Blood-stained Olympic Silver Coin
The silver dollar coin dropped from the hand behind the plaid sports coat in front of him into Jonas’s hand upon the touch of skin to skin. Jonas couldn’t stare, not at the coin or at anyone nearby. The chilly cold metal sensation, first upon his fingertips and then centered on his palm, had to be his trusting omen. He swallowed a peppermint remnant, savoring its lingering taste.
Multitudes representing the late afternoon crowd inside Chicago’s Union Station surged toward the commuter train tracks. The coin transfer planned and timed to be undetectable. A uniformed police officer tapped a chest-high open palm with a nightstick and gazed off into the departing humanity.
Jonas slipped his right hand into his own blue suit jacket pocket. His hand removed empty with a delayed upturned glance that failed to locate the brown plaid sports coat.
He pivoted on his right heel, awkwardly colliding with a woman whose briefcase struck his groin. He winced.
Before Sept. 11’s terrorism, he could’ve easily proceeded to the next step at a Union Station storage locker. Now they’d been removed by Homeland Security regulations. He pursed his lips and muttered a bland "sorry" apology to the woman, tossed back his shoulders, and rushed outside to hail a cab.
The main post office still sported rental delivery boxes. Upon arrival, his eyes gazed at the post office corridor extending in both directions unable to determine which way to turn. Deciding left, he fortunately determined after two tentative strides that the box numbers decreased. At box numbered 435 an inserted key protruded from its lock. Luck prevailed.
Jonas’s thumb and forefinger twisted the key left, then right. The door sprung open. A letter tilted against the box’s vertical interior. Jonas glanced in all directions. The gray-haired old lady near the entrance door with the tubular wheeled bag carrier didn’t threaten or distract him. At his internal count of five the woman wobbled in the opposite direction.
Clatter on the tiled floor halted his arm in mid-air. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs as two teenagers, one in flip-flops, raced past and disappeared at the corridor’s end.
His stomach-knotting panic had been that he wouldn’t be able to retrieve the promised envelope. Now that wouldn’t happen. His hand reached into his suit coat pocket.
Tilting his head down, his eyes beheld the silver coin with the word “Munich” cupped in both hands. Thirty-eight years ago the 1972 Olympics had been scheduled in Munich, Germany. The attack on Israeli athletes then dominated the world news.
Lost in the turmoil had been the controversy regarding the official Olympic coin. Theretofore, it had been issued bearing the name of the host country. This 1972 coin had the city name, not the host country. The oversight had been promptly rectified, but not before thousands of Munich coins had been put into circulation. Attempts to recall unsuccessful.
Jonas the previous month had linked to and downloaded an Internet advertisement for rare Olympic coins. In 1983 he’d inherited a 1968 Olympic coin from the Mexico summer games. In later years he’d purchased additional official Olympic coins. It had been relatively easy with reasonable expenditure to obtain 1972 coins imprinted with ‘Germany.’
A coin dealer acquaintance explained to Jonas that for his collection to be complete he needed the four coin set issued with the ‘Munich’ inscription. The dealer emphasized the coins, if available, would come at a high premium above both face value and the silver metal content, however, their presence in Jonas’s collection would quadruple the collection’s resale value.
Jonas reached for the envelope. He ripped open the seal.
One lined paper sheet had been folded in half, twice.
The envelope fluttered to the floor. Jonas made no attempt to retrieve it.
He unfolded the paper.
The words were few: “Jonas, I’m safe. I’m told Rebecca is too. Please do as told.”
Jonas shuttered; his skin trembled from head to toe. He was to have been given instruction on where to pick up his wife and daughter. Told where to deliver the money required in addition to his prior $5,000 deposit and receive the remaining three 1972 silver Olympic coins.
Last weekend the husky voice on the telephone had explained the transaction couldn’t be exposed to alert governmental authorities that would confiscate the coins and melt them down.
Jonas unholstered his cell phone. Speed dial button #3 rang his home. No answer. If Danielle wasn’t home, who’d disconnected the answering machine?
“You trying to call me?” Blond bouffant hair framed high-cheek bones and hazy blue eyes above the thin lips through which passed the words Jonas heard.
Jonas hadn’t seen or detected the woman’s approach. Her crow’s feet and weathered skin belied the youth illusion attempted-to-be-portrayed by the black-and-white skintight patterned blouse and black-mini dress that clashed with multi-colored designer sneakers.
“No.” The dark blue business suit camouflaged the budding paunch that had crept up in his late thirties. Clean-shaven cheeks, no fluffy hair tickling the ears, and manicured fingernails capping unmarred smooth-skinned fingers announced his sales profession, at least that’s the image perception he tried to project.
Jonas tried to maintain his focus on the woman’s face. “I’m sorry. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“You’re Jonas Oswald, right?”
“How’d you know my name?” Jonas rocked his torso backward. “We’ve never met.”
“I’ve rented box 435.”
To Jonas that didn’t make sense. Anyone with money and a valid ID could rent a post office box. He hadn’t opened the wrong box, of that he was positive. The letter confirmed.
“Don’t play games. You want to kiss your wife and daughter ... alive?”
End, Part One. To be continued....
Copyright Donan Berg 2010
Author of novels A Body To Bones, Adolph's Gold, Baby Bones,Abbey Burning Love and
The Bones Dance Foxtrot
Copyright DOTDON Books 2010
