The Jaspers Issue Chapter Two

“The Peoples Liberation Committee will no longer ensure your safety in Qashar, Mr. Brennicker. We suggest you leave our country immediately.”
Hasan Ghalib was a gentle and reasonable man despite being a soldier in a dissident political faction fighting to gain control of his country. He didn’t enjoy telling Brennicker to leave. Personally he liked him, even respected the chances he took with his life, but business was business and risky business at that.
Qashar, smallest of the oil-rich middle-eastern countries could ill afford to antagonize any Western power. The fact, if discovered, that an ex-United States weapons specialist was on the PLC’s payroll would not be swallowed easily. Besides, if Qashari officials found Brennicker, the PLC’s plot to unseat the ruling government would be discovered. Despite their budding friendship, Brennicker had to go.
Hasan searched Brennicker’s face for signs of resistance. He needn’t have bothered. Brennicker was far more concerned with fanning flies and maintaining the immaculate whiteness of his linen suit than with what Hasan was telling him.
William J. Brennicker was 58 years old. Too old he often told himself, to live a nomadic life offering his weapons expertise to the highest bidder. Most often he settled in with groups like the PLC. To his way of thinking, a person of his stature should be overseeing the fruits of nuclear technology, not dealing with petty crooks seeking to prove their manhood.
Leave the country immediately he silently mimicked. The very idea of being used then discarded yet again really irked him. For now though, there was no other alternative. Like it or not, this was his life.
Brennicker looked around the PLC’s small office. The conscious order impressed him. He blamed his mother for his fanaticism with cleanliness. Two desks in the room occupied adjacent corners. Miscellaneous office supplies were neatly arranged on top. Beside each desk stood a dark, wooden stool, one of which was offered to Brennicker upon entering. Not one to prolong good-byes, he had declined. Except for the flies, damn annoying little creatures, Brennicker thought the mercenaries kept house fairly well.
The rays of the afternoon sun shined through a mud-stained window and caught Brennicker’s form. He felt like wax ready to melt at any moment, yet he refused to loosen his tie or budge from his straight-back, feet-together posture. His throat was dry. As if reading his mind, a woman wrapped head to toe in flowing black fabric, quietly entered the room carrying a pitcher of water and two plastic glasses. She placed the items on Hasan’s desk and left the room having never made eye contact with either man. Brennicker watched beads of water trickle down the side of the pitcher and swallowed hard.
“Dr. Brennicker, do you understand what I’m saying?” Hasan asked.
“I believe you are kicking me out of your country,” Brennicker finally responded.
“Nothing personal,” Hasan said, “but we have to consider…”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Brennicker interrupted. “I’ve been in this situation far too many times not to know what you are telling me. Just give me the balance of my money and I will be merrily on my way out of your dreary little country.”
Hasan reached inside his desk drawer and pulled out a manila envelope chock full of American money. He placed the bulge into Brennicker’s waiting hand.
“You’re welcome to count it,” he said.
“No need,” said Brennicker as he stuffed the package inside the jacket pocket. “I’m sure it’s all here. Your benefactors could have easily afforded to pay my modest fee several times over.”
“You know,” said Hasan, remembering that he was a soldier, “there are many who don’t think you should leave Qashar alive.”
Brennicker knew he was right. Some local ace might try to gain the attention of PLC leaders by taking matters into their own hands, and since Brennicker was the matter at hand…
“Tell your associates that as far as William Brennicker is concerned, any knowledge he had of the People’s Liberation Committee and its affairs is dead. I will be gone before the sun rises again in the East.”
“Good-bye then,” said Hasan.
“You are a fine soldier Hasan Ghalib,” Brennicker replied. “I no doubt will be reading about you someday.”
If conditions continued to ripen, the PLC would attempt a coup in no less than a year. For Hasan, it meant the chance at a high governmental post. He had proven his loyalty to the organization early on by among other things, leading the group to the contact that led them to Brennicker.
Brennicker turned and walked out of the office. He had made it a practice to never look back or get emotionally involved. He learned that from fifteen years on the run for his life. Hasan had made it difficult for him though. Young, spirited, and naïve, he reminded Brennicker of himself at the beginning of his career. He pitied him though. Hasan was shortsighted if he thought that a handful of misfits could unseat a government rooted in hundreds of years of religious dominance. Even with all that Brennicker had done for them in terms of weapons and intelligence, the PLC was way out of its league. The Qashari government would crush them most assuredly.
Coup or not, Brennicker had more important things to worry about. In his own way Hasan was telling him that the situation was far more serious than either of them had anticipated. Brennicker would not return to the six-room, one-story building that called itself the Annisa Hotel and pick-up what little clothing he had in his room. Fifteen years of this lifestyle told him to go directly to the airport and leave Qashar as warned.
In the near distance Brennicker could hear the Islamic call-to-prayer. Five times a day the same phrases were half-chanted, partly sung, telling the Muslim faithful it was time to get on their knees again. Under different circumstances, the melodic, rhythmical recitation might have been soothing, but Brennicker hoped today it would keep interested parties busy long enough for him to move on.
Not wishing to risk any contact with the natives, as Brennicker called them, he walked the mile to the airport. There was no sense making a fuss about the small whirlwinds of red dust that swirled up as he quickened his pace. A new uniform… white suit, white shirt and black tie, could be had at his next stop.
William J. Brennicker never went anywhere without his passport and his money. It mattered little that some deviant mole might rob him of both. Without either, he was a dead man anyway. Hasan had seen to his money. His passport, his umbilical cord to life, was safe in his jacket pocket next to his money.
He scanned the dark, cavernous main hall of Qashar International airport. The air was heavy with the odors of musk and sweat. This he decided, would not make his top ten list of favorite airports. Satisfied that there were no interested parties in the vicinity, Brennicker made his way to the Air France counter. A group of twenty American tourists were checking in ahead of him. Their loud, obnoxious behavior was clearly taxing the patience of the young French attendant whose English was more broken than was the Americans’ French.
Spoiled brats, Brennicker thought. Although he dearly missed the good, old USA he didn’t miss the arrogance that Americans carried with them, especially when they traveled abroad. By the time Brennicker reached the ticket counter, the nice but overwhelmed young French woman had been replaced with a stern and seasoned; meaning used to dealing with Americans, Frenchman. The last flight out to Lucerne, Switzerland would leave in two hours. Having completed that business, Brennicker made a beeline for the washroom to relieve himself of the red ash that dusted his face and hands.

The man who stared back at him in the faded men’s room mirror looked older and more road weary than he remembered. The only redeeming feature he saw was his hair, still as thick, though now white, as it had been at the age of twenty. His hair however, could not make up for the rest of what he saw, wrinkles. They were everywhere; on his forehead, under his eyes, around his mouth. He frowned. He smiled. They didn’t move. For the second time that day, William Brennicker felt the weight of his age and lifestyle. He was nearing the end of his life. He was tired. He wanted to go home.