“No sir. We are steps ahead of the Chinese and they’re the only ones who have shown interest in us.”
“Not the Russians?”
“Well, technically speaking, they’re both extremely capable, but we change our protocols daily. We’re good.” Damn. The old man’s right. I have to dive deeper.
“So far,” Gruber judged. It was not a prediction, but a fact of life.
“Yes, sir and I’ve added multiple levels of security. Our IT people are subject to thorough background checks. I know who they are, who their families socialize with, and what other jobs they’ve had,” Kavanaugh explained. Whenever anyone leaves, we review everything and make the proper changes as you’ve insisted. As I insist now.”
Kavanaugh cleared his throat, pleased that he was controlling the conversation. “The staff believes we’re paranoid of the competition. Condé Nast for one. The Travel Channel for another.”
“Very good, son.” Gruber used the term sparingly. He didn’t get close to anyone. But still, like an apprehensive father, he worried that this corporate progeny might not be ready for all that lay ahead.
“And our most valued reporters?” The old man placed special emphasis on the word.
“I read their work on multiple levels.”
“You will have to recruit and train more. Look at the star pupils coming up. We have a tradition. But beware. In this world of instant communication, people write without thought and hit send without always realizing who they include. Even the best will make a mistake in haste. Our work cannot permit that. Past, present, future. It is all one. No mistakes.”
“I understand, Mr. Gruber. You have my assurance.”
“Not just your assurance. Your dedication. Your commitment. Your faith.”
“Forever. Without question.”
Gruber studied his disciple. He had been there himself many years ago, grilled in the same manner, faced with the same scrutiny. Was I so eager to replace my mentor? He weighed whether he was seeing the real Kavanaugh with his desire to purely please or his brazen ambition. He hoped it was the former, but he would have to be certain.
“This must be forever ingrained.” He wanted Kavanaugh to especially appreciate his next comment. “You will be a guardian without the luxury of failure.”
The statement hung in the air. Though Kavanaugh didn’t know everything, he had connected enough dots to understand what fail could mean.
“I will be ready,” Kavanaugh responded with authority. “I am ready.”
Gruber laughed. “Well, stay ready. Because I’m not so eager to leave this earth. Not quite yet.”
Kavanaugh’s eyes shifted, a reaction not lost on Martin Gruber. “Sir, I still have a great deal to learn from you and yes, I haven’t done enough to protect our hard drives and firewalls. I will do more.”
“Well then, on that note, let us toast to how close we both are to a certain kind of ascension.”
Gruber slowly rose and walked to an old liquor cabinet at the far end of his office. He opened it and removed a bottle Kavanaugh had never seen before.
“Ah, I have your full attention now. This is indeed special. Though it’s not old, the tradition of how we shall drink it is. This is an Amaro liqueur made from twenty-three medicinal and aromatic herbs, aged over six months, and crafted by Monte Oliveto Maggiore Benedictine monks.”
Gruber poured one brandy snifter two fingers high, then another. He handed Kavanaugh the first glass.
“This blending of herbs and plants originated in the Middle Ages. It promises legendary restorative powers. But first you have to survive the wallop it delivers,” he added laughing.
“Take in the scent.”
“Lovely,” Kavanaugh offered. “Here’s to—”
“Ah, no. This is my toast,” Gruber interrupted. “To tradition. It is far greater than us.”
“To tradition.”
They clinked their glasses.
Colin Kavanaugh slowly sipped the Benedictine blend. It warmed his throat, then his whole chest expanded as the monks’ combination of herbs, roots, bark, and citrus peel mixed with alcohol and sugar syrup worked its way down.
“Tradition, Colin. You are doing as I did with my mentor, Alexander Dubesque, so many years ago. Before that, glasses of the Monte Oliveto Maggiore Amaro celebrated the passage of overseers for generations, all the way to the beginning of our order and Father Raffaelo.”
“And eventually it will be my duty.”
Gruber peered into Kavanaugh’s eyes and smiled. But behind the smile, the nagging question.
“Tradition.” Gruber held his glass of the Amaro against the light of his chandelier. “From Voyages and our earlier endeavors, L’institute de l’adventure and LaRosa. From Rome to Paris, to London. Always maintaining tradition. Always.”
He sipped the Amaro and savored the taste. “I’m going to miss this,” Gruber said.
“Who’s to say there won’t be greater rewards in heaven.”
“Heaven? You may have a different view of things as you begin to make your mark, my boy.”
He refilled his glass showing he was at least going to enjoy it now.
“Through it all, through the years, do you know we’ve only had one rite of passage?”
“No, what is it?” Kavanaugh asked.
“No black robes or candle light processions marked by Gregorian incantations. No full moon sacrificial blood-letting in ancient abbeys. Not the things of thrillers and pseudo documentaries.”
Gruber let the aroma of the drink waft up and fill his nostrils. “No. The only true rite of passage is this.”
The old man spoke nostalgically. “Our heralded Monte Oliveto Maggiore Amaro Benedictine is our only tradition. It seals our pledge. In France the commitment was to Le Sentier. In Italy, Il Sentiero. In our favored Latin, Autem Semita.”
In Martin Gruber’s day, and now as Colin Kavanaugh prepared to take over, the commitment, the mission, and the organization translated simply into English as The Path, or the narrow way laid down by continual passage.
Martin Gruber now made himself unequivocally clear. “And, Mr. Kavanaugh, remember, there is only one way. Only one path. Follow Autem Semita.”
Four
“Looks like a solid group,” Dr. Quinn McCauley said to his graduate teaching assistant, Pete DeMeo. “Shame you’re not coming this year. Look at this photo.”
He started to hand his iPad across the desk.
“Don’t bother. I know just who you’re talking about. The one from Harvard, right?”
McCauley smiled at DeMeo. “Right. Chohany. Just your type. Hell, you could be missing out on the love of your life.”
“Got my sights set on finding her in Europe. Besides, you’d hate me if I abandoned you for Boston.”
“Spent great years there.”
“But these days you’re all about sticking to the Yale side of the field.”
“So I’m a little bit political.”
“And if Harvard gave you a big ass grant and offered tenure?” DeMeo joked.
“Like I said, I’m a little bit political.”
McCauley was something of a renegade professor of paleontology studies. He liked to work outside the system, which constantly brought furrowed brows and antipathy from many of his peers. But the media liked him and so did his students. His visibility helped Yale rate within the top ten best graduate programs in the study of prehistoric life and evolutionary development. It was a competitive field and Harvard was their major competition in the northeast.