|
Paris ONE 
"Late again, Fraser?"
She glanced up at the clock behind the receptionist's desk. "Only four minutes, Eggie. Better than my average!"
Eddie Donahue waved her through, chuckling to himself.
Jerilyn Fraser had a peach of a job. Fresh out of college, in the diplomatic corps, and assigned to heaven on Earth: Paris. And all she had to do in order to achieve this miracle was have a Congresswoman for an aunt. Piece of cake!
"Hey, Jeri! Ready for another wild weekend?" Daniel Spangler threw a wad of paper at her.
She ducked under it easily. "Wild? Oh, really! What did you have in mind, Dan? Did you find another pair of mannequins dying to get stateside?" She turned into her cubicle.
"Better than that, my dear! A couple of swimsuit models for Sports Illustrated are visiting Paris and need escorts. And this is one embassy that aims to please! Spence, Tom, me and a couple of other guys are gonna show 'em the town."
Jeri poked her head out of her cubicle. "What? Are these babes so desperate they need a couple of embassy clerks! Geez, I'll bet they could do much better. What's the catch?" Her head disappeared.
She had slung her jacket over the back of the chair and sat before Daniel appeared in the doorway. "Actually, love of my life, one of the photographers owes me a favor and is setting us up." He punched her lightly on the shoulder. "Pretty good, don't you think? Want to tag along and hang with a name crowd?"
"Danny, Danny," she shook her head, smiling broadly, "it sounds like a setup to get you stranded somewhere after they have allowed you to be seen with them. I am sure they have many bigger and better parties to attend than what you could show them."
Danny shrugged. "I know, I know. We won't be with them for probably more than an hour or so, but just think of the dates we can get lined up because of it! Dude, we are talking some very serious coverage here. We," he bowed slightly, "will most likely be seen in the press with these lens hogs." He threw his arms up in the sign for 'touchdown'. "The paparazzi will make us famous! We will score so big time with all sorts of hotties calling us for weeks, months to come!"
Jeri tapped a pen on her desk. She had heard most of this shpiel before; usually he got loaded, embarrassed his friends, scared the girls away and made a pass at her. It seemed he was always getting her involved with these group outings because she kept refusing to go out on a date with him alone. Still, she had to hand it to him for perseverance. "Sounds like you're in for a good time, Dan. Though I think you are overrating the press coverage you're bound to get. More than likely you will be clipped out of the pictures and will go unmentioned. But, what the heck! It should be a lot of fun anyway."
"Right on!" Danny returned to his own desk, while Jeri began looking through this morning's memos.
It seemed to her that the work was piling up more and more, more each week. Probably because of the continuing wild weekends – this week she had not fully recovered until Wednesday. Maybe he ought to tell Dan to count her out. 'Nah!' she thought, 'maybe next weekend.' When would she get the chance to hang with this kind of crowd again?
Andrew Pettigrew stepped into Jeri's cubicle, hand on hips. "Fraser, there's a call asking for you on line three. For the last time, no more personal calls. Give your friends your cell number and leave our lines free. We are trying to run an embassy here!"
"Yes, Mister Pettigrew." Jeri directed a face at his departing back, her tongue sticking out. When he was out of ear-shot, she muttered, "'Trying to run an embassy here'. Oh, gosh, like I didn't know that." She stabbed the button on the phone wondering which one of her friends was trying to get her fired. "Jerilyn Fraser."
"Hello, is this the Jerilyn Fraser with the U.S. Embassy?" The voice was a hoarse whisper.
Which one of her idiot friends was this, she wondered. "Yes, it is, and is the Publishers' Clearinghouse Sweepstakes office calling?"
There was a short silence. "I am... I mean, I do not understand."
"Stinky, is this you?"
"I am afraid I do not understand what you mean."
Geez, she thought. The voice had not changed. Maybe it was not one of her friends! She very quickly became professional. "Yes, sir, this is Jerilyn Fraser. I assume you called the U.S. Embassy asking for me, so what may I help you with?"
"I understand you help people who have problems?"
Who could possibly be calling the Embassy and asking for her specifically without knowing what she did, she wondered. "Yes, sir. Americans traveling abroad can always contact their local embassy to get help in a number of..."
"My wife has been arrested."
Jerilyn leaned closer to the phone as if that would help. "Excuse me, sir, if you could speak up. Did you say your wife has been arrested?"
The voice continued in the same gravelly whisper. "Yes, she has been taken!"
"Ah, I see, and... uh... what might the problem have been? I am certain someone in legal could..."
"You help with problems, and I have a problem."
"Yes, sir, I can understand that. But first I need to know the nature of the arrest. What happened?" She pulled a pad of paper over and checked that the pen would write.
"My poor morning dove, my poor darling. Caged like some wild animal..."
The poor man, she thought. "Yes, sir, and the nature of the arrest?"
"It was horrible! She did nothing!" He seemed to struggle at composing himself. "She was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time."
She thought of how to re-word the request, her pen still hovering over the pad. "Perhaps, sir, we could start with your name?"
"Oh, yes, a thousand pardons! My name is Doctor Ahmad al-Salaam." He spelled it for her.
"Okay! And what is your wife's name?"
"Raihana, my sweet desert blossom."
"Thank you, Doctor Salaam. And why was your wife arrested? Tell me what happened."
There was a heavy sigh before the voice continued in the same tone as before. "She was visiting old friends, some we had not seen for years. She brought pictures of the family, news and stories. They were exchanging stories of these many years apart." Jerilyn wanted to break in, but bit her lip and let the old man tell it his own way. It might take too long to get him back on track. "And while they were visiting, a knock came on the door, the police entered and arrested them all, including my precious."
Jerilyn's eyes grew large. "Whew! And what was the charge? Why were they all arrested?"
A pause, and heavy sigh. "They were al-Qaeda."
"What was that?" Jeri tried to clear her head and leaned even closer in to the phone. "I couldn't quite catch what you said."
"They were al-Qaeda," the whisperer repeated.
She pulled the phone away from her head and stared at it in disbelief. Either one of her friends was taking a joke 'way too far, or she was somehow still dreaming. Her mind scanned back to the paper she read this morning. No story of any al-Qaeda cell being raided or arrested came to mind. This was too bizarre.
Standing on tiptoe, she surveyed the office to see if anyone was watching her for reaction to the joke, but it was business as usual everywhere but her cubicle. She quickly put the phone back to her ear. "Still there?"
"I am here."
Security! She was supposed to transfer sensitive calls to security... now where was that number? She flipped through papers looking for the number.
"Just one moment, sir."
"Jerilyn Fraser, I will speak to no one other than you."
She stopped looking. "Are you talking about the same al-Qaeda I am thinking about? World terrorism and all that?"
There was a pause. "Yes, I am ashamed to say. Yes."
Dumbfounded, Jeri was at a loss. "But why did you call me?"
"I was told you are one that helps people in trouble."
She stared at the phone again as if it would bite her. "I'm sorry, sir! I help American tourists who have lost their luggage or passport, or their travelers' checks, or even a simple thing as getting a traffic ticket or something, but I have no idea how to handle your problem. I mean, come on! Al-Qaeda! There is no procedure for this."
"You are used to handling problems. I am certain you can assist me."
"Assist you with what? Are you going to blow up the Eiffel Tower or something? I am not going to assist anything like that, you can bet on it!"
"No, this is not a terrorist call, not a threat, not a warning. I only seek help to get my wife out of jail."
"I can tell you this right now, I have no power to get any terrorist out of prison, and I really don't think I want to."
"But my wife, she is not a terrorist. The friends she was visiting were a cell of al-Qaeda, but she is no terrorist."
"And you are not a terrorist, just friends with them?"
She thought she heard sobbing on the phone. "May Allah forgive me, but I cannot continue at this. My precious is taken and I can no longer..."
She waited for the sobbing to pass. "You can no longer what?"
The other cleared his throat, but the voice was still the same. "I wish to leave Al-Qaeda and defect to America!"
Jeri was stunned and pinched herself again to see if she was dreaming. She was not, unless she dreamed the pain of the pinch. "Well, I, uh... Certainly! We would love that, but I do not think I would be the one you should talk to. There's..."
"No, it is settled. I wish to defect and place myself in your hands, Jerilyn Fraser. I feel I can trust you."
"Uh, thank you for the vote of confidence, but I really..."
"But there are arrangements to make, I am sure, are there not? Can I call you back in two hours?"
"Two hours? Well, I don't know what I can accomplish by then." Her mind raced. In two hours she could be at the train station and heading out of town on an early weekend. She sighed and pushed the pen against her notepad. "Why don't you give me your number and I will call you back as soon as I have something? That might be easier."
"I doubt it, my friend. The connections here in Baghdad are crazy at present. Best if call you back... Two hours."
The connection went dead. Baghdad?! What in heaven's name was going on?
She realized she was still hunched over the phone. Setting it down, she flopped backward in her chair and tried to think. A few years ago almost no one had heard of al-Qaeda. Today, that was changed entirely. It was a catch-word of horror, a tool for political change, and an agenda for the current administration. Probably used by parents to frighten their children into obedience rather than the time-worn 'boogey man'.
But why would they be calling her? She was a nobody with a monumental $37.00 in her checking account. Not the type of powerhouse player to race across Europe saving people, even if they were not al-Qaeda. Even a train ticket to Lyons was beyond her reach at the moment. How was she supposed to save this woman and take her to Baghdad?
Security! She sat upright again. She had been looking for the number a moment ago. They would know what to do about this. That was their job.TWO
She had not been in this area of the embassy since the orientation tour the day she started work. The Security Attaché’s office was adjacent to the Ambassador's, a man she had seen only once during her tenure and then only for a photo op as the great man headed out for some major affair; the entire staff had assembled to wave their support as he got in the limousine; then they were all shuffled back to work.
"Jerilyn Fraser?"
She looked up at the matronly receptionist. "The Colonel will see you now." She pointed at the door with a pen.
"Thank you." She opened the door and stepped inside, momentarily startled at the officer that sat behind the desk.
Colonel Scott Ogilvy looked up from some paperwork and closed the folder. Standing, he extended his hand. "Miss Fraser, pleased to meet you. Have a seat."
She took the chair indicated and sized up the officer. First off, he was a lot younger than she had assumed. Short hair with just a trace of gray at the temples, fit muscular, clear-eyed; probably the type who could see a lot in a single glance. Just her idea of what a spy should look like.
"What can I do for you today?"
"Well, sir, I..." She had to stop and clear her throat. "It's kind of hard to say, sir."
"Just start where you feel comfortable. So what is it? Interested in transferring to the security corps?"
Her jaw dropped. "Uh, no, sir, nothing like that. I just... Well, I just had a rather disturbing phone call."
"Okay," the Colonel leaned forward, elbows on desk. "Tell me all about it."
Jeri related the tale of the phone call, and was surprised to see the man's jaw drop.
"Al-Qaeda!? And he asked to talk to you? Hold on one sec." He picked up the phone. "Margie, give me communications please. Thank you." He covered the mouthpiece. "Hopefully this will clear things up a... Peter? Scott here. I have a question about a phone call that came in just after eight this morning. Yes. The party asked for a Geraldine Fraser…”
“That’s Jerilyn Fraser.”
He nodded to her. “Excuse me, Jerilyn Fraser in public relations. Yes, I'll hold." He looked at her. "This should take only a second. Yes, Pete, I'm here. Yes. Okay. Hmmm, that's odd, isn't it? Could you play back the tape? I'm going to put you on speaker." He punched a button and cradled the handset.
Jeri sat embarrassed listening to the start conversation again. Acting like the caller had been a friend of hers, she certainly made a fool of herself.
When the recording finished, the Colonel leaned forward. "Is something wrong with the quality of the recording, Pete, or was he attempting to disguise his voice?"
A momentary pause. "No, nothing at fault with the recording. Either he was intentionally altering it or there was a filter on the line at his end."
"Thanks, Pete." He glanced at his watch. "And Miss Fraser tells me there should be a return call in about an hour. Would you please route that call to this office? Yes, Miss Fraser will be here with me. Thanks again." He hung up the phone and looked intently at his young visitor.
Jerilyn felt a little uneasy but eased up when she noticed the Colonel was not actually frowning at her, but rather gazing right through her, pondering. She kept quiet. Hell, she could think of nothing intelligent to say anyway.
To avoid disturbing the Colonel's mental processes, she looked around the wood paneled office, noting the usual picture of the President, a couple of citations, a diploma in government from a university she could not make out, and several personal photos of the Colonel with some friends. No family portraits, however. And, she noted idly, nothing that would seem to be a wife or girlfriend. Maybe he was gay? What? A military man? She almost blushed at the thoughts she was having as the man continued staring through her.
Her thoughts wandered, wondering what it would be like to be the wife of a spy. How could any woman contend that type of life? Perhaps a girlfriend of a spy? Did she have what it took to be a spy herself? Her thoughts wandered. And why had the caller asked for her anyway? Imagine, a defector from the worldwide terrorist organization wanting to come out of the cold to Jerilyn Fraser. Heady stuff. Hey, and it might get more press than the swimsuit models. She knew her mind was rambling, but let the natural therapy take its course. She relaxed in the comfort of the plush leather seat.
Wait! Her fantasy of fame came to a screeching halt. This whole thing would probably be hush-hush! Damn! She will probably be unable to use it to impress anyone. She stewed over that for a minute.
"There are a couple of problems," the Colonel broke the silence, slamming her back into reality, "and I really can't see an answer. First, the only al-Qaeda arrests recently were made in Munich, and that was at 0200 hours this morning." He looked at his watch. "The word arrived here only about an hour and a half ago. Which means our friend claiming to be in Baghdad got the word sooner than we did."
"How do you figure that, sir?"
"He had to use some time figuring out what to do and then finding out the name of a person to contact at the embassy. That would have taken quite some time, I'd imagine, unless you have advertised your presence here in Iraq?"
Jerilyn shook her head, confused.
"Maybe in the want ads... maybe on a restroom wall or two: 'Need help? – call Jerilyn Fraser care of US Embassy, Paris'? Nothing like that, huh?"
She stared at the man, bewildered.
"Go ahead, you can laugh. It was a joke."
Jeri laughed, a little weakly.
The Colonel sat back in his chair. "You look a little tense. Why don't you step out to the break room for a snack or something, get some fresh air, stretch your legs. I have a few calls to make." He picked up the phone. "Be back in thirty minutes."
"Yes, sir." She got up and aimed for the door, walking uncertainly.
"Marge, get me Donnie on the phone, please."
As she walked down the carpeted hall she wondered at the ease with which the man expected his orders carried out. So confident, so cocky. What if she had refused?
Yeah, right! She was not the type.THREE
Karim al'Dureem was getting an ulcer. He knew it. And he knew the cause. ADI Construction was building a new secure structure in the Green Zone of Baghdad. He was foreman for the project and they had fallen behind schedule with all the problems of the sectarian brigades. That and continuing problems with faulty machinery.
As if on cue, the large hydraulic pump fell silent.
"Jarrar!" The foreman yelled in the silence.
But Jarrar was already running toward his toolbox. He grabbed it and paused to tug a coworkers sleeve. "Khaleed, come with me."
They ascended the rungs to the upper part of the machine and squatted before the control panel. Jarrar opened the toolbox while his puzzled assistant looked on. This was a one person task and his presence was not needed.
Jarrar pulled on the wrench to tighten the bolt and motioned to his companion with his head. He leaned closer to whisper, "What is the problem with Ahmad? He is acting strangely today." He indicated a figure slumped against the wall, staring at his hands.
Khaleed pulled back to stare at him. "Have you not heard the news? His wife has been arrested in Munich."
Jarrar looked over at Ahmad in disgust. "Is that the problem? I had heard about that already but what is the point in fretting about it? We have done what we can; now it is in Allah's hands. He should spend his time in prayer instead of this useless worry."
Khaleed nodded. "I know, but you will recall he is a newlywed. And I believe in truth that he has not fully recovered from his father's death in Afghanistan last year. I mentioned as much before the wedding – told him it might be too soon for him."
"Perhaps." Jarrar stroked his short beard. "Times are hard on all of us, but we must remain strong in our faith to Allah. His anxiety will appear as a loss of faith and may result in some precipitous action. And it may cause him to do something foolish as well. His anxiety may get him fired! We cannot afford any such distractions."
"Yes, Jarrar." Khaleed considered a moment. "I will set someone to watch over him. Then, should he take some wrongful course because of his worries we should be able to stop it before irreparable harm is done."
"Good." He looked back at the unmoving figure against the wall. "And I do not think you need fear being spotted following him either. He is so distracted that he did not even notice when I greeted him this morning." He thought a moment. "Is there someone who is very close to him, someone he might confide in?"
"Niyaz, I believe, is the closest friend to him."
"Good. Then speak to Niyaz and have him suggest to his friend to put his attention on what is important. It will help take his mind off these problems he can do nothing about as well as getting his work done. Let Allah do His will!"
"Jarrar?" The foreman called up impatiently. "Has the problem been corrected?"
"Yes," Jarrar yelled down. "I think the problem has been corrected."
"Then get yourselves down from there and let's get back to work." He looked down at his clipboard, the vital tool of the managerial class the world around.
Jarrar spat. "Both problems corrected." He turned back to Khaleed as he closed his toolbox. "Get back to me later and let me know what is being done. I better go and get him off that wall before the foreman does."
His look was one of disgust as he descended the ladder.FOUR
The break room was deserted and was exactly what Jerilyn needed at this moment. Too much was happening for her taste, and far too quickly.
She looked over the assortment in the vending machines though she was not particularly hungry. 'Three Musketeers', she mused, what a perfect candy bar to import to France. How she wished she felt more like D'Artagnan, more heroic or something. But heroic was not what she felt and swashbuckling adventure and tilting at windmills was certainly not what she had in mind when she came here. Windmills. . . wait, Don Quixote was from Spain, she reminded herself, not France. She slumped into one of the hard plastic and chrome chairs used universally in break rooms and leaned her elbows on the round plastic and chrome table.
Paris was supposed to be a quiet place, at least when the students were not protesting something. She had dreamed that here she would be sitting at a sidewalk cafe most mornings, strolling along the Seine, watching the artists along the Left Bank; in general having the time of her life. And that life would be at a very slow pace.
However, the price of getting here was the job at the embassy, and it did not afford her the free lifestyle she foresaw in Paris. But that could not be helped. At least she had the weekends to enjoy the local atmosphere – even when in the tow of Danny and his crowd, always seeking out the hiding places of the rich and famous. The jet-setting crowd was big in Paris, though most preferred the more exclusive sites on the Mediterranean Coast far to the south.
France had more Muslims than any other country in Europe, but that section of the populace was assimilated into the general culture so much to pass almost unnoticed. She had been certain there could be no unrest in that quarter to mar her 'visit' to the marvelous capital of the French.
And then here comes a phone call from Baghdad, of all places, about some arrests made in Germany, of all places, and it has to interrupt the quest for the perfectly serene lifestyle that should have been hers, of all people.
She was despondent, but knew that perhaps some good could come from this event – though no clue came to her in this dark and dismal moment. How can you turn an international crisis into something that could be good for her personally? Politicians did it all the time, so there must be some sort of trick to it. But the newspapers will probably never get a whiff of this, she reasoned, and there would be no life of leisure for her to claim as reward for this episode. Just another job well done by your friendly State Department Embassy Staff. Although there might be a star in the front lobby – without her name of course – just like they had for fallen officers at the CIA headquarters in Langley.
She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, the metal legs of the chair scraping annoyingly against the floor as if accusing her of wearing down the felt pads on the swivel feet. She massaged her temples – oh, God! now a headache! – and went to the coffee pot sitting on its warming plate. She raised the carafe to her nose and sniffed. Not too burned, she pronounced judgment, and herself poured a cup. She sat again – moving the chair more carefully this time to avoid the tormented cry – and stuck her nose in the cup, breathing deeply as though to absorb the caffeine more quickly through her lungs.
Maybe this will all blow over quickly and not even leave a scar. As unfamiliar as she was with international politics, she could only hope for the best.
Somehow, she knew that was a futile dream.FIVE
"The Colonel's expecting you, Miss Fraser." Marge spoke as soon as she returned to the security office and indicated she should go on in.
"Jerilyn!" Still on the phone, the Colonel gestured for her to resume her chair.
"Thanks, Max, I'll be in touch."
The Colonel cradled the phone and rubbed his temples. "Well! Very interesting situation here, Fraser. It seems the raid in Munich rounded up two women and four men at an al-Qaeda safe-house. One of these women must be the wife your friend is looking to get released."
"Apparently so, but why call Paris? Isn't there a consulate in Munich?"
"Yes, exactly so." The Colonel steepled his fingers and rubbed to tip of his nose, thinking, looking at the papers in front of him. "Unfortunately, there seems to be evidence of a leak in the security there."
"A leak? So that would mean..." Her mind raced. "What? I don't get it. He already knows she's captive, why would that make a difference?"
"If al-Qaeda can get the word so quickly," he lowered his hands, still clasped, to the desk, "how long do you think he would live if they heard she was being released to assist his defection?" He drummed his fingers on the desk. "So, we will have to come up with some way to secure her release without tipping off her friends through the same leak. And we are already on thin ice as far as the Germans are concerned."
Her puzzlement was obvious. "And why is that? Aren't we allies?"
He sighed and shrugged helplessly. "Yes, we are allies, but some earlier 'borrowing' of their captives resulted in… well, let's just say their treatment was not completely in accord with international standards. It would seem that some of my colleagues took the attack on the World Trade Center a bit personally and thought nothing of inflicting a little pain on those they considered accomplices. A patriotic stance but not completely in accord with the guidelines of professionalism." He shrugged.
"So I seriously doubt they will release them to us without constant supervision. And if we are to spirit the woman away," he gestured with a hand, "we'll have to find a way to get her out from under their noses without anyone getting the wiser, especially the al-Qaeda mole."
"Oh, I see." Jeri's mind did not work in this convoluted fashion. Years of watching political thrillers out of Hollywood did not prepare her for the reality. She should have taken notes! And now she was going to have to start re-thinking the situation and with completely insufficient training or tools.
"As far as the good Doctor is concerned, we have some intel on him and his association with al-Qaeda, although our sources indicated he died in the earlier incursion into Afghanistan after the Taliban fell." He looked through his notes. "We do not have any information about a wife nor do we know which captured woman she is, but photos of both are being sent from Munich. Perhaps a description from him will help complete the identification."
Jeri looked shocked. "Won't that tell the people in Munich that we are interested?"
"Actually, the pictures of all six people are being sent to all U.S. embassies as well as police and news organizations – fairly standard procedure – so there should be no suspicions raised."
"Good." She relaxed. Her earlier excitement about being involved in this situation was turning into fear. Something about the thought of a long-range rifle being aimed at her head seemed to chill her blood.
A machine on the corner table clicked into life. "That should be them arriving now." The Colonel got up.
At that moment, Marge's voice came over the intercom, "Call for Miss Fraser." And the phone rang. Jeri looked nervously at the colonel, who indicated she should pick it up.
She held the phone tentatively. "Hello?"
The same voice from before. "Jerilyn Fraser?"
"Yes. I mean, I am... speaking."
"Good. Have you made the preparations?"
"Well, uh, some. But it seems there were a couple of women arrested last night..."
"That is right."
Her voice was suddenly petulant. "Why didn't you say where the arrests occurred? I thought they happened in Paris. I thought you were in Paris."
A short pause. "Pardon an old man's agitation. These details did not occur to me."
'Details' he called it! Her frustration level began to rise again. "So she was captured in Munich?"
"That is correct."
"Then why did you call me, here, in Paris?"
Another pause, this time accompanied by a sigh. "I could think of no other safe haven as close. It is difficult enough for me to get a phone call out of Baghdad to begin with and certain places are... well, what you would call unsecure."
"So how am I supposed to get her out of jail in Munich and bring her here?"
"My mind cannot see or know the complications of such an endeavor. But I am sure you can find some way to accomplish the task. But she cannot be brought to you. She needs to be brought to me."
"In Baghdad? I can't get to Baghdad! I'm just a clerk here! I don't have those kinds of flight privileges."
"You at least are free. You can move freely where you wish. I am watched, although not continuously, but so much so that a trip to Paris is out of the question." Another pause. "You will have to bring her here, for only she can identify me. When I am reunited with her I will defect into your protection."
Jeri looked at the phone in disbelief. The Colonel was bent over the fax machine in the corner and offered her no assistance, if he was even listening to her. "I can't do that. I can't get to Baghdad and I would have to have an army with me to protect you and your wife. And me! This is crazy!" She stared at the Colonel, who had returned from the corner with the photos and set them before her with a wink. She glared in return but he seemed not to notice.
The whispered voice continued. “I am certain you can do something for me.”
“Well, okay. Although I think your faith in me is a bit overrated." She exhaled a deep sigh of resignation. "First I need to know which of the women your wife is. Can you describe her to me?” She arranged the two photos before her. Both were twentyish, one a rather young looking woman in fear, the other a more mature young woman looking defiantly at the camera.
“The one thing that would stand out about her is a small birthmark on her left cheek just below her eye.”
Jeri pointed to the correct photo, the one of the defiant woman. The Colonel took the photo and went back to the corner to use his cell phone.
“That should help with the correct identification.”
“Very good, very good.” He made a small choking noise. “I am so upset by this event. I am so unhappy to have her be put in danger because of what I do. I hope we can get her free very quickly. Do you think?”
She glared again at the Colonel, who was intent on his own conversation. I'm completely out of my comfort zone, she thought, and this jerk isn't doing a damned thing to help me! There was nothing to do but keep him talking, she thought.
“I will have to check on several things, but I think we might be able to do something for you, and her. But I will need a little more time before I can know anything for sure. I am going to have to get in touch with some people who might be able to help.”
“Of course, I understand. But you will, of course, be circumspect in who you contact about this matter. It could get deadly for my wife and I.” He paused, then continued with a sense of urgency. “And I must be leaving off the phone for now. I will call back in a little while.”
“When?” she asked.
He hissed impatiently, “I do not know! Soon!” And the line went dead.
She was trembling a little as she hung up the phone. The Colonel could have given her a little more assistance with this. This was so far over her pay grade – and training – that she felt her distress level rising. Improvisation had never been her strong suit, and acting in general was not something for which she had ever voluntarily submitted herself, even when in school. Add to that the stress of this life-and-death intrigue and she was confused beyond all hope of rational thought. She turned as he finished his own conversation.
“Well, I had communications run a trace on the call. It bounced between quite a few routing junctions, but did apparently originate from Baghdad. So, now we know which one she is but we still have to figure out a method for obtaining her release without tipping off whoever is Al-Qaeda’s leak in Munich.” He returned to his desk and sat down. "And I do not think we have the time to try and find the leak at present. Apparently, the Germans have already been at it for some time now without success. So we will have to continue carefully and be circumspect."
“So what can we do?” she asked, wondering how she had ever been so unfortunate to get caught up in this mess. “How do we get her out?”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “Once again, I think I will have to call a few people and brainstorm a viable solution. But I am pretty sure we are going to have to move pretty quick on whatever solution we arrive at.” He looked at her. “I think you can probably return to your duties until he calls back. And if you have any appointments for today or tomorrow, I would cancel them if I were you.”
“And why is that?”
“When the arrangements are ready, I am sure you will have to travel with the package to Baghdad.”
Her mouth fell open. "You mean I have to go too?"
"Of course. Since the man seems to trust only you, you'll have to go with us to get the wife – I would much rather use a female to handle the woman anyway – and then continue to Baghdad to effect their reunion."
Stunned like sustaining a physical blow to the head, she left the room thinking: How can I return to my duties with this hanging over my head? |
If you have questions or comments, please let me know:
martywilkerson (at) verbotham (dot) com.