3.2 Lodestar

Tyler didn’t want to spoil the temperature in his room, he went downstairs to open the door.

A young officer in a greatcoat saluted him, “Sir! Good evening! Good morning! General Howe would like to meet you.”

“General Howe?” he enquired knotting his robe. That moment, a man opened the limo door and stepped out into the cold with a satchel and a wrapper, another officer in a greatcoat, under the streetlight.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour,” said the General.

“Oh shit! Allan Howe! What are you doing here?”

“Captain Friesen! I come to find out what you are doing here in a small town in the middle of Bronx.”

“How did you know I live here?”

“I called the ABC office in New York.”

“Come in, sir!”

“I come to ask for a favour. It’ll take some time, if you don’t mind,” said the General before stepping in.

“Of course not, I have all the time in the world.”

“Here’s for you,” he passed a bottle of Burbon in the wrapper.

“Thank you, sir,” he returned, “You really mean business, General Howe! Please, come in!”

In the confines of wooden walls, General Howe dropped in a large black comfortable sofa, “Sorry, I didn’t call you. Say, Friesen, your appearance on a mainstream media shocks me. How is your book going? You’re writing about Berlin Wall!”

“I paid for that interview two months ago,” said Tyler collecting two tumblers from the shelf, “Yes sir, my new novel is about the Berlin Airlift. I did the interview to grab the attention of a publisher, not an audience.” He settled and poured two drinks.

“Have you found a publisher?”

“My publisher is not interested. They want me to leave a deposit. I wrote to Checkpoint Charlie Foundation two months ago and hope this interview would help. I will find a guy anyway.”

“Cheers! For your book and Berlin!”

“Amen!”

“Ah!” he refreshed, “Do you remember the night our car got stuck in the rubbles near Brandenberg Gate?”

“I do, I do,” chuckled Tyler, “I have those memories fresh in my mind.”

General Howe nodded, “I have been to Germany recently to see the construction of the wall. Brandenberg Gate has a facelift but the area is strangely desolated. It’s a different world. Well, how is your family?”

“I have two boys,” replied Tyler, “They’re staying with their mother at my home in Connecticut. I have a job here at the Public Library, writing for a handful of papers as a columnist and this is life. I go see my wife and kids two times a month.”

“Well, let me get to the point my business here,” he leaned forward with the tumbler in his hand, “It might even help you pay a short trip to the Eastern Front, if you are interested,” he placed the tumbler, dig into his satchel and pulled out a newspaper, “It started with this news in Népszava last year in October. An FBI agent assassinated in Budapest, a fabricated story. He’s a Spanish guy and a representative of Catai Tours in Barcelona. This agency is involved with Arizona State Teachers College to obtain titanium from Ukraine through a Georgian weapons firm. CIA operates a plane to pick the shipments from Armenia in Lake Sevan.

“Titanium,” he dug into his bag and produced a wrapping. Placed on the table and carefully unwrapped it to reveal some blackish glossy metal bars in the dim light reflecting an amber shine. “Flat bars of Grade 5 titanium. 45% lighter than steel but as strong. Two times as strong as aluminium but 60% heavier. It resists corrosion in seawater. Its melting point is 3034 degrees Fahrenheit…it is resistant to high temperature. Biocompatible but a tough metal and very hard to work on.”

Tyler picked a bar and glanced at its shine.

General Howe continued, “Now, I cannot tell you why the reason they want the rutile ore but it is needed to produce this…titanium. Rutile ore is a very sandy soil. This titanium is used in top-secret projects. Let me say it is something like a spacecraft…NASA…

“Two million dollars were paid to Catai Tours to obtain this rutile ore. That would pay off 1500 tonnes or more. Way over the budget.

“Two months before Jaco Ferre was killed, some five-tonne load of rutile ore shipment was confiscated in Armenia by the army. Two months before that, Jair Sivils disappeared when two million was deposited to his Swiss bank account. You see how complicated it is!”

“Who is Jair Sivils?” asked Tyler.

“He is the owner of Catai Tours. Now this agency is closed for bankruptcy. We do have all the resources in Spain to look into the case and of course the College. But we cannot involve FBI or any US authority in the Eastern Bloc. They fabricated this whole story because they knew something about the nature of the deal. I brought here all the details. We believe Jair Sivils is in Greece.

“I want to find him, Friesen. You can travel freely as a journalist. I’m offering you fifteen grand for the trip. When you come back with a positive result, I promise you a bonus of another fifteen.”

“Fifteen grand!”

“Why? Is it too big for you?”

“No! I need the money,” he emptied his Bourbon and asked, “When do I start?”

“The plan is all yours. It is not going to be easy,” said the General, “here are the telephone numbers of my assistant and a contact in Armenia. My assistant, Howard Turner, will provide you with flight tickets, surveillance devices, passport and papers to travel to the Eastern Bloc, anything you ask.

“This man, Samvel Salazar in Hrazdan, Armenia, is a violinist. He can assist you in many ways. You have a month to prepare. Now it’s 2^nd February, you can be there by the next month. Get back and write a book.”

“What do I do when I find Jair Sivils?”

“Inform us. Call Howard. More than Sivils, I want to know what is going on there.”

“Got it,” uttered Tyler Friesen bluntly.

General Howe who arrived around midnight at 120 Roxanne Avenue left around four-twenty-five in the morning. When he came out, his chauffer was sleeping in the driver’s seat of his Cadillac Fleetwood 75.