Morningrise

By Bev Pickrell

A freighter goes down off the coast of Capetown; a Paris nightclub is engulfed in flames; a cement plant explodes on the outskirts of Caracas, all seemingly random, all deadly.
Columbia Professor David Hamilton is living the American nightmare. With a career he hates, an ex-wife he still loves and a drinking problem he denies, he has no idea how lucky he is. Beginning with a late-night phone call from Brussels, Hamilton embarks on an odyssey into the darker regions of European power, money and betrayal, a journey that will force him to confront an evil he can neither comprehend nor control.
As the body count escalates, one horrific murder will make it personal for Hamilton, and he will have no choice but to race the clock and forge alliances with characters as complex and lethal as the landscapes they inhabit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469112534

Bev Pickrell

Bev Pickrell and her husband Bob share their home with three rescued dogs and divide their time between Scottsdale and Vancouver Island, B.C. She is currently working on her next novel.

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Copyright © 2007 by Bev Pickrell.

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.

Epitaph on a Tyrant, copyright 1940 and renewed 1968 by W. H. Auden, from COLLECTED POEMS by W. H. Auden. Used by permission of Random House, Inc.

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.

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Contents

SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE

WEEK 1

BASEL, SWITZERLAND

NEW YORK CITY

VEVEY, SWITZERLAND

CARACAS

BRUSSELS

DUBLIN

BRUSSELS

NEW YORK CITY

CARACAS

NEW YORK CITY

BRUSSELS

BRUSSELS

CARACAS

WEEK 2

GERMANY

AMSTERDAM

CARACAS

BRUSSELS

AMSTERDAM

BRUSSELS

SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE

BRUSSELS

DUBLIN

AMSTERDAM

BRUSSELS

CARACAS

BRUSSELS

WEEK 3

BRUSSELS

ZURICH

BRUSSELS

DUBLIN

NEW YORK CITY

BRUSSELS

DUBLIN

BRUSSELS

ZURICH

BRUSSELS

NEW YORK CITY

DUBLIN

DUBLIN

CARACAS

NEW YORK CITY

CARACAS

NEW YORK CITY

DUNDALK BAY

FINGLAS

DUBLIN

NEW YORK CITY

FINGLAS

DUBLIN

NEW YORK CITY

DUBLIN

AMSTERDAM

DUBLIN

NEW YORK CITY

DROGHEDA

NEW YORK CITY

BELFAST

NEW YORK CITY

BELFAST

NEW YORK CITY

WEEK 4

BELFAST

NEW YORK CITY

For Bob

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

John Keats

SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE

The voice was too large for the small room. As it rose in pitch and intensity, the accent became more pronounced as if attempting to pervade the souls of those who listened. It was a voice that commanded obeisance; a voice that, to the casual observer, would seem to waiver precariously between histrionics and hysteria. To those present it was the voice of home.

We are here because we have no choice. Do not forget that. And do not forget that it is now, at the end of the struggle, when we are the most vulnerable. Be warned, my friends. Let the fire of your commitment guide you but do not let it blind you. Continue to watch and to listen. We were fortunate this time and the investigations will be terminated before they can harm us. There must not be a next time.

WEEK 1

BASEL, SWITZERLAND

Sunday, 8 October 2000

The decision made, Robert Merville relaxed and moved easily through the crowded airport. He looked neither left nor right and not once did he permit himself a glance behind.

He appeared calm and unconcerned as he went through the motions of one in imminent departure. Stopping to buy a newspaper, he chatted with the woman behind the counter, checked his ticket and waited for the corridor to fill.

A loudspeaker crackled and announced his flight. Moments later, he fell in among a group of weekend travelers loudly making their way toward the departure gate.

At 5:00 P.M. Swissair flight 6956 was cleared for takeoff to Cointrin Airport in Geneva. It landed at 5:53 without incident and without Robert Merville.

NEW YORK CITY

Monday, 9 October

David Hamilton loosened his tie as the last of the students left the lecture hall, her short hair gelled into spikes of purple and lime green. Nice ass but dumb as dryer lint.

The air in the room was heavy, hot and still. He swiveled his chair around toward the oversized clock on the back wall. Beneath it, a quotation from Berlioz had long been altered to reflect his current mood: ‘Time is a great teacher, but fortunately it kills all its pupils’. That no one had taken responsibility for the defacing was less telling than the fact that not a single student had commented on it, which was precisely the point.

And the faculty was even more obtuse. The moment at which his fellow educators had crossed the line from chronically boring to terminally dull was impossible to pinpoint, but it roughly coincided with a change in his musical taste from Bono to Samuel Barber. It was not merely their droning academic paranoia that provoked his antagonism, but the righteous indignation with which they executed it. Overkill. A sure sign that they were all in deep shit.

If a waning interest in the Humanities was common knowledge, the reverse was true of the reasons. Theories abounded daily but only one thing was certain: departmental cutbacks were probable, a situation which evoked the same degree of glee as a case of crabs in a sorority house. Bottom line, they didn’t get it.

He got it. The cyber generation had awakened to the fact that pre-Renaissance Philosophy and Ptolemaic history had little relevance in a world obsessed with outsourcing, corporate greed and all things mundane. Retrospection could no longer provide the precedents on which to build a future. There simply were no precedents for the new millennium. The world was in freefall.

As for him, he was tired of fighting for the intellectual souls of his students. If they preferred Beavis & Butthead to Beowulf, so be it. He could go with the flow. He supposed there were days when the rewards were sufficient for him to put his work in perspective, but they were getting fewer and farther between. At age forty-six, he was losing his battle with the law of diminishing returns.

He didn’t know how Martin did it. Surviving almost forty years of university life was one thing. That he had maintained his commitment and sense of humor bordered on sacrilege. Hamilton smiled, his first of the day. He could forgive his father-in-law almost anything, including his insistence on their Sunday night bacchanals of backgammon and brandy stingers. Not, they concluded one drunken evening, the worst way to end the week.

Ex-father-in-law, he reminded himself. Five years ago, Jennifer had skedaddled out of both their lives with just the clothes on her back and enough grievances to make several therapists salivate. But it was okay. Really. He was happy for her. She had a new life and a gazillionaire for a husband. He had Columbia. The Big C.

Hamilton popped two aspirin into his mouth, drained the last of his cold coffee and lobbed the styrofoam cup in the direction of the wastebasket.

A single dark figure grinned at him from the door. Man you ever think of going into another line of work?

Hourly. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out pedaling this prestigious paragon of profundity?

Later. Right now you’re buying me lunch.

Why?

Because after that I’m hightailin’ it to your old alma mata. Got me an audience with a whole messa white kids at Darien High School. Tim Hayes flashed a comic Al Jolson smile. Dey gonna love me ou’ deah.

Keep that up and they’ll lynch you out there.

It was one of their favorite haunts, a dark Second Avenue pub distinguished by its large Bloody Marys and absence of other Columbia staff.

After his first drink, Hamilton’s mood had mellowed. By the time his cheeseburger arrived, he was severely depressed.

My life sucks.

Hayes hailed a passing waitress. Check, please.

Hamilton waved her off.

It’s Monday, Dave. Your life sucks every Monday. By Friday, you’re a barrel of laughs.

I need to make some changes.

Good. You can start by dating someone older than your car.

She was almost thirty with a Ph.D. in Anthropology!

Dave, she was twenty-eight and she thought James Dean gave up his film career to work for Richard Nixon.

That’s exactly my point. We’re teaching them but we’re not educating them. Hamilton picked up a French fry. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re not really preparing these kids for the real world? This group in Darien, they think they’re going to get through college, land a cushy job with a big office and be set for life. It ain’t gonna happen. They’re going to work their asses off until their jobs are outsourced by some greedy prick with a larger office and wind up on Prozac by the time they’re fifty. Okay, some of them will tough it out through Med School or Law School and maybe, just maybe, they’ll wind up back in Fairfield County up to their eyeballs in debt.

Hayes had stopped eating. Remind me again why I hang out with you.

What are the alternatives? Academia? That’s another joke. We’re preparing our grad students for what? A marketplace of shrinking demand. Think about it. A majority of them will find themselves driving taxicabs or pursuing careers in food service while they wait for a teaching position. The lucky ones can look forward to alcoholism and depression, eventual tenure and death. Or retirement, then alcoholism, depression and death.

Yo Dave, you teach Literature not Sociology. I’m a counselor, not a crusader. We do the best we can. I come from a place that’s a little short on alternatives, remember? Education isn’t just one answer, it’s the only answer.

Hamilton sat back. I get the message. He jumped as his cellphone beeped, alerting him that he had missed a call. Ten minutes later the cellphone lay on the table between them like a plague culture.

Dave, this is silly. Go outside and call her back. It’s what, eight-thirty in Brussels? Hayes stirred his coffee and looked at his watch. How long since you’ve heard from her?

Four years maybe. Her quote social secretary unquote sent me a wedding invitation by mistake. Jennifer was calling to apologize for the faux pas. Actually, I think she was scared shitless I’d show up.

How’d she sound?

Frosty. But I think she’d already received my gift.

You sent them a wedding gift.

I did. A sterling silver butter dish from Bloomies. Set me back a couple of bucks. Hayes raised an eyebrow.

Plus another twenty or so for the butter.

Hamilton drove straight home. By the time he left the parking garage and walked the two blocks to his 86th Street apartment, panic had seized him.

Downing another three aspirins, he felt dizzy and grabbed the bathroom sink for support. When it passed, he lifted his head and studied the man opposite him with wary detachment. He was still more blond than gray. That was good. But there were definitely a few more frown lines and that was bad. Settling for a draw, he doused the light.

The rain that had begun as a light shower was coming down hard as he flopped on the sofa and reached for the phone. Minutes later, he replaced the receiver, his anxiety giving way to a mixture of relief and anger. Overexposure to alcohol and old emotions had taken their toll. He closed his eyes. Three hours later he awoke to an incessant ringing. He relaxed when he heard the voice.

Tim was on his cellphone. Just in case you’ve decided to take the gas and are preparing your list of bequests, kindly refrain from leaving me your Yanni CD collection. We ain’t that good of friends.

Red alert off. I tried her a couple of hours ago and she wasn’t home. Obviously she isn’t waiting breathlessly by the phone.

Dave, call Martin. Maybe he knows what this is about.

My guess is he doesn’t. Until I get through to her, I’m not ruining his evening too. The line went dead and Hamilton hung up.

For the first time in months, he sat back and surveyed the chrome and leather hell he called home. Newly and reluctantly freed from his matrimonial bonds, he’d replaced the charming vestiges of his ten-year marriage with what he deemed suitable for a sophisticated Professor-about-town. No one seemed to appreciate the fact that it had taken weeks of careful planning to turn their once comfy apartment into a DMV waiting room. That he’d resisted the notion of a lava lamp was a point in his favor. The same could not be said of the area rug, a tangled field of fur-like substance called flokati. The night he brought it home he’d dreamed of a warehouse somewhere in Bayonne where captured Yeti were being harvested for their pelts. To his regret, the intervening years had done little to enhance the overall effect, especially the steady infusion of Car & Driver magazines spilling forth from a teetering étagère. He’d actually broken two hard and fast rules on that one: never to take a date shopping and never to purchase something he couldn’t spell.

His eyes eventually came to rest on the desk and his manuscript, another joke. He’d started it in grad school but so far his sole claim to fame was for having the longest continuous case of writer’s block ever recorded. To date, the only people who had profited from his efforts were those writers who made a career of telling other writers how to write. Happily, there were parts of it he liked very much and still other parts that withstood two decades of changing mores. Less encouraging was that, as an action thriller, it lacked only thrills and action before its vaulted place in mainstream fiction could be ensured. On his way out of the room, he picked it up and dumped it in the trash can. Who was he kidding?

The phone rang as he stepped from the shower. Tempted to ignore it, he answered it on the third ring.

The male voice on the other end of the line, while heavily accented, came through loud and clear. Professor Hamilton?

This is David Hamilton.

I am sorry to disturb you, Professor, but we have been trying to contact you all day. I am calling on behalf of Madame Jennifer Merville. There has been an accident.

Hamilton felt his body sink to the sofa.

For a moment, he thought the connection had been broken, but the voice continued in a breathless rush. Forgive me, Professor, but it has been a long day. My name is Emil Bergmans. I am Jennifer’s physician. Let me assure you that she is quite all right. I felt it best to sedate her and she is sleeping now. I am taking the liberty of calling you myself as she appears to have no family here and very few friends. I understand you and she were once married. Obviously you are still… close?

Hamilton stiffened. Just tell me what’s happened.

This time the voice was hesitant. It is Monsieur Merville. Robert. He was killed in an automobile accident yesterday. I am afraid Jennifer is taking it quite hard.

The receiver slipped from his grasp, knocking over an ashtray and mug of day-old coffee. Hamilton swore and picked it up. What happened?

I regret the details are incomplete but it appears he may have fallen asleep while driving through Switzerland. His rental car was discovered in a ravine late last evening. I believe the accident occurred somewhere near Lac, uh, Lake Geneva. Again the doctor paused, There is more, I’m afraid. Identification was initially made through the rental company but we have just been informed that dental records have confirmed his identity.

I don’t understand.

He was quite badly burned, Professor.

Hamilton closed his eyes. Did anyone notify Jenny’s father?

Why, no. Jennifer gave strict instructions that he should not be contacted under any circumstances. I understand that he is an invalid. I am certain she feels the strain would be too much for him.

Between clenched teeth, Hamilton responded, Martin Lazarus is afflicted with what he terms a paralyzing inconvenience of the legs, Doctor. Fortunately, his faculties are in much better shape than mine. Tell Jenny I’ll be on the first flight out I can get.

He hung up the phone and stared at it. He needed a drink and sleep, both of which would have to wait. Absently, he picked up a pencil and began making a list: Airline. ATM. Martin. Damn.

Although the rain had stopped, the eighteen block walk had done little for him except delay the inevitable. His mind raced as he ascended the chipped marble steps of the once-elegant brownstone and used his key in the outer door. Moments later, he found himself in front of Martin’s apartment and, bolstering his fading courage, entered with a flourish of false bravado.

His raincoat thrown over his shoulders and brandishing a bottle of Courvoisier in front of him like a sword, Hamilton burlesqued his way down the hall to the study. Get the broads out, pal. I’m baaaaaaack!

Martin Lazarus eyed him over silver half-glasses and, after a deliberate pause, addressed the four students seated on the floor around his wheelchair, I believe some of you know Professor Hamilton.

Two of the students smiled, while the other two sat, mouths open, apparently unable to speak. Hamilton nodded a quick acknowledgement and turned in the direction of the kitchen. Several minutes later, hunched over a cup of instant coffee, he heard them leave. When he looked up, Martin was in the doorway.

Hamilton started to mouth an apology but Martin cut him off. I make it a rule never to insult someone who brings me expensive brandy. Two glasses, if you please.

Hamilton rose and retrieved two small snifters from the oak sideboard. I forgot it was a study night.

You look dreadful. Remind me to kick you out at a decent hour next week.

In spite of his best efforts, the words tumbled out. Robert’s dead. I got a call about an hour ago.

Martin continued to stare at him. And Jennifer?

Not good. They’ve got her sedated.

When are you leaving?

Strain my ass. Hamilton shook his head. How’d you know I was going?

Because she needs you.

The words contained not a hint of self-pity and Hamilton decided to make his pitch. Come with me. I’m on a flight at midnight and there’s still room.

No, my presence would only make things worse for her. I love my daughter and I know she loves me, but I am not what she needs right now. He paused and removed his glasses. What happened?

Hamilton lit a cigarette and tried to recall the sketchy details. Car accident in Switzerland. The police think he fell asleep at the wheel. He rose to leave. I’ll call you tomorrow when I get to Jenny’s.

The telephone rang and martin answered quickly. Too quickly. From the brief conversation, Hamilton deduced the caller to be one of many students to whom the name Martin Lazarus meant a passing grade in Philosophy. Hamilton sat back down and waited.

Forced into early retirement by a bungled back operation at fifty-nine, Martin Lazarus had faced his future without bitterness and had made the transition from walking to wheelchair in less time than it took the average person to adjust to contact lenses. At seventy-two, his arms and upper torso were toned and muscular, the result of daily workouts with weights. Although grey and balding, his face was unlined, piercing blue eyes clear as a child’s.

The author of numerous published articles on Modern Philosophy during his academic career, he had disdained the idea of tutoring following his retirement, hoping to channel his free time into academic letters. His resolve was short-lived. Three months to the day after Martin left Columbia, a third year student from NYU showed up at his door with a bottle of cheap brandy in one hand, a copy of Kant’s Critique of Judgement in the other and a solemn pledge to remain there until Martin helped him through it. The young man’s sincerity had prevailed. The end of the semester brought Tim Hayes a 3.0 and Martin Lazarus a steady stream of grateful students, to whom he was the light through the mire of Fichte, Hegel and Marx.

Neither charging nor accepting a penny for his time, he was never at a loss for someone to run an errand, cook a meal or wash a dish; and in spite of his constant protests, he was frequently the recipient of gifts, large and small, ridiculous and sublime.

Hamilton glanced at the open door of the pantry where dozens of unopened bottles of cheap brandy lined the shelves, symbolic gifts delivered every Wednesday night by a grateful former student. On the frequent occasions when it was suggested to the donor that he either cease the practice or upgrade the brand, Tim Hayes only smiled.

The phone call ended and Martin sighed. God forbid, if you ever really begin to believe that you are responsible for molding the minds of the young, quietly burn your tweeds and shoot yourself.

VEVEY, SWITZERLAND

Lying placidly along the eastern shore of Lac Leman, the town of Vevey, Switzerland, rests jewel-like beneath the Vaudois and Valaisan Alps. An ancient Roman settlement which later emerged as a busy commercial center, it boasts a cultural history as rich as its panorama. It is locked in time, having lost little of the past splendor which, for centuries, has drawn the wealthy and gifted to its gates. Flanked to the west and east by its more renown sister cities of Lausanne and Montreux, it was known simply as ‘Vevey-la-Jolie to the scores of early European businessmen who traded there. Beautiful Vevey. And so it remains today. Since the middle of the nineteenth century, the Hotel des Trois Couronnes has occupied a place of distinction in Vevey, both in terms of opulent hostelry and location. And like the town to which it is inexorably tied, continues to cater to the great and near-great with unparalleled…"

Vibeke Helmond snapped the booklet closed and threw a pouty look to Karl Davos as he emerged half-dressed from the bathroom. Must you leave so soon?

I have a phone call to make. Besides, it’s almost nine o’clock. The others will be arriving soon.

She drew the lace-edged sheet up over her breasts and moved further down into the oversized bed. You are really quite remarkable, for a Swiss that is.

Davos grinned. You know, Vibeke, one of your more endearing qualities is that you can make even the most innocent comment sound vulgar. My compliments.

The morning sun, intensified by its reflection on the water, filtered through the tall windows. Vibeke shielded her eyes and absorbed the old-world charm of the room. It’s a lovely hotel, Karl. Have you stayed here before?

Deep in his own preoccupations, he continued to dress. After a moment, he answered, Once.

Vibeke shrugged and closed her eyes against the glare.

Davos changed the subject. What time do you expect Oss?

Relieved that his accustomed brusqueness had returned, she answered quickly, His plane lands in Geneve at 11:30. She paused. He’s bringing James. Did you know?

Davos whirled around as if struck, anger coloring the deep tan of his face. No, I didn’t know. What on earth for?

The Executive Committee trusts him, Karl. Try to ignore him. You take him much too seriously.

Everyone takes him seriously. That’s the problem.

Everyone loves a little intrigue. He is very smart. He gives them what they want.

He turned back to the mirror, his movements jerky as he adjusted his tie. He is like an obnoxious character from an Oliver Stone film.

Enjoying his anger, Vibeke rose from the bed and walked slowly toward the bathroom.

Davos’s heavily-browed eyes followed appreciatively until her nude body was obscured by the door. Bitch.

Predictably, the Germans were the first to arrive, followed by the Dutch and the British. Equally predictable, the Venezuelan was the last. Assembling at the far end of the long, glass-enclosed veranda, the small group filled the room with an air of tense expectancy in sharp contrast to the tranquility of the magnificent landscape. To the few remaining guests enjoying the off-season comforts of the famous hotel, it seemed an odd consortium. But the wealthy do not pry, they merely speculate.

Karl Davos felt quite ill. Everything was going wrong. He needed time to think. Aware that he was expected to initiate the proceedings, he tried to keep his tone casual. Well, gentlemen, it appears Miss Helmond is detained. I’m sure she won’t mind if we precede her to the dining room for an aperitif before lunch.

Silently sipping their cocktails, each man regarded the menu with transparent concentration. Davos knew the signs well. They were relying on their practiced powers of insight and business acumen to see them through the afternoon. And they were worried.

Frederick Oss stood abruptly and the others followed suit. Simply fashioned in a one-piece dress of dark green, Vibeke stood in the doorway, her presence electrifying in the pristine whiteness around her. With a nod, she glided easily through the dining room, her five-foot-nine frame in perfect balance with the stiletto heels. She seemed unaware of the impact her entrance had made as she smoothed the chestnut chignon, its severity softened by a wisp of bangs fringing lively green eyes. Acknowledging and extending her hand to each of the men present, she sat down in the empty seat. An explanation for her tardiness neither expected nor offered, she glanced at the menu, put it aside and directed her attention to the portly man on her left. Sir William, it’s good to see you. I believe the last time was in London.

Sir William Longsdon smiled, his naturally pink cheeks deepening a shade. Quite correct, my dear. That Scottish situation, as I recall.

Davos blanched at the reference as Vibeke deftly maneuvered the conversation to safer ground.

On cue, Gregory Schoff cleared his throat and addressed Davos a bit too loudly. We have come a long way, Karl. What is this information you have for us?

Davos did not attempt to hide his distaste. Sipping slowly from a glass of Vichy, he took his time in responding. He was, in fact, saved the trouble.

Snapping closed the lid of a gold Cartier lighter, Frederick Oss spoke for the first time. You are right, Gregory, we have come a long way but I cannot see that another hour will hurt. Besides, there are other matters which can be disposed of since we are all together. Why do you not relax and enjoy your meal. There will be plenty of time for Karl to explain in perhaps a more discreet location.

Schoff lowered his deep German voice and pressed the point. Then I am afraid we are in disagreement already. Frederick. Time appears to be the one thing we do not have.

The words were spoken ominously and were difficult to dismiss. The salmon mousse and chilled Muscadet were served in an atmosphere of doom.

Striving to restore some semblance of unity, Davos lifted his glass. Gentlemen, Miss Helmond, to a successful afternoon. His hand trembled slightly as he returned the glass to the table.

Vibeke took a sip of her wine and spoke solicitously to the man across from her. Senor Guzman, I was sorry to hear of Senor Cedeno’s ill health. Is he feeling better?

Carlos Guzman matched his tone to hers. Luis Cedeno is a man of uncommon courage. I expect that he will be with us for another seventy-five years. Seizing the opportunity to hold the floor, he continued, I regret that time is a factor for me as well. I am scheduled to leave Geneva for Caracas later this evening. Senor Cedeno regrets that he could not attend this meeting personally but felt the eight-hour plane trip was prohibitive at this time.

Sir William slapped the table softly and emitted a low chuckle. All heads turned in his direction. You tell Luis that Willy says he’s getting old. We have known each other for forty years and I have never known him to miss a trip yet. Probably bullfighting season or whatever the hell it is they do down there.

The mood around the table lightened. Davos smiled. God bless Willy.

Ruffled by the intimacy of the byplay and at a loss as to how to respond, Guzman resumed the unconscious grooming of his goatee.

James Bruce, silent during most of the meal, watched the others closely, cataloging their strengths and weaknesses. What fools. His thoughts were distracted as he saw Oss, Davos and Vibeke in deep discussion at the far end of the table. Making a point, Vibeke’s hand