The Squire's Tale - 3. Chapter 3

TUESDAY, JUNE 19th, 10:00 PM — BRONSON RESIDENCE, SANTA BARBARA

The small group was seated and silent around a glass-topped table in the breakfast room. The evening breeze off the Pacific wafted through open windows, and moonlight peeked in and out of an incoming fog.

The usually sunny atmosphere in the room was banished, and a dark cloud of worry hunkered over all of them. Half-empty glasses of Chardonnay sat ignored in front of every person at the table, each lost in his or her own thoughts, clearly preoccupied with worry about Keiran.

At last Tom spoke, “Keith, what did you find out about the kidnappers, if that’s what they are.”

“My P.I. is a retired CIA operative who was stationed in South America. She says a half dozen organized groups are operating in and around Cuzco, plus any number of fly-by-nighters out to make a quick buck. Without more contacts, it may be damn near impossible to tell who is holding Keiran.”

Natalie interrupted, “So you’re sure this is not a scam?”

Reluctant to tell her the bad news, Keith looked at her grimly, nodding twice.

Sobbing, she buried her head in her hands. “Oh, I wish he hadn’t gone on the damned trip. He was undecided between going down there or continuing his flying lessons—he just got his single-engine pilot’s license. I convinced him that seeing the world was more important. He could be here at home, safe and sound. Oh, damn it!”

Keith put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. “I’m so sorry you’re in agony, Natalie, but all we can say for certain right now is the call definitely came from Peru.”

“Can’t she narrow it down? I thought the CIA had access to a lot of high-tech bullshit,” Tom demanded abruptly.

Keith answered. “She’s retired but still maintains contacts with people who have access to that kind of technology. And no, we can’t pin it down on the basis of one unexpected call. When the son of a bitch calls again tomorrow, all the tools will be in place to allow us to home in as close as possible on an exact location.”

“How close is ‘as close as possible?’” Richard, Natalie’s ex-husband demanded.

Tom and Natalie glared at him like the unwelcome piece of shit he clearly was. The divorce had been fractious and unpleasant all around. Tom finally offered to pay him to get the hell out of Dodge, which might have played right into Richard’s hand. He wisely relocated to the opposite side of the country.

Keith broke the icy silence. “Well, Keiran’s phone is state-of-the-art, so it sends a lot of information in the packet.”

“What’s a packet?” Natalie asked.

“All telephone calls these days are digitized, like data sent to a computer over the Internet. A packet is sort of an envelope, and the actual content of the call is sent inside it. Everything is all ones and zeroes, which are translated back into sounds at the receiving end. By analyzing the packet, it’s usually possible to narrow the location down to the three closest cellular towers.”

“Usually?” Tom questioned.

“Well, most of the U.S. and other developed countries are well-covered by cell towers. Peru is not at that level of sophistication, outside the capital, Lima.

He shrugged, “Cuzco has only half a dozen towers to cover the entire city of half a million people. Beyond the city—we’re talking an area of 150 square miles—there are far fewer, so we will probably only end up with a general idea of where the phone is.”

“Don’t you mean ‘where Keiran is?’” Tom said.

“Not necessarily. They don’t have to make the call from the location where they’re holding him. In fact, they would be pretty goddamn dumb to do that, and it might not be possible if their hideout is too far from a tower.”

“So, what good will it do to trace the call?” Natalie was beginning to sound desperate.

“Oh, it could give us a lot of information. With cell towers so few and far between, it will at least give us a radius to narrow our search.”

They sat in silence, broken only by the sound of the waves hitting the beach and the ocean breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees outside.

Richard spoke up. “I don’t mean to be crass, but you do have the money ready, don’t you, Tom?”

All eyes turned on him in disgust.

Scowling, Tom replied, “Of course. Money is the least of our worries.”

To Richard’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “When the kidnappers figure out how easily we came up with a million, they’ll probably be greedy and demand more. This could drag on for days, while they keep raising the price until they figure they’ve reached our limit.”

Natalie gasped. Richard moved to comfort her, but she pushed him away.

Rebuffed, he complained, “I thought, at a time like this, we could forget the shit between us.”

She only glowered at him.

Rising, Tom announced. “We won’t make any progress until the call tomorrow at 10 AM. I suggest everyone take a stiff drink or a sleeping pill and try to get some rest. We’ll continue this discussion after breakfast.”

Natalie and Richard rose and headed in opposite directions. Her bedroom was in the main house. He was allotted a small room in the guest house.

Stepping out onto the patio, Tom walked over to the chaise longue. His husband was quietly stretched out looking up at the sky, which had cleared as the stiff breeze coming in from the Pacific blew away the fog. Keith followed silently.

Tom stopped at the side of the chair and smiled down at his husband’s face.

Beaming up at his lover, Beau spoke softly, “I can see this is killing you. I so fucking wish I could help.”

“Thanks. Just being here for me is a big fucking help.”

Keith gazed up at the starry sky. “We can’t do much more until the second call tomorrow, when we can hit it with all the goddamn technology we’ve got.”

Smiling slyly, Tom winked at his friend. “And a little more than what you are aware of.”

“What the fuck?” Keith’s eyebrows perked up.

Nodding his head, Tom explained. “I reached out to...a friend. He’s arranged for some ‘special assistance’ tomorrow. I can’t tell you any details, but they’re more advanced than anything your P.I. has access to.”

“Oh, I think I can guess who you called, and it explains a hell of a lot. The technology you’re talking about will definitely help.”

“I wish you two would stop with the spy-speak.” Beau lamented. “I realize you can’t tell me shit, but could you at least have these goddamn secret conversations when I’m not around?” he laughed.

“Sorry, Babe.” Tom chuckled. “You’re right. It’s not fair to talk about this in front of you. We’ll deep-six it for now.” He leaned down and kissed his husband on the forehead.

“You ready for bed?”

Beau smiled affectionately. “Whenever you are.”

Keith bowed out graciously. “Well I, for one, am beat. I’ll see you gents in the morning.” He returned to the house.

Tom sat down on the end of the chaise longue and placed a hand on Beau’s knee.

“I really need you right now.”

Beau leaned forward and drew his husband into a long kiss.

“I’m here for you, Babe. What can I do?”

“Oh, I bet you can think of something.”

He got to his feet with a wide smile and took Tom’s hand, lifting him upright. “Let’s adjourn to our room and make you feel better.”

Five minutes later, Tom and Beau lay stretched out side by side naked on the king-size bed. “Roll over and let me work on those stiff muscles,” Beau offered.

Seductively, Tom teased, “The stiffest muscle of all is dying for you to work on it.”

Beau snickered, “All things in due time. Let me do what I do best, which is find your sore spots and fix them.”

With a happy sigh, Tom complied with his lover-slash-masseur’s instructions to stretch out face down on the king-size bed. Beau climbed onto the bed beside him straddling his hips, allowing his soft cock to nestle along the crack of Tom’s ass, and began kneading the tense muscles beneath his fingers. Gradually he worked his way down, erasing the stress of the past few hours.

Among other talents, Beau was a licensed masseur. Before he met Tom at the Hotel Coronado, he had been a paid escort and a sometime model in gay porn. Massage frequently played a role in both enterprises.

When Beau announced to his deeply religious parents he was gay at the age of 18, they had quickly sent him packing.

After graduating from the University of Montana, Beau had drifted, unsure of what he wanted out of life. A romance with a fellow student had petered out when they went their separate ways, leaving Beau convinced he needed a man in his life but also wary of giving himself to anyone.

On his own and with a degree in business, he had found work in Los Angeles as a marketing assistant for a small production company that specialized in “twink” pornos. It didn’t take long for Beau to figure out he could make many times his salary by appearing in the films.

Good-looking and versatile, he soon attracted the attention of a super-wealthy “sugar daddy” who was also in the movie business. For two years, he traveled with the man as a “personal assistant,” which included meeting his patron’s every need. He enjoyed the situation and genuinely liked the man, who had died suddenly of heart attack in flagrante delicto with his cock up Beau’s butt.

The resulting scandal and unwelcome attention in the media prompted Beau to disappear for several months. Fortunately, he had squirreled away most of what his lover had bestowed upon him, so he was financially independent for a time.

He came to ground in San Diego and became acquainted with some men his age who had gotten together to form an ad hoc escort agency. Although Beau enjoyed the sex, he was increasingly uncomfortable with the constant parade of strangers who were rarely kind or thoughtful. He quietly mourned the loss of his former lover.

A stroke of luck brought him one night to the best hotel in town, along with three friends who had wormed their ways into ongoing relationships with three wealthy gay men. They encouraged Beau to do the same, but he wasn’t interested. His experience in LA had left him convinced he should avoid attachment at all cost.

Nevertheless, he experienced an immediate attraction upon meeting the man to whom he had been “assigned” at the penthouse party.

Although Tom was older, he took excellent care of his physique and had a friendly personality to boot. Despite his intention not to become close to a client ever again, Beau instantly felt a connection to him. As the evening wound down, the two excused themselves to Tom’s suite. Beau was astounded when they spent the entire night talking.

Tom was a widower in his early 60s. He finally faced the fact he was gay after being married 40 years to a woman to whom he was devoted and with whom he had two children.

Beau opened up about his parents’ rejection, his sense of purposelessness that led to escorting and porn, and his long affair with this deceased lover. To their mutual surprise, the two men found they could be frank with each other and share their joys and sorrows. Sex didn’t even enter their minds that first night.

Over the following days, Tom and Beau spent almost all their time together. Beau showed Tom the sights of San Diego and Tijuana, and Tom marveled at the notion that such a handsome, intelligent young man had chosen a career as a sex worker.

Their first sexual encounter came on their third day. After a pleasant dinner on the outdoor dining terrace at the hotel, they went for a midnight walk on the beach. In the dark, Tom stumbled over a large shell, and Beau caught him.

Finding themselves in each other’s arms, they kissed tentatively. One thing led to another, and Beau woke in Tom’s bed in the morning, after a night of exploring each other’s bodies and fulfilling each other’s desires.

From that night on, the two had been inseparable. Tom paid off Beau’s contract with the porn company and set his friend and accountant, Keith Cartier, on the task of buying the rights to every movie in which Beau had appeared. It took some time, but finally they had all been removed from sales and the Internet.

Their love grew strong and ultimately led to marriage. Their sex life was fulfilling and satisfying for both of them, and Beau’s former “career” allowed him to surprise Tom from time to time with his creativity and knowledge of how to please his husband.

When Beau’s powerful and talented hands reached his lover’s hips, he inquired, “You still awake, or did my work put you to sleep?”

“I’m wide awake and fucking hard as a rock, but also completely relaxed.”

Beau laughed, “Mission accomplished!”

“Wait a goddamn minute, Lover-boy. What the hell is that fucking log doing wedged between my ass cheeks?”

With a hearty laugh, Beau teased, “Log? Oh, you mean this? It’s waiting.” He grasped his erection and slapped it playfully against Tom’s buttocks.

Tom eagerly went along with the sex-play, “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting to slip inside and take care of all the tension in there.”

“Are you calling me a tight-ass?” Tom laughed.

“If the shoe fits...or if the cock fits—” Beau leaned forward past Tom and picked up the bottle of Swiss Navy lube in readiness on the bedside table. He made short work of slathering it on his hard cock and Tom’s waiting hole.

With a slight adjustment of his position, he brought gentle pressure on Tom’s pucker and easily slid in.

Both moaned happily with the well-known sensation. After three years together and eight years of marriage, they knew each other’s bodies and minds so well that giving and receiving pleasure came as second nature.

Beau started thrusting slowly and built up speed and depth until the bed springs creaked in complaint.

As he rocked in and out, he continued to massage Tom’s back and shoulders, eliciting more groans of absolute delight.

After a while, Beau emptied himself deep inside his lover and then rested motionless on top of him.

A few minutes later, he guided Tom to roll over onto his back and proceeded to deep-throat him until the flood of cum filled his mouth.

After a time of snuggling and kissing for a while, they drifted off into a refreshing sleep.

 

TUESDAY, JUNE 19th, 11:00 PM — SOMEWHERE IN LIMA, PERÚ

Six men sat solemnly around a circular mahogany table in a private dining room on the second floor of a building near the city center. The noise from the popular bar beneath them conveniently masked their conversation, which was a good thing, since the purpose of their gathering was the overthrow of the government.

Two of them wore business suits, one was in military uniform, and the remaining three dressed more casually. All smoked Cuban cigars, and glasses of 12-year old Macallan scotch sat before them, as of yet untouched.

Two doors gave access to the room, each guarded by two men in military fatigues with no insignias or name plates. The holster straps on their SIG Sauer M17s hung unfastened for quick access.

“The room has been swept?” one of the suits inquired. His bearing and the cut of his clothing attested to money and power. The eyes of the others focused warily on him, showing he was clearly in charge of the meeting.

“Twice today, and moments before we arrived,” replied the one in uniform—a tall, thin man with a short military haircut.

“Bueno. Let us attend to the business of the day, Coronel,” the leader ordered.

“Sí, Señor Presidente,” the colonel replied bowing his head with respect.

“Please. Not yet.” The leader smiled ironically. “Jefe is fine for now.”

“Of course, Señor Jefe.”

The officer cleared his throat and took charge of the meeting, an action not unfamiliar to him. “The...materials...are already waiting for us in Colombia. They will be delivered whenever you give the word, Señor Jefe.”

“Thank you, Coronel. Let us have them in the warehouse here as soon as possible. Things are moving quickly, now that we have secured the funding for the...men.”

Turning to the man on his left, he asked, “The timeline is solid?”

“Sí, Señor Jefe. We begin at dawn on Monday, six days from today, with explosions and the resulting fires in strategic locations around the city. They will draw the attention of the defense forces and also compel them to divide their numbers to respond to each incident.”

The colonel added, “Trusted officers will ensure that conflicting orders will result in much confusion.”

The man on the leader’s right spoke, “I have ensured that our friends in the media will focus on the explosions and the casualties, and direct attention away from the center of the city. They will emphasize the danger to the populace and urge everyone to shelter in place. The streets should be clear a few minutes after the blasts.”

The timeline man consulted his iPad and continued, “The President will call an emergency session of the National Assembly, and all members will be in the chamber within an hour. As soon as the meeting begins, a crowd will gather a few blocks away and march toward the National Assembly building.”

The colonel picked up the thread. “The protestors are prepped and will be sufficiently disorderly. Without a doubt, the security guards will be overwhelmed, especially since some of them have been paid to disappear at the beginning of the assault. It should take no more than 15 minutes for the defenses to be breached. The mob will pour into the chamber and quickly take over.”

All eyes locked on him. “Our armed men among the crowd will secure the building against any attempt to retake it by the defense forces, and they will sequester the necessary people in the basement. Unfortunately, there will be a small number of casualties.”

“The ones we have identified?”

“Of course, Jefe.”

“And El Presidente?” Señor Jefe smiled with cruel anticipation.

“Sadly, he will have been among those killed by unidentified insurgents.”

The media man cleared his throat, “The press will be informed of the attempted coup, and the Vice President will invoke a state of emergency, announce suspension of the Constitution, and establish martial law.”

With a satisfied smile, the colonel nodded, “I will assume command of all defense forces and declare an immediate curfew across the whole country. All airports will be shut down, as will the railroads, and major highways will be blockaded.”

With triumph in his voice, the timeline man added, “We will fan the flames of the chaos throughout the day. At 7:00 PM, the Vice President, having served his purpose, will be shot by a sniper. The immediate power vacuum will leave the country desperate for someone with confidence and authority to step into leadership, and that someone will be you, Señor Jefe.”

The leader smiled and nodded gratefully to his co-conspirators, “And I will be most grateful to each of you. And most generous.”

From the far end of the table, a short man with a bushy mustache spoke guardedly, “Of course, everything depends on the acquisition of the necessary funds for the weapons and mercenaries—.

Señor Jefe slammed his fist on the table. “Damn it! I have already told you I have made all the arrangements. Two million US dollars will be in our account in the Caymans in two days from now.”

His piercing glare made the man’s colon clench. “And the next time you, or anyone else at this table, entertains doubts about me, I will invite you to leave...with the kind assistance of those men at the door. Is that clear?”

The terrified man nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, Señor Jefe. It is clear.”

“Our meeting for this evening is at an end. I find the reports from all of you most satisfactory. We will convene again tomorrow at the same time to confirm everything is in motion for Monday morning’s events.”

Señor Jefe stood and raised his glass. “¡Viva la revolución!”

The others jumped to their feet and raised their glasses with a chorus of “¡Viva la revolución! ¡Viva el Nuevo Presidente!”

 

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20th, 0030 HOURS — AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

Deep under the Sierra Madre mountains, a uniformed Air Force officer entered a room illuminated only by the soft green glow of dozens of computer screens.

A sentry quietly announced, “Commander on deck.”

No one sprang to attention or saluted—protocol was to keep right on with their assigned tasks, but to be aware their boss was on site.

Brigadier General Alain Delacourt made his way down the bank of stations, glancing briefly at several of them. He was most interested in one specific display, but he briefly checked on a number of ops, as well as certain key sites that were under constant surveillance.

Every station was manned by two people—one officer and one enlisted. Men outnumbered women four to one. Each consisted of multiple displays, indicating the present position and trajectory of one or more military satellites, somewhere in orbit above the earth. The system was tied to high-frequency radar installations on the ground and in space.

Delacourt stopped at the desk he came to inspect.

“Lieutenant.”

“Sir.”

First Lieutenant Angela Maxwell didn’t take her eyes off the three computer screens in front of her. One showed a curved line representing the surface of the planet. Dozens of blinking dots moved in and out of view at various heights above the horizon. Each dot had a string of numbers attached to it, tracking the position and movement of a satellite.

A second screen carried a live video feed from one of the many objects circling the planet. By touching a few keys, Lt Maxwell could switch to the current view from any of a hundred satellites for which she was responsible. Even from a height of 350 miles, the images came up clear and detailed.

The third screen displayed a map of the earth. She had zoomed in on the area around the Panama Canal, above which a blinking light indicated the progress of a satellite moving southeast.

“On schedule?” the general asked.

“Five by five, Sir. We should be in position in another two hours.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Returning to his office, Delacourt picked up a secure phone and punched one digit.

He heard, “Five-oh-three-nine.”

“Grandfather.”

“Go ahead, General.”

“The satellite will be geostationary over Cuzco in two hours. We will begin monitoring as soon as it stabilizes.”

“Noted, Sir. Thank you.” The line went dead.

*****

After hanging up, the duty officer at Langley, Special Agent Harvey Blackmun, typed the data from General Delacourt into an encrypted file and pressed Send.

Moments later, a laptop at the Pentagon chirped at the arrival of the coded message.

Master Sergeant Wilson Avery decoded the text, read it, and clicked to save it in the private folder Secretary Edward Hopper requested for the top-secret project he was working on.

 

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20th, 9:00 AM — THE DEFENSE DEPARTMENT

Sipping his morning coffee, the SECDEF reviewed the communication from Delacourt and mentally calculated the three-hour time difference to Santa Barbara.

Satisfied it wasn’t too early—the family had probably slept very little anyway—he picked up a secure phone. “Get me Tom Hutton, please.”

“Yes, Mr Secretary.”

A minute later, Tom answered, and Ed told him. “The satellite is in place.”

“Thanks, Ed.”

“Tom, I can tell how worried you are, but we’re dedicating the most advanced tracking technology in existence to finding Keiran. It will find the fucking cellphone and lead us to him.”

“I hope you’re right, Ed. This thing is eating away at me. I keep blaming myself for sending the boy to that fucking place with no protection or warnings about what to watch out for. I feel like jumping on a goddamn plane and going down there to start kicking asses until somebody tells me where the fuck he is.”

Hopper took a deep breath. “I understand, Tom. I can only imagine what you and Natalie are going through. If it’s any consolation, I’ll be online with the Air Force, and I’ll see what they’re seeing in real time.”

He did his best to sound confident. “You concentrate on making the call, Tom, and keep the son of a bitch talking as long as possible. The equipment is fast—almost instantaneous, but it gets more accurate the longer the call lasts.”

“OK, Ed. Thanks again. You’re doing everything you can, and a hell of a lot more than you would for the ordinary citizen.”

The secretary laughed. “Well, Tom, with all your companies and their government contracts, you’re a hell of a lot more than an ordinary citizen! I’m sure you’re aware that a shitload of the equipment we’ll be using today comes right out of your laboratories and factories.”

“Hmm. I guess you’re right, Ed. But right now, I’d sell the whole fucking lot if it meant getting Keiran back unharmed.”

“Don’t worry, Tom. I can assure you, you won’t have to.”