The Alexander Affair

By Tommy Masek

Becoming a warrior in a battle against the forces of evil is the last thing Max James expects when he stumbles upon the attempted kidnapping of his ex-wife and two daughters on the Big Island of Hawaii. He is wounded, while his youngest daughter is seriously injured and hospitalized for surgery. Max teams up with a retired cop and the chief of a local Hawaii police department as he fends off a series of attacks by an unknown adversary intent on recovering recorded conversations about a terrorist plot.
His ex-wife’s astronomer husband, accidentally recorded those conversations, but after reporting the plot to the FBI and the CIA, Osborne is attacked and in a coma. At the heart of this deadly chain of events is rogue ex-CIA officer Jonathan Alexander, whose voice is on the recordings. He will stop at nothing to recover those recordings and eliminate any witnesses to his involvement in the plot to destroy the Dam.
The ensuing battle between Jonathon Alexander and Max escalates, even as it shifts back and forth between Hawaii and Max’s home in Mesquite, Nevada. As Max is about to be hurled to his death in the Kilauea Volcano, the tide of the conflict turns.

"It's roller coaster ride time courtesy of Tommy Masek's debut novel, THE ALEXANDER AFFAIR, a suspense-filled tale replete with mob good guys, covert government agents run amuck, and a revenge-motivated plot that could destroy diplomatic relations between two world powers." - Laura Taylor, Award-Winning Author & Editor

“A fast-paced action thriller that will keep you turning pages straight through to its riveting climax.” - Matthew. J. Pallamary, Author of Land Without Evil and Spirit

“Buckle up and hang on. Tommy Masek takes readers on a white knuckle ride in The Alexander Affair.” - Claudia J. Whitsitt, Author of The Wrong Man

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Masek
• Release date: May 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476210933

Tommy Masek

In his early career, Tommy worked as an engineer and scientist, having degrees from the University of Colorado, and MIT. He worked for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Rockwell International, and Hughes Research Laboratories, with a primary focus on ion propulsion for spacecraft. In later years, he manufactured coal stoker heating equipment. The Journals of Zaleem Series will be six novels in the science fiction genre. In Part 1, Xacs Omathe is abducted by an alien race and must deal with survival on an alien planet. Eventually, after nearly three centuries of living and traveling with the Aanbollth race, he will be returned to Earth to publish his memoirs before his death. Tommy has also written The Alexander Affair, The Quixote Files, The Whistler Agenda, and The Heiress and the Black Monk. The last three of these novels follow political reporter Martin Cosgrove as he unravels mysteries and dodges bullets. Tommy has been married to his high school sweetheart, Claudia, since 1962. They reside in Oxnard, California, with their Yorkie dependents, Oscar and Theo.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I was falling from the fingered platform where the derrick hand operates about eighty feet above the working floor of an oil field drilling rig. The girder framework of the derrick remained just out of reach as I headed downward, arms out-stretched. The rising sun enveloped me in a shaft of light. Would the Starship Enterprise transport me to safety?

The sound of a ringing phone jolted me awake.

Why I was dreaming about the oil field, where I’d worked in Wyoming to pay for college, wasn’t clear. I’d worked the derrick a few times, just enough to know that the high-wire act wasn’t for me.

You just saved my life, I said, voice hoarse, heart beating furiously.

Max, is that you? a female voice inquired.

Wait a minute, I need some water. I chugged from the half-full bottle on my bed-side table. The bed shook as my dog, Alf, jumped off and trotted to the bedroom door.

Maggie? It’s the middle of the night. What’s going on?

I sat on the edge of the bed, squinting at the clock radio, still the only light in the room. Margaret, my ex-wife, to whom I hadn’t spoken for at least six months, had custody of our two kids and had remarried a year or so earlier.

Max, Hank’s been in a car wreck. He may not survive. I need help. I heard her soft sobs. She’d always had an actress’ ability to drench herself in tears when the cause was right. I had learned to be a bit wary of these performances.

Henry Osborne, Maggie’s new husband, was an associate professor at a University of Colorado and a would-be astronomer. He was known as Hank within the family. Fortunately, I’d rarely spoken to him. I never liked him much, but I might be a little biased. My two girls appear to like him okay, and being the philosopher that I am, I credit that compatibility to the fact that he’s about their speed mentally, fourth and fifth grade. Hey, get a grip.

What the fuck are you calling me for? I wanted to say, Call a tow truck. Instead, I sighed, hoping to wake up.

I’m sorry, Maggie, what happened?

The police think he went to sleep driving back from the telescope. We’re in Hawaii. He’s using one of the telescopes at Mauna Kea for some studies he’s doing during his summer break. A pause ensued while she seemed to be sniffling and wiping tears.

What time is it there?

It’s about ten-fifteen. We just got back from the hospital. We’re staying in a condo we rented for a month on the island of Hawaii. Hank’s in the hospital in Honolulu. Oh God, he’s in a coma on life support.

I thought about Hawaii, trying to remember the geography.

We were in Honolulu at the hospital all day. Hank’s accident happened yesterday morning. I mean, this morning. The time’s all mixed up. Oh, Max, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy. Could you take the girls for a while? I can’t keep them with me at the hospital, and I won’t leave them with strangers. I can’t do anything at the hospital either, but I just can’t deal with everything now.

Maggie, I growled, feeling the anger from the divorce returning. You know I can’t do that, being the child molester you cooked me up to be.

Maggie had passively supported her divorce attorney’s efforts to paint me as a suspected abuser of my daughters. With paid-for testimony from a child psychologist, who convincingly described my transgressions, I was the one abused.

What about your mom? She usually looks after them.

She and Daddy are on vacation, I haven’t been able to get in touch with them. I could put the girls on a plane in the morning, and you could pick them up in Los Angeles.

Not a good idea. I could imagine uniformed officers slapping a warrant on my chest and locking the cuffs on my wrists. I’d be violating a court order. I think you got your head bumped, too. No unsupervised visitation and all that shit. Remember how many times you’ve said that?

I know, I’m sorry. Max, the girls need you. I’m a mess, you know?

Yeah, tell me about it. Whatever else Maggie was, she definitely wasn’t a cool head in a crisis, or she made it look that way. I sat quietly for a long time. Alf jumped back on the bed and made it known he wanted attention.

Max?

Give me your address and how to find it, and I’ll see about getting a flight out of Las Vegas tomorrow. I’ll come to see the girls, but if you want me to take them with me, you’ll have to get Fang to do some paperwork with the court. I always imagined Maggie’s ashen-faced attorney climbing out of her coffin with blood dripping from her prominent canines.

Let me talk to the girls, I said.

Without any comment on legal issues, Maggie gave me the address in Kamuela, her cell phone number, and the phone number at the condo. You can fly into Kona or Hilo, it’s about the same. We’ll meet you if you let me know when. Here’s Susanne.

Hi, Daddy, my eleven year old daughter said. Are you coming to get us?

I’m coming to see you, sweetie, probably tomorrow. Well, I thought, tonight for me, tomorrow for you. How you ladies doing?

Oh, we’re fine, but Hank got hurt. We went to see him, but they wouldn’t let Jessie and me in.

I bet he’ll be well soon. He’s got a hard head.

Oh, Daddy, Hank’s not so bad. Jessie wants to say hi. Bye, Daddy.

Before I could say goodbye, my younger daughter Jessica was telling me how much fun they were having at the pool. Time passes so quickly, I always have to mentally calculate their ages. Jessica was now ten. Bring your swimming suit, Daddy. You can take us to the beach.

I’m packing it right now, I said, trying to remember if I even owned a swimming suit. I’ll see you guys soon. Put your mom back on, okay? Bye, Jessie.

Bye, Daddy. Here’s mom.

The doctor said he’d call if there was any change, so we’ll be here, Maggie said in a less sodden voice. Hank had a laptop computer but it’s not here, otherwise you could email us. The police didn’t say if they found it in the car, but maybe it’s still at the telescope.

I’ll call you when I get a schedule worked out.

• • •

It was a few minutes after 6:00 A.M. on a Tuesday July 7th when my pickup, Alf, and I crunched to a stop in front of my shop. I’d spent an hour trying to get back to sleep after Maggie’s call, but still woke up at the usual 5:30. I’d been wrestling with the feeling of being used, but finally decided that a trip to see my girls would be worth the trouble, even if Maggie wasn’t.

The sand-blasted wooden sign mounted into an organized grouping of rocks at the driveway entrance announced: James & Axelberg Engineering & Machining. It was a rather logical name since I’m Maxwell James, an engineer, and my partner, Jake Axelberg, is a lifetime European machinist. I’m thirty-nine years old, stand six feet tall, weigh about one hundred eighty-five pounds, and have a craggy face. In about ten year’s time, I will look like an old man. Maybe by then there will be gene therapy to replace cosmetic surgery.

The building I’d had constructed was located at the end of the road which could continue up the mountain, but more of a hill where we were. In the distance across the interstate, we could watch the golfers chase their balls. Behind the building a mile or so north, eroded red-orange cliffs contoured by millennia of wind and rain stand watch over the town and our business.

This particular patch of desert at Mesquite, Nevada has boomed and bloomed in the past few years as a gambling site close to southern Utah, and as a retirement community. The availability of water for ranching, and its remote location along the highway that eventually became Interstate-15, constituted its original assets. It’s been parlayed into housing developments, golf courses, and casinos for the many retirement-bound seniors seeking economical relaxation.

I checked my email and deleted everything but the requests for quotation and started looking for airline fares. After a little shopping, I booked a flight from Las Vegas to LA on Southwest at 11:55 A.M. and a flight to Hilo, Hawaii on United.

Maggie’s voice mail picked up on the third ring, and I passed on my information. I’d forgotten it would be only 4:30 A.M. in Hawaii. See you about 7:30 tonight in front of the terminal. I’ll be the one without the lei. Would they even recognize me?

I answered the RFQ’s by email, printed out my quotes for a record, and put them in the out basket for Gretchen. What can I say about Gretchen that won’t be misunderstood? She’s like our super Girl Friday. She was a stripper in Las Vegas who wanted to get into another line of work, wearing clothes as one criterion. She looks just fine without clothes, too, but we’re still working around the edges of a ragged relationship given all of our mutual baggage. At least, I rationalize it that way.

I met Gretchen and Jake in the same place at different times, the dance hall at the Sand Trap Casino. My car had broken down in the summer heat almost four years ago, and I’d spent two weeks gambling while Harley’s Garage replaced the transmission. The parts weren’t easily obtained, and I wasn’t in a hurry. I had quit my job at McDonnell Douglas in Huntington Beach, California a few weeks earlier, because I’d gotten tired of the big company rat race. And I was still depressed over the divorce.

A lot of things that happen in a person’s life seem to be the result of fate. To me, that means your spirit guides are giving you hints. Mesquite seemed like a good place to dig-in. It wasn’t a totally logical decision, but many things in life aren’t.

Jake and his wife Jana were out from St. Louis where Jake worked as a machinist in a motor production factory. After kicking the idea around for about a week and finding ourselves with a lot of common values and ideas, we decided to set up a machine shop.

Gretchen had been in Mesquite on a Saturday night after getting fired for not being accommodating enough with the owner of the Las Vegas club where she danced. I learned later why she’d been in Mesquite, but hadn’t asked too many questions at the time, considering that the mutual sexual attraction was overpowering. A couple of weeks later, I was living in her apartment in Las Vegas and trying to figure out how to start the new business.

One evening over dinner with Gretchen’s friend, Josh, we devised a plan. Josh, short of Josephine, was a stockbroker and the operator of a phone sex business. She gave me a few tips on stock trading and set me up as a day-trader.

After a few bad stock picks for initiation, I started to make money a little at a time. Like my coincidental meeting of Jake and Gretchen, it may have been fate that brought me to stock-trading at that particular time. The market seemed to be driven by an irrational exuberance, as it was once described by the chairman of the Fed, so even a novice with some common sense could do well. I quit while I was ahead, after turning my $50,000 investment into nearly $500,000.

• • •

By seven thirty I was caught up and had gone into the shop to visit with Jake. Alf had already made the rounds, so Jake knew I was there. Alf is half Wheaten Terrier and half Airedale Terrier with a more sociable personality than mine. He always greets the workers and returns to the office. I think some of them give him little treats for his trouble.

Jake walked back to the office with me. I told him I needed to go to Hawaii to see my girls. My reasoning sounded a little lame by the expression on Jake’s face, and now to me, too, after hearing myself explain it. Maggie had treated me like dirt for the past three years, but I hadn’t seen my daughters for a year.

I told him about the two bids and suggested what to do if they came through. By that time, Gretchen arrived, and I repeated my trip story. We don’t live together for a number of reasons, which may or may not make sense to an outside observer. Alf watched from his nest of blankets in the corner.

Why would you help that bitch? Gretchen asked as she poured a cup of coffee. Have her bring the kids here.

She entered my office after Jake returned to the shop and sat sideways on my lap. Can I go, too? she said, squirming some, making sure her ample chest pressed against me. You know I’m good company, I really need a vacation, and I love Hawaii. And I have the cutest little bikini you’ll ever hardly see.

You’re squashing sensitive parts, you know, I said, wiggling a little.

Oh, I guess I have your attention then, she said, I’ve never broken anything before, but do you want to check?

Well, maybe after I get the lay-of-the-land in Hawaii, you can come over for a week or so, you and your teeny-weeny bikini.

Whispering in my ear, she said, Speaking of getting laid, let’s go remind you of what you’ll be missing. I missed you last night.

I was here until about eight-thirty, finishing the bushings for Harley’s. Then I stopped at the Oasis for a bite and got hooked on a machine. I thought you were in Vegas?

I was, until about midnight. I still missed you.

I’ve got to pack, but I won’t need much for the beach, I guess, I said, a little short of breath already, as I ran my hand over the back side of her snug jeans. Can you run me down to the airport?

Of course, you’re the boss, she said, jumping up and flashing a big smile. I’ll meet you at your place, but I’d better tell Jake I’ll be gone until after lunch. Hey, cowboy, you’d better hustle if you’re planning to, ah, entertain me. She rubbed the palm of her hand up my thigh.

Gretchen was naked on the bed by the time I made it home and into the bedroom. Our uninhibited antics took only about twenty minutes. This time, I was panting for real.

Why don’t we build a house up here, with a pool and a big back yard? she asked as we got untangled.

Up here was the hillside south of town where I had remodeled a small Spanish style house in the months while I built the shop.

Gretchen wasn’t pushy in our relationship, just naturally interested in knowing if there was any real future with me. She was thirty-one and undoubtedly aware of her ticking biological clock. I’d been rather oblique about our relationship, still in shock from the divorce, I should be over it by now. My God, I didn’t even like Margaret anymore, but the rejection still gnawed at me, and I did have two daughters. A therapist might help.

I know you’ve had a few problems with your kids. Well, a lot of problems. But I think I’d like to have a little girl, Gretchen said in a quiet tone, rolling onto her stomach. She was good at making her point in subtle ways and changed subjects before I had to answer. Working for you and not dancing is making me fat, you know. I’m going to start working out.

Yeah, but it’s all gone to the right places. I rubbed her butt, ignoring the family planning comment.

You’re going to be late. Take a quick shower, then you can pack while I jump in. She pushed me away as she rolled onto her side.

I dozed during our drive to Las Vegas, waking somewhere around Nellis Air Force Base to the beat of Cher’s song Runaway. The bass was turned up full, and the car resonated like a speaker. Could this be a hint that Gretchen was tired of being alone today, or maybe another subtle hint about our relationship? Two hints in one morning, more like the carrot and the stick? Probably.

Are there sea turtles in Hawaii? Gretchen asked, turning down the radio.

I suppose so. There’s a whole lot of sea there. I think that’s why they call them islands, I said, with a little emphasis on the word islands. Why?

Gosh, you’re so smart, knowing about oceans and stuff. I was listening to the news on NPR while you were asleep. She emphasized asleep. There was a story about how most species of sea turtles are endangered. That’s terrible. We’re really pigs, you know? These animals have been here millions of years, and in a few hundred years we come along and screw up the entire world.

Well, it’s taken us a little longer than that, but we aren’t good caretakers. That’s a fact. I’ll keep my eyes open. Maybe we can go on a turtle safari when you come over.

You mean it? she said in surprise. I thought you were just teasing me. It would be wonderful to see a big turtle.

I’ll keep my eyes peeled.

Driving 85 miles per hour had gotten us to McCarren International Airport in about an hour. She swooped her little five-year old BMW in front of a honking cab at the Southwest Terminal curb, gave the cab driver a little wave, and said, You’d better shake a leg, cowboy. That was fun this morning.

For me, too.

I jumped out of the car and reached into the back for my carry-on bag. Gretchen leaned into the passenger side, letting her loose blouse fall open, and gave me a kiss. Don’t forget the turtles, or me. Love you.

Me, too. I’ll call you tonight. I looked through the window. You’ll take care of Alf, right?

Of course. Probably better than you. In the back seat, Alf wagged his tail at the sound of his name. He moved up front, naturally.

I had about forty-five minutes to check in and get through security. They had to stop closing the door when I reached the desk at the gate. Running in airports is probably not a good idea these days with increased security, but I hadn’t gotten shot, chased, or yelled at. I was relieved and said thanks. The gate agent didn’t.

She took her copy of the ticket and shoved my portion of the boarding pass into my hand. Mr. James, you’re late, so please go right on. Thanks for flying Southwest.

Chapter 2

We’d had an unusual tail wind across the Pacific and landed about twenty minutes early. I couldn’t remember exactly how far Maggie had said they would have to drive, but I decided to call her cell phone to tell her I was in.

On the fourth ring, she picked up. Hello, this is Mrs. Osborne. Her voice sounded strained.

Hi, I’m in a little early. Are you on your way?

No, we can’t come to see you today. My husband got hurt. Did you hear?

Maggie, did you hit your head, too? What’s going on?

I’m sorry. We’ll have to cancel this evening. I’ll give you a call when Hank comes home. The phone went dead.

My ex-wife has always been about half bizarre, but I’d never known her to be completely off the wall. I roughly replaced the handset, and hoped I hadn’t bent something. Maggie, what the fuck are you up to now?

The lady at the public phone next to me said, That’s not a nice way to talk to someone.

You don’t know her like I do. Picking up my bag, I decided to go see for myself what Maggie was doing.

National Car Rental rented me a Taurus for a day, with the agreement that I could call in and extend the rental as required. I didn’t know what was required, and probably would have turned around without a second thought if I had known what I was getting into that evening.

The National agent pointed to a map. It’s north about half an hour, and the town is normally called Waimea. But since there are several Waimea’s in Hawaii, the post office calls it Kamuela to avoid confusion.

The drive to Kamuela was rather simple on Highway 19 along a beautiful coastline. The setting sun flashed off the waves all the way to the horizon, and the sound of the surf that I knew was there was lost before it reached me. The presently silent volcano Mauna Kea was off to the left some miles, long shadows flowing up the lush hillsides.

I stopped for directions at a neatly landscaped convenience store advertising the Parker Ranch. The teenage Hawaiian clerk with shoulder length blond hair gave me simple directions. Two left turns. I’d entered the store thinking Beach Boys. I came out with rap hammering my back. So much for paradise, I thought.

I pulled into the Poulo Kiualua Condominiums parking lot. The sun was over the horizon, but it would be light for another hour. The lights of the complex illuminated the pathways as well as the number signs stuck in the lawns here and there. The buildings were terraced, each unit secluded with its own balcony or patio - lanai in Hawaiian parlance. And each seemed to have a view of the nicely landscaped grounds.

I compared the numbers with the unit number Maggie had given me and started walking. I passed an idling vehicle with tinted windows that obscured the occupant, if there was one.

Gardeners still worked at trimming a growth of bamboo and various other plants that probably became overgrown every day. One man hacked palm fronds, getting them down to manageable size, while another packed them into the back of their truck.

I started across the lawn, looking for unit numbers when I heard voices from a pathway between buildings to my right - maybe fifty yards away. A hedge and other shrubs covered much of the view and, as it turned out, concealed me from them. I was startled and almost struck dumb to see Maggie being marched forward by a man with his hand around her upper arm. She twisted repeatedly against his grip, but was roughly straightened out. Not a gentle man.

I was more alarmed when a second man appeared, my two daughters being jerked along by this rough looking character. Fear over what to do nearly paralyzed me.

I put down my bag as I remembered the gardeners. Should I yell for the police? No one in the condos would hear. I turned around and noticed that the guy who’d been chopping fronds was now by the truck, his machete on the lawn. It was rusty with a taped handle, but I didn’t see anything better at hand. I walked back and casually picked it up, not having a plan, but knowing I would need help if I was going to confront these two characters. I felt more than a little worried since I’ve never been an aggressive guy. I didn’t have a plan, but they had my daughters. Unacceptable.

The frond chopper had also dropped his beat-up straw hat, so I picked it up and put it on, damp as it was. About that time, the hat and machete owner returned and was quite put out that I had taken his things. He jabbered angrily in what sounded like Japanese or Vietnamese. I did get the translation on the displeasure. I lifted my hand, one finger in the air. Wait a minute, I just want to borrow these for a few minutes. I’ll pay for them. I put the machete under my arm, quickly took out my money clip, and gave the gardener a hundred dollar bill.

The gardener boss joined us. You just borrow? He looked at the hundred. You keep now. They turned around and quick-stepped back to the truck.

By the time this high finance transaction was complete, the two thugs had towed Maggie and the girls closer to where I stood. They came across the lawn, heading to the parking area. Maybe they had left the engine running. I’d temporarily forgotten the machete, but sharp fear knifed in my gut and my heart skipped a few beats.

I stepped out from behind a tree a few yards ahead of the entourage, slumping my shoulders a bit, and said, Que paso? I’d forgotten most of the Spanish I’d learned in high school.

They started to detour around me, but I moved to block Thug Number One. Get out of the way, grease ball, he said with a strong accent. Maggie hadn’t looked up yet, and the girl’s view was still blocked by the front man.

Stay off the grass, can’t you read? I asked, trying to stall. I hadn’t seen any signs, but what the hell. By then Maggie looked up, and her mouth dropped open. The machete was shielded my leg and unnoticed.

Jack, we don’t have time for this shit. Shoot him in the balls and let’s go, Thug Number Two shouted in an agitated tone with a similar odd accent.

Thug Number One, now known as Jack, held Maggie with his left hand and, with seemingly practiced ease, stuck his right hand under his jacket. Maggie started to back up, wild-eyed and too frightened to utter a word. Surprised by her motion, Jack shifted. His right arm was closest to me as he drew out a pistol. I saw his thumb ratchet the hammer back.

Oh shit, I whispered, taking a step back. The machete had a nice balance as I raised my hand just above my shoulder. Jack was as surprised as I was when I neatly lopped off his hand at the wrist.

Wow, I thought. The hand with the gun still in its grip hit the lawn in slow motion. Jack, the now one handed thug, instantly released Maggie and grabbed his wrist. Maggie stumbled, going down on one knee and one hand.

Thug Number Two, who hadn’t volunteered a name, struggled with my girls. He hadn’t seen the hand get whacked off, but Jack was jumping up and down, spattering blood everywhere, and screaming unintelligibly. In about two more hops, Jack had lost too much blood to be doing calisthenics. He collapsed to his knees about to