The Harpoon Solution: A Novel....About Secrets

By G. A. Jamin

Michael is on the run. He’s far from the protective cordon of his dogs and security team, and a killer is stalking him. A lone teenage hiker on the Appalachian trail, Michael carries in his backpack a fake driver’s license, a deck of cards, and a stolen gun.
Cold weather is approaching and his gambling winnings are depleted. He needs a job and a safe place to hide for the winter. He detours to a small town where he meets the mysterious Mr. Jerry and Darwin, his Afro-Israeli bodyguard. Michael accepts Mr. Jerry’s job offer, but soon an avalanche of secrets begin to be busted. Michael learns that his new boss is hiding with a witness protection program alias and that he owns-along with his mother-in-law from hell- the nefarious BlackBox Corporation.
When Darwin quits to seek his fortune, Michael joins him as a security contractor on an oil tanker. Darwin teaches Michael the martial arts, including the use of his ancient harpoon, but Michael has his own practical skills. Together, they confront drug dealers, assassins, biker gangs, card cheats, gunrunners, terrorists, pirates, nuclear proliferators, cheapskates, and bastards.
Their adventures take them from a Manhattan jail to an Iranian nuclear plant and, finally, to Central America to confront the killer who started it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483506265

Book preview

Queequeg

Chapters:

A simple twist of fate

Call me Yorick

Dark side of the road

The man in the long black coat

The stalker

Daley fails retirement

Sarge enlists

Regina, just like a woman

BlackJack takes a gamble

Who do you trust?

Two dog night

The interrogation

The Hotel California

Josie in disguise

Every form of refuge has its price

One dog night

Lies and half-truths

Escape and evasion

The search

Catch and release

Bye-bye, Miss American pie

Your call is very important to us

New York, New York, it’s a helluva town

The New Jersey Turnpike

Leopard-skin pillbox hat

The man in the gabardine suit

Darwin Ben Squeegee Darwin

Cooking the books

The Hopper and the train they call the City of New Orleans

Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts

Roxy Earle and the House of the Rising Sun

The tanker and the terrorist bastards

Water, water, everywhere…

PrettyGirlFashions.com

The patrol boat and the pirate bastards

The war between the Earles and Buggerovs

Empress Helen: the mother-in-law from hell

Morgan Buggerov: sent from down below

Max the Turk tangled up in blue

Who?

Yukon Territory

Lola Earle watching the river flow

The Duke of Earle

The stakeout

Knockin’ on heaven’s door

The sound of silence

Homeward bound

Plan B

Call me Michael

When a man loves a woman

Gotta run

A simple twist of fate

Let’s go. Step on it.

Mr. Jerry was ready to roll as he climbed into the passenger seat of his pick-up truck complete with dented fender, the least conspicuous and cheapest vehicle that had been in the used-car lot. There was nothing to make it stand out, just Red Zone Contractors and an-out-of service phone number with a Massachusetts area code on the doors. Darwin was in the driver’s seat, with his pistol hidden in his ankle holster. Not saying a word, as usual, he put the truck into gear, and it lurched forward down the long curved driveway. Cash, intuitively anticipating another of Mr. Jerry’s numerous bug-out drills, lay hunkered down in the back, his head tucked between the fertilizer bags, and his huge back paws braced against the tailgate.

At the bottom of the driveway, the truck triggered a buried magnetic sensor activating a warning alarm at the house and switching on a surveillance camera. The last twenty yards, where the driveway intersected the road, were overgrown and seedy, the only part of the sixty-acre estate deliberately left in its original abandoned-farm state.

Darwin drove toward the river, bypassing the decrepit century-old iron bridge, and then turned right toward Riverford. The road was posted for a thirty-mile-per-hour limit; Darwin was doing seventy. Mr. Jerry pressed the stop button on his $39.98 Timex multifunction watch as they roared into the town: seven miles in six minutes and forty-three seconds as the truck reached the parking the lot behind the bank.

Cash jumped out, as though grateful to be on solid ground again. They headed to the ATM machine, Cash right by his side in the glass enclosure. Mr. Jerry counted the $980 withdrawal, and then counted it again. He made another withdrawal of $960, same double counting drill. Darwin stood guard outside the door, watching. He shook his head and muttered one of his many Afro-Israeli obscenities, ending with some version of cheap bastard.

Mr. Jerry went into the coffee shop, his chance to get some real food without Miss Claudia getting on his case with a healthy food lecture. He ordered the big sticky bun and filled a large cardboard cup with dark-roast coffee and three teaspoons of sugar and a few ounces of cream. The thought of buying something for Darwin never crossed his mind. At the counter he handed the young lady a $10 bill (good thing, he thought, there were no pretentious baristas in Riverford, just plain servers). When he got the change he feinted as though to put a dollar in the tip jar. As soon as she looked away, he palmed the dollar and put a quarter in. She pretended not to notice.

He went outside to the small park adjoining the shop. No one else was around in the late morning break between breakfast and lunch. He took a seat at a wrought iron table where Darwin was waiting with Cash. Darwin’s dark scowl and Cash’s low growl gave people two reasons to avoid approaching Mr. Jerry.

Mr. Jerry opened his iPad and input his personal access code and the coffee shop’s Wi-Fi password. Things he needed to attend to away from Empress Helen’s interfering presence. Every day an updated to-do list of things on the verge of going wrong…

First, the problem with his east coast agent. She was pregnant and using morning sickness as an excuse for a past-due report on the Federal Reserve’s money-printing plans. She was claiming that she slept with the Fed’s Vice Chairman to get the inside information and that getting pregnant was in the line of duty.

Next, the joint-venture oil tanker deal with the Mongolian navy. The defense minister wanted to increase his undisclosed partnership interest, to BlackBox’s detriment. This would require physical intimidation. He had no taste for that sort of thing. He’d let the Empress handle that, using her network of ex KGB thugs, about the only thing, besides the initial secret funding, that she contributed to their BlackBox partnership.

He was thinking about the European Union situation. He instructed YB, his brother and BlackBox’s controller, to establish a $700,000 Euro-short position. Mr. Jerry knew that no currency bet was a sure thing, but there was minimal downside risk. If he was right, YB would direct the proceeds to Mr. Jerry’s personal secret bank account in Rio de Janeiro. If his bet was wrong, YB would book the deal to the BlackBox account, where Empress Helen would bear half the losses. The thought of screwing his mother-in-law’s Buggerov clan brought a rare smile to his face.

One last thing on his to-do list. It had been there for two months, annoying the hell out of him that it was taking so long for him to get it done. He took pride in his ability to spot and recruit outstanding talent, Miss Claudia being his ultimate proof of success. Now there was a big problem in BlackBox’s managerial demographics. He needed to fill an entry-level gap, but finding the right person was enormously difficult. He was looking for someone very young, with exceptional smarts and strong computer skills. Someone he could mold and develop. Someone without outside influences like family and friends. Most likely a loner with a taste for adventure.

He was just about to take the last bite of his sticky bun when a teenage boy wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball hat and hiking boots walked out of the coffee shop and approached Cash.

Call me Yorick

My hair was blond again. And my eyes returned to blue after the last brown contact lens fell out. So much for all those disguises that were of no help when they caught me on the trail. BlackJack, my former body-guard, said that if I wanted to avoid detection again it would be better if I dialed down my vocabulary and spoke like a normal person rather than a walking Wikipedia. If I couldn’t do that, he said, it was best I just keep my mouth shut.

I’ve learned that even if I were caught again, they had no legal right to force me to return home. But that would not stop my parents. They’re determined people with unlimited resources, and it wouldn’t be the first time they took the law into their own hands. But getting caught again by my own folks was the least of my problems. If Juan Sifontes found me, I was as good as dead unless I shot him first.

I had to divert from the trail into a nearby town because my boots were causing blisters. My new boots were a full size larger and cost me $218, which I could ill afford as my funds were running low. While I was in the store I borrowed a tape measure and found that I had grown an inch taller since my escape. At five feet, ten inches I was tall for my real age, which was fourteen, but average for my fake-identity age of seventeen. My pants were loose around the waist, which I attributed to the many miles of hiking while carrying a heavy backpack.

I had a Colt .45-caliber semi-automatic pistol in the top of my backpack. I bought it at an Atlanta gun show for $700, no questions asked, from an old guy in a beard. That put a big dent in my casino winnings. I’ve only had one chance to practice with it, and I didn’t do well due to the tremor in my right hand that I’d had since my last encounter with Sifontes. I would have been less afraid if Uncas or Argos were with me; but Uncas was in captivity and Argos was dead.

I was on my own.

It was common for people to meet up and hike for a few days together, but I avoided contact. It was a very lonely time. I thought of Mom and Dad and how worried they must be. Once I went into a small town to get supplies and bought a few envelopes and stamps. I gave a lot of thought as to how I might let them know I was safe without their being able to trace me.

In northern Pennsylvania I came upon a lone hiker a short distance ahead of me. I used Sarge’s reconnaissance trick to observe him undetected. I did a big loop and got about a mile ahead of him. I waited in the woods for him to go by until I was sure he was alone and then resumed following at a safe distance. He looked really old, more than fifty, I guessed. He moved slowly and I noticed that he was favoring his left leg. I continued to follow until late afternoon, when he stopped to make camp. I hid and watched him for almost an hour. Then I made my decision. I didn’t want to scare him, so I rustled some bushes and stamped my feet. Then I walked in as if by accident. He didn’t seem to be the slightest bit concerned as he waved me in toward his campfire. How wonderful, I thought, to be able to hike for days with just blisters and mosquito bites as your only problems.

I introduced myself with my trail name, Yorick. It was my fourth alias since my escape. He told me his trail name was Blaze and invited me to join him for supper. He had a friendly but sad way about him. He was a fireman from Albany, doing the trail in ten-day segments each year because his bad knee couldn’t bear the pounding for a longer hike.

We hiked together for three days. His pace was slow, but I was in no particular hurry. It was good to have company, and I felt safer hiking with him. He was really nice and I felt bad that I had to be so mysterious and secretive, but I couldn’t take a chance. On the third evening we were sitting around the small fire after a dinner of canned franks and beans.

You know, Yorick, I have a son about your age. His name is Tom. He’s fourteen. Lives with his mother in Florida. I only get to see him once or twice a year. We got divorced four years ago, and, soon after, she moved there with him. Women always win the custody battles. I also have a daughter. She’s grown and out on her own in Chicago. Her mother pressured her to take sides and now we’re estranged. I sure as hell wasn’t perfect, but not a fraction as bad as her mother told it. You’d think that a young adult would have enough sense to know that there’s two sides to every conflict, even if only one side is doing the talking.

I could see the whole thing really upset him, but I didn’t know what to say. So I just sat there staring at the fire.

"I had to let Ruff go when we split up because my son was so attached to him. It’s just like those country-western songs: she got my kids, my money, and my dog.

Anyway, Yorick, the point is that you don’t appreciate your family until it comes apart. I have the feeling that you could be going through some sort of trouble. I don’t want to pry, but I bet there are people out there worried about you. Wouldn’t hurt if you let them know you were OK.

I’m sorry about your kids and your dog. I bet you were a good father. Sometimes that’s just not enough.

We sat silently for a few minutes, just watching the fire. He seemed as if he was giving something a lot of thought before he spoke again. I’ll be getting off at the next trailhead tomorrow and catching a bus back to Albany. If you need a place to stay for a few weeks, you’re welcome to come back with me. I have an extra room for when Tom comes up to visit. You could use it while you sort things out.

Thanks, I appreciate your offer, but I have to do this all by myself.

How are you fixed for money? he asked.

I’m good. I have a hundred and twenty three dollars.

That’s not going to get you far. He took out his wallet and spread all his money on the ground. He took $100 and handed me the rest, which was $249. You take this. It’s getting cooler. You’ll need some warmer gear. I have enough to get me back home.

I had to fight back the tears. Imagine if he had a clue as to who I was. I can’t take this. It’s not right. My dad…

Take it. Please. I’ll feel better. Consider it a loan. If you’re ever flush with cash, you can send it back. Interest-free.

He wrote his name and address on the back of the label that he peeled off the franks-and-beans can and handed it to me. I asked if he would do me one more a favor. Sure, he said. Anything.

I took an envelope from my pack and addressed it to Regina, just in case he might recognize my parents’ names. My note was brief. Hi Mom and Dad. I’m OK. I’m going to find a job. Don’t worry. I wiped my forehead to get some sweat and dirt on my thumb and pressed it onto the bottom of the sheet to leave a visible fingerprint. I sealed the envelope and gave it to him.

Would you wait until you get to Albany to mail this? It’s to my aunt. A kind of family joke for me to send her mail from unusual or funny places.

Sure thing, but there’s nothing funny about Albany except the state budget.

He was the last person I spoke with until I reached Connecticut.

I traveled alone for another few weeks. In northwest Connecticut, the land began to rise as I arrived in the region called the Litchfield Hills. There was a sign near the small power plant where the trail came out of the woods that read Georgia: 1,385 miles. That’s how far I had come.

I approached an old one-lane iron bridge that spanned the Housatonic River right below the great falls. A plaque indicated that the bridge had been built in 1907 and it didn’t look as if it had seen much in the way of maintenance for a century. It looked as if the steel supports were being held together just by rust and flaking blue paint. The river was pouring over the dam by the falls and the water looked cold. I dashed across the bridge into the town of Riverford.

I spent the night deep in the woods about a quarter-mile off the trail, my usual approach to avoid detection. In the morning there was a light frost on the ground. There was not nearly enough time to reach the trail’s end, 800 miles ahead in Maine. There would be snow well before then. Besides, I was down to my last $81, having tapped into the money that Blaze had lent me. I needed a job and a place to winter over, and I had an urge for a strong cup of fresh-brewed coffee.

I continued hiking for another few miles until the trail intersected Route 44. I checked my Appalachian Trail Guide, which indicated that it was only about a mile detour into the town center of Riverford.

It was a quintessential New England town. There was a beautiful town square with a small bank, village pharmacy and a coffee shop called The Roast, which was adjacent to a nice small park with a few benches and tables. The sign at the door of the coffee shop read, Please leave backpacks outside. I placed my pack near one of the benches and went inside to buy a cup of coffee and a scone.

When I went back outside to enjoy my snack, I noticed the dog, a huge male Rottweiler, sitting near my pack. Hey, fella, I said. Watching my pack? I leaned forward, holding my palm out so he could smell it.

I wouldn’t do that. He’s not friendly to strangers, said a man sitting a few feet away.

I kneeled down to massage the dog’s ear. I put my hand in a down signal and he went first into a down-stay and then rolled over for me to rub his belly. Then he started licking my face. It’s OK, I said. Dogs sense that I like them. I’ve been training them for years. What’s his name?

Cash, he said, sounding annoyed that his dog had not bitten me. I noticed his pants did not reach his scuffed shoes, and his white sweat socks showed signs of wear. Mom would have derisively called his pants floodwaters. I guessed his age to be somewhere in his sixties. He wore a threadbare Yankee baseball hat and a faded red and black plaid shirt, with the shirttails hanging out. His sleeves were rolled up past his wrists as if to suggest that he had been working. He looked like he had not shaved in days. He was drinking coffee and eating a sticky bun.

Do you mind if I sit here? I asked. It had been a long time since I had a chance to sit with a big dog.

It’s public property. Go ahead. He stared at me over the top of his wire-framed glasses. Been on the trail for long?

Yes, sir. Almost six months. Time to take a break. I’m looking for some work for the winter before I continue on to Maine.

You come all the way here from Detroit? he said in a New York accent, staring at my Detroit Tigers baseball cap.

Actually, from Indiana, I said, remembering that my bogus Indiana driver’s license was my only ID.

You look awfully young to be on the trail alone. How old are you, anyway?

Seventeen, I lied.

Sure thing, he said in a tone of voice laden with dry sarcasm. Got any identification?

I reached into my pants and pulled out my license.

He looked at it very carefully. Nice work, whoever did this. You on the run from the law or something like that?

No, sir. It was the truth. Sort of.

That your real name, ‘I. M. Blank,’ or just an attempt at humor? His tone indicated he had decided that anything I said would be a lie.

Hoping to divert him, I obfuscated with a verbal sleight of hand. On the trail the customary practice is to use a made-up trail name. Call me Yorick, like the character from Hamlet.

Yeah, I knew him well. Friend of mine named Willie Shakespeare wrote a screenplay about him. Willie and I go back a long ways, we went to the same high school in the Bronx.

Dad would have said I had it coming to me for being an intellectual smart ass. I just smiled.

What kind of work you looking for?

Something that will come with a place to stay. I can operate a tractor and drive a truck and know some landscaping, and I can also do security work. I’m a really good shot.

Yeah? Do you have a gun? he asked, assuming I was lying.

Yes, sir, I sure do. Take a look at this, I answered as I reached into the top of my pack to pull out my pistol.

It happened in the blink of an eye. Maybe faster. A huge black hand reached out from behind me and came down on my forearm and slammed it against the table. My arm went numb. The pain in my wrist was excruciating. My gun fell to the ground. The hand reached for the gun and ejected the magazine. He handed the gun to the old man.

Not a good idea, the old man said. This is my security. Darwin, this is Mr. Blank or, Yorick, as he calls himself. I’m Mr. Duke, he said turning back to me. "Gerald Duke. You’ll call me Mr. Jerry. You a gambling man Mr. Blank?

I knew better than to go down that route. No, sir. I’ve never tried it.

"Well, let’s test your decision-making capabilities. Here are your choices: A) You take your gun and get out of town. Head back to the trail; it crosses into Massachusetts about six miles north of here. They have their own guns laws; B) You head back to Indiana where you claim to come from. It’s the wild west; maybe they’re OK with seventeen-year-old gunslingers, assuming you’re anywhere near that old, or, C) You can work for me. Connecticut minimum wage plus room and board. We’ll find something suitable to your talents. You’ll start off assisting Darwin.

But, Mr. Blank, if you choose this option C, your gun stays with me until you can legally own it. All you need for that is to file an application with the State Police. They’ll fingerprint you and send it to the FBI for a criminal records check. Then some more paperwork and a required gun safety course given by a certified NRA instructor. Then you wait until you’re twenty-one and pay a couple hundred dollars in fees, and then you can have your gun back. I’m sure that’s not a problem for you, is it, Mr. Blank?

I didn’t answer him.

Your choice, Mr. Blank, or Mr. Whatever, but decide right now. I haven’t got all day. Time to get back to work. Time to bake the bread, as our friend Willie the Shakes used to say before he became famous.

I tried to evaluate the situation. Mr. Jerry was not at all likable and working for him might not be a perfect situation, but he did have a ‘my way or the highway’ attitude about him as though he knew everything and he had it all under control. He just didn’t seem like he who would be intimidated by anyone who might threaten anyone near him. There was no way to assess Mr. Darwin, who had just almost broken my arm, even if it was part of his job. But I had the feeling that if I stayed close to him, Juan Sifontes would not dare to come near me.

Mr. Jerry looked at his watch and started to leave. There was an easier tone in his voice this time, devoid of the sarcastic edge he had displayed up until then.

C’mon, Yorick, if that’s what you want to call yourself, it’s just a job; the fate of western civilization doesn’t hang in the balance. Consider it a learning experience.

I’ll take option C.

Mr. Jerry started to walk and Darwin picked up my backpack. He just hooked his index finger into the top loop and tossed it over his right shoulder. I was amazed, since it weighed about sixty pounds. He was really strange looking. About six feet tall. Built like a tank, he looked to be almost two hundred pounds of solid muscle bursting through his tee shirt. His dark-complexioned features appeared to be a mix of African and Polynesian. His head was shaved and his ears were really big. He still had not said a single word.

I followed Darwin. Mr. Jerry followed me. Cash followed Mr. Jerry. We walked to a beat-up pickup truck. Darwin threw my pack in the back and motioned for me to jump in. Cash followed me. Darwin got into the driver’s seat and Mr. Jerry sat in the passenger’s seat. I sat on one of the big bags of fertilizer in the back. Cash put his head on the other bag and took a nap. The truck started up with a sputter, and that was that.

I had no idea what northwest Connecticut actually looked like. Most of the time the trail was hot and humid and swarming with mosquitoes. Seldom did you get high enough to see above the tree line. Mainly I saw my boots.

I was surprised at how beautiful this part of Connecticut was. We rode down a winding country road past white-fenced horse farms and big estates with elaborate signs announcing this farm or that. They were obviously too well maintained to be commercial operations. Darwin turned down a long dirt road which paralleled the river—more estates and gentleman farms—and finally turned left into a dirt driveway. There was no mailbox or street number to indicate that anyone lived there. He drove about a hundred yards until the driveway crossed a wooden bridge over a small brook. We headed up a steep hill, and then everything changed as a large brick Federal-style house loomed into sight. Suddenly there were well-kept lawns and meadows and gardens and long views onto the forested mountains. I thought Mr. Daley would have approved of how well the seedy-looking entrance and thick wooded foliage hid the place from the road. I wondered if Mr. Jerry also had people he was trying to hide from.

The truck came to a stop at the top of the driveway to avoid hitting two dogs that ran out in front of it. One was another huge Rottweiler. Mr. Jerry leaned out the window and yelled, Look out, Charge, you’re blocking traffic. Luna, cut the grab-ass. Then Cash jumped out of the truck and started to chase Charge. The other dog, which I reckoned to be a Border Collie-Australian Shepherd mix, started to chase both Cash and Charge even though they were about three times her size. A woman came running after her. Luna, she yelled, stop bothering them. Find someone your own size to pick on.

Luna ignored her. In the melee Cash banged into Mr. Jerry, knocking him flat on his behind. His baseball cap flew off his head, revealing a short military haircut. He started swearing. Something about bastards and MammyJumpers and sons of bitches. Luna starting licking Mr. Jerry’s ear. Charge started licking Luna.

Darwin just stood there watching. The lady tried to bring order to chaos and to help Mr. Jerry up from the ground. She was younger, much younger, tall, and beautiful, with long bright, shiny hair. She looked as though she could open doors with just a smile. Although she was dressed in gardening clothes, she was bedecked in jewels—a large diamond engagement ring on one hand and a thick diamond band on the other. She was wearing diamond studs in her ears and an expensive-looking watch with a gold band on her wrist. Give me a break. Not even Mom wears all that stuff at one time, not that she would ever think about getting her hands dirty planting

She was Mr. Jerry’s wife, Miss Claudia, as he called her. I wondered what she could possibly have been thinking to induce her to enter into such an inequitable affiliation.

Miss Claudia looked at me and smiled. "Who