So much could be done electronically, but Gruber liked mulling over hard copy. That’ll change.
“Good day,” the old man said.
The nearly forty-year age difference always brought a profound level of formality. It seemed all the more appropriate in the eighteenth century building on Monocle Street, and all the more correct considering Gruber’s failing health.
“Good day, sir.”
Martin Gruber slowly stood and walked to the window. He looked down at the people three flights below. Little people who know little, he thought for a moment. He drew the heavy, red velvet curtains shut and returned to his austere seventeenth century oak desk.
“Soon this will be yours. Of course, assuming you still want it.”
“Without a question.”
“Without questioning,” Gruber corrected. It was one of his grammatical distinctions. One of many.
“Without questioning.”
“You’ll tell people this was a desk once used by Pope Clemente IX in the seventeenth century.”
“With pride.”
“They won’t care. But you, as successor must hold to convention. Trust me, the trappings keep you focused. Study everyone. Take interest in them. As Machiavelli warned, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”
Kavanaugh frowned.
“Oh, I see I struck a nerve. Yes, you will have enemies. Some in your very midst. Others in the far corners of the world. And the irony of it all is they’ll never know they’ve become your enemy.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“All accomplished with utmost…” Gruber waited for the younger man to fill in the word.
“Secretum,” Kavanaugh replied thinking Here we go again. He ran his hand across his scalp, something he did when he was annoyed.
Martin Gruber pressed an app on his smartphone which activated a high frequency audio signal.
“Do you hear that? Of course you don’t,” Gruber continued. “I’ve been assured from the security experts you hired — yes, I speak with them, too — that the activated inaudible tone will defeat even the most sophisticated microphone plants and,” he laughed, “give any dogs in the neighborhood a terrible headache.”
Kavanaugh believed him. The octogenarian was always tinkering; working on making things more secure, more secretive.
“Now sit.”
Kavanaugh settled into the only chair facing the historic desk. Gruber cleared his throat, a signal that the rest would become very serious.
“We may only have a few more weeks, Colin.”
“Please, sir, don’t say that.”
“It is the truth. We work in truths. An old man forgets much of his yesterdays, but sees his tomorrows clearly. My vision is not blurred. You are there. I am not.”
“Yes, sir,” Kavanaugh said. He wished he had come up with a better, more thoughtful reply. But Gruber was looking tired. He studied his mentor. Thinner today than yesterday. Yes, soon.
Gruber inhaled fully. It seemed to energize him right before Kavanaugh’s eyes.
“Ah, but I have one more edition to put to bed.” Gruber was referring to the fall issue on the Caribbean. “Let’s get on with the work.”
McCauley grabbed an oven-roasted turkey hoagie from the Book Trader Cafe on the Yale University campus and brought it back to his office. He logged onto Pandora’s Frank Sinatra channel, always his default when he had important things on his mind. It relaxed him.
Where? Exactly where this year? he thought as he took a satisfying bite of his dinner. He studied a topographical map of Montana with three strategically placed push pins indicating the final areas he was considering. Beside each pin was a yellow sticky note with numbers 1, 2 and 3.
McCauley had put through the paperwork months ago for three potential sites; all offering interesting challenges for his students and the potential for a cool find or two. State park commissions had already given conditional approval for each location. But he still needed to complete the application process. They were due in Billings in just five days.
At the end of last summer, McCauley had flown over the area and found each attractive for different reasons. Site 1, Hell Creek, Montana, was noted for its mudstones and sandstones dating back to the end of the Cretaceous period, with fossils of triceratops, tyrannosaurus, and Ornithomimids. Interesting.
Site 2, further east, had real possibilities. It was just outside of Glendive, MT. Maybe, he said to himself.
Site 3 was north, part of a pre-historic riverbed and was certain to garner great finds just a few feet down. But he found that less challenging. No adventure. He figured there’d be initial excitement, then with the same results week after week — boredom.
McCauley finished chewing another bite, quickly catching a piece of turkey as it dropped out of the bun. He did it instinctively, like the first baseman he’d been in Little League, high school and college. He still had a quick hand and a great throwing arm.
He swallowed the last of his sandwich, studied the map again and pulled the pin and paper off Site 3. That makes it easier. Down to two.
The music on his computer segued from Sinatra to Dean Martin, Dean Martin to Matt Monro, a crooner considered the British Sinatra. The “From Russia to Love” theme broke his concentration.
“Pete!” he shouted. “Need a little help.”
DeMeo left his adjoining office and was at McCauley’s side in seconds.
“Ready.”
“I’m torn between Sites 1 and 2, but drawn more to 2. Give me arguments why we shouldn’t go there.”
“You want them right now?”
“Yes.”
“Site 1 is better. Earth that you can dig and geological footprints evident everywhere. Perfect grazing grounds. And that means perfect remains.”
“I know. But the strata at 2 appeals to me.”
“Harder. More challenges. Cliffs and valleys. You’ll need better equipment. More money.”
“Forget the money. If I made my decisions on money, I would have stuck with baseball. ”
DeMeo had heard the stories about the Red Sox looking at the young McCauley. They even made an offer his junior year at Harvard which he turned down.
“Let’s sleep on it for a few days. See what you can come up with.” After a pause he added, “And while you’re at it, find out why the Brits had this thing about Matt Monro.”
Kavanaugh was amazed at how quickly Gruber was able to shift gears. He would have to master the art as well.
“The St. Lucia photographs are exquisite,” he said leaning over Gruber’s computer screen. “They capture the beauty of the Grand Pitons.” Kavanaugh cycled through the pictures. “Check out this angle. It’s extraordinary.”
Gruber agreed.
“As I recall, you were there years ago.”
“Yes, my boy. It was your first year working directly with me and your calls to the Ladera Hotel were quite intolerable. Am I right?”
Kavanaugh had to laugh. “Of course you are. You didn’t get out much after that trip.”
“I suppose I became too accustomed to sleeping in my own bed. Unusual for a publisher of a travel magazine.” Gruber laughed. “But as you’ll see, there are so many other things that will require constant attention.”
Gruber recognized the real intent of Kavanaugh’s comment. “Ah, but I see you were trying to test me.”
“Sir?”
“My memory. You were testing my capacity. Did I remember the trip?”