The Last Patriot

By Bernard W. Rees

An American newspaper reporter, Owen OBrien, is on the run in China. Why is he being chased by both the Chinese and the CIA? Who is the beautiful blonde with whom he becomes emotionally entangled? As OBrien attempts to escape along the ancient Silk Road, over the high Himalayas into Pakistan, he carries a terrifying secret crucial to Americas security. This fast paced romantic thriller, dealing with big power politics, corruption in high places and the subversion of the democratic process in America, will grip the reader from beginning to end!

REVIEW

EXPATICA MAGAZINE, EUROPE

Expats have an advantage when writing fiction; doing unusual things in exotic places is often part of the experience of living and working outside your native country. Dutch resident Bernard W. Rees takes us to the Philippines in The Manila Galleon and to China, along the Silk Road and over the Himalayas into Pakistan in The Last Patriot.

Born in Llanelli in Wales, Rees has seen his fair share of the world. He grew up in Kampala, Uganda and Nairobi in Kenya. At sixteen he went to sea and got his first taste of the Orient. He emigrated to Canada in his early 20s where he traded ships and cargo for many years, from "the Americas to the Persian Gulf, China, Japan and Korea".

Following the death of his first wife in 1995, Rees decided he needed "to change my life and do something new". He sold his shipping business and moved to Manila, where, in his spare time, he searched for Spanish treasure ships.

This is when he developed another talent: he pens a good yarn. The main character of The Manila Galleon is Peter de Vries, a rogue CIA agent. Of course rogue CIA agents are common in thrillers these days, and one who has lost his memory isnt that original either. But what really matters is that Rees makes something of this character in this page-turning thriller, with a twist.

De Vries gets involved in the salvage of a 17th century Spanish treasure ship, while at the same time he must avoid the CIA and discover the significance of his dreams about the Galleon and its fatal encounter with Dutch privateers. The sole survivor was a Dutch prisoner, Captain Jeroen de Vries.

Rees wrote his second novel while living in the US from 2003 to 2005. The CIA is there again but this time the main setting is China. This book is heavier than Galleons as it deals with the "major problems facing the world today": energy security, terrorism and the looming potential of conflict between the US and China.

The hero, if that is the correct term, is Owen O Brien, a cynical, alcoholic journalist and the heroine is an idealistic young doctor working with orphaned AIDS children in China.

Written as a memoir to his daughter, the book recounts how OBrien comes into possession of secret documents outlining a plan to attack the US. The CIA, which will never hire Rees to do its PR, is again the bad guy as it joins forces with the Chinese to stop OBrien fleeing with the papers.

If this was Hollywood, the hero would save the day at the last minute. But Rees, a world-wise expat, doesnt go for sugar-coated endings. Not to give too many secrets away, Reese wrote a second, Hollywood ending for Galleons to "maintain the domestic peace" with his wife. The Last Patriot has a more open ending.

Reese opened yet another new chapter in his life when he moved to the Netherlands as the trailing spouse at the beginning of 2006. The couples teenage children enrolled in the international school in Arnhem and their youngest is attending Dutch elementary school.

This expat author is now working on a series of books about an American living in Paris. We will eagerly await publication.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462825240

Bernard W. Rees

About the Author Bernard Rees was born in Lannelli, Wales, and grew up in Kampala, Uganda, and Nairobi, Kenya. He attended the HMS Conway training ship in Anglesey and apprenticed with the Bank Line, spending several years in the Far East chipping rust and chasing rhumb lines. Later, he immigrated to Canada where he worked in maritime shipping in locales as diverse as Montreal, New York, London and Rio de Janeiro.

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Copyright © 2005 by Bernard W. Rees.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Epilogue

‘This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to my mother, Winifred Rees, a remarkable woman who, when the going got tough, kept three generations of her family together; husband, sons and grandchildren. We all love you … and thank you !’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I thank Laurie Endicot Thomas for her help with American slang usage and for pointing out the most obvious errors and contradictions in the manuscript. All other errors are mine, alone.

PROLOGUE

New York Times January 6, 2010

After a tough final debate today, Congress voted by a slim margin to extend Taiwan’s Special Status as a friendly ally, thus allowing them to manufacture the new generation of computer chips for use in the controversial American Star Wars defense program. There has been much criticism in the press and by conservative forces within the establishment concerning the wisdom of entrusting the manufacture of such a vitally important component of the program to a foreign nation. However, the Administration’s determination to support Taiwan in the face of China’s growing aggressiveness in the Far East seems to have won the day. Meanwhile, China is vigorously protesting the situation amid growing tensions between China and the United States over the Star Wars program.

New York Times February 7 2011

A severe earthquake caused extensive damage in Taiwan over the weekend. Some three thousand people are feared dead and many thousands more have been left homeless. The damage is estimated to be in the billions of dollars. A White House spokesman expressed concern over reports that a plant manufacturing the vital chips for the Star Wars defense program had been damaged and said that Administration officials were in contact with Taiwanese officials to discuss the situation.

New York Times February 16 2011

Government Intelligence Officials assured members of Congress and the White House today, in an extraordinary emergency meeting, that the computer chips being manufactured in Taiwan for the Star Wars program were largely unaffected by the earthquake. One plant, they said, had been partially damaged while three other plants were producing on schedule. Sufficient inventory was available to avoid any delays to the program. The Administration is pushing to advance the dates when Star Wars will be operational. To assure the United States absolute superiority anywhere on the globe and give us the ability to fight a war from space, if need be. Secretary of Defense Donald MacBain told members of Congress, who are generally supportive of the plan. In other developments, the Chinese fleet has shown signs of increasing resolve to expand its naval presence in the South China Sea. The US fleet is currently carrying out exercises in the area. This morning there was an unconfirmed report that a Chinese naval ship had fired a missile at an American reconnaissance plane.

New York Times December 15 2012

China has confirmed recent reports that it has resumed nuclear underground testing and manufacture of rockets capable of carrying nuclear warheads, citing its right to defend the Chinese people from vicious US expansionism through the Star Wars program. The White House is showing increasing concern over China’s growing aggressiveness. There have reportedly been incidents in the South China Sea of Chinese ships challenging American warships’ right of passage. A White House spokesman confirmed that American naval forces in the area had been placed on high alert.

New York Times December 18 2012

Amid growing tensions with China, a White House spokesman denied a rumor many of the chips manufactured by Taiwan for the Star Wars program had been found to be defective. White House spokesman Richard Moore grew heated when asked by reporters to comment on whether this was connected to another report that an American had brought evidence from China purporting to show that Taiwan had illegally subbed out the manufacture of the Star Wars computer chips to Mainland China after the earthquakes, with the full knowledge of the White House. According to Moore, Mr. O’Brien is an alcoholic and a discredited source of information! However, on being intensely pressed by reporters, Moore admitted that if the chips had been manufactured by the Chinese, they could have been tampered with, threatening the effectiveness of the Star Wars defensive shield. Moore went on to hotly deny that this was the case, confirming that Mr. O’Brien was in custody and co-operating with the appropriate authorities to determine how O’Brien had come into possession of classified material.

New York Times December 24 2012

The White House confirmed this morning that an American warship has been attacked and sunk in the South China Sea by a Chinese submarine. Defense Secretary Donald MacBain appeared somber and white faced before reporters today and told them that the USS Alabama had been attacked and sunk, with an apparent total loss of life. There was a suspicion that a nuclear device had been used. We have not yet been able to contact the Chinese government for an explanation but are continuing all efforts to determine how this could have happened.

CNN—Broadcasting Room Atlanta 1100 hrs December 25 2012

The golden coif of Anchorwoman Barbara Jensen’s spotless hair glittered in the studio lights as she went over her briefing papers for the last time. Seconds later she was on air, her soft Southern voice calmly reassuring. "Further developments this Christmas morning, in breaking news. The White House has confirmed a nuclear device was used in the sinking of the USS Alabama. It was launched from a Chinese submarine. All American forces around the world have been placed on high alert. The President will address the American people at twelve noon today. I repeat, at twelve noon today. The White House urges all patriotic Americans to stop what they are doing and find a TV or a radio. In an extraordinary arrangement, the President’s address to the nation will be broadcast live over all news channels on both TV and radio. She glanced down as someone off camera handed her a sheet of paper. CNN has just learned that the Chinese embassy has been evacuated and only a caretaker staff remains. She paused. We go now to our White House correspondent, George Stewart, for his update on this fast breaking situation."

At that moment, the studio lights flared brilliantly and the screens of millions of viewers flickered for a second and went blank, for the last time. In that interval, time seemed frozen and a few, a very few, Americans would live to recall her final words, Oh! My God …

CHAPTER 1

(Fifty Years Later)

The tall woman glanced out of the window at the mountains of Vermont, blazing red and gold in the October sunshine, and shifted uncomfortably in the narrow bus seat. Below lay the blue waters of Lake Champlain, placid and undisturbed by any sign of human life. Across the lake she spotted the water-filled crater of what had once been the Plattsburgh Air Force base. A bald eagle circled effortlessly in the thermals.

She sighed, looking around the battered old school bus. There were only five other passengers, all homesteaders who lived along the edges of the lake. Most of them eked out a living fishing for the giant carp that dwelt in the depths, mutations from that long ago cataclysm that had occurred when she was still a child in the orphanage. They kept to themselves, glowering sullenly at her army uniform, avoiding her eye when she glanced up at them. She could feel their animosity surrounding her like a wall. There was little love for the government out here in the remote provinces, and the military were despised still, after fifty years, for their responsibility in failing to protect America in the Chinese-American War, as it had come to be known by the few survivors.

She remembered the darkness that had enveloped her world as a child. Now, as an adult, she understood that the Chinese had launched a surprise nuclear attack on the United States of America. It sounded the death knell for the human race. How the Chinese leadership had been so deluded to believe they could get away with it, nobody had ever been able to fathom. Perhaps they were so paranoid and frightened of the rapid changes in their own country, terrified of losing power, they lashed out in a last paroxysm of frustration, coolly and wrongly calculating that their huge population could absorb massive losses and survive.

It was all sadly academic now. Humankind was slowly, remorselessly, dying out. Within minutes of the nuclear attack on key American cities launched from a handful of Chinese submarines, America retaliated with all the might of its huge nuclear arsenals. The White House, President, and civilian government were incinerated in the first attack, the much-vaunted Star Wars defensive shields having been rendered useless by the Chinese manufacturers of the computer chips. The surviving military leadership retaliated—unleashing wave after wave of nuclear missile attacks, obliterating most of China’s major cities. Russia, which must have received advanced warning from China and had rebuilt her arsenals under Putin, launched missiles at European cities, including Paris, Berlin, and London. Pakistan attacked India with nuclear missiles, and Iran obliterated Israel with nuclear warheads they had been building under the noses of UN inspectors for years.

Armageddon lasted only a few hours, but the consequences for the remnants of the human race were horrifying. Darkness enveloped the earth for many weeks as deadly dust circled the globe, blocking out sunlight. The radioactive fallout killed millions, slowly, surely and horribly. Starvation and disease did the rest. There was no organized government left anywhere equipped to handle the immensity of the devastation. All over the world, scattered survivors battled one another for what few resources were left; and when that ran out, they simply died.

She turned back from the window, her Army Medical Core insignia glittering in the low fall sunlight, reassured by the solid bulk of the army issue sidearm she carried on her hip. It was not unusual for military and government personnel to be attacked, robbed and sometimes murdered out here in the provinces where the New American Confederation had little authority. She saw that the other passengers were older than she and looked careworn and shabby. Only the driver appeared robust and cheerful. He and his brothers ran the two school buses along the rutted road from Albany to the small settlement in the mountains of New York State where the sanitarium she planned to visit was situated.

The bus rattled slowly down out of the mountains toward the ferry, still operating across the lake between Vermont and New York State, under the old name of Champlain Ferries. Diesel fuel was expensive and rationed, so the ferry ran only once a day, by which time a few government trucks under military guard had gathered for the crossing, with the rare private truck or bus, such as theirs. There were no private cars, only the ubiquitous horse- drawn carts that were used everywhere for transportation and haulage in these diminished last days.

The yellow bus jockeyed for position on the ferry, wedged amongst the drab army trucks. The passengers stood, with their bags, awaiting inspection and interrogation at the checkpoint. The tall woman moved forward to the low wooden table, identification papers in hand, as the plain clothed man seated there waved her forward, impatiently.

Papers! he barked, eyeing her uniform curiously.

Hold it! a voice spoke abruptly and a tall thin man the woman had not noticed before stepped around the desk. I’ll handle this one.

She saw the shoulder flashes indicating he was a colonel in the Military Police and instinctively sprang to attention, snapping him a rigid salute.

At ease, Captain! he smiled, but his dark eyes remained watchful as he studied her. Your papers, please.

He riffled through the documents, occasionally glancing at her. She guessed that he would be in his late sixties or early seventies. A livid radiation burn ran down one side of his face, forming a grotesque death mask, while the other side presented a lively, animated, visage.

You’re a long way from your home base, Doctor de Witt. What brings you here? He glanced at her uniform. Are you on military business?

I was assigned to the fertility research clinic in Albany, she explained. I have a week’s leave before I return to the military hospital at Fort Harrisburg.

So, what brings you to this neck of the woods? he glanced at her sidearm. It’s not the safest place for an army doctor. He turned, pointing at the mountains in New York State.

There are still quite a few bandits in the mountains. We don’t have the personnel and resources to route them out.

I’m going up to Lake Placid. That’s under our control, isn’t it? she replied anxiously.

Sure, but the route between here and there isn’t safe. There’s no way your bus will be allowed through to Lake Placid. Sorry! he extended his hand with her papers.

Impulsively, she broke military protocol and reached forward to touch his arm lightly. Please, Colonel! I’m trying to find my father. I heard he might be in the sanitarium there.

He stiffened as she touched him. She expected a reprimand. Instead, he said softly, for her ears alone, Your father. You’re looking for your father?

She saw he was not angry, only curious. She thought she saw a ripple of compassion cross the undamaged side of his face for an instant. Everyone had lost family in the nuclear holocaust; and while people lived, there was always hope that somewhere, somehow, a loved one might have survived. She saw that she had reached him.

Is his name De Witt? he asked. I know some of the old folks up there, and I don’t recall that name.

No, his name is Owen O’Brien, she whispered, watching his face. I took my mother’s last name.

He shook his head and appeared lost in thought for a minute. Slowly, he raised his good eye to her. We never give up hope, do we? I lost my family fifty years ago. They lived in Washington and must have been vaporized instantly. Yet, even now, I’ll see a figure that seems familiar and start to call out a name. Of course, it’s impossible, but the human heart never gives up, does it? He looked at her, sadly. Tell me doctor; I know it’s supposed to be classified information but, are there any babies being born?

She sighed, The birthrate, for all intents and purposes, has dropped to zero. We had occasional reports of births here and there, but most were false. Of the few we found, the children were malformed and died soon after birth. There have been only two births I’m aware of where the children seemed normal. That was some years ago and they were sterile, unable to produce children of their own. Now we’re all too old … . She broke off, unable to continue.

Well, enough of that! We have to go on living, and we can’t give up hope. Don’t you agree? He reached for a red card and scribbled on it. Here’s a military pass. It’s good for forty-eight hours. I’m afraid it’s all the authority I have, doctor. You’ll travel with me. I’ll drop you off at the sanitarium and pick you up on my way back. Okay? He shrugged away her thanks, saying gruffly, Good luck, doctor. I hope you won’t be disappointed.

The sanitarium sat well back from the road, snuggled in amongst a fine stand of tall oak trees. A barbed wire fence surrounded the low buildings, and she was obliged to show her identification and state her business before the reluctant security guard grudgingly presented her with a visitors pass.

You go straight into the managers’ office now, you hear? The man scowled at her, as he raked hostile eyes over the military uniform.

She strolled along the winding path into a clearing under the oak trees. Fallen acorns were everywhere and crunched under her feet. She bent to pick one up, eyeing the little object closely. She had always felt drawn to the oak tree. She felt a scientist’s awe at how the full potentiality of the oak grove around her was contained in this one tiny seed.

Moving forward, she came upon a splashing fountain in which a chatter of sparrows cavorted. Beyond, she spotted human figures dancing slowly on the yellow autumn grass. She paused, startled by the beauty of the slow, graceful, movements. The group was led by a huge, bald man who moved through the martial arts poses with the deliberate grace of a stalking cat. As each exquisite movement was completed, there came a moment of pregnant stillness, before the next flowing movement began.

She was watching a form of Tai Chi, something she had heard of, but never seen. Anything relating to Chinese tradition and culture was treated with suspicion in the postwar world and actively discouraged as being un-American.

She realized she had been holding her breath as if she might shatter the magic of a stolen, secret moment and breathed out in a soft sigh of delight.

The class ended as the figures relaxed and stood in stillness for a few moments, before breaking up into chattering, laughing groups. Save for the instructor, they were all elderly women. Some things had not changed. Women still tended to outlive men by a decade or more. The big man moved off into the trees toward a low building.

He seemed slightly stooped with age; his big head slumped between hunched shoulders, but otherwise he moved easily, with none of the uncertain shuffling of the old women.

The sanitarium manager, a harassed looking woman whose glasses kept falling off her nose as she nervously played with a disordered pile of papers on her desk, shook her head uncertainly.

Oh, I don’t know, my dear. It’s highly irregular to allow someone who is not a confirmed relative access to our patients. You’re looking for your father, you say? She squinted myopically at the doctor.

Please, let me see Mr. O’Brien. I believe he might be my long-lost father, she tried again.

I don’t know, dear. It’s against regulations … . Wavering, the woman glanced uncertainly at the doctor’s military uniform.

Please, help me … you must know what it’s like to have lost family in the war.

Dr. de Witt touched the woman lightly on her hand, determined to make eye contact. The woman stared wide eyed at de Witt for a few seconds and then dropped her gaze in defeat, her shoulders slumping.

Yes. Yes, of course … . I’m sorry, she sighed, shaking her head. But, only half an hour. Mr. O’Brien’s mind wanders off sometimes when he gets anxious. He likes routine, and anything unusual can upset him for days.

She led Dr. de Witt down a series of sun-filled corridors, explaining the facility was a government home for old civil servants who needed some care but were still physically robust enough to get around by themselves most of the time. Is Mr. O’Brien healthy? asked Dr. de Witt.

Oh! He’s as strong as a horse for his age. He’s nearly ninety but looks ten years younger. The problem is, his mind wonders off into the past when he gets upset.

Alzheimer’s? Dr. de Witt queried.

We don’t think so. Our psychiatrist thinks it’s just a temporary escape mechanism of some kind. When he finds reality boring or unpleasant, he simply switches off and retreats into his past life. Harmless enough, really, compared with some we have here.

She likes the man, Dr. de Witt thought. She’s trying to protect him.

You’re fond of him, aren’t you? she said softly. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.

The woman glared at her.

He’s a fine, gentle, man. He makes running this place so much easier for all the staff. He’s very calming for some of the other, unruly, patients. Everyone likes him. He has a wonderful sense of humor and on social evenings he plays the harmonica beautifully! she gushed, finally pausing for breath, her hand to her mouth, looking embarrassed.

Thank you, said Dr. de Witt, squeezing her hand and smiling. I’m so looking forward to meeting him.

They found him in the orchard attached to the sanitarium. She saw that it covered a half-acre or more and contained a variety of apple, pear, and peach trees, the leaves yellowed, crooked branches exposed, beckoning in the late autumn sunlight. He stood in a patch of shadow cast by a small building behind him, containing dozens of pigeons, some inside and others perched on the roof or circling low overhead. An eerie whistling came from the flying birds, haunting, unsettling … . magical.

A soft chuckling came from a fat white pigeon he held in his large mottled hands. He stood utterly motionless watching them approach; a loaded stillness like a cocked gun. A charge of dynamic energy radiated out from him into the golden afternoon.

The gray-haired administrator’s voice twittered in a flirtatious songbird’s trill. Oh! Mr. O’Brien. Mr. O’Brien … over here! You have a visitor. A lady doctor.

As they approached, the big man’s features were hidden in shadow. He continued to stand perfectly still, watching them. Dr. de Witt found his self-possession strangely intimidating. He seemed to be in complete control of himself. In command of the situation. He was not at all what she had expected to find after listening to the administrator’s chatter on the way there.

Up close he was very big. Even stooped with age, he towered over Dr. de Witt, who was a tall woman. He moved forward a step. She saw with surprise that he was the same man who had taught the Tai Chi class she had observed earlier.

With a grace and gentleness of manner that seemed more Asian than Western, he bowed slightly to the gray-haired administrator.

Thank you so much, Agnes. How kind of you to escort the lady here. I am most grateful to you, my dear. He spoke in a pleasantly modulated voice.

Agnes’ eyelashes fluttered. Her hands flew to her bosom, a pink flush spread over her cheeks. My pleasure, Mr. O’Brien. The flustered administrator almost curtseyed but caught herself and, after a moments reluctant hesitation, smiled and moved away back in the direction of the sanitarium buildings under the oak trees.

Dr. de Witt suddenly felt very much alone as she contemplated the man staring at her from under bushy white eyebrows. He turned away and raised his hands high in the air, opening them slowly. The white bird rocketed up and away with a clattering of wings. Again she heard that unearthly music … a strange whistling.

He unrolled a red flag on a pole, whirling it vigorously around his head.

The doctor stepped back in alarm as dozens of pure white pigeons exploded from the loft and swarmed into the air, forming a perfect V-shaped formation high overhead. Accelerating at breathtaking speed, they circled the orchard and seemed to respond instantly, with military precision, to the movements of the red flag.

Listen! the man shouted.

The whistling, fainter at first, had become louder and she realized the man was, somehow, playing a melody through his control of the magnificent creatures as they wheeled and soared through the blue sky above.

Recognize it? he shouted again. Listen!

She closed her eyes, listening. Yes, it sounded familiar, but what was it? Where had she heard it before?

He was laughing. Come on, young lady … . an Italian love song.

Now she had it! The tall man waved the flag vigorously high over his head and from side to side. The magnificent white birds responded with amazing precision.

O Solo Mio! she gasped, clapping her hands, utterly delighted. It’s ‘O Solo Mio.’

He laughed and began to sing in a lovely tenor voice, O Solo Mio … .

For several minutes more he kept the pigeons in flight. Then, as abruptly as he had started, he ended the concert.

Breathing heavily, he watched while the birds returned to their loft.

Beautiful creatures. Don’t you agree? he asked.

That was beautiful! How do they make that music?

He smiled. An art I learned in my youth, in China.

He reached out and gently lifted a pigeon from its perch. It seemed unafraid and settled easily into the cup of his big hands, watching him with sharp, glittering, red eyes. He gently parted the tail feathers, fanning the tail open. Look … here! Do you see the flute?

She craned her neck and saw, attached to the pinions of the tail feathers, a minute wooden pipe.

It’s so delicate, she observed.

Took me years to perfect the art of carving them so that each pigeon carries a perfectly pitched note.

He replaced the bird carefully on a perch, where it sat fussily straightening out its disturbed tail feathers. He turned back to the woman and looked at her directly, for the first time. She felt the power of his gaze like a physical blow.

What’s that you’re carrying there, in your hand? he asked, startling her with the sudden question. She looked down in surprise and saw she was still holding the acorn she had picked up earlier. In her nervousness over the meeting, she had been turning it over and over in her fingers to relieve tension. A subconscious good luck talisman.

Oh! It’s an acorn I picked up over there she replied, pointing at the oak grove.

He reached forward and gently took it from her fingers.

Ah! Yes, the acorn. The ancient symbol of fecundity, he smiled.

What kind of a doctor are you, Miss … ? he asked, keeping her off balance. Two questions in one sentence.

Its Miss de Witt. Dr. de Witt. I’m involved in infertility research she replied giving him three pieces of information in return.

It’s appropriate then that you carry this acorn, Dr. de Witt he chuckled softly. The acorn, botanically, is an angiosperm. A fully endowed embryonic plant. He stared at her.

His eyes were blue… like her own.

She nodded, smiling, not knowing quite what to say in response.

He rumbled on, his deep voice rising and falling with a soft Irish lilt, as if addressing a classroom full of students somewhere over her head.

"The Ancients as far back as Philo thought the world was filled with logoi spermatikoi, meaning word seeds or germinal ideas. These are present in the world from its beginning as the primordial a priori that gives form to each thing. He pointed to the acorn. These spermatic words make it possible for each thing to tell us of its own nature … . If we have but the ears to hear and the imaginations to comprehend. This little acorn here, now, contains every bit of information it needs to create a giant oak tree."

It’s amazing, isn’t it? Thinking What an odd conversation to be having on an autumn afternoon, with an old man who could be my father.

She was used to being in control, of handling almost any situation. This afternoon she felt out of her depth, adrift in the currents, going she knew not where.

He was talking again, his beautifully modulated voice soft music massaging her brain cells. She let him go on, content to study him curiously, with a growing excitement and sureness, as he talked.

Nature speaks to us through this acorn. The talking oak tree was a vivid fantasy through the ages into modern times. It has always been a holy tree, long before the Druids took it for their own. Not only was the oak a Great-Father-God tree able to speak oracularly through women priestesses; but also its seed, the acorn, was called ‘juglans’, or glans penis of Jupiter, he chuckled again. A symbol of fertility through the ages, Dr. de Witt. An apt talisman for your research, don’t you think? A perfect miniature penis!

Dr. de Witt smiled ruefully, nodding—uncertain if he were trying to be humorous or serious.

Unfortunately, the human species seems doomed to extinction, although the oak trees look to be thriving. She pointed at the large stand of oaks around the sanitarium buildings.

His blue eyes flashed, angry gimlets under beetling brows.

The world will go on quite well without us. The plants and animals will not miss humankind nor note our passing into oblivion. The birds will still sing to the rising sun, but the music will not fall on human ears. He was angry and breathing deeply as he stared at her, fiercely. Our so-called ‘intelligence’ brought us to this. Perhaps, a few million years hence, some other species will arise with a more benign intelligence, a less competitive spirit—more co-operative, less destructive. On the other hand, species come, flourish and then disappear in nature. So, perhaps, what is happening to us is part of the greater order of things. He shrugged, rubbing his great beak of a nose.

I’ll certainly not shed any tears for humankind. We had our chance and blew it. We have proven ourselves to be clever monkeys, no more nor less. For all our pretensions to culture, literature, science, religions, and great philosophies we, when it counted most, acted with a total lack of morality.

Dr. de Witt was surprised by the depth and power of the anger in the old man.

But, it was the Chinese who started it! America tried to protect itself, she said, defensively, as if called upon to justify the long ago event.

He stopped talking and looked at her for a long moment. His eyes, bright summer sky blue, stared at her expressionless. His great nose jutted forward from under bushy snow-white brows that had once been jet black; she knew from the old photograph in her mother’s diary. Where glossy black hair had once been there was now only a high domed head, brown from the sun. She noticed the slight bend and flattening of his nose and the cauliflower ear from his boxing days, and the certainty grew.

This is my father!

He sighed. His body sagged and he looked old and tired. His former vitality draining from his features, It’s a moot point, young lady. The antecedents were sown long before by our destructive, competitive, greedy civilizations. The destruction was inevitable, regardless of who threw the first stone. His features had lost their animation and she could feel him withdrawing emotional contact. His voice had become remote and cool.

Anyway, it’s been pleasant talking with you doctor, but I must get along now. He paused. Was there any particular purpose to your visit, by the way?

This was the moment she had been dreading. She was terrified of … she knew not what? Perhaps a denial or flat-out rejection. She looked at the old man—his features softened and wasted by time, his great frame stooped, his large hands arthritic and mottled—trying to reconcile the image with the vibrant, handsome, young man in the faded black and white photograph she had found in her mother’s diary.

Yes, it’s the eyes! she thought, with surging excitement. It’s got to be him!

She drew a deep breath and reached out a hand to touch his elbow as he started to move away. Please, Mr. O’Brien! she exclaimed urgently. I need to talk to you privately. Is there somewhere we can go and sit down?

Tea? he asked, politely, as she sat in an ornate chair in his room watching him bustling about.

"You have tea? She asked, incredulously, staring at him in surprise.

He turned, rummaging in the red lacquered cupboard covered with exotic golden calligraphy and emerged with a black box, glistening with the patina of age and good care.

It’s hard to find and expensive. I have friends in the right places, doctor. He smiled slightly.

He opened the box and she saw the precious green leaves lying loose in the tea caddy. The rich aroma made her dizzy.

Have you tasted tea? he asked.

Yes, once, on my twenty-first birthday, she answered, her mind drifting back to that far-off time. One of our patients, during my medical training, treated us to some tea she had left over from before the War. She paused. It was called Red Rose Tea and came in cute little paper bags meant to be dipped into hot water. We made five cups of tea from the one bag. How do you get this tea? she asked curiously.

He looked at her, his blue eyes twinkling. Now, young lady, you don’t expect me to tell you that, do you?

Smuggling is a punishable offence. So is buying on the black market, she shot back.

Like most of her postwar generation, she had been brought up in a period of scarcity and strict rationing. It was considered a high crime to buy or sell, illegally, in the black market economy, which nevertheless was thriving. Even fifty years after the war, famine and starvation was still, in some years, a very real possibility for the survivors.

He looked at her, his face turned grim. For those not protected by military uniforms, doctor, life can be pretty rough. We do what we can to survive, regardless of rules from some authority we rarely see, unless it’s come to squeeze something out of us.

She could feel his animosity, as he looked at her military uniform with the fear and dislike that most civilians had for it.

She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. This isn’t going in the direction I had intended, she thought, anxiously.

What a beautiful chair, she remarked, her hands caressing the carved dragons which formed the polished, smooth, arms. Is it Chinese?

He seemed relieved with the change of subject, and his face broke into a soft smile as he reached out and ran his long fingers over the dragons.

Yes. It’s very old, made of sandalwood inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory. He turned and pointed to the red lacquered cabinet. This cabinet is made of elm wood, overlaid with a red lacquer, considered an auspicious color; and these gold Chinese letters are called Fu inscriptions, which denote prosperity and happiness. It dates from the Qing dynasty.

He brought the tea in an exquisite porcelain tea set on a tiny tray. The cups were thimble sized and filled with a hot green liquid.

The tea is green, she remarked, surprised again.

Oh, yes. It’s the best way to drink it. Very good for the body and calming to the mind, he answered, his eyes laughing at her. He took up his tiny cup, as delicate as a bird’s egg in his big hands, slurping noisily as he savored the drink.

She raised her cup to her lips and sipped cautiously, gasping with pleasure as the light, aromatic, liquid slid easily down her throat." You’re quite right, it is most relaxing," she said, smiling delightedly.

His eyes far off, he said softly, Oh, yes! I learnt to appreciate tea many years ago when I lived in China. The best tea was grown in the hills around the eastern town of Hangzhou. The tea was called Longjing, after the village in which it was first grown, and was considered by many Sifu (the Chinese tea leaf masters) to be the best tea ever grown, he sighed. But those days are long gone.

He turned to the tall woman. Now, what is it you want from me, doctor?

She was silent for a time, looking at him and about the room curiously as she gathered her thoughts. She saw that one wall was decorated with a hanging carpet in deep red and blue silk. On another was a brush painting depicting mountains that seemed to be floating in air. A waterfall fell into a silver lake on which a fisherman tended to his cormorants as they surfaced, beaks alive with wriggling fish.

That was a world my mother must have known, together with this man, she thought, excitement and trepidation battling in her breast as she considered how best to broach the subject with this enigmatic old man, who sat quietly watching her.

I have reason to believe you’re my father, she said, simply, in the end. I’m your daughter!

She had expected a reaction and was disappointed when he only leaned forward as if he had not heard her at all and asked, More tea, young lady?

She nodded, watching him closely as he moved about, his long fingers precise, careful as he manipulated the delicate porcelain tea things and poured the steaming hot liquid.

He passed her the small cup and then asked, How do you come to that conclusion, doctor?

He was staring at her intently, his eyes hooded, giving nothing away. There was an air of tense expectancy about him as he sat, straight backed, on a stool across the room from her.

She reached into her bag and removed the faded old photograph of her mother and the handsome, dark-haired man smiling at her side, one arm draped casually, possessively, over her shoulder. They both looked happy. Very much in love. Have a look at this, Mr. O’Brien, perhaps you will remember when the shot was taken?

He seemed reluctant to take the photograph, and she had to push it at him twice before he slowly and gingerly took it and, reaching for his reading glasses with hands that for the first time seemed hesitant and trembling, studied it in silence for a few long minutes.

His eyes blurred and the images faded from his vision and then swam back into focus as strong emotions buffeted him at the sight of the woman he had loved with such great passion. The force of which, he realized, he had forgotten over the long lonely years. God! How young and in love we were.

He looked up at the woman sitting expectantly across from him, noting her tallness. The high cheekbones and the wide, clear blue eyes. She would be a little over fifty, he guessed, still showing signs of the beauty she must have been. Like her mother, he thought. She wore her golden hair short in a military cut, and he could discern some slight indications of gray around the temples. Altogether, a fine looking woman. This is how her mother would have looked in middle age, he thought sadly, the wasted years a looming corridor of lost possibilities and regret.

He felt panic rising in his chest and fought to control it. I’m not ready for this, nor ready for her, just yet. He thought, anxiously. I need time, for God’s sake!

She saw the change come over him, as the sun is snuffed out by storm clouds on a summer’s day. He seemed to slump, and his eyes grew vacant. He stared at her, uncomprehendingly, the photograph slipping to the floor unheeded.

Who … who are you, Miss? he croaked. Suddenly, all the vitality had left him and he seemed very old.

She jumped up, spying a bell by the door, and pressed it several times, hoping it would summon help.

My name is Dr. de Witt, Mr. O’Brien. Don’t worry now. Everything is going to be okay. Just lie down on your bed and take a little rest. There you go.

She helped him stretch out on his bed and made him comfortable. After a few moments he sighed and seemed to fall into a deep sleep.

She watched him for a few minutes. Nobody answered the bell’s summons. She hesitated