The Camel's Curse by Eli Dahle

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Kennedy International Airport, Queens, NY

April 9, 9:30 a.m. EST

Tim boarded the blue and gray Boeing 777 and reclined his seat, declining the champagne offered him by the young flight attendant dressed in a dowdy blue polyester uniform that failed to entirely mask her beauty.  With an inner slap, Tim restrained himself from gaping; less than two hours since he’d left home and his eyes were already straying.

Paradoxically, though Tim was scared of heights, he didn’t mind flying so long as he didn’t look out the window.  Phobias were strange that way in his experience, only partially following the rules of logic.  Business class offered WiFi so he passed his time on the nine-hour flight researching Doug’s career, plowing through the details he had always studiously avoided, mostly short articles in the business press tracking his career, from hotshot twenty-something New York investor to his forays abroad.  He scanned headlines ranging from U.S. Investor Corners Palladium Market in Aggressive Deal to Evans Founds BRIC Fund Backed by Prominent Investors.   As he stifled a yawn, he began to feel a little better about the trip – this was boring stuff; hell if Doug would make him feel inferior.

Upon further digging he uncovered several troubling hints, including an article in Business Journal Europe entitled An Investment Gets Trapped between Kremlin and Oligarch alleging that Doug had angered powerful interests with his aggressive tactics and outspoken comments on corruption.  He caught himself smiling as he read an article in the Financial Times with the heading New Case for Tax Evasion Launched, something about a claim against a company Doug owned.  Tim guiltily tried to suppress his growing elation.  He knew he shouldn’t gloat over Doug’s problems, but he couldn’t help it.   On the other hand, he realized that, if these were the problems Doug needed help with, he might actually be able to help.  This was what he did after all; part image maker, part spinmeister, part fixer, part strategist. 

Tim’s mind wandered to his comparatively boring life; no need for a crisis manager there.  Good wife, happy life, more or less.  Ok, maybe a bit uneventful but he couldn’t, or shouldn’t, complain.  A steady job that paid well, a nice apartment in Brooklyn with a low-interest mortgage, sex on Saturdays.  He knew he wasn’t the easiest person to have around, with his neuroses and phobias.  But his wife loved him, understood him, accepted him, even calmed him.  

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection on his laptop screen.  Not GQ material, but not bad for 43.  At least he wasn’t bald and fat.  A little gaunt, if anything, he thought as he took a bite of dry chicken smothered in a white, gelatinous sauce.  His mind drifted to the one dark cloud in his life, an absence more than a presence.  Images filled his head: an empty bedroom stacked with boxes, Katrina crying silently in the kitchen when she thought he couldn’t hear, countless trips to the doctor for the latest treatments.  He knew that Katrina, in her deepest, innermost thoughts, blamed him.  For a long time he had not wanted kids, he was happy with his life, didn’t like change and couldn’t overcome the hurdle of his own nervousness.  By the time Katrina had convinced him and they began to try in earnest she was past her peak childbearing years, although at 37, was still young by American standards. 

It’s not too late, he thought to himself as he drifted into a fretful sleep.