The O'Leary Enigma Page 3

  I nodded.

  “Okay, my name is Roger. If you want to make a report, if you want support, call me. If you’re in a jam, use any other name in the address book. They’re all monitored 24/7.”

  “Got it.”

  “You sure you want to go ahead with this?”

  Putting the cell phone in my pocketbook, I answered, “Yes.”

  Then, for the first time since we had met, Roger spoke with regard. “The address is one block up ahead on the right side.” After a pause, he added, “Be careful and good luck.”

  * * *

  I began walking down the side of the road since there were no sidewalks. It was a poor neighborhood, and I soon got comments from both the men and women, who assumed I was a prostitute.

  Two minutes before the appointed time, I arrived at the address, which was opposite a bus stop. A woman who was waiting for her bus told me in a loud voice to go away. All the while, I was looking for Estelle. Was this her idea of a joke?

  The bus came down the street. At least the woman who was yelling at me would leave. Behind the bus was an ancient, but well-preserved, Renault econo-box. Was it Estelle? There were no other cars, only two trucks in the distance.

  The bus stopped and the Renault pulled over to my side of the road and stopped in front of me. Estelle said in English, “Do you need a lift?”

  Trying to be cool, to use Phil’s favorite expression, I replied, “Oui, Madame.”

  Impatient, she ordered, “Don’t talk; get in.”

  I ran around the front of the car and got into the passenger seat. Estelle popped the clutch, and the car tucked back in front of the bus as one of the trucks roared past in the opposite lane.

  We flashed past Roger, who seemed to be absorbed in reading the paper.

  * * *

  At first, in the fading daylight, we made good time toward wherever we were headed. Both hands on the wheel, Estelle concentrated exclusively on her driving, saying nothing to me and ignoring my attempts at conversation. I thought she was being hostile, but then I realized that, as the light faded, our trip was becoming increasingly more dangerous. The traffic we were encountering was a mixture of trucks, cars, pedestrians, and animal-drawn vehicles moving anywhere from breakneck to walking speeds.

  Near the equator, darkness comes in the early evening and with it the real danger of running into an unlit cart or people walking alongside the road. Other cars compounded the risk by not using either their headlights or their running lights.

  Although it was dark, Estelle only slowed down a few miles per hour. I was sure we would have an accident, but I relaxed, somewhat, because she seemed to anticipate trouble and slowed without hard applications of the brakes.

  Unexpectedly, without warning or comment, we turned onto a compacted gravel road. No longer did we encounter motor vehicles, only carts and pedestrians. If Roger had been following us on the highway, the absence of any headlights told me he no longer was behind us.

  Uneasy, but not yet scared, I contemplated grabbing the steering wheel but decided to wait until we slowed or stopped.

  This was the Third World. We drove through villages, some with a few lights, some completely dark. I glanced at my watch; it was 8:15. Estelle must have seen me, because she said, “It will not be long now.”

  True to her word, ten minutes later, after passing through another village that had two visible lights, we slowed and turned onto a rutted track. When the headlights illuminated a small concrete building, Estelle stopped the car, pocketed the keys and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I waited and listened to the sounds of the African night. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I saw, protruding from behind the concrete building, the front end of an SUV. Fear, which had been absent, came to me in a rush. I considered running off and trying to reach the highway on foot. Rejecting that alternative, I reached into my pocketbook and began fishing for the cell phone that Roger had given me.

  * * *

  Estelle’s voice startled me. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”

  Not much relieved by her innocuous invitation, I followed the woman into the concrete building. All about me were racks of technologically ancient radiotelephone equipment, and, in the corner, was an old, worn, wooden desk upon which lay technical drawings. Relieved, I sardonically observed to myself: Things could be worse; this could have been a torture chamber.

  Estelle introduced the two Chadian men who emerged from behind the racks. Henri, the older one, was probably in his sixties and wore a long-sleeved shirt and pants. He spoke both French and Arabic. The other man, Hamza, was much younger, probably a twenty something. Dressed in a white robe and wearing a white skullcap, he conversed only in Arabic. Alarmed, I tried, without much success, to calm my fears by rationalizing: 1) Arabic was commonly spoken in Chad; 2) Hamza’s speaking the language did not mean a priori that he was affiliated with Arab terrorists; and 3) oh shit, what have I gotten myself into?!

  Fortunately, my fluency in French obviated the need for Estelle to translate from English, since Henri and I had no difficulty communicating. After a while, Henri, who had a dry sense of humor, was making witty remarks. Several times, I caught myself about to laugh at his bon mots[8].

  Using Arabic, Henri and Hamza seemed able to converse about the technical aspects of the radiotelephone installation. However, right from the start, there was a tension and an argumentativeness in their exchanges.

  “Before we go too far,” said Henri, “we should clarify our respective situations. We have a point of common interest. You need to make contact with the kidnappers; we want to get our telephone system operational.”

  Tentatively, I asked, “What assurances do I have that—that you won’t harm me?”

  “If we harm you now, how will we get our telephone system fixed?”

  Realizing I had a bargaining chip, at least for the present, I asked, “What do you propose?”

  “This station is similar, almost identical, to the one that is no longer operating. We have reason to believe that a failure to perform routine maintenance is the cause of the problem. After I show you what has to be done, you will go to the station that is not working, perform the maintenance and make the system operational.”

  Henri’s plan made some pretty big assumptions, but it did have one nice attribute: separation from my captors. I decided not to raise any objections.

  * * *

  For the next four hours, Henri took me through the intricacies of the old crossbar switches and their support equipment. He was a good teacher, and I had no difficulty mastering the details of the old system. Sometime during the period, while I was learning my new skill set, Estelle left unannounced.

  Initially, I supposed that Hamza would play a role in my instruction, but he did not. Although he never touched the equipment, Hamza appeared to understand what Henri was saying. As the night progressed, although I could not understand the Arabic portions of their conversation, I recognized in their exchanges the English and French technical terms the two men were using. This changed my perception of Hamza’s role. Apparently, he was monitoring my instruction and keeping tabs on Henri. Often Hamza pushed his way forward to see what I was doing. Once, when I smiled at one of Henri’s remarks, Hamza growled at Henri, who did a slow burn.

  With their body language and their tone, the two men impressed upon me that they had a strained relationship. Of course, I had no knowledge why this was the case. So, I hid my interest and surreptitiously observed what was happening.

  On three occasions, Hamza used his communicator. During these calls, I got the impression that he was talking to a demanding superior. Immediately after completing his calls, Hamza’s tone toward Henri became strident and he glared at the older man, who maintained his demeanor in spite of Hamza’s provocations.

  For my part, I avoided all involvement with Hamza, believing hi
m to be unstable and, consequently, dangerous.

  * * *

  Around two in the morning, Henri asked, “Do you think you can repair the equipment?”

  Figuring I was being handed my opportunity to escape, I tried not to show any emotion when I said, “Yes. I can do it.”

  “Good. You should get some rest.”

  “Before I do, may I ask a question?”

  “Yes,” replied Henri.

  “You’re the expert. Why don’t you fix the exchange?”

  “It is much too dangerous for me to go there. That is why we are sending you.”

  “You’re afraid of being arrested by the government?”

  “No,” explained Henri. “The government will send only large units into the area. I could easily avoid them.”

  “Why will it be safe for me and not you?”

  “It’s not safe for anyone. The chaos is total; anarchy rules.”

  “Oh,” I gasped, before asking, “What if I refuse?”

  “That certainly is your option,” replied Henri. “I will inform the Central Committee of your decision. They will decide what will be done with you.”

  “Let me understand this. If I go and try to fix the exchange, I may be raped and murdered. And if I refuse, I could be shot at dawn.”

  “More correctly, you will be shot.”

  I assessed my options. I could overpower Henri. Hamza was a much more questionable proposition. Even if I succeeded, where was I then? Could I escape Henri’s Central Committee colleagues? Could I find my way back to safety in the middle of the night? I decided to take my chances in the morning.

  “Just one thing, before I go to sleep, I’d like to use the facilities and freshen up. I left my pocketbook in the car. Can I get it?”

  Henri said something to Hamza, who initially balked. Earlier, from the tone of their conversations, I had sensed there was tension between the two men, but this was the first overt expression. After several more exchanges, the younger man relented and Henri told me, “Go ahead. Hamza has a flashlight.”

  In the car, I found the pocketbook on the seat where I had left it. Taking it with me, I followed the younger man, who unlocked the lavatory door. Expecting years of filth and a hoard of bugs, I was pleasantly surprised to find the facilities were clean. After closing the door, I fished through my pocketbook. Estelle had removed the cell phone Roger had given me.

  AUNT BARBARA

  With her demise on 18 December 2079, more than Barbara O’Leary’s earthly existence ended. Reporters, journalists and commentators around the world uniformly declared her life epic and her passing the end of an era. Historians, important personages, and observers of all persuasions immediately began to flood the public consciousness with works recounting and analyzing the woman’s historical impact.

  Because Barbara O’Leary and I had a most personal connection that stretched over decades—from our first meeting, I took to addressing her as “Aunt Barbara”—I considered writing my own history of her life. In fact, with that objective in mind, long before her passing, I started accumulating the material that I would need to complete such a project.

  When, after innumerable brushes with many forms of violent death, Barbara O’Leary died peacefully in her sleep, I, as planned, became the executor of her estate. Since Barbara had no heirs and her lawyers had prepared all the necessary legal documentation, I expected to discharge my legal duties quickly. Then, I would begin work on the memoir of my relationship with Barbara O’Leary.

  That all changed when I opened an envelope from Barbara addressed to me. To my complete surprise, I had received the means to access detailed electronic documentation on every facet of her life. This documentation included memoranda, correspondence, reports, and best of all, unedited recorded conversations. How she accomplished secretly generating all this material, I do not know. In fact, it seems to me a physical impossibility, but however she did it, the electronic documentation exists.

  Since the amount of material she provided is far too much for a single work, I decided to divide Barbara O’Leary’s chronicle. This first volume covers her childhood and early adult life, ending in May 2019. A young woman on a planet with billions of people, she was growing, preparing herself for her role, unaware, of the impending trials and recognition that were so imminent. Thus, we have a portrait of a young woman, starting her climb, rung by rung, up the proverbial ladder of success.

  Realizing that scholars and historians, who do not have my personal involvement, will write far more objectively about Barbara O’Leary, recognizing that Barbara had given me a unique opportunity, I decided to focus on the woman and her experiences and emotions. I believe I am uniquely qualified to do this for three reasons: First, because I had the perspective of a decades-long, close personal relationship with Aunt Barbara; she felt comfortable sharing thoughts and confidences with me. Second, because she had given to my safe keeping the most intimate documentation of her life, I had access to a region not available to others: her inner being. Third, since much of the material given to me was unedited audio and video, and because of my familiarity with her manner of speaking, I believe I can best express Barbara O’Leary’s thoughts and emotions in her own voice.

  This, I feel, is particularly critical to understanding the woman. While alive, taciturn Barbara O’Leary, well spoken and literate, revealed little of her inner self. She did not publish autobiographical accounts or memoirs. While quite willing to be candid about her public role, to discuss the reasons for her views, to recount accurately what she had done and what she intended to do, Barbara O’Leary did not reveal herself. She always maintained that her emotions were, in fact, just that: hers. She routinely frustrated those who interviewed her when they tried to elicit her inner thoughts or feelings. She was every reporter’s nightmare, the private person determined to keep it that way.

  However, far from ignoring history, she secretly compiled a journal of epic proportions. From her early childhood all the way through to her last days, she kept extraordinarily detailed records. And to my way of thinking, best of all, the woman who never tipped her hand, who played it close to the vest, who was, as one frustrated commentator put it, “the national enigma,” did indeed “open up.” All the emotions of a lifetime—happiness, sadness, fear, anger, frustration, lust—were in her recounting. If she experienced it, she put it in the chronicle of her life.

  In her instructions, Barbara told me not to manipulate. She wrote, “Tell the good and the bad; do not varnish.” Her enemies will undoubtedly have a field day vilifying their now deceased adversary. Those who love and respect her may well be shocked that Barbara O’Leary had deep-rooted psychological problems and committed questionable deeds.

  Her supporters may well wonder: why did she expose her reputation? They may ask of me: why did you do this to a person you loved? To all of them, I answer: she wanted to portray an honest person, who was, most of all, honest with herself. Barbara O’Leary, if we could ask her why she had been so candid, would probably smile and say nothing.

  James Callahan

  17 October 2081

  GISELE

  An only child, even in my earliest memories, I realized I was different from everyone else that I met in my small town located on the vast American Plains. They had white skin, while I had a much deeper olive complexion. My parents, Frank and Amber O’Leary, made no attempt to deny the visually obvious. Early in my life, they told me I was an adoptee.

  By three or four, I knew my biological mother’s name was Gisele and that my biological father came from southern Asia. Other than those facts, at the time, I knew nothing of my biological parents.

  This may sound surprising, but my parents never spoke ill of my biological parents. For example, one night—I believe I was five at the time—when she was tucking me into bed, I asked, “Mother, why didn’t Gisele want me?”

  My mother replied, �
�We only know what she told the adoption agency. Gisele didn’t feel she could take care of you.”

  “Why?”

  “She told the adoption people that she wasn’t the type of person who would be a good mother.”

  Curious, always curious, I asked, “How did she know she wouldn’t be a good mother?”

  “Child, I have no idea how she came up with that idea.”

  “Did you ever meet Gisele?”

  “No. We tried when you were very little, but she told the adoption agency it would hurt too much.” After a pause, my mother added, “I like to think that Gisele was trying to do what she thought was best for you.”

  “Do you think she would like me if we ever met?”

  Giving me a goodnight kiss, my mother replied, “Yes, I’m sure she would love you.”

  * * *

  When I was seven, two men wearing dark suits came to our house. My mother summoned my father and then told me I had to stay in the house and take care of Happy, the family’s pet Labrador. I watched from a window while my parents spoke to the strangers on our deck. One of the men did most of their talking while the other wrote in his book. When they finished, the two men shook hands with my parents and then drove off in their car.

  After giving me a hug for no apparent reason, my mother told me, “Your father and I have to talk. I want you to stay in the house and take care of Happy.”

  Alarmed by their odd behavior, Happy and I again watched from the window as my parents walked back and forth about the backyard, talking to each other. Finally, they came inside and asked me to join them in my father’s study. After my mother put me on her lap, I knew something terrible had happened. I think Happy also knew something was wrong, because she very quietly lay down at my mother’s feet.

  My father spoke. “Barbara, I have some bad news.” He paused then continued, “The two men who were just here told us that Gisele has died.”