastic, colorful, useless stuff; ones where help was hard to find, and good help even harder.
Grace preferred the local one, small and cozy, with the little bell over the top of the door that rang softly with each one entering or leaving. The one with the little chairs, that held the little customers, who were encouraged to sit for awhile, and play; or curl up on the rug and friendly stuffed animals, polar bears and lions sharing space under the wooden stairs, where the kids could lean back and read. And you could ask anyone who worked there, where to find anything, and her face would light up, or his grin would show. Off they would take you to the spot where it would be, just a few steps away from wherever you stood.
That's where he had gone, instead. And just a few days before Christmas, when traffic was low, just before closing. He'd arrived, and they didn't know him from Adam, but he knew them, each one, by name. Grace had told him their stories, and he recognized each from the hearing of them.
First one, then another, and another. Soon, all were engaged in this treasure hunt. Smiling. Laughing. Choosing the perfect set of books for a four-year old, or a bike for a ten-year old, or new soccer balls to replace the worn ones in the cans at the side of the courtyard. For Harold, this was nourishment for his soul. A pleasure so deep it surprised him. Why hadn't he thought of it before?
And now, to see their faces, staring at the gifts, not certain what to do at first. They kept looking at Grace, then the toys, then Grace, who was telling them that someone from America had sent them. Grace looked to the drivers for some name, someone she could thank in a letter from the children. But none came. There was no name. Just the wrapping paper with the name of the neighborhood toy store. He wondered if she would remember. After everything that Greer had done to take her memories away. Would she remember the little store, in the neighborhood, near the apartment that she had brought him home to? He wondered if she could remember.
And just then, the driver of the first van appeared with a special gift. Just for Grace. Just a card, addressed to her, and a small, thin, square package taped to a larger, bulkier one, also addressed to her. She hefted its weight, and Harold could see the pleasure in her face, the anticipation of what was inside.
It reminded him of her face, at home, in their apartment when they'd opened presents on Christmas morning. He loved to tease her with little hints. Where to look in the apartment – where he had hidden her presents. It was like a scavenger hunt, and as she closed in, he could see the delight growing in her eyes. And then that other look – that one he was missing from her eyes, missing it for so long.
Harold watched her pull off the wrapping and look at the square in her hands. A music CD, and then as if understanding, she ripped away the wrapping from the player he'd sent to play it. She looked at the singer's name. Unfamiliar. But the name of the piece. She smiled. He saw her smile. Perhaps, some hope. He nodded his head. The perfect wish for her from him. He wanted to make it true, give her back again what had been stolen from her. He wanted this song to be the start of something wonderful, something he could only dare to wish for.
In her hand, the name of the music, and his fondest wish: I Know I Dream.