Further Adventures from Crushed is a collection of short storey’s that add background to the gripping, fast-paced story that readers enjoyed in Crushed. Discover how the main characters become involved in the new world order plot, a new religion started, the professor became ensnared, Julia defends herself, where the electronic gun came from, Afiz’s martial art skill training, and about the history of Sanbekistan. Not to be missed by followers of Afiz.
Further Adventures from Crushed
David V Chadderton
Published by
David V Chadderton at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by David V Chadderton
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Author’s Advice
Further Adventures from Crushed is a work of fiction entirely out of the imagination of the author, following on from initial world events, using some commonly known places and names, and is never a comment on any person or organization.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any imputation, resemblance or similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author claims the moral rights to this work in its entirety in its present form.
If you are on a commuter journey, squeezed into an aluminum tube at subsonic speed, packed into a bus, on a commuter train above or below ground, laid under a sunshade on a beach, beneath shady leaves while leant back onto a tree, or relaxing at home, all of which the author has experienced, just enjoy the story and make the author very happy.
Jason met with Afiz and rode alongside. The air was a crisp four degrees with early morning frost. Sunshine appeared intermittently between the ever-present heavy grey clouds at this time of year. These mountain bike cyclists wore full protective winter clothing, leaving only the face exposed to the ride-induced cutting headwind. Wide knobby tires crunched through gravel, icy from the overnight freeze. Rider’s eyes scanned the unsealed paths ahead for patches of ice. Clear plastic lenses protecting their eyes facilitated scanning for loose gravel and dirt. They sought ground to provide adequate grip for the tires to dig into.
‘Hi Jason, had a pizza for breakfast?’
‘Monday is my day off pizza. Have to eat something different to stimulate the taste buds.’
‘And the will to live I reckon.’
Laughing, Afiz did not favor a racing diet of dough base and minuscule chopped vegetables. He had a strict dietary regime. Carbohydrates and protein packing, ruled his life. This was topped off with muscle-building Creatine additive designed to pump more carbohydrate fuel directly into muscle development. Luxury meant an occasional Pavlova from the bakery.
‘How about taking the high route?’ said Jason as he felt adventurous today. Last week’s laboratory work had not proceeded smoothly and he needed to burn off frustration.
‘So it is the rocky high road. You are feeling brave. Bad results at the lab?’ Afiz heard this story on earlier occasions. Researchers needed an occasional break in concentration to maintain their sanity.
‘A few poor specimens.’ Jason groaned out the complaint.
They pedaled slowly uphill through dense pine forest, barely breaking twelve miles an hour on the upwards sections. Soft muddy tracks left by four-wheel drive vehicles, caused their rear tires to slither, slowing progress. They eagerly sought sections of firm grass to speed them, and aimed for as much dry gravel as they identified. Tree roots and rocks across the path were easily accommodated by four inches of front fork compression. Each rider often selected to pull on the straight aluminum handlebars and lift the front wheel up onto the top of obstructions.
A stationary group of downhill racers stared at the climbers. Their thirty heavyweight long suspension movement Down Demon bikes pedaled up hills like lead-lined marshmallows. Downhill racers spend half their time out in the country heaving their machines uphill, mainly on foot. These monsters were for riding downwards from ski lift chair turntables. Nowhere else.
Afiz nodded towards the group they passed.
‘Who were they?’
‘No idea Afiz. Never seen them here before. I reckon they are lost.’
‘Mean looking bastards.’ Their menacing presence made Afiz feel very uncomfortable.
‘Sure they are.’
Jason nodded in agreement. The summit arrived just in time for Afiz to reach his heart rate maximum of one hundred and eighty four beats a minute. Jason’s heart rate stayed around ninety-six percent of his peak. Both riders strained to the summit of Saddle Mountain with out of the saddle efforts.
‘Keep going Afiz, no time to admire the view from the top.’
‘Some pizza really got up your nose hasn’t it?’ Afiz stifled out a gasping comment.
‘Yeah, I’m gunna sweat it out this time.’
They plummeted down a narrow rocky single track that required experience and confidence. This was a scary ride and they both knew it.
Afiz now experienced the severe disadvantage of not having any rear suspension on his hard tail cross-country racer. Every tree route and rock bounced the lightweight Ziggurat carbon fiber framed bike rear wheel in opposite directions. The frame took up some vibration with its hysteresis. However, it gave the rider a very rough ride at anything above twenty miles an hour downhill. Afiz feathered both brake levers before the bike hit rock steps or roots. He used the full power of the hydraulic disc brake system to slow at the last second. Jason’s dual suspension leveled rock gardens into flowing speed, requiring minimal use of the rim brakes. Downhill, Jason left Afiz in his dust and he disappeared into the distance.
Afiz heard multiple rumbling tires behind him. Sounds of crunching gravel became threatening. Several riders bore down on him a great speed. The downhill track had few passing places. Track etiquette demanded that the faster riders wait for a safe passing maneuver. These riders were in a hurry. The single track narrowed to pass through a clump of massive trees. Winding S-bends slewed around each trunk. The track was firm and dry but littered with roots and rocks. Afiz squeezed hard on the carbon fiber brake levers. A momentary panic feeling spilling through his guts; he had to avoid hitting a rock, stepped out the back wheel, and lost control.
A whack from behind jolted the saddle away from beneath him. A downhiller deliberately rammed his back wheel. Another big hit dual suspension bike darted through the trees, off the path and alongside Afiz. A third rider approached Afiz at ninety degrees to the track and from a great height. This idiot roared down the hill like a bullet directly towards him.
‘What you doing?’ shouted Afiz to his right. He could see these guys were wearing full body armor under their flapping trail shirts. Full-face helmets and ski goggles hid their facial details. They could be anybody, anonymous.
Afiz had no time to study them further. The trail steepened dramatically. Braking to a halt was out of the question. Just hanging onto the bike was his paramount concern. Another heavy hit from behind, drove Afiz’s rear wheel into the end of a fallen trunk. Coincidentally with this, the rider approaching down towards him at a right angle flew off the top of a three foot high ridge. The flying bike caught Afiz’s helmet a full force blow with the front wheel. Afiz toppled sideways to the left, towards the vertical rock fall.
The loose gravel single track had no hard shoulder before the edge of a precipitous cliff. The large chain ring of the flying bike sliced into Afiz’s helmet. Then the rear wheel of the attacker smacked into Afiz’s shoulder. He rotated sideways, falling uncontrollably into a chasm. Now Afiz was in free fall from the trail and down a cliff face. One that only abseilers previously attempted. Branches and woody shrubs cracked beneath him, not slowing the fall. The flier aimed at a predetermined landing ramp forty feet down the chasm with a practiced rear wheel landing. Sparks blazed as Afiz’s steel pedals scraped and bounced off rocks. Spokes ripped, wheels became taco shaped. Afiz contacted the rocks sickeningly head first, way below the trail. Concussed, his face smashed into a jagged rock. Blood spurted from a broken nose, teeth cracked and rocks caused facial lacerations. His shoulder blade whacked against a tree stump while he slid further downwards towards the dry creek bed. Stones and boulders sprayed downwards, starting a mini avalanche of dry dirt and rock. His bike landed on top of him provided multiple bruises to his torso. Finally, he ground to a halt against a thorn bush into an untidy heap. Unmoving, he remained unaware of the hailstorm of dirt tumbling towards his hapless body.
Jason heard none of this activity as he was further down the trail after several sharp corners and drops. He entered a small canyon barely wide enough for handlebars at speed. The trail surface of fine stones, shallow downhill gradient and rock ledges, suited the dual suspension bike. He outpaced the pursuers on this fast section but lost time as the trail roughened. Leaning the bike over rightwards into a well-compacted berm that he knew well, Jason confronted a rock fall right in his path. He knew he must stop. Jason nimbly spun the bike around to face up the trail. His hard braking caused, the back wheel to lock up, sending showers stones and dust at the new wall. A perfect rooster shower of loose material to impress onlookers. None were present at his best moment of performance. He cursed.
‘Must warn Afiz.’ Jason reasoned that Afiz travelled at a faster speed on the smoother section and would not be able to stop. He rode slowly up the trail shouting for Afiz to slow down. He came face to mask with three of the downhill riders.
Their speed undiminished, the leading downhiller rammed straight into Jason, shoving him and his bike over the edge of a ditch. Jason slithered downwards onto rocks and stumps. Each of the attackers stopped and backed up the trail. Each pedaled off the edge of the ditch, leaping down aiming to land on the fallen Jason, now trapped beneath his bike. The first landed on Jason’s rear wheel with a sickening thud. The compression knocked all the breath out of Jason and pushed a crank arm onto his ribs. The second landed directly on Jason’s left leg as it hung above the bike frame. Jason let fly with the whole range of expletives from an extensive repertoire or words never written into his technical reports. Pain shot through his body, arms, and legs. The third rider aimed at Jason’s head but thankfully missed, spraying stones and mud into his face and mouth.
Jason spat out the debris.
‘What is all that about? Who the mother are you?’
All three rode on down the ditch to rejoin the trail further along. No one looked back at the fallen rider, just disappeared into the distance.
‘Oh great! How do I get out of this mess? Afiz, do you hear me, HELP!’
The lack of sound or reply told Jason what he did not want to know. He was alone, injured, off the trail, in a ditch and out of sight of anyone passing. Nightfall was only three hours away. The air temperature was already falling. Freezing overnight conditions were forecast on the radio today.
‘I will freeze tonight.’
Jason reached for his backpack. He was painfully just able to lift himself a short way off the ground. He hurt like hell all over. The outside pocket housed his cell phone.
‘This just might work.’
Trying to encourage himself with a positive thought, found the plastic screen cracked but the phone had a half strength digital signal. The display illuminated as he pressed the emergency nine-one-one code.
‘I’m off the mountain bike trail leading down to Cedar Lake, in a ditch below the trail just above the canyon. I’ve lost contact with Afiz Abdelfazar. He must be higher up the hill. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt.’
Jason managed to get the essentials to emergency rescue. Then the pains in head and legs took over. He blacked out.
Afiz awoke. Finding himself cocooned within the freshness of clean smooth white sheets. He attempted lifting his head a little. Unable to move anything else, his eyes surveyed a hospital room. He looked straight across the room to another patient.
‘Been here before, second time this frigging year,’ said Afiz through clenched teeth.
‘Welcome to the world.’ Jason was obviously happy to see his riding buddy back in the world of the living.
‘This is an improvement on the ditch on Saddle Mountain.’ Afiz found he could speak. Breathing deeply brought back chest pains.
A white coated young male medic moved in and obscured Afiz’s view of Jason. The medic squeezed a syringe of clear liquid into his drip tubing at a valve tee junction.
‘Adding some pain reliever for you. You had a rough ride.’
‘You bet! If only I could meet those downhill demon sledges on even terms.’
The medic unresponsive, unsmiling, added, ‘Sure, just rest for now.’
The medic’s swinging stethoscope had both earplugs missing.
‘Hard on the ears without soft plugs, eh?’ Afiz questioned.
‘Oh, yeah, scratches a bit. Better sound reproduction though.’
Finishing the drip injection, the medic withdrew the needle. He swung around and marched smartly out of the room towards the lift lobby. He did not even look at any other of the bed patients nearby.
Afiz thought that was odd, but feeling drowsy, yawned.
‘This is pathetic Jason, only just woke up, now I feel sleepy.’
An overweight nurse cruised around to Afiz.
‘Observations time.’ Her cheery greeting stirred Afiz. She tapped the patients’ number onto the screen of a personal digital communicator.
‘Hi, my name is Francine, glad you are with us. I am your case nurse. How do you feel?’
‘Drowsy. What did that medic add to my saline drip just now? He said it was pain relief.’
‘What medic?’ Francine’s alarmed response shook Afiz. Her head snapped around towards the corridor.
‘Tall, slim build, white skin, white coat. The guy who just walked away from here. Stethoscope hanging from a coat pocket. No ear plugs on it though.’ Afiz clearly recalled what happened.
‘What did this person do?’ Nurse Francine was shocked.
‘Injected a syringe of fluid into my drip valve.’
‘There are no doctors around here until four o’clock,’ she announced.
Francine read the status of Afiz’s records on the screen of her wireless digital communicator.
‘There is no record of this on your case file. We record very activity on the same computer system. Did he have one of these?’ said Francine as she showed Afiz the device.
‘No way. Nothing.’
‘You are written up for oral medication only. The drip is for fluid replacement and in case of needing medication after surgery. You are not written up for anything now. You are clear of medication.’ Francine closed the drip valve to stop further fluid doing its business.
‘I am calling this in.’ Francine wafted across to the nurse’s station, picked up the phone, and pressed the emergency code 222.
‘Security. This is nurse Francine Jefferies in surgical room four north. Rogue medic reported here a few moments ago, tall, Caucasian, white coat, stethoscope with no ear plugs, long brown hair, dark blue open neck short. Seen by patient and cleaner.’
The security desk officer responded instantly.
‘Alarm raised. Security camera search underway. Sending an officer to you.’
‘Thanks Spike.’ Francine kept an eye on Afiz while at the desk, now making a second call.
‘Page Doctor Williams. Patient care compromised, becoming drowsy from unrecorded medication. Nurse Francine.’
Afiz’s anger rose at being in such a passive condition. He turned onto his left side and tugged the drip out of his arm, tossing the tube and needle aside. Ripping the tape from his bare skin stung like crazy. He grabbed a sterile dressing from the bedside table and smacked in hard onto his punctured vein, pressing down as hard as he could to stem the flow of blood. His head throbbed and crashed like a peeling church bell. After a few seconds, he stretched the loose end of the sticky tape back over his sore arm to seal the dressing in place. He pulled the bed sheets away and swung both feet onto the cold hard floor.
Francine saw Afiz getting up and rushed across to the bed.
‘Hey, you cannot do that. You have only just come out of sedation after surgery. The Lord alone knows what he dosed the drip with. Wait for Doctor Williams.’
‘No time to wait, inaction is death to me,’ Afiz snapped at her.
He pulled clothes out of the bedside cabinet and dressed himself in seconds. Baggy cycling shorts, colorful long sleeved jersey and cross country shoes with metal pedal cleats are not the best attire for leaving hospital, but they had to do for now. Noticing his bike helmet lay cracked, he abandoned it. Wallet, watch, and cell phone hurriedly stuffed into the back pockets of the jersey, Afiz sprinted to the nurse’s desk and phoned the security number.
‘Surgery four north. What news of the intruder?’ Afiz wanted to meet that impostor.
‘Suspect as described, minus the white coat, seen walking along corridor seven to the front main door. Who is that speaking?’ said the voice on the phone.
Afiz slammed the phone down, sprinted to the stairs, and barely touched the steps on his way down to the main foyer. The suspect remained blissfully unaware of any pursuit. He was preparing himself for resistance at the main door at the soonest.
He did not even hear the tackle from behind. The dark blue open shirt smashed into the glass main hospital door. A millisecond later, this was followed by his nose, jaw and forehead. Afiz spun him around, hands to the throat, recognizing the charlatan who doped his drip.
‘Who are you? What did you dope me for? What with?’ Afiz roared at the imposter.
No response came from the charlatan medic. Several running footsteps approached from behind. Security staff rushed to smother the action and shield violence from patients and visitors. Three seconds and Afiz would be overpowered.
Security guards pulled Afiz away and the suspect slumped to the terrazzo-tiled floor.
‘What is this all about?’ Light-heavyweight boxer Spike arrived first on the scene.
‘This guy impersonated a medic and gave me unauthorized medication, shouted Afiz.
‘We will deal with this. We called the Police Department. We will have a real doctor check him out while we are waiting.’
Afiz did not wait, spinning away from the melee and headed towards the Reception desk.
‘Hey come back here.’
Spike grabbed after Afiz, not expecting any difficulty from the supposed patient. Spike missed the shirt by a fraction. Afiz weaved through the gathering crowd of spectators, around a corner and calmly approached the main hospital receptionist.
‘I would like to visit Jason Greer please.’ Afiz purposefully focused on speaking calmly and clearly, finding difficulty in controlling his speech.
‘Oh sure, just a moment.’
The liquid crystal display screen brought up Jason’s location.
‘Room four two seven, level four, take elevator six over there.’
Afiz had little idea which room he came from, such was his chasing speed.
‘Thanks.’
Afiz swung towards the elevator but diverted to the stairway, striding up two steps at a time. At the third floor, he could only manage one step at a time, his head started spinning dizzily. Level four came into view. The stairway handrail became a close and constant companion.
‘This is mad, I am a fit athlete.’
Afiz pulled open the heavy fire door, noticing his breathlessness and recurring chest pain. He scanned wall signs for room numbers. The white lettering on a green background of the direction signs blurred to indistinctness. Rooms four hundred and twenty onwards, stretched away from him along a dim corridor. Each other person along the corridor caused him to avoid them with an erratic swerve. Anxious gazes came from everywhere. The walls closed in towards him. Lighting became increasingly dim. Floor tiles swallowed his footsteps. Now he waded through a muddy swamp. Mud sucked at his bike shoes, feeling as if pulling them from his feet. Noise from chatter, his own labored breathing, the clip of his shoe cleats on the polished floor, deafened him.
‘Room - four - two - seven - around – here?’ The questioning words flowed slowly out of his mouth as though encased in sugar syrup.
‘Just over there. Are you alright?’ said a bath-robed patient as he became concerned.
Afiz dragged his tired feet into what looked like room four two seven.
‘Hey buddy, good to see you. We got separated by the medics.’ Jason got up from his armchair alongside his bed.
Afiz collapsed in a heap right in front of him, out cold.
‘Nurse, I have a problem here, come quick,’ said Jason.
‘Where am I?’ Afiz regained consciousness and found he was back in a hospital bed.
‘Oh, no, not again!’ He said recognizing the room.
‘Not so loud buddy, you’ll frighten the patients.’ Jason spoke softly from the bedside armchair.
‘If the nurses think you are awake, they will bring along the restraints this time. They have seen enough heroics for one year. You’ve developed a reputation already.’ Jason did not want a repetition of the last escapade.
‘Oh, hi Jason, are you fit?’
‘I will mend, just need some recuperation time.’ Jason seemed healthy, although patched with dressings.
‘What do you mean reputation already?’ Afiz could not yet work out what was meant.
‘Press reporters have been here while you dozed. They heard you ran out of the Jamieson Hotel in New York just before it got bombed. You ran towards ground zero. Disappeared, and then reappeared down a canyon in Minneapolis after being attacked. Then you leapt from a hospital bed and crash-tackled a bogus medic. You are the genuine all-action hero Afiz.’ Jason had been suitably impressed by such bravado.
‘Oh that.’
‘Yes that. The stuff of films, not a financial analyst. They all want to know what you are taking.’
‘So they can get some, I suppose.’ Afiz’s humor slowly recovered.
‘Exactly, are you making a movie with this?’
‘No, it is best if I keep right away from the press.’ Afiz recalled why he was on vacation in Minneapolis.
‘Why?’ Jason was not fully aware of Afiz’s story. Most of their talking time centered around research activity and Professor Idris Farhan.
‘No matter, how did anyone identify me?’ Afiz needed to know whether his cover had been blown.
‘Everyone in New York was running video and digital cameras, plus digital cell phone cameras, emailing the pictures to the press boys and police. Countless people recorded you on any number of building and street cameras. Anyway Afiz, how do you feel now?’
‘Thanks Jason, I feel fine now. Why did I collapse at your bedside?’
‘Blood sugar plummeted. You had not eaten for twenty-four hours. Nothing more serious. You had a little of the suspect drug remaining in the bloodstream. That did not help.’
‘Suppose I am well flushed out by now?’
‘Sure, they took the drip down a while ago. Feel like a stroll down to the guest’s restaurant?’
‘Starving.’
Afiz tucked into tuna pasta bake and it washed down with effervescent high carbohydrate sports drinks. This was followed by a bowl of fresh fruit salad. His eyes maintained a scanning action around the room. Jason noticed his friend’s apparent concerned state.
‘Anyone after you Afiz? You seem edgy.’
‘Not that I know of. I am here on holiday. Just checking there are no downhill mountain bike bandits in here. How about you? You’re the one researching food additives. There must be a few company spies around your work,’ said Afiz revealing a nervous twitch.
‘Probably are, but my work is not important enough to kill for.’
Afiz saw the fallacy in that belief. Such food research work attracted international attention, or would if it were broadcast at all.
‘How do you know that?’ Afiz asked why Jason did not see his work as that important.
‘Ok, I don’t.’ Jason shrugged his shoulders. Then he winced with already forgotten pain.
‘If you uncover some secret ingredient there may be some serious repercussions for the food industry,’ said Afiz knowing the importance.
‘In a pizza?’ Jason almost raised a laugh, but then remembered his rib cage.
‘Then what are you researching into?’
‘How to chemically produce natural food flavors.’ That seemed innocuous enough to Jason, however, he knew it was the public face of all his work.
‘Precisely. I know of many investors who pay me a lot of dough to advise where their money will multiply. I buy and sell stock for them. You are on to something Jason.’
‘Yeah, when it works. Not yet though. An investor’s best bet is to keep me alive and working. Hey, who the hell could be after you Afiz?’
‘It must be about time for me to get back to work,’ said Afiz, wincing with a twinge of pain.
‘Hey, Afiz, that is evasive, are you on to something here? Why did you run from the Jamieson building? Did you know it was about to be bombed? Why did you disappear?’
‘Personal safety, that is all.’ Afiz tried to defuse the questioning.
‘Yeah, and pizzas grow on trees. We can check out of here now, I am clear to go,’ said Jason while slowly rising from the table, grimacing with discomfort.
Afiz met with the doctor on his case. The third floor office of the Minneapolis Freedom Hospital was cramped but comfortable.
‘How am I doing doctor?’
‘I expect you to make a full recovery Afiz. Incarceration in the collapsed building leaves a few ongoing matters. Maximal oxygen uptake will continue to improve although the previous VO2 maximum of sixty-three may take a while to return. Keep exercising and it should approach that in time. Several months though. You are still a young fit man.’ Doctor Maximus gave reassurance. He specialized in sports injuries. Athletic types recovered quickly, wounds healed well if not subjected to further abuse too soon, in his lengthy experience.
‘Any long term effects from breathing in all that cement dust?’ Afiz remained concerned about any lasting effects from incarceration in the collapsed Fletcher Finance Building.
‘Scans revealed some accumulation sites in the lungs but nothing we are too concerned about yet. They should clear themselves through deep breathing. Keep exercising to flush them out. Have a chest scan in six months. Lung capacity is slightly reduced, as I said. There is some hearing damage. This may cause some loss of ability to hear the higher frequency sounds. Do you play music?’
‘No.’
‘Then it shouldn’t be noticeable. Some premature loss, the same as with ageing.’
‘Do I have a cancer risk?’
‘Possibly in consequence of inhaled toxicity, but no signs now of course. Do have regular chest X-rays, annually at least.’
Afiz felt good at being cleared. He knew that the near future would create more health risks. Unknown risks. He reassured himself that this was a good start to a new period of his life.
Jason and Afiz collected their mountain bikes. They were able to ride them, even with some damage, back to the university accommodation. Even the tacoed wheel was able to be jumped back into a usable approximation to a circle.
‘A couple of cold beers sound good to me Afiz.’
‘Sure thing. Aargh! What do you call this brew Jason?’
‘Light beer. Everyone drinks it around here.’
‘I wash my bike and car with stronger liquor than this,’ said Afiz smirking.
‘What got into those passenger plane hijackers? Unbelievable thing to do.’ Jason changed the subject, turning the clock back to nine-eleven.
‘Jason, the terrorists must have garroted or cut the throats of the pilots in their seats. We will never know.’ Afiz shuddered at the analysis.
‘Knowing they had to die in the same plane. What sort of mind does that? Not seen that since kamikaze pilots in world war two. Don’t people realize there is no coming back?’ Jason regularly failed to understand how anyone could take their own life.
‘Yeah, kamikaze, the divine wind, typhoon, that dispersed the Mongol invasion fleet heading for Japan in 1281 A.D. Not a very convincing comparison. Those guys were trained legitimate state soldiers fighting a war.’ Afiz found the concept revolting.
‘It was just plain wrong,’ said Jason shaking his head in disbelief.
‘You are in the majority with that.’ Afiz cracked a second can of beer and gulped it down.
Afiz added together the litany of attempts to harm or eliminate him.
‘Someone is on my trail for some reason I have no knowledge of.’
‘Oh, now you are being paranoid. They are an unfortunate confluence of circumstantial evidence that would not hold up in court as connected.’ Jason became annoyed at the conclusion.
‘Might be an ex-customer who lost some investment value. There’s a few of those around,’ said Afiz wistfully.
‘That will teach you to steal from Peter to pay Paul.’ Jason had little sympathy.
‘Yeah, should do, but that is how my business works. One person’s sell is other persons buy decision. I am just a plumber fixing their vital flow parts. Money instead of water.’ Afiz always felt comfortable with helping people.
‘Change your job. You could sell anything, bikes, or run your own martial art school.’ Jason offered career advice that may not have been wanted.
Afiz shifted off his chair and said, ‘I have someone to call. Can I use your phone? My cell phone battery is still flat.’
‘Sure, over there.’
‘Julia. It’s me. Are you alright?’
Julia nearly fell off her office chair.
‘Afiz. I have been worried sick about you, again. Where have you been? You never called me.’ Julia’s voice displayed the culmination of her ongoing worry. She never normally shouted at Afiz. This time it just happened.
‘I know. I am sorry. Have been in hospital for the second time.’
‘What! How come?’
‘Jason and I went riding and a bunch of hard riders decided to ride us off the mountain track.’
‘Why? What was that all about? How are you now? Tell me.’
‘We are alright now, just a few bruises and cuts. Nothing much broken.’
Such words did not give Julia any comfort. The word, broken, worried her greatly.
‘Are you still in Minneapolis? When are you coming back here? I want to see you.’
‘Sure. Coming back any day now. I have an arrangement to make and that should sort it all out.’
‘What arrangement?’ Julia’s concern rose within her mind. She felt frantic, but dare not display such concern in her voice.
‘Tell you all about it at home. I love you and miss you a bunch. Call when in New York.’
‘I love you too, and I want you in one working piece, not on a stretcher. Make sure you get the message Afiz. See you soon.’
‘Bye.
‘Professor Farhan, you do not know me. We are to become acquainted. Entirely to your advantage, of course.’
A dark blue suited smart businessman stood close behind Idris. Too close for his comfort. Personal space invaded, Idris felt rationally discomforted. If hairs grew on the back of his shaved neck, they would now be erected. A chilling cold feeling invaded his stomach. Bracing himself against a stainless steel pole assisted counterbalance subway car rock. Tunnels on the Seventh Avenue line now seemed never-ending to him. Idris hated subway travel. To the city worker, it was unavoidable. Sun drenched days in crowded ground level tram rides through Melbourne, now a distant happy memory.
There remained nothing to look at below ground. Advertisements lining each journey repeated themselves with mind numbing regularity. Go there, come here, drink this, and be different from where you are now. Fantastic advertisements all screamed at captive audiences. Showing subway travelers gorgeous beaches occupied by laughing frolicking bathers, increased feelings of desperation among train tunnel captives. Idris intensely disliked such mocking advertising. He used to be there, in the sunshine of Australia. Even a Minneapolis six months of winter weather seemed far away and desirable. Dreaming again, the damned train screeched to a halt at Franklin and jolted Idris into the present. Resisting train-braking deceleration with his shoulder pinioned against the pole was very unpleasant. A torture repeated endless times on every journey. Hot breath onto the back of his unprotected neck shocked him.
Mustafa Jamaal detected the distant dreaming unresponsiveness of his target. He leant forward to strengthen his message. He spoke quietly but with total firmness and authority into the right ear of his quarry. Mustafa did not wish to be overheard. There must be no witnesses for the task. Balancing voice and distance against the white noise background of train electric motors, doors sliding, brakes grinding and incessant rustling of travelers alighting and mounting their carriage, he calculated just the right amount of speech for reception by Idris only.
Idris remained unresponsive, fearful now that this was either an unsolicited social contact, or worse, a breach of security. He was still unable to see his shadowing agent. This may even be a test of his reliability. Could he maintain personal security? Was he trustworthy? How was Nexit to find out? Perhaps this was part of Nexit strategy. Always aware that observers accompanied at a distance, phone conversations always tracked and recorded, emails and text messages copied. Nothing remained beyond the reach of Nexit Corporation. His family protectors were rarely visible, but sometimes a parked car or unmarked van stayed at a hundred yards from his home for too long. His children’s school gained armed guards in a suburb never previously known for violence. The school parent teacher board remained obstinately unwilling to explain the reason for protection. Idris knew.
Smarting from the imposition of censorship that forbade writing about his work for publication in academic journals, to speak at conferences, write books, or discuss thorny problems with colleagues, frustrated the hell out of him. Academics trained and cajoled themselves to criticize each other’s work. They made every attempt to drive the work of others into total destruction, and as often as possible. Then they were free to develop their own pet project. Their work dispassionately answered the shortcomings of all others. It was all in making their aura of fame. Lively stimulating debate fuelled the academic and research working world. Now, Idris had the most fabulous of all possible projects, but it had to remain undetectable. Out of sight of the printed word and delivered speech. Invisible, undetected. Presently, he existed beyond fame and recognition. Nothing could be worse for him at this time. Life was no longer his own. The price for unlimited resources, may be successful, or a curse. He still had not concluded which. Now a stranger in the subway train knew him and challenged contact, but why?
Farhan’s thoughts scooted through all the likely factors. He rapidly formed mental flickering pictures of each possibility. None fitted. Idris shrugged his left shoulder in rejection of the attempt at contact.
‘I do not know you sir. I do not pick up with strangers,’ said Idris hoping that was enough to deter, but doubted it.
Mustafa persisted, ‘We both get off at Fourteenth Street. Then we can talk.’
‘I have no wish to do that, goodbye,’ said the professor with professional curtness.
‘Professor Farhan, you do not yet comprehend the seriousness of my request to talk. Please do not dismiss me flippantly. We are going to talk. Be sure of that. It is greatly to your advantage that we do,’ insisted Jamaal.
Curious glances shot across from nearby passengers. Obviously, something interesting was going down here. New Yorkers accustomed to street violence, knew to keep out of the way. Surreptitious, disinterested observance was the favored means of avoiding confrontation. Bystanders yearned to know what was going down. Outward lack of concerns, while maintaining the ability to report something of value to police after the event, usually sufficed.
Idris sweated over where his security detail was hiding. Someone must be within the same subway car. Now would be a very god time to come over and provide security. Idris chastised himself for being so stupid. This was no time for armed intervention. He was in no danger. Just someone speaking to him seemed innocuous enough. He inwardly instructed himself to calm down and deal with the verbal interchange as perfectly normal. Blowing his cover at this time would serve no purpose. Nobody moved, except for normal swaying as a result of car motion. Idris rotated his head a little towards the speaker but could barely glimpse outline features of the man.
‘I will speak with you only in the Fourteenth Street station coffee bar. Ten minutes maximum,’ said Idris reluctantly agreeing to talk.
‘A public place, very good Professor. Allow me to buy the refreshments. You will be weary and want to get home to your family. I will not burden you at all.’
Mustafa moved slightly away from Idris, lessening any concern by onlookers. Satisfied at hooking his quarry, the next five stations passed without incident. At the agreed stop, Idris walked rapidly away from the car, along the platform and up the stairway at a moderate speed. Mustafa followed at a non-threatening distance. He did not lose sight of Idris at any moment. He could not be confident about Idris’s compliance yet. He hatched a second plan, should there be a case of last minute nervous panic or change of heart.
Idris headed directly to the Metro6 bar at the street level and selected a small table in full view of everyone passing. Placing his briefcase on the second chair, he sat with his back against a wall to maintain a complete view of the station concourse. Mustafa collected two frothy cappuccinos and joined Idris at the table.
For the first time, Idris studied this new-found companion, barely recognizing him from the squinted view in the train car. Instant dislike overtook his feelings at this stage. The swarthy weathered dark brown skin seemed more suited to life in a desert than this city. Idris was a native of the Middle East. What presented before him was more than unsettling. A desert raider or militia, he could believe, but a New Yorker, never. Why was this character in this city and bothering him? Such thoughts worried Idris. Putting aside negative thoughts, he decided to press on, remaining calm and strong.
Mocking eyes stared out from beneath a light tan colored broad-brimmed cowboy hat, boring deep within Idris. Boxer’s ears. Black hair slicked backwards with gel. The face scarred, as were both hands, marks of hard physical work. More likely, worryingly to Idris, these could be an indication of a violent history. City clothes of a dark blue double-breasted jacket, dark blue shirt, and a tan colored wool overcoat, all looked out of place on this character. Idris mused that his outfitter could have been Barney’s Pre-loved Clothes Emporium from out of town and definitely not professionally tailored. He was likely to be new to New York, not having had acclimatization time to soak up standards of attire. This person represented a figure of menace to Idris. The whole scenario felt wrong to him. Why did he not telephone for an appointment at work? Maybe he knew gaining access to the Dorsey Building would be impossible, as security information would not check out fully. If he had no justifiable business reason for admission, subterfuge was the only way to gain access. Idris reasoned that this stranger came from a rival corporation, or country.
Idris mentally flicked through various alternative scenarios but came up with nothing substantive. This man came from outside the USA, most likely Middle East; spoke politely with good quality English. Forcefulness suggested a militaristic clipped mannerism. This person posed a significant challenge to Idris. Mustafa smiled and introduced himself as they sipped warm cappuccino.
‘I am Mustafa Jamaal, Professor, and am very grateful for you giving up a moment of your time for me. Thank you. I am not wasting your valuable time. I can assure you of that. I have travelled from my country specifically to meet with you. I could not contact you at work, as they may see me as some form of rival. That is not the case at all, as we will discuss in a moment. Professor Idris, your knowledge of extracting important elements from common plants is well known from published papers and lectures. Some of your students have been from my country and those around us, Pakistan for example. Your work is greatly valued by my government.’
Idris became impatient and had no intention, or need, to listen to a précis of his work on herbs. Greatly relieved that the subject of his recent developments had not arisen, he ventured some boldness to speed up the meeting.
‘Yes, yes, that is all fine. I know all that. What is that you want with me?’
‘Please allow me to explain. Ten minutes is so little time. This conversation can only act as a prelude to a deeper understanding between us. I need you to understand that trust is important to me. This is a matter of the utmost importance and is of great urgency. All I need is a little of your time and ability. Just a simple task for a man of such experience. Only to set up an extraction facility of our own. From your storehouse of wisdom, this is such a small thing to ask. Ex-students of yours will undertake all the work once correct direction and procedures are established. Then we fade into the distance and your life here carries on as it does today. We cannot do it without you. How does that sound to you Professor? Am I making myself clear? Does what I propose seem reasonable? Of course, you will be well paid and there will be a contract for payment of ongoing royalties. The extra income may enable your two wonderful daughters, Isa and Haecha, to study at Harvard or Oxford University. Rather there than a, well, lesser establishment. What do you genuinely think Professor?’
Mustafa relaxed back into the chair and drank the rest of his coffee, not really liking the bubbly confection. Never able to understand why people drowned good Arabica coffee beans in goat’s milk, injected with steam, and served like whipped iced cream. His brotherhood saw anything so disgustingly frothy as only suitable for decadent western children, never for adults. He smiled broadly at Idris while his thoughts wandered and then rested. He let pleading eyes soften the heart of his target. Confident that a Minneapolis Professor’s salary would struggle with the high costs associated with the Big Apple, he rested his case on financial benefit grounds.
Idris weighed up all he saw in front of him and briefly described. A short-term contract to train previous students of his, bringing them up to proficiently extract ingredients from herbs grown in and around Pakistan would be a very easy task. Only a couple of day’s guidance and supervised work. A weekend would do all that was necessary. No conflict with present work at Nexit Corporation. No security issues with returning to the laboratory work he conducted in Minneapolis State University would be most welcome from the present tightly structured environment. Quite a relief as a matter of fact. Nexit paid well and guaranteed long-term income. Additional income would secure his family future even better. He had no idea how good Cuthbertstone’s promises and contracts really were. Neither did he know whether the grand promises might evaporate at the next change of government. Cuthbertstone guaranteed nothing to last lifelong in the highly volatile world of government security. Nexit Corporation could disappear at the whim of an incoming administration. Hell, this stranger knows my name, the names of my children. He knows that I work in New York right now and not still in Minneapolis State University. How could that be?
Now he worried for the safety of his wife, children and home. Idris realized that Jamaal must know where he lived, his daily travel and identity. What else does he know about me? He knew exactly what I looked like, where, how I commuted. Where and when to link up with me after work. New to New York he may be, but must have local helpers. Perhaps embassy staff did all the research, followed me, and provided this government agent with full briefing. Hey, this is out of control.
‘I need to clear any such work with my employers as they own all copyrights, patents, intellectual property and manufacturing rights to my work. All research I do at Minneapolis State University was, and remains, contracted to the United States Federal Government, Trans American Food Research Institute. You would know all that if you have been fully briefed by your embassy,’ said Idris stiffly.
Jamaal remained unfazed by Idris’s understanding of the situation.
‘Very correct of you Professor. Furthermore, observant, as a man of your knowledge level realizes. I arrived here four days ago and our embassy staff prepared all the information for me. They found that you had temporarily relocated here from Minneapolis for some work, but that is all we know. Your employer and government have nothing to concern themselves over our venture. Our scientists believe that following your advice will enable us to formulate medicinal herbs products for the children of our poorest families. These disadvantaged people of ours cannot afford imported medicines. Infant mortality is heartbreakingly high Professor. Every disease imaginable runs rife there. Our women have many children. Only half the birth rate survives until adulthood. Diet is poor. Doctors only work in the cities and our young are dying every day. If only we had the ability to turn what we grow into life-saving medicine Professor, if only. You can help us.’ Mustafa Jamaal relaxed back into his chair.
‘International aid agencies go into, which country did you say?’ Idris needed to know where this request came from.
‘Alas dear Professor, I am not permitted to divulge such information at this moment. When we are agreed on a course of action, then we can move forward together with a unified plan and all will be revealed. This will be a great service to humankind. It will leave an indelible mark in history and your name will be a major part of it. Your help Professor will save countless families. How better to serve the world?’
‘Very touching sentiment. I cannot agree to anything without my employers. It is a matter of national, international, importance as you so rightly elucidate,’ said Idris.
Mustafa warmed to the development in Idris’s thinking, smiling even more broadly to put his target at ease.
‘Ah, my dear Professor, we are talking the same language here. I sense that you mentally acquiesce to my proposal. You recognize the work can save innocent children from certain pain, suffering and unnecessary death. Mothers can have essential medicines from locally grown herbs at affordable cost. The poorest barter for their needs as money is scarce. Reliance on overseas drug cartels with their inflated prices will no longer be a barrier to them. Our small and very poor nation can work to sustain itself using our own hands. Our young people will grow healthy and strong and come to this great land of America and become educated by you Professor. I see that your only concern is for contractual obligations. These will all be dealt with to your absolute satisfaction. Suitable contract documents are held in our office for you to see at your convenience. We will work with your employers and government to work out all the details.’
Idris gave ground up in this discussion. He nervously scanned the time on his wristwatch, noting the ten minutes had expired. He wanted to wind up the meeting.
‘Well, yes, I can instruct and train ex-students of mine to set up and process herb extraction. It would only take two days if all the equipment, chemicals, raw materials, and people are assembled together.’
Mustafa smelled a win here. ‘Excellent Professor. I can see you are a true hero of our country, even before you know where it is. I have extremely good news for you. Our laboratory technicians have such a facility right here in New York. Only a taxi ride from here.’
‘May be, but the ten minutes are up, and I have to catch a train home. We can discuss this later,’ said Idris wanting to end this impromptu discussion.
‘All we need to do is take a short ride and inspect the laboratory. I will take you home straight away. I assure you that you will not be late home for your family. Just a brief look. Nothing more. You will easily tell us what to get. Then all we have to do is clear up all the official papers and arrange a time to fit in with your work schedules. How does that sound to you Professor?’
‘I usually arrive at home by 7.30 pm and it is only six now. We do have a little time for a quick look if it is on the way home.’