

# THE PRACTICAL SPY

##

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

Someone had inflicted a large, vertical scar on the right side of his face, from his forehead to the bottom of his chin. He wore a black patch over the scrambled flesh where his eye had been. Previously he had prized his anonymity. Now, one glance and no one could forget him. It had changed his life.

His name, Orson Platt. His parents had named him after Orson Welles. In retrospect, Welles was a tragic figure who failed to realize his full potential. But Platt's parents had admired Welles for his considerable talent and charm.

For us he is Platt, or Orson. Forget Welles. At the time of this story he was just under forty. His background included prep school, Dartmouth, Army, special forces, CIA, black opts, photographic memory, many acquaintances, rich family, never married, widely read, many feared him. Could a CV be more perfect?

Through his adult life he had remained busy reading, making mental notes, consulting with the high and mighty in various countries, keeping his hand in, ferreting out the difficult to ferret out. "Ask Orson" had become a stock response. In return, he might ask a favor. He had been something of a romantic, but now felt self-conscious about his appearance. He believed the average person might be repelled by him.

Thus armed, with a life-change, midlife crisis, whatever, he sought out his Delilah. Delilah Simpson to be exact. Her parents had also been playful, their surname almost Sampson. But that's fairly obvious.

She had been a brilliant, liberal, TV personality, a stately, handsome woman with some athletic ability. Also rich. Published a couple of books on social issues. Married briefly to a well-known womanizer who threw her over. Had an affair with a female intern. Bisexual. A student of politics and political figures.

Poor Delilah. She was the victim of a car bomb, perhaps planted by an anti-abortion or gun-crazy sort. That kind of lot. She didn't really care who bombed the car, so many crazies out there. Politics – so much greed in the world, so many seek money, then power, then absolute power, no less.

She lost the lower part of an arm, one side of her face was twisted and disfigured, scalp partially burnt, deprived of a patch of hair. Quite a sight, but she had both eyes. At the time of Orson's first visit, she was in her sixth month of recovery.

She later recalled that his first words to her were, "I have come to court the fair maiden."

Her reply, "You've made a terrible mistake," followed by, "You'd make a splendid German general if you shaved your head. Is that the mark of Heidelberg?"

"A machete-like weapon wielded by a deceased ill-tempered gentleman."

She made what passed for a smile on her disfigured face. "You might try plastic surgery, then a glass eye," she suggested.

"Dear lady, I have had plastic surgery. This is the best they can do. There is no eye socket, thus no place for an eye. The gentlest I can be toward the rest of the world is to keep that bit of twisted flesh concealed."

"Good point. What do you think of my appearance so far?" she questioned.

"About what I expected. I've spoken with your doctor. He's brought me up to speed on your condition."

"Those things are confidential."

Orson smiled. "Of course. I have certain patterns. I try not to be devious, but I'm of a certain nature."

"I see." She seemed to understand his non-explanation.

"Of course I'm interested in you totally, but your reproductive system especially caught my attention."

"It's still there, believe it or not."

"That was of interest to me. When married I hope for a child."

"Just one?"

"One for me. One or more for you if you like. But one will do for me, the first born."

She had caught on by this time. He was serious about courtship. She attempted another smile, but knew it must look disastrous. "If I make this grimace," she explained, "it might pass for a smile."

"I understand."

"And you do understand quite a bit, being seemingly serious about two disfigured individuals uniting in wedlock, then sharing a nuptial bed. It seems not only bizarre, but also with gruesome characteristics. How might I test your sincerity?"

"The handsome young man-about-town, the two of you were united briefly in marriage. I understand he was the architect of your break up."

"He threw me over."

"I can have him killed. Would that speak to you?"

"I don't really hate anyone. Certainly not enough to set a capital crime in motion. But here we are, we two, we disfigured two, we happy two. Perhaps he could join us in our disabilities and disfigurement. I am beginning to have interesting vibes, maybe the two of us are soul mates. Written in the stars, long ago and far away. So, be off on your quest, Sir Orson, and returneth thou with task accomplished and clean slate. Orange blossoms and bells of joy may yet be ours."

So Orson departed. He felt the interview had been a smashing success. He did see the fair Delilah as a true soul mate and fit partner for life. With a scarcity of words they had connected. Now to prove his intentions were honorable.

Days before his next visit and well along in her recovery, Delilah learned that her ex had involved himself in some sort of back-alley brawl and come off the worse for it, quite a few teeth missing, jaw badly broken, flesh peeled away above his right eye, part of an ear gone, apparently bitten off.

His general health remained robust, but his appearance would be altered forever and not for the better. She longed to lay eyes upon him and shower him with insincere sympathy. But that could wait. Viewing the incident as a sign of blossoming romance between her and her scarred hero, it seemed to her that arranged marriages often turned out to be the very finest.

CHAPTER TWO

When Orson did return and comment on her improved condition. She had a handsome metal hook that served as her right forearm and hand. They had a long heart-to-heart. At one point he tossed in the following comments: "Chimpanzees and bonobos throw tantrums after making bad decisions, and Beaumont, Texas produces the saddest tweets. I could go on and on."

This puzzled her and she was driven to inquire, "Why the non sequiturs?"

"I do not wish to brag or strut about pompously, but I merely want to illustrate that I remember scraps of information. My memory is rock solid, at least for the present. So please rely on me instead of rushing to a computer, dictionary, or world Atlas."

"Thank you, Sir Orson. Now that we seem to be in accord, do you think it might be possible to share a moment of bliss, that is a gentle kiss?"

"I wondered when that might come up, Delilah. I would enjoy nothing better, a feeling of intimacy. But if you will excuse me for saying it, I think such future moments should always be confined to when we are alone."

`"I couldn't agree more," she replied.

They discussed at some length whether to consummate their situation before or after the ceremony, which would amount to an elopement. They decided why wait to get married, then discussed wait for what – the ceremony or the consummation. The day wore on, so they slept together that night then sought out a small courthouse town and became a married couple.

For the next few days, one might say the honeymoon period, they had a great pretend argument over where to live. Delilah opted for estates in the Hamptons and Palm Beach. "We need extraordinary entertainment spaces," she insisted. Then they both would fall out laughing. She suggested a Georgian revival by a high society architect with an elliptical shape who overlooked the Intracoastal waterway. They had been dipping into the white wine and she suddenly realized what she had said, which triggered another gale storm of laughter. The marriage was going quite well.

Orson suggested a perfect stretch of deserted seashore, something ramshackle within easy drive of New York City and the two airports. The only spot would be farther down the Long Island coast than most.

"Shabby on the outside, creature comforts within," Delilah asserted. "Gourmet kitchen, Goodwill furniture, huge expensive bed in a room with a view, joined with two baths and a pair of walk-in closets."

"Done and done," Orson agreed. "I'll find an agent and we can both look around for a cook."

"A cook," Delilah said in a grim tone. "I don't think we need a cook."

"You want to cook?" Orson asked with some glee. "You could be cook the hook, or better yet, hook the cook."

Delilah brandished her hook. "This piece of steel can rob you of your other eye. There'll be a service canine leading you along your perfect stretch of beach. Of course I don't want to cook, and I don't want a cook. I want two cooks, shifts, of course, plus a housekeeper."

"That's a reasonable request," Orson responded, somewhat cowed. He realized one quick swipe of the hook in a moment of blind anger and he would never see again, little lone smile. So it would be first the house, then the interior and finally the staff. Until then, frantic calls for pizza.

The hook threat somewhat bothered him. Delilah, he knew, was a high tempered woman, somewhat willful and perhaps a penchant toward the ruthless. In a moment of anger, she might do away with his remaining eye. The thought was not pleasant. He was too old to adjust to such a circumstance. Even if he tried he would need constant psychotherapy as well as blind therapy. Of course the hook was removed at bedtime. But why a hook? Orson resolved to do his best to find a reasonable hand to substitute for that piratical instrument. After all, that was the common practice.

They lived in their dream home, savoring its decadence while refurbishing was underway. Rather than take-away, they had found a solid cook in an older woman named Mattie who preferred to live on the premises and also desired to be the one and only cook despite Delilah's earlier notion.

They were given to baby making and using pet names. Orson called her his Manic Pixie Dream girl, not really original. The type was supposedly crazy, sexy, mysterious, strange and maybe slutty. She failed to rise to many of these objectives. But she called him her Manic Pixie Dream Boat and left the broad meaning hanging.

It was a fun time and they would spend breakfast making suggestions to Mattie for meals during the next few days. Mattie, with serious deviations, attempted to follow their advice. Once she heard Orson call Delilah his Manic Pixie Dream girl. She gave him the evil eye and he suspected she knew something beyond her pedestrian exterior. He never used that term of endearment in her presence again. Mattie was something of a mother figure for the household, which was falling into place. A part-time gardener, or yardman, had been found. The cook gave him coffee and handouts of food at the back door.

The two of them quarreled over the kitchen appointments until Mattie stepped in and asserted her right as the cook. She was the decider for that particular room as she was for her own particular small apartment.

Orson and Delilah learned to confide in one another. Orson confided that his desire for the first child was to rear it as a spy.

"How does one bring up a child as a spy?" asked Delilah.

"By training the child as a spy. Language is important, geography is important, global politics is important. A total education is important. The foremost thing is to sear into the mind of the child that he or she is being trained as a spy and to deviate from that course might be fatal."

"You mean like death?"

"Either that or some unspeakable alternative. In the old days it was common to speak of a fate worse than death."

"I believe your thinking will evolve as you come to grips with this problem, that is, a real human being in real time," Delilah said sagely.

"Evolution is the star that guides our vessel. We are made to hope for something better, we seek greener pastures. Over the next hill, just around the bend, my Huckleberry friend. When we achieve one goal we hope for something still better. It's much like appealing bait being dragged before us. And it seems that the organism that is more fit tends to survive and reproduce."

"We have achieved something beyond that stage, Orson. It might be said of both of us that we have made our mark. Now we can rest on our oars and reproduce. The great seasons roll, our domicile is to our satisfaction, I feel the first inklings of pregnancy. You may have your little spy sooner than you expect. All's right with the world."

Orson jumped to his feet and hugged his bride in glee. "Wonderful. The greener pastures and the good times are coming!"

"Thank you, dear husband. I've become your standard baby mill."

"It was written in the stars," Orson exclaimed. "The ancient role of man and woman. I should hoe a row of cotton, or harvest something, maybe slay a fatted calf."

"How about ordering another case of white wine and a few bottles of red. Neither of us can exist on bread alone. That includes cook."

"I'll check the inventory."

As the baby was growing, seemingly in Delilah's interior, although both agreed that even a baby is not inside the body. In many ways they agreed, the body is like a sewer pipe. But as the child did grow so did their contentment and happiness. And when it reached a certain stage the good doctor detected two heartbeats.

"It seems that I will have my child and you will have yours, Orson. Any dibs on sex?"

"Haven't thought of it. Makes little difference. Lots of famous spies of either gender."

"I have given serious thought to this spy business and certainly want you to have your wish. It seems to me that's why we married. So you could have your spy. But things have worked out well."

"They have, Delilah. We are soul mates. You no longer have the hook you might use to claw out my eye."

With that she brandished her high tech, almost natural, artificial hand and flexed the fingers.

"Much more than that, Orson. But there are complications. It might be difficult to set a course for one child of a certain age and set an alternate course for another. You will have your spy, you can be certain of that, but I will also have a spy. But mine will not be a spy. The training will be similar, but I will whisper a different tune into that young one's ear."

"I can think of no better solution. You are indeed touched with the genius gene. I commend you, or praise you, whatever."

With that settled, they took a long stroll on the beach, tossing bits of bread to the mewing gulls.

Delilah was nearing the date of delivery, when Orson received a call from a nearly forgotten friend.

He found Delilah in the garden talking shrubs with the yardman. Drawing her aside, he reported – "I have been summoned by the King of Saudi Arabia."

"Feature that," she responded, "a royal summons. What is the response to such a request?"

"I feel I must go."

"He has a mission for you, doesn't he?"

"Yes. His name is King Saudi, the same as the country."

"His first name is King?"

"I don't know what his first name might be, or his last name for that matter. When I knew him he was Prince Saudi, and I always called him Prince."

She smiled her odd smile and replied, "Sounds like a dog."

"It does, doesn't it? The pay is half a million."

"He wants you to kill somebody?"

"No. He's gotten together what he calls the Arab Coalition. It's an organization to bring pressure on Israel for a permanent peace. A worthy cause."

"Do you think the Jews will agree?"

"At least half the Jews in this country and half the Israelis would enjoy a lasting peace. The others are a bloodthirsty lot, bent on expansion of Israel as a state."

"This plan must involve Israel pulling back to the 1948 borders."

"It does that."

"And how would you be involved?"

"I would simply be an envoy. I know people in the Middle East and in Washington. He thinks I could be trusted to carry messages, that both sides might believe me, or that both sides would mistrust me equally. About the same thing."

She had become quite serious. "Do you think so?"

"I don't know. But I can't think of anyone more qualified. I am torn. If you ask me to stay, I will stay."

"And resent me and your lost opportunity as a global player. Please go forth and save the planet, if not the universe. Cook and I can manage the birthing."

CHAPTER THREE

Orson was somewhat troubled to leave Delilah, not because of her condition, but simply the fact of leaving. The Saudis had mountains of money, so half a million meant little to them. However they were concerned about eventually running out of oil and of the North Dakota shale oil supply that at the moment seemed endless. The lives of mortal men were not endless and some of them, getting along in years, were determined to find a resolution in their lifetime.

The money had already been deposited in Orson and Delilah's joint bank account. It was not needed. Delilah was to give half of it away to a local charity of her choice. Perhaps a sanctuary for crippled gulls, or to protect the shoreline, or homes for feral beachcombers, or maybe break it up among causes, whatever. This sum would take care of taxes. The remainder would be used to start a trust fund for the yet unborn.

A jumble of thoughts tumbled through Orson's brain as he stared from the window on the limousine ride to JFK. Once airborne, with a mild scotch and water in hand, he focused on what lay ahead. A map of the Middle East formed in his mind's eye. Were all parties accounted for? There must be around a dozen if non-bordering states were participating. The glass empty, he drifted off to sleep.

He had the ability to fall asleep quickly and remain in that condition until either disturbed, or his mental clock told him it was time to blink awake. This was a virtue much admired by the men and women who participated in the dicey game of global chicken.

At the Riyadh airport he was met by a well-polished limo accompanied by a pair of security cars. The sun was a demon, blazing hot and blinding. He expected to be whisked off to the royal palace. Instead the progress was more turtle like. His only item of luggage, a carry-on bag, was carefully searched. Pocket contents, light jacket and shoes run through an X-ray. His body subjected to a full scan. Much like entering security for a flight rather than the usual exit. No stone left unturned where the King's safety was at risk.

When at last he reached the palace, he was escorted to his room, where his luggage had arrived before him, and asked if he would enjoy a refreshing drink and a snack. He agreed and soon a manservant brought a plate of pitted dates and a pitcher of lemonade into his room. The time was mid-morning. He was told lunch would be served in his room, in fact two luxuriously appointed rooms, one for sleeping, one for sitting, and he would dine with the King at seven.

He had good sleep on the plane, so he read material about the region he had brought. Lunch was served promptly at noon local time: a salad and what would pass for a lobster roll in Maine. Also ice tea, unsweetened, but there was a container of sugar. He declined dessert. After lunch he napped for just over an hour, then read and watched CNN.

The dinner hour arrived and went south. He was sorry he had refused dessert. Just after nine o'clock, a servant pushed a food cart into the room along with a bottle of chilled white wine, strictly forbidden in Muslim countries. A grim looking man in Arab dress accompanied the wait person.

Neither spoke for a moment, then the messenger announced, "The King has been attacked and wounded."

"Seriously?" Orson questioned.

"He lives, but hospitalized. You are not to leave the palace. Arrangements are being made here and His Majesty should be transported into a hospital situation by late tomorrow." The man motioned toward the wine. "We assume you use alcohol. So drink with impunity."

Orson replied, "Thanks, I'll do just that," as the messenger turned and strode out of the room.

Orson nodded to himself, turning the situation over in his mind. If the King were dead it would mean big trouble. There was more than one prince, and always intrigue flourished as in any royal court or position of political power. But the King lived and was likely closely guarded. Who could be trusted?

The waiter removed the top of a silver server and revealed what appeared to be a porterhouse steak weighing the better part of a pound and properly oozing a little blood. There were also home fries and what appeared to be fried kale.

"I can bring you another bottle of wine, Sir." He said with a slight bow.

"Please do. Also any news of the King."

He placed a finger on his lips. "No gossip, Sir."

"You speak English well."

"Two years in London, at the embassy. I'll return with the wine and later a sweet."

"What's the sweet?"

"Apple pie with a choice of ice cream."

Orson passed the remainder of the evening reading, watching CNN and sipping wine. The following day there was a full English breakfast, odd for Saudi Arabia, strong coffee by the pot, a hot shower, more coffee and a lamb shank for lunch. Laying off the wine, he thought the King might arrive and a possible meeting. Sure enough, long after dinner, he was summoned to the royal bedroom.

"Prince, or now King," Orson enthused when he was ushered into the room and saw Saudi propped up in bed apparently in the best of health.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Orson. My God what a sash, and decked out in a pirate's eye patch." He laughed heartily and said, "You've changed. Come and embrace your old friend."

"I have changed, King. I'm married, my wife is pregnant with twins. My appearance is somewhat less than anonymous." He pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed. "Tell me about your injuries."

The King shrugged and waved it off. "Nothing too serious. My right leg's a bit torn up, but not broken. I'll be walking in a few days according to my doctors. I flew one in from Germany for a second opinion. Palace politics, you know."

Orson smiled. "I can guess. Uneasy rests the head and so forth. Who did this to you?"

King gave him a knowing look. "An American."

It took a moment or two to process that, and then Orson replied, "An American?"

King nodded in the affirmative. "A Jewish man from Binghamton, New York. Very active in a synagogue there."

"Hard to believe. He had a gun?"

"A gun and a hand grenade."

"How could that be," Orson said almost to himself, thinking of the tight security in this strict Muslim nation.

"It happened," King replied.

"What will become of him?"

"He'll be tried, privately of course, found guilty and executed. Very likely beheaded."

"I need to talk with him. There's no chance he'll be executed before I can see him, is there?"

"No. I've seen to that. We can discuss my Arab Coalition later. First I'd like to find out who helped this man, Saul Rubin, and why. You're just the man for the job."

"Well, I can talk to him. Any chance of a deal?"

The King nodded, seemingly in the affirmative. "There's always the chance for a deal." The bedridden man indicated a cupboard across the room. "There's a bottle of vodka in there and glasses. Pour us each a drink. Then hide the bottle again. A nurse might come in."

Orson did as he was told. When they were settled with their drinks he suggested that the miscreant, this Saul Rubin, might be in mortal danger.

"I've seen to that," the King said. "At least the best I can. Double guards watch his cell. The guards watch one another and both are responsible for our man Rubin. Have breakfast tomorrow, and then I'll send a pair of men to accompany you to his cell. What a place. Everyone's watching everyone. Not like the old days in Istanbul and Cairo, hey, Orson."

"And New York," Orson added with a grin. Both men downed their drinks and Orson poured more with great stealth. They were like children cheating on their parents.

The two sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying their drinks and enjoying their friendship. Orson finally spoke. "You think this bombing is a direct result of your Arab Coalition?"

"I dislike leaping to conclusions. We do have several branches of government equivalent to yours – Secret Service, FBI, CIA and so forth. They're looking into it. Rubin's arrival, where he lodged, who he spoke with. But I've forbidden anyone to speak to him or even enter his cell. Whoever his allies might be they are certainly in this country, probably in this town, and would welcome his sudden demise."

"I agree, King."

The Saudi King winced at being called simply King, but Orson had always called him Prince and now he was King. So why fight it? They were two old buddies together, each trusting the other. "I'll not suggest what questions to ask. That's always been your game and not mine. You may offer him a deal, but that has to be subject to my veto. A deal might be not to behead him. We could simply kill him with a bullet through the head or let him commit suicide with his choice of method. Write a last letter, or so forth. There are quite a few options."

"Orson smiled and took the glasses back to the vodka bottle, calling over his shoulder, "Anything to please the prisoner."

The King enjoyed the joke. "We are hospitality plus."

Orson resumed his seat, was pensive for a moment, then said, "At some point I might want to bring in our CIA or foreign service. But nothing will be done without your prior approval."

"I'd simply like to get to the bottom of it." Many years ago the King had mastered English and the U.S. vernacular. Now he seemed tired, a combination of strong drink and the recent excitement.

Orson downed his drink, removed both glasses to their hiding spot and announced, "I'll be going. I'll report my findings." Drifting off, Saudi barely acknowledged his leaving. The security men were waiting just outside the door to escort him to his room. Despite the time difference, he would call Delilah and then turn in. How different it was to have someone to call, someone he loved, someone who loved him. He had lived as a solitary fox for so long. The new life style pleased him.

CHAPTER FOUR

The following morning he was escorted to Saul Rubin's cell. When the heavy door was opened, Orson saw this creature huddled on a metal cot. No blankets, no pillow, a single low-powered bulb protected by a metal grill illuminated the bare cell. There was a metal toilet, but no paper.

After permitting his eyes to adjust to the dim light, Orson remarked, "Not exactly a Holiday Inn." Then asked, "Are you in good health?"

There was no comment at first, then the figure stirred and in a faint voice replied, "Fair. They do feed me. Are you from the embassy?"

Orson had to smile. "No. You will not be treated as an American citizen. Perhaps as an enemy combatant. Really no need to put a name to it. They intend to convict you after a hearing and then behead you."

"These people are savages," Saul spat out. "They deserve what's coming to them."

Orson was tired of standing, so he pushed Saul to one side and sat on the cot next to him. "And just what is coming to them?"

"Death and destruction," Saul whispered. "They're probably bugging this cell."

"What does it matter? Beheading is beheading. Another life snuffed out. We all die, Saul. You're the architect of your own demise. Whoever put you up to this would very likely enjoy your death. Dead men tell no tales."

"But the cause will go on," Saul insisted, totally alert now.

"What cause? Killing the King? Murdering various individuals? Mass slaughter? Endless religious wars? Some cause."

"You paint a bleak picture."

"You're a utopian?"

"I did what I had to do."

"Your little plot was doomed to fail. You were set up because you're an American Jew. Arab fanatics. Jewish fanatics. Hard-line Israelis. None of these groups want peace. Had you ever thought that peace could be an option?"

Saul shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs. "I will admit that I am confused. There seems to be no way out."

"Why were you picked?"

"I might as well tell you. I'm a member of a certain temple in New York State. You could say my rabbi is what you call a hard liner. You know 360,000 Israelis live on the West Bank. What would become of them if they were offered up to the Arabs?"

"I assume they would live in peace. I too have heard that figure. It's likely close to that number one way or the other. There would be land swaps in peace negotiations. Some of them would be in Israel, some in Palestine. There is such a thing as coexistence. There are Arabs in Israel. I use that term broadly. Not all these people are Arabs."

"I was told I could move freely in Saudi because I am a Semite. I am swarthy, have a small beard, and look the part. It was true. I had little trouble until the event."

"The time when you were given a hand grenade and a pistol and told the King would be along shortly. Gun him down, blow up his car. Except you were not trained as a soldier, not even as a terrorist. You're just a poor office worker from Binghamton, a sad fool caught up in a septic tank of hatred without mercy."

Saul hesitated, and then asked, "Can you call the embassy?"

"Of course not. I'm working with the Saudis. They have you nailed. The only thing that might interfere with your beheading is if those who set you up get to you first and save the King the trouble."

"The King is a murderer!" Saul exclaimed.

"No he's not. When he inherited this kingdom, he inherited the culture that goes with it. He really doesn't care one way or another about Israel except it's a constant boil in the Middle East, leads to wars and terrorist attacks anyplace, anytime. His Arab Coalition has been formed as a tool for peace. Israel, backed by the American Jewish community, is a bulwark against peace. The Arabs see them as a spreading cancer with their settlements creeping this way and that."

"You've got to call the embassy. You're my only hope," Saul pleaded.

"No chance of that. If that happened you might become a cause célèbre and then your handlers would knock you off and blame the Arabs. You are one pathetic pawn. The only hope you have is to deal with the Saudis."

"Deal with the enemy?"

"Deal with whoever holds the high cards. You've been dealt a losing hand. Your rabbi knew that. You are a lamb brought to the sacrificial altar."

"What kind of deal might I make with the Saudis?" Perhaps Saul was heeding the voice of reason.

"It would have to be full disclosure on your part. The entire story from start to finish. Think about it. In the meantime I'll try to improve your situation here. I'm guessing you don't want to be beheaded. Few folks look forward to beheading, or being locked in a small, dark cell alive with spiders and rats."

Saul shuddered at the thought, and Orson said goodbye and knocked on the cell door to be let out.

Back at the palace Orson told the King the interview was satisfactory. "I didn't press him on who put him up to the stunt. I simply tried to talk some sense into his head."

The King grinned wryly and said, "Attempting to end my life is more than just a stunt. It puts the entire kingdom at risk. I hope you won't think I'm just conceited."

"No. I understand politics in this part of the world. That's why I'll tell you I don't like Saul's situation. Someone could easily slip in and kill him, even poison him." Orson looked around the royal bedroom and added, "This is a palace. Traditionally there's some sort of dungeon, some place to keep evildoers. Bad people."

"Of course," the King replied. "We do have an underground place and there are small cells there, rarely used I'm pleased to say."

"I'd like you to move Saul down there. Have some sort of palace guard look after him, someone absolutely trustworthy."

King Saudi thought for a moment and then said, "I see no problem there. We could do that for various reasons. A good one would be that he's on his way to his execution."

"Good. He could have decent food, a blanket and even TV if you think that would be alright."

"Such facilities are in place. I'll attend to it."

"I'd like to go along during the move. Some young yahoo might knock him off and use the excuse that he's saving you the trouble."

"No problem."

The move was made by late afternoon. Orson and Saul hardly spoke a word during the transfer. Orson did look over the new digs, and both he and Saul gave their approval.

"If I'm to be a prisoner, this is the place," Saul said, looking around. "It's almost like a motel room."

"You are in a palace," Orson replied. But your status is still at the quo. No outside contacts and full disclosure may save your bacon."

"Maybe we should talk," Saul said.

"Full disclosure from start to finish. One slip and goodbye head. Think on it." He was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

That evening Orson told the King that Saul's cell seemed secure.

"He will be well fed, has access to a shower and a TV. If anything happens to him, more heads will roll than just his. The guards are well aware of my wishes," the King affirmed.

"It's not like wretched solitaire, but he is penned up and alone. So let's let him stew there for a few days. Someone might tip their hand, or Rubin might spill all the beans. I suspect the latter. Now to my mission."

"Yes, the Arab Coalition. You already know something about it. It's a union of all the Arab countries, and I use the term Arab loosely. The Sudan, Ethiopia and Turkey are not your typical Arab nations and maybe others. But we are united. Israel will have no land entry or exit. Of course they have the Med. We have no real navy. And they have air transport. If things get tough we may at some point attempt to down a passenger plane as an example."

"You think simply tightening a land net around Israel will bring them to seriously consider a two-state solution on equitable terms?"

"Not entirely. I have had telephone contact with the White House, but have not revealed our total plan. The plan involves demolishing a large office building in central Tel Aviv." He hesitated and then added, "With adequate warning of course."

Orson smiled. "That's a fairly good start. Any follow up?"

"Certainly. Another serious explosion to be kept secret for now."

"Somehow I feel I have a role in this caper. I am not a bomber."

"I simply want you to carry the official message to your president. I'll give you two letters. One for the president, another for our embassy in Washington so they won't feel left out."

"Why not simply go through your embassy?"

"It just doesn't seem punchy enough. I want you to convince the president to lay low. America has no dog in this fight. Don't send aircraft carriers and marines to bail out Israel."

"There is a large and affluent Jewish population in the States, King."

"Yes, I know. Very influential. No politician dare mention that there might be a Jewish lobby for fear of reprisal from that non-existent lobby. Even born-again Christians love Israel. But the fact is, Orson, that half the Jews in the States and half the population of Israel would welcome peace, welcome a two-state plan with secure borders."

"What about the 350,000 Israelis in settlements on the West Bank?"

"We are not asking Israel to withdraw to the pre-1967 ceasefire line. There would be land swaps. This is not a one-way street. And we know it would be hard to sell any peace agreement to the Israeli people, that is, any peace agreement the Arab states would approve."

Rather than go into all the myriad of questions and details, Orson simply asked, "When does the squeeze begin?"

"You're the first step. You and the letters. Can you leave tomorrow?"

"Of course. By the way, there are those reasonable people who do not back a two-state solution. They believe it's untenable and that the entire area will simply blend into one state at some future date. That it's inevitable. How does that grab you?"

"Very well. I wish I had that sort of vision. But until then, one must try. Drop by for breakfast at seven. Bagels, lox, good coffee and you get the letters."

The bagel was good and Orson loved lox. He was soon in one of the royal cars being driven through central Riyadh on the way to the airport. At a busy intersection, stopped for a light, he saw a small group of angry citizens apparently assaulting a woman in western dress.

He told the drive he was getting out of the car.

"No," the driver exclaimed angrily. "Orders are for the airport." The light changed and the car moved forward.

Orson, seated in back, grasped the driver's neck in a chokehold and said, "Stop or you die."

The car stopped and Orson ran toward the crowd. The young woman had been knocked to the pavement and was being kicked by a veiled Saudi. Orson pushed the assailant aside and was about to help the young woman to her feet when an enraged Saudi man charged him shouting something in Arabic.

It had been some time since Orson had an opportunity to really slug someone and he relished the moment, striking his attacker full in the face with his big hard fist. Blood spurted and the man fell back on the pavement, his head plunking down like a ripe melon. No one else approached the two as he helped the woman to her feet and walked her to the car.

"My things," she said, gasping for air. Orson glanced back. The small carry-on she had been dragging was in pieces, its contents looted by the crowd.

"Nothing left," he said, helping her into the back seat. Climbing in next to the driver, he said, "Back to the palace."

"No," the driver replied. "Ordered to the airport."

Orson brandished his blood stained fist in the driver's face. Back at the palace, Orson helped the woman up the stairs to his old room and asked, "Why in the world were you walking on the streets of Riyadh with your head uncovered. You must be insane."

"I just arrived. I have a job teaching English. The driver dropped me at the wrong hotel. I was told my hotel was just two blocks away. I have a scarf in my luggage, or rather had a scarf, but I thought I could walk two blocks. Wasn't I wrong."

"You've got that right. What's your name?"

"Betty Dumbach. I graduated from college not long ago. This would be my first real job."

"Ok, Betty. Stay here. There's a robe in the closet. You're in the King's palace. You'll be placed under his protection. I'm off on a mission."

"The King of Saudi Arabia?" she questioned, wide eyed.

"Yes, King Saudi. No more questions. You can watch CNN."

With some difficulty, Orson made his way to the King's office and finally confronted the surprised monarch.

"Orson, what the hell are you doing here?"

Orson poured out the tale of woe, followed by the statement, "You people are savages."

"We do have our customs. And you're well aware of them."

"So was the young lady, but she thought she might walk two blocks in safety. If you'll place her under your protection, I'll be off to the airport."

"Certainly. So you've saved a fair maiden in distress. I hope she is a beauty and will be properly grateful."

"She is of average demeanor."

"I don't think that's the right word, but I get your drift. I've often wondered whatever caused you to choose this life of wild roving and adventure."

"Not as wild as you might think. I calculate risks with care. When I was young, we had a painting on the wall of our dining room. It was of a sailing vessel being driven under in a fierce storm at sea. My great-grandfather was said to have been the captain. A caption underneath read: 'With Not One Man of Her Crew Alive, What Put to Sea with seventy-five.'"

"That was your inspiration?"

"You're the first to know about it. I grew up with that painting and those words. How could such a thing have a lasting impression? I even longed to be one of those crew members."

"I'm touched, Orson. I'll look after fair maiden. Make certain she has a grounding in local customs. Cover her entire body if necessary. She'll be here when you return. Godspeed."

"And good fortune to you, King. If a tree doesn't fall on us, we'll live 'til we die."

"Well, said, Farewell old friend."

CHAPTER SIX

The flight to Washington, with a change in Rome, was tiring. Orson had time to call the White House operator and mention that he was dispatched from Saudi Arabia. He asked for an appointment with the president. Then he showered and tumbled into bed for twelve plus hours of peaceful sleep.

A banging on his door brought him to instant life. Donning the ubiquitous terry cloth robe, he opened the door with the safety catch attached. A pair of dark-suited men were in the hall, one brandishing a badge and shouting FBI. Open the door.

"Do you gentlemen wish to speak with me?" Orson asked.

"Damn right we do. Let us in."

"I'm afraid I'm not dressed. I've been sleeping. Come back in an hour. We can have coffee."

"Open the door. This is a serious business."

"We have business?"

"Damn right we do. Just open the door. We can use force."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you. But I have to get dressed. If you can wait ten or fifteen minutes out there, I'll let you in."

"We want in right now," the second man said. "You're dealing with the FBI."

"Sorry. I'll let you in as soon as I'm dressed."

The two were fuming when Orson finally opened the door. They strode in as if they owned the place and looked around warily. Orson settled into the only comfortable chair.

"We'll have to ask you to accompany us to the J. Edgar Hoover building," the first man finally said.

"Not interested."

"You're talking to the FBI."

"And you're talking to an American citizen."

"You called the White House."

Orson smiled. "Is that a high crime or a misdemeanor?

"What's your game?" the second man asked.

"I play a little bridge. But I'm not very good at it."

"We'll teach you to get smart with us," the first man said with some distaste.

"I already know. You don't have to teach me. I suppose I must tell you that I'm an envoy from the King of Saudi Arabia. The President has been informed of my coming. Has he been notified?"

"Notify the President?" the second man said, then added, "Hell no."

"So, we have reached an impasse."

"Not on your life. You're coming with us."

"You're arresting me? On what charge?"

"We want you to come with us for questioning. If you're an honest man, you will be cleared."

"Cleared of what? Staying in the Hays-Adams?"

"We don't know yet, but you called the White House with some cock-and-bull story."

"My cock-and-bull story involves a message from King Saudi."

The second man eyed him suspiciously. You said the King of Saudi Arabia. Now you say King Saudi."

"That happens to be his name, I've just come from there."

"Show us the message."

"Show you a confidential message for the President? You know better than that."

The second man seemed to be the voice of reason. "Stay in the room. We'll do some checking. We have your name from the hotel register. That is your name, isn't it? Orson Platt."

"It is." He pulled his passport from his jacket pocket and handed it to the officer. After a long look, the FBI agent said, "You seemed to have been in Saudi. We'll do some checking."

"Thanks. No hard feelings. I know you have a tough job."

Wordlessly, the agents left the room.

Orson ordered a pot of coffee and croissants. The Hay-Adams still had room service although lesser hotels had talked of cutting it out as a money-loser.

He received a call from the White House just as he was beginning a nap. The President had a full schedule, but he would be admitted at 8:30 that evening. With several hours to kill and no chance of cocktails with dinner, he did take a long nap, a lengthy steamy shower, and then switched around the TV to various news programs, attempting to ferret out objective reportage. Of course he failed.

His plan was to have dinner after his White House visit. However, at the White House he was escorted to the family quarters, greeted by President Warren in the family dining room and offered nachos and dip along with chilled Chablis. The snacks were made up of nachos in a torn sack, an uncapped jar of Cheese Whiz and a supermarket jar of salsa not yet opened. There was an air of informality. The President wore a dressing gown that had seen better days.

After a handshake and as the Secret Service agent was exiting the room he inquired, "Do I call you Madame President?"

She shrugged and said, "Why not just Mary. This is not a state occasion." He passed her the letter from King Saudi and busied himself with the snacks, opening the salsa, pouring them both Chablis while she looked it over.

Looking up, she asked, "Did you read this?"

"No. I felt it was confidential. I think I know the meaning though."

"And that might be?"

"Help Israel as little as possible. The King is an old friend of mine and he desperately wants peace in his part of the world while he still lives. This hope is shared by many others on both sides of the fence. He believes it's to our interest also. As do I."

"You're with us or with them?" she asked.

"I'm a loyal American citizen. I've traveled some and met quite a few people during my life. Now I'm attempting to settle down as a husband and father. My wife is pregnant."

A flicker of a Mona Lisa smile held her face for a split second. "I've attempted to read up on your life, but the facts are sketchy and a bit out of the ordinary."

"I've always tried to stay within the law."

"And not always successfully. But I trust you, Orson. That's why you're here. Fill me in."

"There's not much to say. The peace project has been chewed over for years. The settlements are a sore point. There would be land swaps, a limited right to return and on and on. But with his Arab Coalition the King hopes to squeeze Israel into a sound settlement."

"I'm interested in those details."

"Nothing moves by land in or out of Israel. He plans to blow up a major building in Tel Aviv very soon, but with adequate warning."

She raised her hands with a shrug. "This will do what?"

"Show the Israelis how vulnerable they are. Demonstrate that the Arabs are serious, but do not wish to harm anyone."

Grinning and pouring herself a good measure of Chablis, she asked, "Blowing up a major building, not harming anyone. It's an interesting game, isn't it, Orson. A game you might enjoy."

"I'll play the game. Although this was my major mission, I did plan to return to Saudi, but maybe it's not necessary."

"But it is. Israel's conflict with the Arab world has been a thorn in our side for many years. We support Israel as we should. We also support the surrounding countries when we can. There are certain things I can do and certain things I cannot do. If Israel does something not in our interest, a direct snub say, it would give me some breathing room to get certain things done."

"I understand that. But I don't get your point."

"You go to Israel to watch that building being demolished. Make believe you know more than you know. The King's message says there's to be a second bombing and the Israelis will know that. But the target is unknown. Maybe they will think you know the target."

"They might imprison me," Orson said calmly.

"That's my hope. I can get certain things done and wait until later to announce that you were my personal envoy and that their slamming you into the slammer is an egregious insult to America."

"It sounds like a childish game. Do you think they'll fall for it?"

The President looked down, picked up a nacho and then downed half a glass of Chablis. "Hook, line and sinker."

"I'll do my best."

"You can sleep here tonight. You can sneak out just before five in the morning through the Old Executive Office building."

Orson thought about scratching his head, but didn't. Instead he filled his wine glass.

He had called Delilah when he first checked in and said he hoped to spend some time with her before returning to Saudi. Back at the Hay-Adams he caught a couple of hours of sleep and then dashed into the shower. The bathroom phone rang just as he was emerging. It was Delilah.

"I tried to call you last night. Where were you?"

"You know I brought this letter from the King for the President. The schedule was jammed yesterday, but it was thought important enough to schedule a late night meeting. So it was."

"Very late night. What now?"

"I'm off again and sincerely sorry I cannot see you. I miss you, Delilah. How's the pregnancy coming?"

"No problem. Where are you off to?"

"I shouldn't say and won't say. Frankly I don't know if I'm doing anything critical or not, but one doesn't gossip on the telephone anymore."

"I understand. I miss you too, Orson."

He felt like shit after the night at the White House. Damn these brilliant, aggressive women. Damn them to hell. But he told Delilah he loved her and then got dressed and packed his bag.

He had to deliver the second letter to the Saudi embassy explaining why it had been bypassed. Then to check in with the King, and off to Israel. There were items to be blown up.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The President had booked him on a military flight to Frankfurt. He spent a night in the VOQ and then was off to Tel Aviv where he received a cold reception from a low-level staffer.

"We understand you are working with the Saudis. Is it true?"

"I have been to Riyadh and chatted with King Saudi. He talked about blowing up a major building in Tel Aviv. Did you get the word?"

"Yes," the staffer replied, adding, "The King might be in for a surprise. It is a very large office building, and the demolition is slated for noon tomorrow. You're welcome to watch."

"I hope it will be a step on the road to peace."

"I wouldn't know. Destruction of property doesn't seem constructive if you get my drift."

"I suppose there are many ways to achieve peace. I hope to have a word with the prime minister if that's possible."

"He wouldn't dream of not speaking with you, the envoy from Saudi, messenger from our enemy."

"I'm an American citizen. Possibly the term messenger is correct. But I am not your enemy."

"Time will tell."

He was dropped off without ceremony at the Shenkin Hotel, not the best in Tel Aviv, but centrally located and adjacent to the Nachalat Binyamin pedestrian area, a fine place for a walk in the splendid weather.

Orson dined alone, read a Faulkner novel he had brought along and turned in early after calling Delilah and letting her know he was in Israel. After a shower and breakfast the following morning, the same staffer called for him.

He was told the prime minister and other dignitaries awaited him near the site of the doomed structure. The two of them alighted at a sidewalk café where several government officials were enjoying breakfast. Orson was introduced all around to a less the less than friendly group.

The Prime Minister himself seemed cheerful and pointed out the structure the Saudi's had designated. It was indeed a large office building just over half a block away. To Orson's surprise office workers were coming and going and the building seemed to be fully occupied.

"How strange," Orson said, almost to himself, then turned to the Prime Minister, "You haven't evacuated the building."

"Au contraire. We did for a full day, the time it took to find the explosives and dispose of them."

Orson actually laughed. "I'm amazed," he declared. "I didn't know the Arabs were such fools. Tell me about it."

"Dynamite was planted here and there in out of the way places, fairly well hidden. A cell phone call would have triggered multiple blasts. My experts don't believe the charges would have brought the building down. Now you can return to Saudi and tell the King his evil plan has failed."

"The King sincerely wants peace," Orson replied. "When was the blast supposed to go off?"

"Noon our time." He checked his watch. "About three hours from now."

"Then there's still time to evacuate the building."

"Why should we? My experts have checked every nook and cranny."

"It is a reckless leader who would play games with the lives of his citizens. If that building comes down at noon you will be the grand fool."

"You doubt the skill of my skilled explosive experts?"

"You underestimate the skills of the Arabs. You consider them foolish camel jockeys. They have thousands of years of culture behind them, just as the Israelites. I am imploring you to evacuate that building. Its demise is meant as a hint of what is to come. It is simply a sacrifice on the altar of peace, a peace that would be good for Israel, for the Arab states and for the world. Please evacuate or face the deadly consequences."

"We have attempted to check on your background, Orson Platt. We have found you to be a nobody, a drifter who once was a drinking companion of the person who now holds the title of King of Saudi Arabia. He inherited wealth and he inherited the title. He is no more a king than I am a pastry cook."

"Perhaps you are a pastry cook. You have heard the expression 'better safe than sorry.'"

The Prime Minister turned and barked orders in Hebrew at two of his underlings. Heads were raised in surprise among the small crowd of dignitaries. When his orders were ignored, the Prime Minister shouted again, this time in anger. Then he turned quietly to Orson. "We will evacuate, but who will be the goat? You or me?"

"The game's afoot," Orson replied with a smile.

Soon the workers came streaming out of the building. A man who Orson guessed headed the teams of demolition experts was chiding the prime minister in a rough manner. Orson was no Hebrew expert, but he understood enough to get the idea of the conversation. The Israelis enjoyed free speech at all levels.

The Prime Minister simply shrugged and indicated Orson. The man shouted in the American's face in English, "You are a fool and you are making a fool of Israel. That building is spotless. I myself have gone over it."

Orson took a seat at the sidewalk café and ordered coffee. The long wait began. He was largely ignored by Israeli officials, although a waitress chatted with him at length until one of the staffers whispered something in her ear. Three cups of coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich later, noon arrived and one staffer pointed to his watch and whooped out a cry of victory.

Thirty seconds later, a small rumbling could be heard, and the cornice of the building began to shower in small pieces to the street many stories below. Then silence.

The Prime Minister approached Orson and said, "So the team missed something. But there's very likely no damage inside and I'm guessing repairs will be very minor. I'm certain your King is watching on TV and will drink himself into amnesia."

"I'm guessing that was a warning. The Saudis probably imagined you would fall for the fake explosives and permit the building to be reoccupied. The main explosion should occur in twenty or thirty minutes. I'd keep everyone away from the building if I were you. Even your half-witted explosive experts."

"You Arab son-of-a-bitch," the Prime Minister growled, then stalked off.

The waiting was tense, but the building imploded almost half an hour later just as Orson had guessed. There was nothing left, just a smoking pile of rubble maybe thirty feet high.

The Prime Minister hurried to Orson's table and shouted in his face, "You have some questions to answer. You seemed to know every step that was taken. So where will the next explosion be?"

Orson shook his head in the negative. "I have no idea."

"The Arab dogs are paying you. I know that. So you can tell me now, or we'll sweat it out of you."

"I cannot tell you what I don't know. I believe I'll return to my hotel."

"Return my ass. You'll rot in an Israeli jail cell."

He was led peacefully away by a uniformed officer who drove him to a small local prison facility, booked in the usual process – fingerprints, mug shots, strip search, issued orange prison clothing and locked in a small cell. Mary Warren had been spot on.

CHAPTER EIGHT

President Warren was not without eyes on the ground in Israel, and she learned immediately that Orson had been incarcerated. Her first move was to put out the word to slow all military and non-military aid to Israel, including and particularly fiscal aid.

The she called her secretary of state and asked that the ambassador to Israel be recalled for routine talks. "Don't mention my name, just get him on board a plane for Dulles within twenty-four hours. Let me know when he's airborne."

The ambassador was career foreign service named Kerry Rosenberg. He was the leader of a quartet referred to as the Four Horsemen, all-American Jews who had been there seemingly forever and were more helpful to Israel than they were to the States.

The following day the secretary of state called and said Rosenberg was indeed on a plane and it would land at Dulles in a few hours.

"Book him a hotel room at the airport, then get him on a plane for Brazil as soon as possible he'll be the new ambassador down yonder."

A short pause while the secretary gathered his wits. "This is outside of protocol. We need to talk to Rosenberg, and then submit papers to the Brazilian government. You don't just move employees around like chessmen."

"True. We don't usually. He can stay at the embassy getting acquainted while you do the paperwork. We do need an ambassador in Brazil. The post is vacant."

"I've been working on it, seeking a senior employee who speaks Portuguese."

"Rosenberg is sharp. He'll pick up the language."

"But his family's in Israel."

"You can arrange for them to follow. No problem."

"I'm sorry, Mary, but I can't have this. I'm secretary of state and you're encroaching on my territory."

"So I'll look for someone who agrees with their President. I want your resignation on my desk by ten a.m. tomorrow. Don't fail." She slammed down the phone. Her secretary was standing by her desk. She looked up and said, "I'm in no mood to be trifled with. Hold my calls."

Two hours later, after making a frantic attempt to reach her by phone, the secretary of state waited in her outer office. After half an hour he was admitted.

The President gave him a sour look and almost shouted, "I'm damn mad at the Israelis and their highhanded ways. Now you turn on me. Don't sit down."

"I'm sorry I made an issue out of such a trivial matter. I've already ordered a room for Rosenberg and booked him a flight to Brazil. He balked at first, but I told him it was my way or the highway. I didn't involve you."

"Ok. Have a seat. Would you like coffee?"

"Sure."

She buzzed her secretary and ordered coffee and a strudel or something strudel-like.

"You're aware of the Four Horsemen in the Israeli embassy?"

"Of course. Everyone is. They think they're working for Israel. So does Israel. Anything they want, Israel gives them. I really didn't think I could do anything about that, being fairly new on the job and all."

"Their leader will soon be in Brazil unless he retires. So the other three... I want one sent to China, one sent to India and the third horseman, a woman I believe, sent to South Africa."

The secretary of state was tempted to burst out laughing, but instead he said, "That sounds reasonable. I'll probably have to wait until tomorrow to set the wheels in motion."

"No problem as long as they're out of Israel by sundown tomorrow. You might book their flights yet today."

"Good idea, Mary. Any idea about their replacements?"

"At least one black and one Asian. Maybe a Muslim and a Catholic. No Jews."

"Splendid. I appreciate advice like that."

"Of course you have some flexibility.

The coffee arrived, and the secretary filled their cups and offered condiments. There were two tart types, cherry and maybe apricot, although it was hard to tell.

"Yes, I'm free to make my own decisions, within reason of course."

"Certainly. You have a big department to run and you're doing a superb job. A big, expensive department. I know you've been mentioned as a presidential candidate."

"I can't stop those rumors."

"We should get together more often. If the press asks, please praise Rosenberg to the heavens and say he's the right man at the right time for our important South American neighbor. I believe it's the largest Catholic country in the world."

"I've heard that too. I love this tart. It might be apricot."

Two days drifted by with the press clamoring to ask a few questions. The President told her press secretary to simply suggest that she was mad as hell at Israel for obvious reasons. That she would hold a press conference within the week.

On the morning of the third day her secretary said that the Israeli ambassador was in the outer office complaining that his phone calls and e-mails had gone unanswered.

"What seems to be his problem?"

"He's fuming over foreign aid, the shake-up in our embassy over there and several other things."

"Is he alone?"

"No, that woman, Sylvia something, is with him, the so-called Stately Israeli."

Mary almost giggled. "His secretary and his mistress. Tell him to calm down. Someone will be with him in a few moments." She hung up and called the head of Secret Service. "Ted, Mary Warren. The Israeli ambassador and his girlfriend Sylvia are in my outer office. I'm declaring them both personae non gratae. Send as many men as you need, confiscate their cell phones, take them to Andrews and put them on the first flight out of this country."

"Is this a gag?"

"No. I'm deadly serious. I'm mad as hell at Israel and I don't care who knows it. Don't let them communicate with anyone. Get them on that plane!"

"Bound for?"

"Ted, does the first plane out confuse you. Are you ready for retirement?"

"No Ma'am. Your orders will be followed."

"To the letter, and be sure and tell them that I'm mad as hell at Israel and that they are personae non gratae, the two of them, the happy couple."

Although the walls and doors were sturdy, she thought she heard shouting in the outer office a few minutes later.

By the next morning word had leaked out about the ouster. It seemed the ambassador and his girlfriend had been placed on a flight to Gitmo and there remained overnight.

There was a question from the commander down there as to what to do with them. Water board them? Push them off the beach in a life raft? Organize a firing squad?

She passed the word to get them to either Havana or Jamaica, both fairly close.

Her next move was to call the head of Homeland Security and inform him that there had been a serious terrorist threat.

"What sort of threat?"

"Because of the source, Stuart, I'm not free to divulge details at this time. But I can recommend action. We want no more Israeli planes to land at JFK, LaGuardia or Newark for the present. If any are in the air, divert them out of the country."

"My God, Madame President, Israel is our firm ally."

"More or less a one-way street, Stuart. We're their ally. Many times they act against their own interests and ours. Now do what I ask and do it right away."

"To where might we divert these planes?"

"I'd suggest Iceland or Miami."

"Ma'am, Miami is in the U.S."

"More or less. It's way down that Florida peninsula, almost in the water. It's a fun place. Very little bad ever happens there. You know they've fixed it so most folks in that state can't vote. To vote you must be able to find a polling place, find it when it's open, have various forms of ID, some of which are known only to the informed few."

"Iceland or Miami. I get you."

"Or anyplace in Canada will do."

"Perhaps Yellow Knife."

"Don't be sarcastic, Stu. It's unbecoming."

"Aye-aye, Sir."

Mary was smiling broadly when she hung up the phone. She had always been a hell-raiser and what better place to do it – the Oval Office. But her heart was with Israel's seven million souls. She believed firmly in peace. And she had earned her right to sit in this chair. The chair of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, not to mention Jackson.

By the next morning the media's clamor for information had grown to a thunderous cry. What was the dire threat that involved Israel?

She told Derik, her press secretary to plead national security and hint that it was because of Israel's intransigence in seeking peace. All aid to Israel had stopped at this point and Jewish leaders from various parts of the country had flown into Washington and were holding a rally in the ballroom of the Hilton.

Stuart called and asked if El Al and other Israeli planes could continue to land in Miami.

"Of course not, Stu. That was only for planes already airborne. They can continue to land in Iceland. Then maybe Havana, Mexico City, Managua or some other hell hole will welcome them."

"Anywhere, but not the States?"

"Right. I'll be holding a press conference soon. I'm simply waiting for the mud to settle, for the water to clear, there seems to be a lot of turmoil in the political world. For your information, the terrorist threat was related to LaGuardia. But I felt it best to make it widespread because terrorists can change their minds."

"Why LaGuardia?"

"It seems to be a matter of location. It's on the waterfront of both Flushing and Bowery bays. It's also near East Elmhurst where there's been some questionable activity. But you should already have known this."

"So many hours in the day, so many days in the week, so many potential terrorists, so many wannabes. I'm sure we're watching LaGuardia and East Elmhurst. We're watching here, there and everywhere and everyone's watching us. This is a watch bird, watching you."

"Cool it, Stu. Call ally-ally in free when it's safe to come out again."

The following day, President Mary Warren held her press conference at ten in the morning. She strode to her podium, surveyed the packed room, many standing at the rear and around the walls, then repeated, "You all may have heard that I'm angry with the government of Israel. Not the Israeli people, but their government.

"From Morocco to Afghanistan, from the Caspian Sea to Aden, that's 5.25 million square miles embracing 330 million Arabs, but not all Arabs, but people thought to be ranged against Israel. Most of them would welcome peace and a two-state solution."

A man against the wall began shouting angrily about Arab terrorists. The President said nothing while he was being removed by security.

"So," she continued, "We have Israel – 8,000 square miles, seven million people, maybe a fifth of them Arab. And Arab is simply a convenient term."

Another loud outburst from someone in the rear of the room.

"This is not a town hall meeting. This is a gathering for members of the Fourth Estate, print and electronic media. Somehow the room has been loaded with ringers. When I get to the bottom of this, heads may roll. I have been eager to put my story before the public via the free and unfettered press. To say what a despicable snub the Israel prime minister has offered up to me, the President of these United States. But now, with this unruly crowd somehow invading the pressroom, I must postpone the conference to a time when legitimate press members only are present. Thank you."

With deliberation, she exited the room, amid a cacophony of mindless shouts.

CHAPTER NINE

In Israel, Orson was resting in his tiny cell. He had not been mistreated, but there had been polite attempts to question him. He had no radio or TV, nor had he been given a newspaper or current magazine. The isolation was an attempt to break him down. The fact was he rather enjoyed it and slept most of the time.

There had been hints that he could be a rich man and lead a praiseworthy life. At these suggestions he simply smiled and cocked his head to one side in a knowing fashion.

One day the prime minister himself visited his cell, spoke not a word but sat down next to him on his metal bunk, the only place to sit in the small room, save for the steel toilet.

When it became apparent that Orson wasn't going to speak first, Prime Minister Yair Landver asked, "How have they been treating you?"

"It's very restful here. No screams or cries of anguish. The torture chambers must be elsewhere."

"Of course. Shall we chat?"

"If we are to be friends, what should I call you? Yair or Landver?"

"Yair will do. This is an informal situation."

"Ok, Yair. What do you want to talk about?"

"You're widely traveled. You've probably spoken with your president. For some reason she is no longer acting cordially toward our country. In fact she has said she's mad as hell. Do you know the reason?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I for one," the prime minister answered.

"America is not your lapdog. She's just being honest. For years we've wanted peace in this area. It's eaten up American lives and treasure. Israel has constantly dragged its feet. What's so hard to figure out?"

"There's that. But she claimed I personally snubbed her. Can you explain that?"

"I could, but I won't. You seem to choke on a flea and swallow a camel. Simply look at the big picture. Get serious about peace talks with the Arab nation. They've shown you they can destroy a giant building with impunity. That was a message. Did you get it?"

"Of course we got it."

"Getting it would mean sitting down at the peace table, not rounding up the usual suspects and tightening security. King Saudi wants peace. Most Arabs, Israelis and Jews want peace. What is it you don't understand?"

"The personal snub."

"You're either a very stupid person or a very small man. It's my nap time, if you'll excuse me."

"I should have you executed. I'll cut your food rations and deny you luxuries."

"What luxuries?"

Landver looked around the tiny cell. "A blanket."

Orson shrugged and the prime minister left the cell. Soon after a guard entered and removed the blanket.

Two days later President Warren held her promised press conference, late in the day, long after Israel was in slumber.

She entered the pressroom briskly, walked to the podium, and for a long moment surveyed the crowd. There seemed to be only legitimate media present. She knew most of them by first name.

"I will make a brief statement, not from notes, but simply repeating what everyone has known for years. We want peace in the Middle East. I've tried to get Israel's attention. Thus far unsuccessfully. We know that more than 350,000 Israelis live on the West Bank. Some of this area would likely be given to Israel under your standard peace plan. The 1967 ceasefire line would be a benchmark, but land swaps would be made. Arab neighborhoods in Jerusalem might become part of a Palestine state. Many Arabs hope to remain under Israeli government control for health and national insurance benefits.

"These are a few of the questions facing negotiators. How they are viewed in this country and in the Middle East depend on how the questions are worded and which poll you choose to read. So this press conference seems to be on that topic. Are there questions?"

The first question asked was why the ambassador to Israel was removed, along with three other high level Jewish members of the embassy.

"An excellent question. That's been a sore point for some, a joy for others, for quite a long time. Truth to tell, many thought the so-called Four Horsemen were in the Israeli pocket. Their loyalty was questioned, unofficially of course. I am not among those who questioned their loyalty. They have high level jobs in other embassies."

"But why not keep Jews who understand the culture in Israel?" the same reporter asked.

"Under that policy, all embassies in sub-Saharan Africa would be staffed by American blacks, our embassy in Beijing would be manned by parties from Chinatown U.S.A., the Irish embassy would have only Irish immigrant offspring and our Latin American embassy staff members would be recruited from Chicano crowd. And so on. Do you agree with that?"

"I'm in no position to agree or disagree," the reporter said. "I simply make inquiries."

"So you have your answer."

"What's this personal snub business?" a CNN reporter shouted from the rear.

"That's very simple. I sent my personal envoy to Israel to observe the Arab threat to bring down a building with explosives. Prime Minister Landver saw fit to toss him into a solitary cell. I've now learned the prime minister has punished him further by taking away his blanket. What next? Why would he do such a thing?"

"Who is this personal envoy?" the New York Times reporter questioned.

"Orson Platt. He has acted as go-between between me, King Saudi and that Israeli politician, Landver. This was the trigger for the recent deterioration of relations with Israel, although I see now it was long overdue. Israel has not been an honest broker in the peace progress. We will view what happens next with a critical eye. Is Israel our true friend, or a manipulator through moneyed interests in this country? These things bear looking into. Follow the money trail. One more question please."

Someone shouted, "Where is the ambassador from Israel to the United States?"

"I understand they were flown by our military to Gitmo and later taken by small boat to Havana, he and his girlfriend. Perhaps the couple is still there."

"Why do you say girlfriend?" the reporter followed up. "I thought she was his chief aid."

The President shrugged. "In more ways than one, so I was told. I suppose I shouldn't gossip, but girls will be girls. No more questions." She left the room.

When the news of the snub hit Tel Aviv, Prime Minister Yair Landver had Orson Platt summoned to his office. He stood before the prime minister's desk, hands chained together, chain extending to foot irons, still in his criminal attire.

"You may sit down," Landver said, indicating a chair. Orson complied. The guard who had brought him watched him warily. The guard was instructed to remove the chains and leave the office.

"I have no keys, Sir. They keep them at the jail. There were quite a few newsmen snapping photos when I brought him over here. They're waiting outside."

Landver slapped his forehead. "They took his picture in that prison outfit and chains?"

"Yes, Sir. They seemed to be laughing about it. Some made fun of him. Called him an American peace monkey."

Landver picked up the phone and spoke with security. "Have the police, army, anyone, round up all the reporters outside my office and confiscate their cameras and any notes they might have. Hold them incommunicado."

He told the guard he could go and fetch the keys, then eyed Orson with suspicion. "You've played a game with me, haven't you? You could have told me you were Warren's personal envoy."

"I thought you knew."

Landver thought a moment, then said, "Yes, I should have known. My jailing you was her excuse to do all the things she has done. You've been out of it so you don't know what she has done. No more Israeli flights to America, foreign aid slowed to a trickle, our ambassador expelled and exposed in a sex scandal, our Jewish friends taken from the American embassy and sent to God knows where. The big chill."

"I believe she wants you to take a hard and even-handed look at the peace process. No more childish games."

"I'm not the only one. The Palestinians were offered a great deal some years back."

"Yes, but hostilities grind on. Seize the bull by the horns. It's not too late. Go down in history as the man who brought peace not just to Israel, but the entire area. It would be a dream come true."

"It would be a dream come true. We thought the six-day war was a dream come true. It's turning out to be a nightmare of horrors playing out one after another. America is our holy land. Equality, laws that protect us, no barriers for the businessman. Why come to Israel? I'll tell you. Because it's our own sort of country. Carved out by our own sweat, blood and tears. What does that tell you, you with a big scar and eye-patch?"

Orson thought Yair was either maudlin or raving mad. "I don't know what my scar and eye patch have to do with it. They did change my lifestyle. There was a time when I blended in with the crowd. No more. If you want the blood, sweat and tears to continue, skirmishes, terror attacks, a few lives lost here and there, you're on the right track. Peace is quite another matter. It might even be more difficult to achieve."

Yair seemed to sigh. "I'm tired, very tired, tugs and pulls, demands from every quarter. Now you in chains and that crazy prison suit. The press is electronic. They would have snapped you on your perp walk over here and moved the shots instantly to home base. Late today and tomorrow, I'll be totally nailed as the guy who slammed the American President's personal envoy into a solitary cell. I will be the man who bit the hand that fed it all these years. Now tell me, wise guy, advisor to King Saudi and President Warren, what posture do I assume?"

"That's quite simple. Let me get dressed and shaved. The two of us will make a joint appearance at an evening press conference, and you will announce a serious new initiative in the peace process. A two-state settlement, land for peace. No more encroachment on Arab land."

Yair thought only a moment before he picked up the phone and asked that Orson's things be brought to his office. He slammed the phone down and quipped, "One more peace initiative can't be all bad."

"But this time you must mean it," Orson said.

"Damn right," Yair replied. "You've cleared the air, Orson. All the bad stuff has vanished like a gambler's lucky streak. You and me, we make a great team."

Orson wondered. Who was playing whom? Oh, well. Delilah would be waiting, pregnant with anticipation. Then one more cautionary note to Yair. "There's been a lot of talk, speculation if you will, that a two-state solution may be a pipe dream. That time has passed it by."

"Then what is the solution?" the Prime Minister questioned.

Orson shrugged.

CHAPTER TEN

Orson, it seemed, was acclaimed a hero and a gifted peacemaker after the glitter and hoopla of that press conference faded. Some called him a peace monkey, but that was easily enough ignored as long as it wasn't backed by lethal force.

While still in Israel, President Warren called him and offered him a choice of jobs in her administration. He was headed for home, pregnant wife and all. Delilah was well along in her pregnancy, but the first night they killed a bottle of Pinot Grigio and made passionate love. Nevertheless, Orson sensed something was amiss.

In the days that followed, Delilah showed signs of what Orson guessed was paranoia and possibly some mental aberration he could not pin down. It was up and down as the time of delivery approached.

But there were flashes of total sanity, the old self, and she declared that her child would be raised for foreign service, thus both children would have identical educations. Very little difference between foreign service people and spies, often the two overlap.

So there were good times, and Orson was confidant that whatever it was with Delilah would pass. Of course her condition, she thought of herself as grotesque, was very likely the root cause of the issue.

Of course the babies were born, a girl and a boy. After talking it over, Orson got the girl, Alice. The boy would be Dan. A pair of nannies had already been engaged. One would live at the house, the other would come and go as needed.

And there would be a great need because Delilah slipped back into a frail mental state days after the births and as usual refused all treatment. Cook had her hands full. She was like a comforting mother to Delilah.

At one time, Delilah blurted out to Orson, "I have two beautiful, bright and perfect babies and here I am, hideously deformed. What do you think they'll think of me as they grow older?"

"They'll love you, Darling. Just as I do."

But there was little he could do to console her. She dug out her old hook and subbed it for her artificial hand. Orson was not easily frightened, but he felt cold fear, fear for the babes and fear of losing his remaining eye.

Cook feared she might harm the babies. While Delilah slept, he carried the hook off and buried it in a deep hole near the beach.

He and Delilah had been more than lovers, they had been the best of friends. All along he had meant to tell her that he had been seduced by the President. But this was no time for honesty.

Early one morning while Delilah slumbered, he was having coffee in the kitchen and remarked to cook: "What would you think of a peaceful mental home for Delilah?"

She nodded grimly. "They would simply shoot her full of drugs and reduce her to a zombie state. Things were not so bad before you returned. Your fame as a peacemaker didn't help the situation. That hurt Delilah bad."

"I'm sorry, Cook. What must I do?"

"I've thought this thing through, Orson. Take the children and the nannies and go someplace, but keep in touch. Delilah and me, we'll do OK on our own."

It puzzled Orson that Delilah was jealous of his seeming triumph in restarting the peace talks. The fragility of the peace talks was obvious to both of them. The public's perception and acclaim is what seemed to matter. Not the rocky road ahead. Everyone loved an optimist.

Orson was aware of a Japanese method of doing things, that is, saying one thing and meaning another. He was also aware that Delilah knew of this method and would likely play along with it. It was not meant to be deceitful, yet it was.

Walking on the beach a day or so later he called the White House, identified himself and asked to speak to the President. Moments later she came on line. "Orson, long time no see. You short of money?"

"Always. If you can find a spot for me in D.C., I'll be along with a pair of babies and a nanny or two."

"But not a wife."

"Not a wife. You may know of her physical condition. Well, it's eating on her mind. Two perfect babies and she feels more or less deformed, of course disfigured by the bomb. It eats on her. I think she'll recover. Our cook is a mother figure and will care for her."

"What about psychiatric help?"

"She won't go there."

"So, Ok. I've something in mind for you. Where will you be staying?"

"I'll be staying in a three-bedroom townhouse in Georgetown if you can find one for me."

The President chuckled. "Leave it to me. How can I contact you?"

"E-mail."

One fine day when Delilah and Cook were shopping in the city, Orson called a limo and fled with the nannies and the babies. He left a note stating they were off on a vacation and that he would keep in constant touch. He guessed Delilah would understand, possibly be relieved, and the deceit was prearranged with Cook.

Orson, like many men, claimed not to understand women. He thought their thinking might be intuitive to some degree and that Delilah might have guessed he had a sexual encounter. But would that have bothered her? Maybe, because of her physical condition. But he would never know.

At the White House, Orson would serve as alternate chief of staff. There was already a competent chief of staff, Lucy Lapin, who would continue to serve. Orson would be available for envoy duty, attempting not to ruffle too many feathers at the State Department. He was known to have the President's ear.

Delilah's mental health seemed to improve as soon as he, the babes and nannies departed, according to Cook. Her reputation as a sharp, analytical observer of the political scene, cut short by the bomb, endured. A National Public Radio reporter, aware of their marriage, inquired about her situation to Orson.

Learning that she was in the best of physical and mental health as could be expected, she was approached by NPR editors and began doing guest spots on the morning and evening news shows. Orson was in a position to give her the occasional heads up.

Orson and Delilah maintained contact through e-mail, avoiding the telephone. She maintained the same contact with the nannies. The entire arrangement seemed rather bizarre, but it worked.

Orson and Delilah's e-mails were frequent and often involved future family plans and the babies.

E-mail transcripts: "Dearest Delilah – I'm concerned about the twins future as spy and foreign service employees. I believe language tutors should be hired when the twins reach 18 months, or by the time they are two. I suggest Chinese, German and Spanish. Math, geography, political science and history would follow. What are your views? All my Love, Orson."

"Dear Orson – I am more a traditionalist and would sub French for German. I assume you want a native speaker for each language. Might that person also serve as a nanny? One of the nannies is already a native Chinese speaker, I think Mandarin, which would be the proper language. This would mean hiring two new nannies and letting one go. Of course I wouldn't do anything to disrupt the twin's psychological development. The nannies are mother figures and losing one might not be wise. Money seems no problem. We have plenty, and both of us are now gainfully employed.

"As we move into the training years, I do have questions about scheduling class-time, recreation and sleep hours. Your devoted wife, Delilah."

"Dearest Delilah – French is Ok by me. We both speak it haltingly, but better than our non-existent German. We seem to agree on Chinese and Spanish. There was a time when everyone seemed to want to learn Russian or some Slavic language. That seems to have passed.

"As young children, I believe the twins need eight hours of sleep at night. Or maybe six or seven if they take afternoon naps. There was a time when it was thought one could learn things while sleeping with some sort of subliminal recording device. That too seems to have gone by the boards.

"With eight hours of sleep, this leaves 16 hours of time left to cram their small heads full of information. Of course they must have three meals a day, plus some exposure to the media. They should learn what TV is, but not watch it to excess. That is, maybe 30 minutes a day. NPR plus MSNBC might be a mainstay. Thus 16 hours would be reduced to 14 or maybe even closer to 13 for study.

"What would you think of hiring a type of schoolmaster on a part-time basis to schedule these recreational-study activities?

"Your loving spouse, Orson."

"My Darling Orson – It would seem you are a hard taskmaster. But perhaps that is what is needed if we are to raise the twins in a desirable fashion. Of course the broad schedule outline you propose is subject to some tweaking. But we are on the same page. Hiring a type of schoolmaster would be the best bet. This would be a compassionate scholarly type who would take the twins' everyday needs into consideration.

"One thing missing might be individuals in their own age group. We mustn't neglect the social needs of the small ones to interact with like individuals. We also must guard them from perverts who seem so common in today's society. I think the nannies will see to this over the years.

"I have some regrets about personally not being able to interact with the two tykes. If they see you on an almost daily basis they will become accustomed to your scar and attractive eye patch. But if I am introduced to them at some later date, what would they think of their hideous mommy?

"Love you as always, Delilah."

"Dearest Delilah – You bring up a point that is often on my mind. Of course there might be an initial shock by your appearance. But they would love you as I do. My greatest hope is for the two of us to be together again, perhaps not as a family, but as two lovers. And I feel in my heart that this will be true.

"My days at the White House are crammed with mundane activity. I know you have met Lucy Lapin (Lucy the Rabbit) at some stage and may again encounter her on NPR. But her days are quite full and our paths seldom cross. It is amazing that two of us, doing basically the same job, can have such busy schedules and avoid conflicts. But we do.

"The President is in the second year of her term. I believe I should see the term through. What would you think about a second term if she were to prevail in the election? I am thinking it might keep us apart and I am not growing younger. The other direction seems more likely. Of course I have nine or ten years on you.

"Your devoted husband, Orson."

"The Darling of my Life, Orson, I would not look forward to seeing the children until they are fully grown and out in the world. Through the years my position can be explained to them. If they are to be the bright and stable individuals I hope and pray for, they will understand.

"This then, bears on our future, you and I. I would hope that we might simply permit them to be raised by the nannies and the yet unnamed schoolmaster. I do not look on this as a cop-out as they would be constantly on our minds, in frequent communication, and monitoring their progress and well-being with great care.

"Do these circumstances appeal to you? Love you always, Delilah."

"My Dearest Wife – Of course it appeals to me. I would move heaven and earth to be with you if our happiness was insured.

"One issue might stand in the way. We are a fairly well known couple, not a pair of rednecks from West Texas. Someone might raise the issue that we are not fit parents because we leave the rearing of the twins to others. I would hate to have to grab the twins, their nannies, you and the schoolbooks and flee into the wilds of Mongolia. Do you see a legal challenge?

"All my Love, Orson"

"My Delightful Husband – That is a possibility. In the days of the ancient regime in France, the nobility had no use for children. They would send them to some forgotten country house along with the appropriate servants. When the children attained a well-polished adulthood they would be received into the companionship of their parents and possibly the court.

"So, rather than Mongolia, we might have an apartment near the Louvre, or a stone cottage in the south, not far from the fresh fish of the polluted Med.

"With Passion, Delilah."

"Dear One – The French idea is not a bad one. But I would still enjoy a situation where we could both interact with the children now and then. Your appearance is not as dismal as you believe. Of course it is different from what it was before the explosion. But you have overcome many hurdles and are once again an on-air person, a respected commentator on NPR. Your children will know that.

"Frankly, Delilah, I don't know what the future holds for us. But I will do my best to work out some plan to bring us together. Our two careers at the moment are on a level keel and there is little reason to disrupt that. But I would throw it all over in a New York minute if we could be together, whether France or Mongolia. With the twins, or without them.

"All My Love, Orson"

"My one-eyed husband – I have been thinking, random thoughts. If we do get together in the near future, as we both wish, I wouldn't mind having another baby. The experience was not bad, and any alteration to this body is welcome. But I would not want the burden of rearing such issue. It's simply a thought that ran through my head like the rustle of leaves on a spring morning.

"One thing we could raise if we had the setting, which we do in my present residence, is chickens. It's quite an urban thing now. The hip society does it for free-range eggs. Strictly hens, no roosters. One problem. Neither of us use that many eggs. We could open a roadside stand.

"Your devoted Bride, Delilah"

"Dear Devoted Bride – We might introduce a rooster and forget about the eggs. Let the hens hide them here and there and wait for the broods to dash around the place, very much like an African village.

"If you're into livestock, rabbits might be another option. Although I prefer the wild type brought down with shotguns. The dark meat has more flavor, while rabbits that skulk in pens, slacker rabbits, taste like chicken.

"I may be sent abroad soon. I cannot say where because these e-mail accounts are not fool proof. I would trust you to keep the secret. Truth to tell, most administration secrets are not really secret. But some members of Congress will attempt to make political hay with them. Wherever, or whenever, and if I go, I can stay in e-mail touch from the farthest corner of the earth. Which corner do you prefer?

"Love you to death, Orson"

"Dearest Orson – Please don't love me to death. Near death is OK, but I'd rather gasp a little. Just after the bomb detonated and I woke with these horrors inflicted on my body, I would have gone gleefully into that oblivion. But now I have you, the babies and even a new career – behind that blank mask of a radio mike.

"You may not think I love the infants, but I do dearly, despite not being able to cuddle them. I talk to the nannies frequently and, as you know, Cook has visited them in the flesh, plus the web photos. I am probably more conscious of their every improvement than most flesh and blood mothers who perform all those obnoxious jobs involving body fluids and so forth.

"Time flies and it will not be long until our little ones cry out for tutoring, to follow their paths on the trails we have laid out. There is ample time to discuss and bicker over their exact schedules, but we can be confident that both of us do so with their best interests as our guide. Our highway to molding a pair of individuals to our own desires is certain to be strewn with deadfalls and unknown hazards. But we will make a difference.

"Now that you will venture to other worlds and leave me rustically at home, my thoughts go out to you. The deadline in my heart is the end of the presidential term, this term. I wish you well on your travels. Come well to my door."

"All my love, Delilah"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

One fine morning, Orson received a voice mail from President Warren. He was to report to the President's residence at seven that evening to receive his overseas assignment. He had been told a week ago that he would be sent abroad.

He called his town house to inform the nannies he would not be home for dinner. They had an informal way of snacking during the day, then all would attend the evening meal. Usually they would cook, but sometimes he would take over that chore. He made it a rule to see that one of them did not have wine with dinner.

No doubt a legitimate assignment was in the works, but he had little doubt that he would spend the night in the family quarters. President Warren was a very attractive woman, a year or three older than Orson, hardly old enough to call her a cougar. Anyway, he enjoyed their encounters and felt no guilt.

He knew what to expect in the way of food, so he killed time after work, working on a plate of barbecue ribs and sweet potato fries, washed down by a partially sweetened tea. It was possible to order half and half in this Southern city.

Then he returned to his office to clear away the debris of the day until the appointed hour arrived. He found Madame President in her tacky dressing gown, a sack of Fritos on the coffee table and a half empty jar of salsa.

He looked at the layout of treats with some disdain, and she said, "You were expecting maybe caviar?"

"I'm not disappointed. I had barbecued ribs." There was also an open bottle of Chablis on the table, in addition to one unopened, a waiter's corkscrew lying nearby. He poured them each a glass and looked up with what he hoped was an expectant slight grin.

"That scar distorts your face slightly," Mary observed.

"You should see my wife."

"I have. Believe me, I envy you both. You have a good marriage."

"You bet. All this and heaven too."

"Heaven comes later," she glanced at her watch and managed a smile. "Your assignment is quite simple, go to Moscow, visit Mikhail Primakov, thaw the icy relations between our two countries."

"Do I sit up and beg?"

"No. He pays a price. They arrested a man named Curtis Johnson. I'm told they're holding him incommunicado. Although they might have killed him. The Russians don't seem to care about things like that. They must set him free to revive cordial relations."

They clinked glasses and drank down their wine. He gave them each a refill. "I see no problem. It's simplicity itself. Why me? Why not our ambassador, or someone in the embassy?"

"For starters, I don't trust any of them. The secretary of state simply isn't up to it. Also, I want the offer coming directly from me."

Rather than go home in the early hours, Orson hopped down to the exercise room and had a long, steamy shower. He had several ties in a desk drawer to avoid that slept-in look. Of course secret service operatives gave him sly glances. He looked at them like what else is new?

Two days later he was on a plane to Moscow. Picked up at the airport, he was driven to the Hotel Peter I, pure luxury with both an indoor and outdoor pool.

There he stayed for three days, cooling his heels, waiting for Mikhail Primakov's call. The days were far from idle.He worked out in the gym twice a day, ate like a prince – the hotel restaurant prided itself on recreating the czar's menu of a century ago.

There was koulebiaka, sturgeon blended with rice, cream and spices inside a flaky pastry. And kedrach, a liqueur made with pine nuts. Then there were outings, strolls through nearby Red Square and to explore St. Basil's Cathedral, also a short walk away.

The call came in late afternoon of the fourth day. He was to exit the hotel through a side door at precisely 20:00 and enter a waiting BMW with dark tinted windows. Sounded cloak and dagger, but he had no choice.

The Kremlin was also nearby and he was hustled out of the BMW by a single guard, escorted through deserted halls and then into Primakov's outer office, also deserted. His escort told him to have a seat and wait, then left him alone. The atmosphere was a bit eerie.

Almost an hour slipped by, then Mikhail Primakov himself emerged from the inner office and bade him step inside. He did not offer his hand, but motioned him to a seat beside his desk. The Russian president sank into his office chair and they were almost nose-to-nose.

The Russian spoke first. "President Warren informed me you were coming. But she didn't say your exact mission. Perhaps you want to buy some of our products, or permit a wave of tourists to descend upon us, loaded with Euros of course." He did not seem friendly.

"No, Sir, I hoped to thaw our frosty relations. We are two great nations. Why not get along?"

"Why, indeed. So what thoughtful gifts do you bring from your vast land? Albeit, not as vast as ours."

Orson smiled. "Hardly as vast as Canada, or China. Maybe we are only half vast."

Mikhail smiled. He understood American idioms. He had served in the embassy in Washington and briefly at the U.N. "I'll drink to that." He produced a bottle of vodka from a credenza, along with a pair of glasses, and poured them each a few ounces. They drank. Then the Russian asked him to go on.

"What we are seeking is a sign of goodwill."

"Do you have anything in mind?"

"Yes. An American, a Curtis Johnson, has been seized and held in prison here for some time. I'm assuming he's alive. If not, we would like his body. But we would like him freed."

Mikhail did not seem the least surprised. "He is alive and he is held nearby. We think he might be a spy, but thus far our courts have not handled the case."

"No charges have been brought?"

"None so far."

"But you have evidence that this American businessman is a spy?"

"He fell in with evil companions."

"A spy ring of some kind?"

Mikhail smiled and poured them each more vodka. "A nightclub performer, a lovely woman. Not young, mind you, but still beautiful and, as you say, well preserved."

"And she too has been taken into custody?"

"My, no. She is one of our agents. She tipped us off."

"She told you he is a spy?"

"She was suspicious and she is quite insightful."

"So you have no evidence?"

"So far, none. But he may incriminate himself. Tip his hand so to speak."

"And when might that be?"

Mikhail shrugged. "Who knows? We are long on patience."

"What do you think of my offer?"

"For us to take the first step in restoring good relations, as if we ever had them. It's insulting." With that he opened a desk drawer, pulled out an automatic pistol and slammed it down on his desk. Orson was somewhat shocked because the automatic was more or less pointed at him, and a shock might set it off. Then he noticed something of great interest.

"Do you propose to shoot me?" he asked.

"Shoot the messenger," Mikhail said. "Of course I do. You will not be imprisoned like your countryman, this Johnson person. You will simply vanish. Your body will be buried in a military cemetery under a soldier's marker. You will take your place among glorious Red Army heroes. That should make you proud."

Orson gave him a sharp look. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm serious. This will send your president a message. That her wonder boy dropped from sight. Not a trace left behind. I've checked you out. Your career smacks of the unsavory. I pick up this gun and shoot you. Do you prefer the heart or the head?"

"Neither, really. If you even look like you're going for that weapon I'll snap your neck." Aware that the Russian prided himself on his trim physical shape, Orson had forty to fifty pounds on him, was half a head taller and possessed a long reach. His ace in the hole was that the automatic's safety was on. It could not be simply picked up and fired.

"I could press a button and summon guards."

"Go for the button and I'll snap your neck."

"We seem to be at an impasse. What do you suggest?" As the Russian spoke he leaned forward and lunged for the weapon. Orson was on him in a flash, and then the sickening crack of his neck followed by almost instant death.

Orson dropped the weapon into his jacket pocket after clicking off the safety. Then he arranged Mikhail's body on the floor, hoping it would seem the man had a stroke. Then he went to the door at the rear of the office and cracked it open. Just as he had imagined, the door provided a soundproof barrier. Only the buzzer would have alerted security. Two guards were seated, reading newspapers.

"The President has had a stroke," he announced. "He's in here on the floor."

The guards rushed in and surveyed the scene. Both seemed to understand English. The oldest one crouched and checked for vital signs, then looked up and said, "I think he's dead. What must we do?"

"The prime minister must be notified," Orson said. "Someone should call Sergei Zyuganov."

"Right," the younger man said. "I'll take care of it."

"Probably we should tell no one," Orson said. "It might cause some sort of political crisis." The men seemed to understand exactly what he was saying and agreed. Weighing on his side was the fact that Mikhail Primakov was not the most popular man in Russia. These were hard times and certain austerity programs the President had forced through had brought protestors into Red Square despite tight police control. Zyuganov was the overwhelming favorite. The ruthless Primakov was feared by both friend and enemy.

"We will take care of it," the older man said. "Your hotel is nearby. You can walk back." If they thought Orson might be responsible for the death, they didn't seem to care. He strolled back to his hotel, passing small groups of merry makers. The Russians knew how to have fun."

As he walked he considered his situation. The guards especially, or any other official for that matter, could hardly announce that the President of Russia had been killed in his office by a lone unarmed American while two bodyguards played cards in the adjacent room. He might be home free. But it might be wise to dispose of the weapon.

In the shadow of a building, he snapped out the clip and dropped the rounds into his pocket, including the chambered round. He carefully wiped the weapon and clip for prints and returned it to his pocket. No reason to dispose of a loaded weapon.

This was a business and tourist area and he didn't stand out from the crowd. Entering a bar he ordered a beer and carried to a small table for two. He was joined almost immediately by a bargirl.

"Buy me a drink?"

"What's your name?" Orson inquired.

"Olga."

"Are all Russian girls named Olga?"

"Only half of them," she smiled. "The rest are named Minka. What happened to your eye?"

"It's on vacation. I'll buy you a drink, a shot of vodka or a beer, no champagne, if you'll watch my beer while I hit the head."

"Deal." Her English and vocabulary seemed faultless.

In the men's room, Orson waited by a urinal until the other occupant departed, then using his handkerchief, dropped the automatic into a trash receptacle, making certain it was buried under paper towels.

Then he returned to his table, eyed his beer, wondering if a little something had been added, tossed enough money on the table for at least two common drinks and said goodnight.

"You disappoint me, handsome man. Why not sit and drink your beer?"

"You have bigger fish to fry. The night is young."

She cocked her head to one side and quipped, "I'd like to fry your fish."

Back at the Hotel Peter I, he went directly to his room, looked around to see if the place had been tossed or bugged, finding nothing, he took one of the midget bottles of vodka from the small reefer and poured it into a plastic cup. When in Moscow do as the Muscovites, he thought to himself. He would conduct himself as if every word he uttered might be recorded.

He sat on the edge of the tub, sipping vodka and flushing the rounds down the toilet one by one. He was aware there was an internal trap in the toilet, but the force of the water seemed strong and should carry the cartridges into the main Moscow sewage system. With the final flush, he polished off the vodka, found his way to the lobby and then to the business facility for guests and e-mailed Delilah.

"My Darling Delilah – This part of Moscow at night is a wonderland. You would love it. Bright lights, parks, Red Square, St. Basil's Cathedral, alive with couples dressed to the nines. You would think every one of them might be a Wall Street broker loaded with currency.

"My hotel is fabulous with every imaginable amenity. Swimming pools inside and outside. Of course I watch CNN in my room and sip the standard vodka. Miss you and hope to see you soon.

"All My Love, Orson"

He returned to his room thinking that was innocuous enough, in case he was being monitored.

Dawn brought a tumult of news and crowds into Red Square. President Mikhail Primakov had succumbed to a stroke while working alone in his office late the previous night. Security guards found the body lying facedown on the floor. The country was in mourning for its dearly departed leader. Prime Minister Sergei Zyuganov was of course at the helm.

For some time the two men had switched back and forth as prime minister and president, but it was common knowledge that Mikhail had always been in charge. Now Sergei was on his own and a good portion of the country breathed a sigh of relief.

Orson kept a low profile, keeping to his room, emerging only for a light lunch. He showered and slept and watched TV. A call came from the prime minister's office just before five. He was sending a car for Orson. "Be at the side door of the hotel in fifteen minutes."

Again, it was a black BMW with heavily tinted windows. Orson climbed into the front seat next to the driver, the older guard from last night's misadventure.

Orson grinned and said, "Greetings, Comrade."

The guard smiled and nodded. He seemed in good spirits. Doubtless, he was in on what had actually happened.

Sergei Zyuganov greeted Orson with a bear hug when he was admitted to the inner office. "This is a new day," the Russian said. "We mourn the old, but welcome the new. What wonderful prospects we see in the rising of this sun. Now sit down and tell me about your mission, so rudely interrupted."

"We too grieve your loss. The demise of a player on the international stage, irreplaceable."

"Of course," Zyuganov agreed. "But you carry a message from your President, from Mary Warren."

"Yes, she wishes for peace and good relations between our two countries. She asks that an initial symbol of our determination to carry on as one with maximum cooperation, a small symbol, that this man Curtis Johnson be pardoned for whatever sin he has committed and be free to return to his country where he will be subjected to severe questioning."

"Johnson, the man who is locked away awaiting some sort of disposition. He is the one?"

"Yes, apparently no charges have been filed."

Sergei smiled broadly. "No charges have been filed because none have been found. Our legal system is imperfect, as is yours. They tell me there was only one perfect man. I can't decide. It must have been either Josef Stalin or Franklin Roosevelt."

"Good choice, certainly a toss-up. I'd be happy to escort this Johnson back to America."

"No problem. And tell your Madame President that I'd be willing to meet with her anyplace, anytime."

"God bless you, Sergei," Orson said, hoping using the first name was not offensive.

"And bless you, Orson Platt. You are a better friend to Russia than anyone will ever know. I'll send Johnson along to your hotel and we'll send you off in style, first class on Aeroflot."

A pale and wan Curtis Johnson showed up at Orson's door two hours later. He brought with him the small-wheeled carry-on bag that he arrived with in Moscow.

They embraced briefly, and then plopped down in chairs for a chat.

"Holy God, it's like the day of reckoning," Johnson said. "When they unlocked my cell and led me out I didn't know what was coming down. Naturally, I thought the worse. Yet, I had already been through the worst, all that time in solitary. Any change would have been welcome. Even execution."

The day went on like that with Johnson rambling on, finally happy to have a sympathetic ear. That night Orson treated him to the sturgeon dish of czarist fame. Odd how the Russians look back with hungry eyes on the old days of the czars. They revel in them.

The following morning the two were driven to the airport by limousine, complete with a police escort. Change was in the wind. Some were curious over why a buff man like Mikhail had fallen to a late night stroke. One vodka too many seemed to be the answer. While in a small apartment in the tenderloin district, a janitor polished an automatic pistol with his hand and couldn't believe his good fortune. It looked and felt expensive.

In New York, Johnson was met by family and friends. Orson dodged the hullabaloo as best he could and hotfooted it for his flight to Washington. His first priority was to report to the President. He would return to the Big Apple and visit Delilah as soon as possible. After ridding the world of Mikhail he deserved a few days off.

It was late in the day when his plane touched down at National, and he went immediately to his Georgetown townhouse, greeted the nannies and looked in on the twins. All well. He was told the White House had called earlier, but decided to ignore the call and be in early for work the following day.

He had been at his desk for some time when his secretary arrived. Surprised to see him, she asked if he had talked with the President.

"Not yet. I thought she might call."

"She did. More than once yesterday. She wants to see you ASAP."

"Do you suppose she's up?"

The secretary grimaced and said, "Of course. She's the leader of the free world."

"Call her office and see if you can wangle an appointment."

"She'll wangle you if you don't get over there."

"Not unannounced. She has all sorts of briefings and scheduling problems in the morning."

"Aren't you supposed to attend those briefings?"

"I rely on rumors and Fox news."

She laughed. "Isn't that one and the same?"

"I have confidential stuff. I must see her alone."

"Speaking of rumors, I've heard something about those encounters."

"Please, no loose lips. Just call her office."

"Yes, Master."

President Warren's first question as, "How did you manage to kill Mikhail?"

Orson almost cringed and placed a finger before his mouth.

"I have the office swept more than once a week. I certainly don't record anything. I'm no Nixon."

"We all like a joke, Madame President. It seems that Sergei Zyuganov, who incidentally sends his greetings and says that he will meet with you anytime, anywhere... Anyway, Sergei and most Russians seem to believe Mikhail died of a late night stroke, possibly triggered by excessive drinking. Vodka, you know."

"Ah, yes. That colorless, tasteless liquid, possibly made from potatoes or some other unspeakable items. I suppose we should leave it at that. At least for the present. I am not a cat, but I am curious. Anyway, whatever happened, the world is a better place and you have somehow pulled off one of the greatest coups of your career. You deserve a reward."

"I was thinking a few days off."

"That can be arranged. Come by my quarters at 7:30 tonight and we'll talk and make medicine."

"Shall I bring a bag of Fritos?"

"I'm well stocked."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Recently, Delilah had been hammering relentlessly on the need for gun control legislation. She was appalled by news that two gun manufacturers were actually opening a new factory in North Carolina. She wondered, would there never be enough guns and ammunition in the world? Aside from sport shooting and hunting, guns had only one purpose. That seemed obvious. Self-defense seemed a hollow argument, except in the gun culture promoted by the National Rifle Association.

Orson was a bit concerned. It was this sort of binge crusading that had resulted in the car bomb that mangled her once attractive and well put together entirety. Of course, Orson with his scarred face and mutilated eye could ignore her deformities. They were a tight-knit couple and lovers even though not living together and despite Orson's occasional transgressions.

He had some concern for her safety, but living in an isolated spot with Cook seemed superior than the crowded city. Because she was used more and more by NPR and attracted a tight phalanx of fans, they had added on a pair of interns, one male, one female, who lived with her most of the time in the rambling old house on the beach.

They were Jeb Miller and Nora Noto, both political science students receiving credit for their NPR internships. Delilah provided room and board, their parents pitched in with spending money. Jeb was a product of Birmingham, Alabama, where his parents were into old money from traditional steel mills. Nora from Boston cameth forth, the daughter of a seafood restaurant owners, a small chain of three eateries featuring raw-bars and steamed shellfish.

Both interns were skilled with computers and spent hours skimming for scraps of information that Delilah considered fodder for her commentary. Armed with her sharp appetite for what may or may not be on the public mind, combined with gems dredged up by the interns, she had developed a large following and was often quoted, often invited to appear on various TV talk shows and she invariably turned down the invitations for obvious reasons. Thus she was something of a mystery woman to the uninitiated.

The mystery tended to fire the imagination of the legions of confused gun nuts, clustered all about, a confused outrage egged on by constant drumfire from the NRA, fueled by the well larded gun interests. Money was the source of this evil, depending on your point of view.

She was brought down by a single shot as she walked on the beach. A heavy round of ammunition ripped through her chest creating chaos with heart, lung and anything else in its path. Another beach walker discovered the body within the hour and used her cell phone to call 911.

She was thoughtful enough not to disturb the body, obviously dead and clad in clam diggers and a frayed gray sweatshirt. She was known to the other beach walkers. The police taped off the scene and notified Cook and the two interns. Cook called Orson, who was assisted by the White House in rushing to the scene.

Sheriff's deputies, Long Island police and FBI agents were all present when Orson arrived, escorted by a pair of Secret Service agents. Because it may have been a hate crime, a ranking FBI agent, John McBride, was in charge. The body had been removed to the nearest morgue.

Orson was calm. He knew such a thing might happen. He asked McBride if a suspect had been identified.

"No, Sir. We've looked for tracks on the beach, have deployed various lawmen throughout the area. She was hit by a heavy round, and the body may have been thrown into an unusual position. That means the trajectory is difficult to determine."

Orson thought for a moment, surveyed the scene. The day was overcast, dismal, a sullen surf with a few sea birds. "Sniper rifle from a boat."

"Yes, Sir. I think you're correct. I alerted the Coast Guard a few minutes ago. But there's been plenty of time for a getaway. These waters are not deserted."

"Which is good and bad. A lone boater can be anonymous, or he had a crew. But others may have seen him and noticed something. Not your best weather for a pleasure cruise."

"Yes, Sir. We have orders directly from the White House. We will stay on this case."

"That's proper. She was probably killed because of the strong views she expressed on NPR. I'm guessing it could do with the gun lobby."

McBride perked up. "You blame the NRA?"

"Only indirectly. Gun manufacturers and munitions people funnel millions into their coffers. They in turn tend to appeal to basic, and sometimes unwholesome, emotions of gun owners and weapons collectors. Some of these people might be driven to do harm to someone like Delilah."

"I must say you seem quite calm for a man who has just lost his wife," McBride observed.

"I have lost many things in my life, including an eye. By keeping my emotions in check I have survived this long. I would advise others to follow suite. If you would, keep me informed and I will do the same with you."

"You intend to follow the case up, then. Possibly seek revenge?"

"Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I am not the Lord. But I will deliberately seek clues. If the person or persons who did this can be brought to the bar of justice it might be a mark against the NRA and a victory for the wonderful woman who was shot down like a rabbit on a ride."

"Or a woman walking on a lonely beach," McBride said. It was obvious the two men were in sync.

Orson went off to arrange for Delilah's cremation. Later he would scatter her ashes. He would participate in no memorial service, although more than one would be held by an assortment of groups.

One thing puzzled him. How did the gunman know where Delilah lived and that she frequently took morning walks on the beach. It was a form of meditation. He ruled out Cook, but ruled in the two interns.

He chatted with them at length. Both had told family and friends that they worked for Delilah, gathering information, following up leads, for her NPR shows.

"Were either of you questioned about her personal habits?" Orson asked.

"Not I," Nora said. "My folks listen to her programs. Not unusual. They've been NPR fans ever since I can remember. You might say she was one of their heroes, or heroines. She was brilliant and she spoke her mind. And she paid a price."

Jeb shrugged and agreed. "I'm much the same. As far as my friends go. My parents never listened to NPR as far as I know. I really don't know their preference, but usually it would be TV. Maybe talk radio in the car, but not NPR. There are a lot of Southern talk shows."

"No one asked you about Delilah's personal habits. Walking on the beach, going shopping, that sort of thing?"

"Not that I can remember. I often met friends in the city on weekends. Sometimes Nora and I would go together, but usually we each did our own thing."

"I am not going to be a fulltime sleuth on the case," Orson explained. "The FBI and others are taking care of that. But I will be doing some investigating. There may be others asking you questions, so I hope you will take it in stride."

"Of course," Nora said.

"What kind of questions?" Jeb asked.

"I haven't any idea. I'm just informing you both that there is an ongoing investigation. And that you and Cook are involved to the point that you shared a house with Delilah and were aware of her habits."

"We're not suspected of anything?" Jeb asked. He seemed a bit suspicious.

"Why would you be suspected of anything? Do you own a sniper's rifle? Did you have a grudge against Delilah?"

"Of course not," Nora asserted.

"There you are. Let's forget the paranoia and all contribute what we can to bringing this villain and his backers to justice."

"You're saying it was a conspiracy," Jeb said.

"I'm not saying anything. Try to curb your imagination."

"Great idea," Nora agreed. "We are both out of a job."

Which was true. They were gone, leaving Cook alone. Orson made a tough decision. He moved Cook to Georgetown and put the Long Island house on the market. Many memories went with it. His new life, his new love, plans they had made for the house, plans they had made for their future.

The body released, the cremation complete, Orson took the ashes to the beach house, waited until well after dark, and then by the light of a half moon waded in the surf and disposed of them in the receding tide.

Returning to the house, he could not sleep. Finally he hopped in his rental car, drove the short distance to JFK and waited for the next flight to National.

Back at the White House, the President asked him, "Who would have a sniper's rifle?"

"The joke's on us, Mary. Probably anybody. There's a non-military sniper's rifle sold by King Arms Cybergun. It's a licensed Kalashnikov. Fires a 6mm projectile at 400 to 550 feet per second. Perfect for the synthetic terrorist."

"What's a synthetic terrorist?"

"That's a term I made up. Catchy, isn't it?"

"Sounds like a song title, like a Rhinestone Cowboy."

"Maybe I'll take up song writing. I suppose you'd call that a hook."

"You can song-write all you want. What I'd like you not to do is spend time and emotional energy tracking down your wife's killer. Let the FBI have that chore."

"Believe me, I won't. I may hire a private investigator to scout around. I wouldn't be personally involved. But back to a sniper's rifle. Probably anyone who put their mind to it could obtain the military version. This has a range up to 2,500 yards. If fired from a boat, it could likely be steadied on an edge, or mounted on some sort of tripod."

"So your man will go boat hunting."

"No. Delilah was an anonymous voice on NPR. Her past history was fairly well known, but not her current situation. Someone had to know both her location and her habits to sit out there on the water with a powerful scope to find her walking on the beach just after coffee. I will seek out that someone."

"There might be a paid someone?"

"For love or money. Something came down. Finding that person will be my contribution. But I'll not do it myself. If you think I may be emotionally involved, you're right."

"I've always thought that sniper is an odd term," the President said.

"It's from snipe hunting. Supposedly a difficult bird to find, but not really. They're water birds, waders. But it builds on the prank – snipe hunt. You've heard of that. A dope, or easily duped person is taken into a wooded area and told to hold an empty bag while the other pranksters will cleverly drive a snipe into it. Of course the major snipe hunter is left holding the bag. Also an expression."

"I do know of that trick, although I've never been left holding the bag, so far." Mary chuckled. "Possibly I left my husband holding the bag. He was with a slew of bags during his exciting career."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Time passed and life went on, but Mary Warren's political capital was flagging. It wasn't so much what she was doing in office, but how it was perceived. In truth the government was humming along despite dissidents in Congress.

There came a morning when Orson found a note on his desk asking that he report to the Oval Office for coffee.

"I've had coffee," he told the President after he was seated.

"You can have another cup." She buzzed her secretary and asked for a pot of coffee and a couple of croissants, or some sort of breakfast thing. Looking grimly at Orson, she said, "We're down in the polls."

"I've heard. But when you say 'we' what do you mean? I'm a simple man from Georgetown earning my daily bread, or pretending to."

"My political people are shmegegge if you know what that means."

"I don't." The coffee arrived and the secretary poured them each a cup and beckoned toward a plate of pastries.

The President pulled a face and suggested the pastries were left over from some former breakfast event, maybe from the week before. The secretary said she could remove them but was told not to bother.

"A shmegegge is something like a schlimazel or a shmendrick."

"I didn't know you were Jewish."

"I'm not." She bit into a stale pastry and pulled another face. "I'm supposed to be President. Maybe I should fly to Paris for a croissant."

"There's a bagel place around the corner."

"You've heard of Tony Morgenson?"

"I think so. Some kind of scandal. Worked in politics."

"Damn right he did. Political genius. I need him."

"Pick up the phone. Maybe you can't get breakfast pastries, but you are the President. People jump to your command."

"Tony isn't doing much jumping lately. He's in Liverpool apparently working in a bar."

"Sounds like a come down."

"Righto, Guvner. There was a party in Georgetown no less. Ended in a dead prostitute, a junior congressman from Utah who was badly banged up, a committee staffer with a knife wound that required a great many stitches and other parties unknown, except Tony. He was questioned by police, gave no coherent answers, but because of his reputation was OR'd and he grabbed the next flight to Jolly Old where he remains to this day. I need him."

"Is he free of sin?"

"Yes and no. He was released on his own recognizance, which means he was supposed to report back for some sort of judgment, but that seems to be his only sin. Simply a matter of clearing that one up. A small matter, I believe."

"Can't you explain this to him by telephone, or some other modern device?"

"I've tried."

"He's a fighter. A brawler, a Hemingway type. You might have to have it out with him with fisticuffs."

Orson laughed. "My reputation precedes me."

"By a country mile. Will you go?"

"Can you assure me so that I can assure him that there are no serious charges against him?"

"Yes, I've gone through all that with the attorney general."

"That should do it. When should I depart?"

"I've booked you on a flight to Heathrow tomorrow night. You can take a train to Liverpool from Victoria station."

"I am your humble servant."

"Let's get together when you get back."

"You can lick my wounds."

"I'll lick more than that."

Orson tidied up his ongoing projects and left work early to check in with Cook, the nannies and the ever-growing twins. Also to toss a few things into a carry-on. His was as happy a household as a household might be.

The bedside telephone jarred him awake just after midnight. It was his dead wife's former intern, Nora Noto and she had obviously been drinking.

"I'm the one you're looking for," she blurted. "There's been a man asking questions. I thought I'd better confess."

Orson breathed a sigh of relief. The private eye seemed to have paid off. Finally, a break in the case.

"I'm sorry you're so upset, Nora. I'm certain whatever you did was quite innocent."

"Oh, it was, Sir. It was. It was a Friday night at the Jane Hotel. This handsome young man approached me. We hit it off."

"This Jane Hotel. Where might that be?"

"In the West Village, on Jane Street, near the Lincoln Highway. There's a club there, the French-Morocco Café. I was there with a girlfriend. I had planned to spend the night at her apartment, then this dream appeared."

"Handsome man?"

"You betcha. I'm almost certain he gave me a fake name, but he was registered at the hotel, had a room and all, Room 324. And the night!"

She checked a calendar and gave him the date.

"He extracted information from you?"

"Yes. He was good. Those rooms are like miniatures. We laid on the floor, made love, talked, drank wine, talked and made love again. Of course when dawn finally broke, he was long gone. That didn't bother me at the time. You know how those quick hook-ups are. But then I got to thinking about his questions. The two main items. I told him where the house was and that Delilah frequently walked on the beach after coffee, and maybe with a cup of coffee. She meditated. It was her way."

"I know, Nora. If you hadn't told him they would have found out in some other way. So put it out of your mind. I'm guessing your friend is also not the culprit we seek, but certainly involved. Now clear your mind of guilt and forget we've talked."

"I will, Orson. If you ever want a hook-up..."

"Goodnight, Nora." She was no dummy.

Late as it was, Orson called the private eye's home number and gave him the story. He asked him to check the Jane Hotel, get the name of the man who checked into room 324 on the night involved.

In the morning, he called Mary Warren's secretary and said his England date would have to wait for a day or two. There had been a break in Delilah's murder case.

Just after noon the detective called with the name he had sought. Jacob Irons. "I checked into this, Orson. He's an NRA employee, lives in Washington." He then gave this Iron's address. It was in Georgetown, less than four blocks from the Platt townhouse.

He thanked the detective and asked for a bill. "This may be the break we need."

Orson phoned John McBride, the FBI agent who was still on the case. "I think I know who tipped off the murderer to Delilah's residence and beach walking habits."

"Give me the information and we'll pick him up. It is a man, isn't it?"

"NRA employee. But I want the first crack at him."

"We don't need a vigilante, Orson. We'll handle this as official business."

"I do not want to hurt him. I merely want a few minutes to talk to him before you move in. I know where he lives. You and as many agents as you like can go with me early tomorrow morning. But let me go to the door first and ask him a few questions. There will be no violence unless he starts it. I will be unarmed."

"You've done our work for us. It's a deal."

It must have been a rush of adrenaline. Orson felt alert, he could see things more clearly as if for the first time. There was excitement in his life. He tried to calm himself, but his senses were heightened. He knew the feeling wouldn't last and that he had to calm down. It was only mid-afternoon. And the reckoning would be early in the morning.

He did not go directly home after signing out. He drove past Jacob Iron's townhouse. It was one of those narrow structures. With long arms one could almost stand in the center of the room and touch both walls. There would be a living room, a dining room and a kitchen in shotgun fashion, and an upstairs bedroom.

Dropping by a well-known steakhouse, he downed a martini, then dug into a porterhouse that weighed the better part of a pound. With that he had a glass of white wine, then one of red. His nerves settled, he headed for home, spoke to Cook and the nannies, looked in on the twins who were sleeping like angels and took a glass of scotch to his room.

Generally, he was not excitable, but this night was different. He did sleep until 4 a.m. when the alarm woke him. He made himself coffee and a peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich. The paper was on the front stoop. He read until McBride, accompanied by one agent rolled up at five.

"This is the life, eh," he remarked as he climbed into the rear seat and directed them to Iron's townhouse.

"So, what's the plan?" McBride asked.

"I wake him up. I probably step inside and talk. Then I come out and you go on. Simple enough?"

McBride laughed. "Orson, you're a wonder. Just keep your shirt on."

"No problem."

It took some bell ringing and hammering on the door before a sleepy eyed Jacob Irons stood face to face with Orson. He was a youthful, handsome man. Very likely older than he appeared. Orson asked, "You know me?"

"Orson Platt. How could I not recognize you?"

"We have to talk."

"Of course. Come by the office. You know where I work?"

"We need to talk now."

Irons looked beyond him to the car at the curb with two men in the front seat. "Are they with you?"

"My associates. You don't want to antagonize those two."

"Ok. Come on in."

Irons dropped into an overstuffed chair after switching on a table lamp. Orson took a seat on a small sofa.

"You are responsible for my wife's death," he began.

Irons quickly interrupted him. "Not intentionally, if at all. I was asked to locate your wife so we might meet with her and give her our point of view."

"The typical NRA way. Out of the barrel of a sniper's weapon. Why haven't you come forward?"

"I was told not to. I talked it over with my boss. He told me not too. He said no one would find out. I told him everything, about the Jane Hotel, about Nora and the information they wanted. They said they merely wanted to talk. I believed them. I still do. They wouldn't condone cold blooded murder."

"Someone did. Using your information. I'm certain you're aware of that."

"I thought it could be true. But my boss said not to talk. I have a good job."

"So did Delilah. Do you have guns in the house?"

"I have a gun, an automatic. It's almost required. Defend the home."

"You believe that?"

"Not really. It's not loaded. You want it?"

Orson shook his head and smiled. "No. I've not come to rob you. I've come to talk. Those are FBI men outside. They will very likely see that you and perhaps your boss are punished for what you have done. You had better hope they inflict some sort of punishment, not that there is a simple punishment that fits your crime. Hanging would be appropriate. If you get off Scot-free so to speak, I'd suggest you go far away and change your name. I'm a good tracker."

"I didn't mean any harm."

"Of course not. You seduced an innocent girl with evil intent, used a fake name, fled before dawn. What harm could have come of that?"

"She wasn't all that innocent."

"You mean she wasn't a virgin. True. But she was relatively free of sin. You might say in a state of grace. Now I'll summon the hounds." Orson moved to the door and signaled McBride to join the fun.

When the two agents entered, Orson said, "Meet Jacob Irons, NRA stalwart. I'm going to trot on home and have breakfast." Turning to McBride, he said, "If you have any questions, John, I'll be in my office. I may leave for England later today."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The flight to London was largely uneventful. It gave Orson time to think of the twins, growing stronger and brighter, their brains improving on a daily basis. He would of course carry out the original plan. Raise Alice as a spy and Dan as a foreign service employee.

He sorely missed Delilah, particularly at times like this when the twins' future filled his mind. He now would be the sole arbiter, a job he had no relish for. He must plan their education, employ tutors, select the topics. Fortunately there had been talks, and he and Delilah had laid down basics.

He attempted to remember all her suggestions and would do his best to do her bidding. And he would inform the twins of that. He leaned toward the melancholy and could easily die, but he must live for the twins.

He was in an aisle seat with a quiet young lady by his side. He began to wonder what idiot bought him a ticket for London in last class when he was headed for Liverpool. Maybe they had a free ticket. Mary was right, he was on a political mission and her political arm was suffering from major confusion.

With his good memory and penchant for geography, he was keenly aware of Liverpool's John Lennon Airport, plus another a few miles away in Manchester. Even Blackpool is closer than Heathrow. Oh, well, enjoy the rest.

The girl next to him spoke up and said she'd like to discuss something if he didn't mind. He looked at her with his good eye and said OK.

"I read about a witch or a wizard of some sort turning a person into a snowball. You know one of those things you shake up and the snow flies?"

"I've seen them. Was the actual person in miniature, of course, inside the snow ball?"

"No. It doesn't work that way. Inside was like a wood sprite, or an imaginary creature."

"Not like a human or a witch or wizard."

A slight pout and she said, "You don't believe in such things."

"I have no opinion."

"Well," she said seriously, "You have to believe, or they don't exist."

"I can believe that."

"What I'm getting at, he could have been turned into any number of things, like a kitchen appliance."

"Like a dishwasher or a refrigerator," Orson said.

"No I misspoke. I think I mean a utensil, like a skillet, say an iron skillet, that's something that would last and last. An appliance would wear out and end up on the dump, or recycled into something else. How would you like a chance at eternity on a bet like that?"

"I seldom gamble."

"Well, this is what I'm getting at. The people in that house become deceased. Quite a natural process. Their possessions go into an estate sale, or relatives pick over them. Probably both. So a hundred years pass. Then one fine day another witch or sorcerer happens by, spies the skillet and realizes it is enchanted. On a whim he or she frees the trapped person who happens to be 26-years-old. How's that?"

"How's what?"

"Would the person still be twenty-six and what would become of that person?"

"I don't quite get your drift."

"It would be a new age. Everything would be different. Could that person survive?"

"I'd say yes. Humans evolve very slowly. Abraham Lincoln was much like me, except he had two eyes. The young person could go on the road telling people about the old days, using whatever media might exist at that time. Hard to tell."

"I don't know." The young lady was thoughtful. "Maybe it would be best simply to remain as a skillet. I mean the person actually doesn't know he is a skillet. They are used for frying eggs, perhaps bacon, maybe sauté mushrooms or some other wholesome food. We're not talking vegetarians, well maybe for the mushrooms. But he does not feel intense heat or anything else. He is simply a skillet."

The young woman lapsed into silence for the remainder of the flight. Orson ate peanuts, drank a can of Bloody Mary mix and read the in-flight magazine.

The final approach to Heathrow, seat backs up, belts on, now his mission. First to make his way to Liverpool. He wondered if he'd have to talk Scouse, a British accent peculiar to Liverpool.

It was still the morning, but it took the better part of the day to get to Liverpool and find a hotel room. At the Woodcock Tavern, half a block from his hotel, he ordered a pint of beer and asked the waitress what looked good on the menu.

"You're in Liverpool, why not try Scouse?"

"I thought that was an accent."

"It is," she replied. "But it's also a stew. They call us Scousers and they call us Liverpudlins plus a few other names I shant repeat."

"I'll have the Scouse. Why not. I'm looking for a guy who might be a bartender, or a bar worker of some kind. His name's Tony Morgenson. Ever hear of him?"

"What's he wanted for?"

"No crime. Actually there's a good job waiting for him in the States."

"I don't know him, but I'll ask the barkeep. It's like a fraternity. They get together sometimes. Trade beer recipes."

Orson smiled. "I understand. And bring me another pint with the Scouse."

He sipped his beer like a typical English drinker and enjoyed his rustic surroundings. When the waitress returned with his stew and beer, she said, "The bartender thinks he knows the bloke. An ugly American."

"That's him. Has a name as a brawler."

"He's wanted in the States?"

"Definitely not. I come with an attractive job offer. He's a sharp political strategist."

"Whatever that might be. I'll relay the message."

Halfway through his stew and working on a second pint of beer, the waitress returned and told him Morgenson worked a few blocks away and would join him in a few minutes.

"Astounding," Orson replied. "I just rolled into town and my wish has been granted. You are indeed a superior person."

"Maybe, maybe not. This Morgenson is one tough customer for a Yank. He could mop up the place with you if you cross him."

Orson shrugged. He thought this character must be one hell of a politico for Mary to put up with a bomb about to explode. Maybe there was a romantic connection. He didn't have to speculate for long. Morgenson lurched through the door and the waitress pointed out Orson. He dropped into the chair across from Orson and asked, "Are you looking for me?"

"I am. I've been sent by the President who sorely needs your services."

"You're tampering with my good nature."

"Not at all. She's tried to contact you. You should know that. She thinks you're the only one who can move her up in the polls."

"She's likely right about that. Do you want to fight?"

Orson couldn't suppress a smile. "I'm not unwilling. Do you fancy a beating?"

"Son of a bitch, if you're not a cool one. OK, what sort of reception will I get in Washington?"

"The party in Georgetown is history. No problem. But you were OR'd, which meant you were expected to report back to court. It's like giving your word."

"I know that. It's the dead prostitute that troubled me. Not my fault now, Mate."

"I understand and it's been cleared up according to Mary. She said the OR thing would be easily taken care of. She does have the justice department at her beck and call."

"She's a good one. What's your job over there?"

"I'm the second chief of staff. Mostly errands like this, tamping down brush fires. I'd like to get you back there as soon as possible."

"I'll go. I'll pack tonight if you book the flights. You still want to fight?"

"Frankly, I'd rather not."

Tony rose and slapped him on the back. "Good boy. Where's your hotel?"

"Just down the block." He gave Tony his name and room number and said he'd try for an early flight. The brawler departed and Orson could hardly believe what had occurred. And the Scouse was adequate.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tony Morgenson slipped happily back into his element as head of President Warren's political team. Those offices were across the river in Northern Virginia, a place unto itself, not part of Washington and disowned by the remainder of the Old Dominion.

To Orson's disgust, the authorities had been forced to let Jacob Irons and his NRA lobbyist boss, Pat Tullis, off the hook. Insufficient evidence and no charges were filed. Irons had heeded Orson's advice and left town without a forwarding address. He was a small fish in a big, nasty scheme and Orson's focus was on Tullis. But he needed a plan.

He did however ask his private eye to put a tracer on Jacob Irons. It's difficult for a person, particularly one that must remain gainfully employed, to drop completely out of sight. His intention was to harass Irons from time to time, not to do him any real harm.

He and Morgenson had become fairly close friends, and it was that pub brawler he sought out with his tale of woe over Pat Tullis. He explained the situation and Morgenson, who was always ready for any kind of physical activity, hopped on board. The big man also had friends of the same ilk.

For the better part of a week four of them took turns staking out the Tullis home in Falls Church, watching for patterns. Early one morning, Morgenson and two companions wearing black head sacks seized Tullis as he walked from his front door to his carport. A neighborhood young mother on her morning run heard Tullis shout out "Orson Platt" as he was tumbled into the trunk of a dark sedan. She watched in horror as the car sped away, but failed to note the license, which was obscured by some sort of covering.

Orson had not been a member of the kidnap gang, which headed for a small summer cabin in the West Virginia hills. Tullis, chained hand and foot, was confined to a root cellar accessed by trap door from the cabin's kitchen. One of the three remained in the cabin, reading and watching TV, dropping a plastic jar of water and a pack of crackers into the cellar each morning.

The morning of the fourth day, Morgenson visited the cabin, black head sack and all, opened the trap and asked Tullis how he was doing.

"This is inhuman," the chained man almost screamed. "I'm lying in my own excrement. There are probably bugs down here. Are you Orson Platt?"

"Platt? Who's that? You have some information for us. Here's what we must know. You have a total gun collection at your headquarters. To whom did you loan an assault rifle and who used it to shoot Delilah Simpson."

"That's outrageous," Tullis screamed back. "Let me out of here. I won't tell the police who you are."

"We've had a little argument up here. If you won't talk, we can't decide whether to sprinkle black widow spiders over your head, or insert a full grown copperhead. Do you have a preference?"

"You bastards."

"You've got spunk, I'll say that. Death by snake or spider bite might be painful, but only for a few hours. When your body is found, who's to blame? A spider or a snake. Take your choice."

"You can't get away with this..." were the words heard as the trap door slammed shut.

Morgenson turned to his drinking buddy and said, "I'll be back in two days. Got enough beer here?"

"Plenty. I'm enjoying the rest."

The afternoon of the kidnapping, a pair of FBI men visited the White House and demanded to see Orson. They were escorted to his office by two Secret Service agents.

"You're under arrest, Mr. Platt," the lead agent said, pulling out handcuffs.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," Orson said, adding, "All four of you."

"You're under arrest," the agent repeated, still standing.

"And you're in the White House. Now sit down and tell me the charges."

Reluctantly, he sat down and the others followed suit. "Kidnapping. You seized Pat Tullis early this morning and shoved him into the trunk of a vehicle."

"Oh, really. What vehicle?"

"A dark sedan."

"So far, so good. So you rescued this Tullis and have the car in custody. Is that correct?"

"Of course not. You can supply the needed facts. You were spotted at the crime scene."

"By who?"

"A young woman out for a run heard the person being assaulted call out your name."

"And she got a good look at me. My face is unforgettable."

"You were masked."

"Was I alone?"

"There were two companions." The FBI agent showed some irritation. "You can't question us. We're here to question you. So you might as well give yourself up."

"And your evidence is that someone shouted my name. Is that it?"

"Of course that's it. The man being kidnapped knew you, knows you."

"Has there been a mysterious phone call, or ransom note?"

"Of course not. You think this man may have been involved in killing your wife."

"If that man's a murderer, maybe you're barking up the wrong tree."

"He's an executive in the NRA."

"And I'm an executive in the White House. If I were you two I would have a care. You are acting impetuously on a rumor, not a shred of evidence. A cry from a man who may be implicated in a murder."

"We've come to take you in for questioning."

"No charges."

"We have the authority to charge you with kidnapping. Perhaps it would be better if you simply accompany us to the building."

"The J. Edgar Hoover building."

"Of course."

"When did this alleged crime occur?"

"About seven this morning."

"Do you know a person named John McBride?"

"If it's the FBI man, he's one of our bosses."

"At about seven this morning I was having breakfast with him."

"I don't believe you?"

"Call him."

The call was made and the FBI men departed.

Moments later, Orson's secretary reported, "A Mr. McBride is on line one."

"You son of a bitch," McBride laughed. "You're in this up to your eye balls. Who'd you hire to do the job? We'll find out, you know that."

"Like the good German, I know nothing. I've heard that this so-called victim, this Tullis, may be implicated in the murder of my wife. Is that true? Have you followed up on that one? Were you about to nail him?"

"Ok, Orson, I'm on to your game."

"You're not even in the ball park, John. You let Jacob Irons fly the coop without batting an eye. You're running the Keystone Kops over there. So far I've got one private eye working the case and he alone has turned up some indicting findings. You sit on the sidelines with your thumb up your ass." With that he slammed down the phone.

Orson was aware that he being watched. It enraged him that the FBI would call out the hounds to try to nail him, while not turning their hand to find his wife's killer. Although McBride had assigned an agent to that case.

That the agency had attached some type of homing device to his car was very likely. Orson made no attempted to find it. Instead, on the third day, when he drove to the cabin, he first drove to National, parked his car in short term, entered the terminal and rented a car. Then took a devious route. The FBI had given up visual pursuit. For the two preceding days, Orson had spent two to three hours after work driving aimlessly around the area.

On the sixth day after the kidnaping, Orson drove the nanny's car to national and rented another car, then took a circuitous route to the cabin, arriving before Tullis received his daily rations.

The trap door was opened, Orson had donned his mask. He asked, "How's our cellar companion."

"He don't say much. I say we off the motherfucker. That's part of the chain broken. If we let him live, the court might let him go. NRA you know, big bucks, big influence on the hill."

"You may be right," Orson replied. "Spiders or snake?"

"Let the fucker starve. I can fix it so his body will never be found. Guaranteed."

Orson moved close to the trap. "You hear us, Pat?"

"I hear you. I'm dying down here."

"I'm afraid that's the truth. But nice guys that we are. You have one more chance to talk and talk straight to win your freedom."

"You want me to implicate myself?"

"That is your chance, your only chance. Then you take your chances with the courts. I'd say that's the best deal you're going to get. You can do it now, or you can starve. Maybe spiders or snakes."

"I'll talk."

"OK. Instead of a snake, I'll dangle a microphone down. Be sure to give your name and occupation. Don't mention kidnapping or any crime on our part or any location. You have our word if you tell the whole story from start to finish you will be released. Also, cleaned up right away."

"I need some water. Also something to eat other than crackers."

"We'll lower a few goodies down. It's like your birthday."

"You can't believe the mess I'm in."

Pat Tullis told his story from beginning to end, even naming the boatman who was loaned a military style sniper's rifle.

When that was done a black hood was tossed down."Put the hood over your head, pull the drawstring around your neck and tie it. If you remove the hood for any reason, we'll have to kill you," Orson's friend ordered.

"I understand. You're playing hardball."

They managed to get a rope around his chains and hoist him up. What a mess he was. They dragged him into the bathroom. The door was left open while he cleaned himself up, finally taking a shower, a bit hard for a blind man. He came out of the bathroom clean, dripping and nude. First a towel, then a jump suit.

"You'll remain here for a day or two. The confession will be transcribed and you'll sign it. You'll be chained to a bed. The head sack can be removed only to eat and then one glance at your captor and a bullet goes through your head. You understand?"

"Of course. Maybe it's the Stockholm syndrome, but I'm beginning to like you guys."

The three of them had a good laugh. Tullis was chained to the bed and Orson took the confession and departed.

So that was basically it. With the name of his wife's killer in hand, Orson had his private eye locate the man. He was a so-called "waterman" on Chesapeake Bay and a known gun nut.

Orson typed the confession himself, but had the third man in the kidnap gang deliver it to the cabin for Pat Tullis' signature. Then it was breakfast with McBride again.

After coffee and the other niceties and before attacking the bacon, eggs and grits, Orson mentioned that he knew the name of his wife's killer.

"Good work. Would you like a job with the bureau?"

"Tullis is implicated."

"I never doubted it."

"I trust you, John, but the FBI has not led in this case. If I give you the name of the killer at this time, what will you do?"

"I'll want proof."

"That's all I wanted to know. I am one hungry man." Orson took a fork and mixed his egg yolks with the grits, then munched on a slice of bacon.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"And let you bungle another lead. Of course not. But you will learn the name in a few days. Never fear. Patience, a great virtue."

"I can be patient."

"I also know where Jacob Irons is working. You might want to connect the dots since Tullis sent him to learn where Delilah was living and, for good measure, her habit of walking on the beach early in the morning."

"You want to tell me that?"

"Come now, John. You must know that. Such a simple matter to track an amateur like Irons."

"We don't know, but I suppose I can find him."

"Flush him out with a visit from the local bureau. One chat and he flees like a jackrabbit again. Why bother? Do you guys ever catch a criminal?"

"We're going to catch you."

"Sure. Catch me. Let my wife's killer go. Some justice."

Copies of the Tullis confession, both tape and hard copies, were sent by messenger to leaders in the House, Senate and to the FBI. Well, not to the actual House and Senate leaders. They never read anything except press releases and contribution checks. But to their lead staffers whose job it is to stay alert. Orson made a point to call McBride that morning and give him the name and address of the Chesapeake waterman. Tullis was released at midnight in downtown Baltimore.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Orson breathed a sigh of relief. He had done what he could to avenge his bride. Now it was up to the courts. Tullis, Irons and the waterman were in custody. Of course Tullis, with the might of the NRA behind him, easily made bail. Irons would save his skin by testifying against Tullis. And McBride was unable to tie Orson or anyone else to the kidnapping.

The President had watched the entire drama unfold with some amusement. She had dropped a few hints that Orson was not to be harassed by the FBI or anyone else. In fact she had a mission for him.

What that was, he had yet to learn. Stepping out of his townhouse in the early morning, the brick fronts crammed together with scarcely a stoop between them and the street, he almost bumped into an attractive, mature woman who seemed to be just standing on the street.

He smiled and said, "Going my way?"

She returned the smile and replied, "I thought you might emerge at this time."

"I'm a creature of habit. I'm easily stalked."

"I live next door, temporarily at least."

"You were looking to chat me up?" Orson inquired.

"I thought you might be a dancer," She said.

He laughed at the sound of her words. A dancer. "I'm Orson, who might you be?"

"Katrina, a dancer."

"I suppose you might say we are all dancers, dancing around this or that, not always light on our feet."

"I do ballet on the stage. My bread and butter."

"Good for you. A ballerina."

"I don't like that term. It sounds like a little girl. I think you and I are about the same age."

"I doubt that," Orson replied. "You retain the bloom of youth. Anyone my age would not likely be dancing, for money anyway. Unless it was on a street corner."

It was her turn to smile. "You paint a sordid picture of a down-and-out hoofer, maybe Bojangles."

"Tell me about yourself."

"Many think I am too old, but I still have energy and fire. The young set say I should move into retirement and make room for those moving up. So what do you think?"

"Think about what? The ballet? No thoughts. I have my own game. Although sometimes it's best simply not to have deep thoughts. Read the paper, watch TV, listen to NPR, keep up with current events, eat well, have a taste of alcohol in the evening. That's life."

"You have the look of a dancer. So we start over."

"In tights?"

"Ballroom."

"During my green years I learned to dance. The Fox Trot, two-step, or whatever it might be called. I sought to blend in with the crowd. I find it more difficult with this face."

"From your left profile, I can see you as you were."

"Then if you walked with me on my left side and I never looked at you, I would be...what?"

"A prime fool, I suppose. I'd like you to take me dancing."

"You don't know me."

"I know your household. There are two nannies, two infants and a housekeeper."

"That's Cook."

"But no wife unless she never leaves the house."

"She's dead."

"Fairly recent if she gave birth to those babies."

"Fairly recent. She was murdered."

"Deliberately?"

"Gunned down."

"That's a horrid thing. Are you recovering?"

"Slowly. I have a job and the household, which means the twins. I have their education to consider."

"A little early for that, isn't it?"

"No. These things shouldn't be left to chance."

"I'll leave that one alone. So, will you take me dancing?"

"You a ballerina, me out of practice, and not a very good ballroom dancer. I'd be outclassed."

"Don't call me a ballerina. My name's Katrina. We'd be awesome together."

"Are you thinking of me as a type of sideshow freak?"

"Oh, for Chris'sake, Orson. Will you or will you not take me dancing tonight. I've got a place lined up. No one will know either one of us."

"What the hell. Shall we have dinner first?"

"Maybe a snack. We can't dance on a full stomach. Can you pick me up at seven?"

"Seven. Ok, seven. You snack at home. We eat dinner at six at my place. So I'll have eaten."

"Good by me. But lay off the wine, or any other alcohol. We can sip between dances."

"Good, Lord. What have I gotten myself into? Goodbye, Katrina. See you tonight."

At the White House, Orson had a note from the President to show up at the family digs at seven-thirty to talk about his assignment. He e-mailed back that he was otherwise engaged.

Less than an hour later a Secret Service man popped into his office to escort him to the Oval Office. Once they were alone and seated, she asked, "What in hell do you mean – 'otherwise engaged'?"

He attempted a sweet smile and announced, "I have a date to go dancing."

A look of unbelief crossed her face, and then she began laughing. Regaining her composure, she said, "You, dancing." She was about to start another round of laughter, but instead she said, "You're joking, aren't you?"

"Not at all." He spilled out the entire story about the aging ballet dancer lying in wait for him in Georgetown.

"A ballerina? What's her name?"

"She doesn't like that term. She says she's a ballet dancer and that ballerina sounds like a little girl – you know, 'dance ballerina, dance.' Her name's Katrina."

"Yes, Katrina," the President mused. "You mean she's still dancing?"

"Apparently. She said the younger people would like her to move on so they could move up, or at least compete for her seat, whatever that might be."

"She's very good. And she chose you. Why?"

"She's staying with friends in the next townhouse. She seems to have been casually watching our comings and goings. She guessed I had no wife."

"Perhaps she guessed that." The President seemed to ponder the situation, then said, "I don't see how such a person would be involved in any kind of plot, or what that plot could possibly be. But let's be on our guard. The warning flags are at full staff. Have your fun and I'll have mine. Tomorrow night then we tryst in my quarters at half past seven. Taco chips and salsa guaranteed, maybe even a fresh jar of Cheese Whiz."

Orson found he enjoyed dancing with Katrina and he enjoyed her company. They planned to get together soon unless he was called away.

"Might you be called away?" she questioned.

"Always a possibility. Nothing unusual." He wasn't aware of what the President had in mind for him.

But he did learn a few things the following evening.

"I've checked on your friend, Katrina," the President said. "Of course I heard of her years ago. She has one name, like Meatloaf or Prince. I think Prince is still called Prince. No matter. She was born in this country, but her parents were immigrants. The father's name was Vladimir Sasha Anichkina. At Ellis Island they hung Val King on him, which is not a bad American name."

"So her real name is Katrina King?" Orson asked.

The President allowed a brief chuckle. "For reasons unknown her parents decided to give her a traditional ethnic name – Ksenrya Irina Aleksandrova. Get your mouth around that one."

Orson shook his head. "Strange."

"Maybe not. They wanted her to have some anchor to the old country. They didn't leave quite voluntarily. The old man was out of favor with the government and they decided to get out while they could. As a child they called her Katrina and she contrived to have her name changed to that single word."

Orson poured the wine and snapped open the sack of chips. The salsa was spicy. So was the jar of semi-liquid cheese. The evening was off to a good start. Good friends. Good food.

The following evening, Katrina bumped into him as he returned home. Obviously, she had been watching for him. He often showed up not long before six to look in on the twins, and then have dinner with the others.

He first words were, "You didn't come home last night."

"I have a life of my own," he replied in semi-amusement.

"But we danced together. Had a good time. You didn't mention a life of your own, whatever that means. What about the twins?"

"What about them? They have not one, but two nannies. Then there's Cook. They're well provided for."

"Parents are important."

"Of course they're important. So are teachers. And friends." He gave her a suspicious glance. "Why are you here? What are you doing in Washington?"

"For a recital at the Kennedy. I practice with an ensemble most of the day. You'll have tickets when the time comes. Now tell me where you were last night."

Orson managed a small laugh and said, "What a question. Why would you ask such a thing?"

"I might as well tell you. I thought we might be married."

"You mean wed, like joined for life?"

"Initially that's why people go into such an arrangement. Sometimes it doesn't work out."

"You're a very nice person, Katrina. And I'm certain your ballet group will be a great hit at the Kennedy, but..."

"It's not a ballet group. It's modern dancing. I've moved beyond ballet. No more Swan Lake. No more en point, well I could go on. You seem to be a lonely person and we're about the same age. I've told you that. I'm ready to give up the stage. I could be a good mother to the twins."

"No you couldn't," Orson countered. "Their lives were planned out before they were born. I don't think you could get with the program."

"So you're a good parent, but I would not be. We might quarrel occasionally, but I could tell you a thing or two about child rearing. I'm just past the child-bearing years, or what I consider them to be. But I have maternal instincts. I would help bring them up in a wholesome atmosphere."

"The last thing I want for the twins is wholesome."

"You mean to raise a pair of young desperados, or cutthroats?"

"Possibly."

"The law will be on you, Orson. I know you're having fun at my expense. Perhaps I can join your odd family for dinner in the next day or two. Then we can talk more about our future."

"Katrina. You moved in next door. You saw me once or twice. You asked me to go dancing. I can understand that. You're here, more or less alone. I assume you're something of a prima dona. A lonely designation. But now the marriage thing. When did you come up with that?"

"When we were dancing. It seemed logical. Our ages. Your wounded face. My hidden scars. Our lives would seem made for one another, a trifle late perhaps. But if we hadn't reached this stage in life, it could never be."

"You've got that right. I don't see marriage on the menu. I like you Katrina. But marriage. You know the saying, this is so sudden?"

"So, when can I come for dinner?"

Orson rolled his eyes to heaven and replied, "My job is a chancy one. I may be called away any day. So come in now and we'll see what Cook has brewed up. You'd better tell your friends though."

"Nobody home over there. I have the townhouse. They're off eating their way through Europe and Asia."

"Hungry souls?"

"Food writers. You watch the TV food channels?"

"Not if I can avoid it."

She squinted her eyes and cocked her head to ask, "Tell me about your courtship, you and Delilah?"

"That was a private matter."

"You've something to hide?"

Orson was loath to admit he had approached Delilah just as Katrina had approached him. Abruptly and to the point. Perhaps they were destined to be joined. In his heart, he believed that the moment Delilah was slain on that beach that she was reincarnated somewhere in the world, possibly in a male form, but no matter, somewhere on the globe. And she would come to maturity about the time of his death if he were fortunate, or unfortunate enough, to survive the years. Yes, perhaps he and Katrina should wed. She seemed presentable. And he was no aesthetic prize. He smiled, thinking of the reincarnated Delilah as being slightly younger than the twins. What an insane world!

These thoughts flashed through his brain at supersonic speed.

"Let's get inside. We'll have a glass of wine before dinner. I'll introduce you to your future in-laws if such is to be."

Her expression remained unchanged, but she did loop her arm in his and they marched into the townhouse.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Orson mentioned to the President that Katrina had proposed marriage and he was seriously thinking about making the plunge.

"Go ahead, my boy, just so you're not a fanatic about it. Be sure and warn her that the White House is your initial duty and that you might be asked to pull all-nighters on occasion."

These flattering words failed to turn Orson's head, but he did turn them over in his mind and wondered what hazards might dog his path. The four-year term would end, and there might be a second, but then the ball game was over. At some stage he would be child rearing, or at least supervising such a project. Then there was mortality to consider. The years seemed to fly by.

Another problem, not entirely his, was that Pat Tullis of NRA fame had managed to weasel out of complicity in killing Delilah by shifting all the blame to Jeb Irons, his errand boy, and the actual shooter, the waterman. Money and lawyers had done the job, all because of the golden rule. He who has the gold makes the rules. But the Tullis reputation was sullied and he had been replaced as the top NRA lobbyist.

Irons had been sentenced to six years, while the waterman was given life with an eventual chance of parole, but no one seemed to know just when. He was an old man and would likely die in prison.

So what to do about Tullis? It was common knowledge that he was the man behind the murder, but he had gamed the system. While Orson and others mulled the situation, Tullis left Washington for a vacation in the Dominican Republic. He booked accommodations in the solo section of a huge resort.

Three days into the trip he was found one morning on the Atlantic beach dead, a victim of a fatal mugging according to resort authorities. The resort had no responsibility because the beach itself is public property, available to all. Orson believed it could have been a mugging, or it could have been some loyal NPR fans were also vacationing. The police down there really didn't seem to give a rat's ass. Tourists were as common as grains of sand on the beach. Daily, almost hourly, planeloads arrived.

Katrina once again reared her lovely head. This time she was seated in his living room reading a magazine when he returned from the White House at his usual time.

Startled, Orson blurted out, "A home invasion?"

"Cook let me in. Dinner's shrimp and cheese grits. She invited me to stay."

Orson smiled. "Grits will put some meat on your bones."

"My bones are doing just fine the way they are, thank you. I work out most of the day. You might consider it yourself."

"Modern dancing?"

"Exercise."

"We have a gym at the White House. I do my bit."

"You might do more than your bit. There's a rumor that you're the President's lover."

Orson managed a grin. "Because I sometimes spend the night at the White House. You think I'm the only one?"

"The only one doing what? Screwing the President?"

This time he summoned up a laugh. "Spending the night at the White House. Issues do come up. Working well after midnight. Why come home. There is a gym. There are showers if one cares to take one. There is sustenance."

"No matter," Katrina said, brushing the issue away. "Your childish capers concern me not at all. I am interested in our marital plans."

"Something non-existent. I wondered if you were simply drawn to me by my facial upheaval, disruption, disorganization, disfigurement, gruesome deformity, whatever you choose to call it?"

"Why would that be appealing to anyone?" she questioned.

"I've heard moths are drawn to flames. The flames destroy them. We carry our own seeds of self-destruction."

"The rumors about you and the President. It's a joke of course. Can you imagine the President taking such a chance? But there are other things said. I run into all sorts of people at the Kennedy. I tell them we are neighbors and they go on about you. A man of mystery, thus a lonely and romantic figure. But scarred. And here we are together. Will you pour the pre-dinner wine?"

Orson walked into the kitchen, removed a double bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator, and returned to the living room with the bottle and a pair of glasses. He poured the wine and offered a glass to Katrina.

"The screw caps are handy, aren't they?" she observed.

"I prefer them to corks. We've seen many changes in our lifetime. I wanted to tell you about the twins. The girl is mine."

"That would be Alice."

"Yes, Alice. Dan belongs to Delilah."

"Your late wife."

"Yes. But I will honor her wishes."

"And those wishes might be?"

"Alice is to be reared as a spy. Dan as a foreign service employee, possibly an ambassador, although that doesn't matter. The point is those two professions require the same type of schooling, or learning if you please. So both will be trained in almost identical fashion."

"You make it sound like it's almost your life's work."

"That's exactly the case. Most of my life is behind me. But the twins are on the threshold of something. They are like twigs planted by the water if you get my meaning."

"I get your meaning alright. You're on the threshold of obsession. Wake up and smell the coffee. Child raising is incidental to living one's life. You may be screwing the President, but the children are about to screw you out of a well-deserved later life. Snap out of it, Orson."

It was almost like switching on a light. At this point he realized Katrina was probably right and that he could well use her as a guiding hand. He was not an island. Perhaps the bell was tolling for him as well as the remainder of mankind. Of course man embraces woman. They could go dancing again and talk more.

After refilling the glasses, Cook entered the room and ordered them to the dinner table. The nannies were already seated. Orson made a note to commit his plan for the twin's education to paper so that he could let Katrina have a look at it. Truth to tell, he was the executive child rearing person, not really in the trenches.

Two days later the President informed Orson that a secret mission loomed.

He was properly impressed and replied, "I smirk at danger and yearn for frightening dark and deadly intrigue."

She smiled and asked, "How are you and Katrina faring with the wedding bell issue?"

"It could be we need one another. In that case a union could be in the offing."

"You'll have to tell me where you're registered. Target or J.C. Penny's."

"You'll be one of the first to know."

"Make certain she has no STD's. I want nothing to come between us."

Orson attempted a grimace, then asked, "The mission, Madame President."

"Go back to your digs. Pack something. You have a night flight to Brussels, then to St. Petersburg. There you will make your way to the (here she referred to a scrap of paper) Pushka Inn, which I believe is in the Admiralteysky District. Those crazy Russian names. Anyway it is very close to the Hermitage. So you will spend time in the Hermitage looking over Russia's historical and aesthetic treasures. Someone will contact you."

"How will I be recognized?"

The President burst out laughing. Before she could control herself she was pointing to his face.

"Ok. I'm sorry. So you think I'll be the only one-eyed American man with a black patch and a deep vertical scar in the Hermitage. So, maybe you're right. I assume that's all you're going to tell me?"

"You assume right. Now get out of here. Maybe you can have a final embrace with your Russian dancer. I've got a country to run."

The flight to Brussels was routine. His layover was long enough that he hopped a bus to the heart of the city and had an overpriced breakfast near the flower market. By nightfall he was in St. Petersburg, showering and downing shots of vodka in a pleasant Pushka hotel room.

He had great affection for the Russian people. By and large they were cheerful, bursting with good humor and much like Americans. He wondered how the two countries could drift so far apart. For once it wasn't simply religion.

The next day passed quietly, much of it spent at nearby restaurants or exploring the Gold Room of the Hermitage. It was on the second day that he was approached by an attractive woman, as tall as he was, with Slavic eyes and a fetching smile, who knew his name and suggested a cup of tea.

"Is your name Minka or Olga?" he questioned.

"Neither," she replied in perfect English. "Your translation would be Anastasiya."

"You're a tsarina?"

"Don't I wish. But no. Let's have our tea. You have an appointment later today."

"Does danger lurk nearby?"

"Hardly. You'll soon be on a plane back to the States."

They had tea. Anistasiya kept checking her watch. They had more tea. Finally the woman said, "Time to go to your hotel room."

"You and me?" Orson asked.

She sighed deeply and said, "Just you for now. Perhaps I'll join you later," then led the way. Orson guessed she was in her late thirties, or early forties, but almost perfectly preserved. Maybe a ballet dancer like Katrina. Never rains but it pours.

She left him at his door and counseled patience.

Maybe a half hour passed, then a knock. The door opened, doubtless with a passkey, before he could get to it. In walked Sergei Zyuganev, the prime minister and new state leader.

"Well if it isn't the ruler of all the Russias," Orson said. He had read someplace about multiple Russias. He guessed it referred to provinces, or once independent countries.

Sergei smiled broadly, gave him a rib-cracking bear hug and said, "Sit down my friend. We need to talk." Orson did as he was told, and the prime minister, now also president, continued to talk. "I have looked for a way to repay the great favor you did not only for me, but for all my people. Through our embassy I am in daily touch with what happens in Washington. There is one despicable person, this Senator Brad Redon, a person of French descent, which you might call a frog. Very funny. He is what is known as a sharp thorn in your toe. No?"

"Yes, Sir. We might say a thorn in our side. No friend of the administration. Always demanding hearings about this or that. Making a general ass of himself during floor speeches and questioning witnesses. Popular among the extreme right and the so-called Christian right."

"A bad ass?"

"Where the administration is concerned, yes." The two sat face to face in comfortable hotel chairs, alone together. Orson wondered if the conversation was being recorded. But he thought not.

Sergei smiled and nodded. "This man, this Brad Redon, was also a young hell raiser. You might say almost a traitor to your country. Some would see it that way. He was in Moscow as a young man, one of the leaders of a group of U.S. anti-war dissidents. He actually made overtures at becoming a Russian citizen. Had a Russian girlfriend."

Something clicked in Orson's brain. "Who might that have been?"

Sergei wagged his finger. "You are a good guesser, my friend. Anastasiya. A fine figure of a woman, eh? For her age. You would say well kept." The Russian prime minister burst out laughing. "She will accompany you to Washington and confront this frog, this Brad Redon. How is that for what you would call payback?"

"I'm amazed," Orson responded. "How can I ever thank you?"

"You already have. And this is just partial payment. In the future, well, you and I might have occasion to get together more often." Orson wondered about that remark. Sergei handed him a thick eight-by-ten envelope. "Papers and photos in this packet place our friend Brad in Moscow and tell of his activities. His friends in the Congress, as you call it, might take great pleasure in looking the items over. There are two copies in case he tries to seize one."

"I can't thank you enough," Orson said, clutching the envelope.

"Think nothing of it," the prime minister said, going to the door. "Anastasiya will be along directly. Please keep her company here in your room until your plane departs tomorrow. I'm certain I can trust you two to be good."

Orson stood speechless and the ruler of all the Russias was gone. He would have to check on that phrase, "all the Russias." Perhaps he could Google it.

Minutes later another knock on the door. This time he opened it and Anastasiya stepped inside. She carried a small gym bag.

She gave him a peck on the cheek and said, "You and I are destined to spend the night together. It will be wonderful. Room service, wine, talking, laughter, conviviality."

"You paint quite a picture. I must tell you one thing up front. There is a woman in Washington, an aging ballet dancer named Katrina, she and I have talked of marriage."

"I know the name. Her parents fled Russia long ago. So she is almost a Russian. We Russians share everything. You like?"

"I like. Just so the air is clear."

She glanced out the window. "On a clear day you can see the Hermitage from here. I'll call room service and get things started. Oh, there will be no charge. Uncle Zyuganov said the party's on him." She got a far-away look in her eye, whirled around once or twice, then said, "How I long to see Brad after all these years. And tell him about little Brad. Quite the man now. An officer in the Red army."

Orson listened in wonder. The story got better and better. Could it be that the senate minority leader had a Russian child out of wedlock, a child now a member of the Red army?

He was ready for that drink. He embraced Anastasiya and almost jumped for joy. That embrace led to the first steamy bout on the king-sized bed. Was this living, or what?

The flight to Washington was uneventful. Orson stashed Anastasiya in his townhouse. She would bunk in with Cook. She also got together with Katrina, they seemed to share temperaments, both given to flights of fancy and unexpected eruptions. Like prairie fires.

Orson reported in to the President.

"Sergei called," she said. "We had a jolly conversation. We are much the same."

"I can believe that," Orson replied.

"He also believes you have ice water instead of blood and brought up the matter of a flashy automatic weapon his predecessor was known to possess."

In reply, Orson offered her the packet of material on Senator Redon's early life and relayed the fact that the good man seemed to have a son who was an officer in the Red army.

She took in the entire picture with wide-eyed glee and remarked that he should visit the political hack as soon as possible.

He mentioned the fact that Sergei referred to the senator as a frog. "Is he from French stock?"

"The name Redon is carried by at least one fairly famous French individual, although Brad is certainly American, possibly for generations. The Russians enjoy their jokes. Moscow can be a flat out boring place, save for vodka."

Back in his office, Orson asked his secretary to call the senator's office and ask if he could have an appointment as soon as possible.

An hour later Senator Redon himself called. "Orson Platt, part-time chief of staff to the President. So you want to parley. Make a deal, I suppose?" Redon seemed in high good humor.

"Well, yes, talk things over if that's what you mean."

"I think I know what you mean, Platt. Compromise. Quid pro quo. Well, we'll see what you have to offer. Sure. Come to my office tomorrow at ten. I'll be glad to see you." There was a certain edge to the senator's voice.

"Do you mind if I bring someone with me?"

"Not at all. A staffer I suppose. A detail person."

"No. An out-of-town visitor. A person who wants to look around the Hill."

"No problemo, muchacho. Bring him along."

As he hung up, Orson mulled the word "him," which brought a smile to his face.

Orson and Anastasiya entered the senator's outer office promptly at ten the next morning. They were told the senator was in conference, but would be with them shortly. A half hour later a pair of far-right senators, no friends of the President, were admitted to the office. Orson guessed he would be confronted by all three, a trio with blood in their eyes.

Minutes later Orson and his guest were invited into the office. They were faced with the three senators and offered a pair of straight chairs. Senator Redon began to greet the two in ersatz camaraderie, then the blood seemed to drain from his face when he took a good look at Anastasiya.

Orson, who had seated himself, stood and introduced his guest, then himself to the three men. "Anastasiya is from Moscow. She's a member of the Communist party. She's extremely interested in our form of government, eager to cut through all the propaganda she might have been subject to. But in truth, Russia today is fairly open and liberal. Comparatively."

The two senators who had not introduced themselves smiled and nodded in an effort to show they were men of the world and had no fear in introducing a Communist into their midst.

Orson was keenly interested in what Redon might do next. What he did was rise and in a most gracious manner say, "I had no idea you were bringing such an attractive person from a foreign land, someone eager to see the Capitol and learn our ways. I would be honored to spend the remainder of the day as your tour guide, fair lady."

"Thank you, senator," she replied. "Have we met before?"

"How could that be?" He turned to his colleagues and said, "Well, gentlemen, I've called you here in vain. So we shall resume our conversation at a later date." Turning to Orson, he said, "You'll be available, won't you, Platt?"

"Of course I will, Brad. And please feel free to call me Orson."

The two senators mumbled their goodbyes and left the office.

Redon sank into his posh desk chair and suggested that his two guests occupy the more comfortable chairs vacated by the recently departed. Turning to Anastasiya, he said, "It's been a long time."

"Too long, Brad. You missed watching our son grow up."

"That's a bit too much, Tasha." Turning to Orson, he said, "I always called her Tasha. There is simply no son. I would have known."

"But there is, Brad. Your son is a young officer in the Red army. He is a hero. All Red army soldiers are heroes."

"I have no son," Redon insisted.

"Genetics may argue that point, Senator. Let me have a snippet of your hair."

"Certainly not!" Redon exploded.

"It might be better to permit us to do it quietly than to obtain a paternity court order. But if you insist. Everyone will know. What does that make you? The raging wild bull of Capitol Hill?"

Redon gave each of them a hard look, then said, "Ok. Cut off a piece of my hair. It will prove there is no son."

Orson had scissors on a Swiss Army knife and clipped off a small sample, placing it in an envelope he had brought for the purpose. "Tasha, as you call her, has brought a sample of her son's DNA. The process shouldn't take long."

"Well, you'll find I have no son. I appreciate your visit and will be glad to show you both around. Then we'll say goodbye."

Orson shoved his packet onto Redon's desk with the words, "I have some material here that might interest you. Have a look."

Redon opened the envelope and looked up with suspicion in his eyes. "If this is some sort of blackmail attempt..."

Redon sorted through the photos and documents, some of them signed by him, applications for Russian citizenship. Finally, fully deflated, he looked up and asked, "What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Burn them if you like," Orson said. "We have copies."

"This is an outrage," Redon said, suddenly angry. "Youthful indiscretions. Easily forgiven."

"Then tell your fellow senators about your early life. Let your constituents in on the fun. And be certain to tell them about young Brad in the great Red Army, a family hero."

"I have no son," Redon insisted.

"But you do," Tasha corrected. "I'm really getting fed up with your babbling, Brad. You were more fun as a young man. Now straighten up and man up. You've become a pompous jerk."

"I'll say this, Tasha. Your English has improved. You seem to have mastered the idiom."

"I've mastered more than that, you bastard. When the DNA comes back your ass is fried liver."

Orson looked at her quizzically and said, "Fried liver."

"Why not," she responded, fuming.

"I've handled this situation poorly," Redon said. "Obviously the stuff in this envelope alone can end my career. A son would just be icing on the cake. Once the DNA is back, I'll acknowledge paternity, Tasha. If we have a son, I'll visit Russia and be united with my small family. I'll do whatever I have too. Including becoming a friend of the President."

"You're a bachelor, Brad?" she asked.

"I am. I've had no time for family, maneuvering my way through the political mine field. The fact is, I would welcome a son, an heir. Red army hero or slacker. I'm starting to come to my senses. So, it's almost lunchtime. Let's adjourn to the Senate lunch room for a bowl of bean soup."

As they exited his office, Tasha looked as if she were on the verge of tears, her lower lip trembling.

With young Brad's DNA already in hand, it was a relatively simple matter to have the senator's hair processed. Paternity was proven. Orson made the phone call. Redon invited himself to dinner at the Georgetown townhouse.

Cook made some sort of stick food with chicken and vegetables, plus a couple of barbecue sauces. This was mass produced to serve the group gathered at the table. White and red wine with dinner. Brad Redon provided the after-dinner brandy.

Brandy poured, glasses in hand, the senator announced, "This is the high point of my life. I have discovered I have a son, whom I intend to get to know, and I would like also to have a wife." Sipping his drink, he nodded to Tasha.

"After all the horrors I've put you through, Tasha, I'm now asking for your hand in marriage. Please think it over."

"No need," she said bluntly. "I accept." She downed her drink in one gulp.

Redon looked around and shrugged. "I don't know what to do or say next."

"For a politician that's quite an admission," Katrina tossed in, adding, "Maybe we were expecting a fond embrace, but romance at your age lacks spontaneity."

"We are not that old," Redon said. Seated across from one another, he rose, rounded the table and gave Tasha an awkward hug and a kiss, she being seated. "You'll come home with me tonight, I hope," he whispered.

"Of course," she agreed. "It's not like our first rodeo."

"There you go again," Redon said, "you must have an idiom book."

"You'd be surprised."

The truth was, in the days to come, everyone was surprised. The senator revealed the entire story on the floor of the senate, followed up by television and print media interviews. It was similar to a flower blooming; he was suddenly a national figure, savoring more than his fifteen minutes of fame with Tasha by his side. Thank God for the shortened version of Anastasiya, it simplified things.

Rather than slip off somewhere for a quickie joining, at the urging of his office staff they made it a grand affair at the National Cathedral with a reception to follow. Unable to find a restaurant capable and willing to accommodate the crowd, they convened the gathering at his senate offices to the dismay of the Capitol Police.

In the afterglow of the affair, with the newly joined couple planning a trip to Russia during the recess, Katrina toyed with the idea of wedding bells.

"After the Kennedy ordeal," she told Orson, "they're after me to do a female version of Kafka story, The Metamorphosis."

"What on earth?"

"A man wakes up to find he is turning into a giant insect."

"What sort of an insect."

"A disgusting insect."

"There are insects and insects. You've seen those birds flitting through the air, swallows and swifts. They're feeding on flying insects. So there you have a wholesome food source."

"Think of the insects. Would I be doomed to be eaten by a giant bird if I became a giant insect?"

"There are worse fates."

"Name one."

"To be eaten by an alligator, or to be swallowed alive by a large snake."

"I fain would quit the dancing game."

"And do what?"

"Marry. Supervise child rearing."

"You know you would have to agree to my child-rearing terms."

"Solid educations. Sounds rather simple."

"Not that simple. I'm thinking they should start out on language at eighteen months, or two years, whichever comes first."

"Probably eighteen months. To what regime are you wedded?"

"Three tutors, some doubling as nannies, who are already on board. Chinese and German let's say. Then you could pick the third language. I'm torn between French and Arabic. What would you pick?"

"Probably French, but maybe something from the Middle East might be more useful. What about French instead of German?"

"We can settle that one. As you can tell, I'm willing to compromise, just following the bare bones of the project. At four we would move into geography and simple mathematics. Once again these are goals. I've become fairly flexible."

"We would use tutors for every subject?"

"Again, yes. But we could drill them on geography and other topics. We must stress the importance of these subjects. They must also give up certain segments of social activity."

"Such as playing with other children?"

"Not entirely, but keeping it to a minimum. They will of course be smarter than other children, that is better educated, book-wise, school-wise."

"Might they be boring?"

"I've considered that," Orson said solemnly. "It depends on their personality and that of their tutors and nannies. There should be fun times."

"What about scheduling?"

"How many hours of schooling a day? I've thought of six days a week and half a day Sunday. Probably the morning would be best for learning on Sunday so they might look forward to an afternoon off. Then we section out the day. Certain subjects take two hours, others three. So there might be three, three-hour segments in the day, or two three-hour segments and two two-hour segments."

"This would eat up either nine or ten hours a day, six days a week, except Sunday. Am I with you?"

"With the standard 24-hour day, either of these would take up less than half the time. When the children are young they should sleep eight to nine hours a night. With ten hours for lessons and nine hours for sleep, the max, that's nineteen hours. Which leaves five for eating, personal hygiene and simply goofing off. Now that's the broad structure. How does that hit you?"

"I'm impressed."

"But can you get on board?"

"We might be criticized, but I don't see anything actually inhumane about it. I mean something that might bring us jail time. So, yes. It sounds like a grand experiment. Child rearing in academia. What if they rebel?"

"That's a possibility, particularly after puberty. But by that time they will have learned discipline, learned to do without such things as frivolous TV and other non-essentials. Of course they must stay abreast of world events. Possibly MSNBC and NPR will be standbys. Harpers, The New Yorker, The Post if we stay in Washington. But not enough outside reading to tax their young minds."

Katrina couldn't help herself and burst out laughing. "Of course we don't want to tax their young minds," she finally blurted. "In for a penny, in for a pound. I'll try it."

"We should marry very soon," Orson said.

"You've got my vote. I'll tell them to take Kafka and shove it. Can I teach Alice ballet?"

"Teach them both to dance in their idle hours," Orson said with a grin. "Tell me, in the Kafka thing is there a costume, or how does one transform oneself into an insect?"

"Frankly, it's a good note to go out on. They see me as a 'danseur noble,' but I've never thought of myself in that light. So one gets this horrid black stuff smeared on the body, possibly along the lines of an emerging insect. I think the idea is to become an insect right there before everyone's eyes."

"Have you no shame?"

"Apparently not. It's not easy, but the human form is blended with that of an insect. It's monstrous and if done properly, the audience might be moved to the screaming heebie-jeebies. Some will see it as a metaphor, others literally. Writhing on the floor – like raw sex on the stage. Thanks for taking me away from all this, Orson." She gave him a hug then turned quickly away. A dancer's move?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There came a day when President Warren told Orson she was sending him to Mongolia, to Ulan Bator, on a mission of goodwill.

"Mongolia," Orson replied, "is a country of some importance, and we doubtless have an embassy there. Goodwill would seem the major occupation of most embassies. I know they are useless to tourists."

"It is true they do their best to have little or no contact with travelers from the States, and goodwill would seem a major function. But there is something going on in that embassy that dismays me. When a person such as myself takes the office of president, you might say the highest in the land, although that is debatable, they inherit a huge bureaucracy. The bulk of these are what one calls holdovers. They may be holdovers from the late previous administration, or holdovers from previous, previous administrations. But they are holdovers. Loyal to America of course, but not necessarily loyal to the sitting president."

"Your meaning seems clear, but you did appoint the secretary of state. This seems meat for that job."

"You would think so," the President responded. "But the secretary of state is in charge of all the embassies, quite a worldwide network. It would not be meet or wise to have that person seem to interfere with the function of the embassy. Appearances become important."

I see. You know I am a recently married man and would be leaving wife, household and small children behind to journey to Asia?"

"I'm aware of your predicament. You entered into that relationship freely and without seeking my advice or encouragement. So you find yourself on your own. It is now the morning, so I suggest you spend the remains of the day reading up on Mongolia. Its location itself is of vital importance, lying just between China and Russia, a pair of huge but not totally trustworthy allies.

"Also, the governing forces over there, and it is a democratic nation, they enjoy speaking in metaphors more attuned to the age of Genghis Khan, of whom there is a large, much revered and very impressive statue set in Sukhbaatar Square. If you have idle time you might have your photo taken in front of said icon, a token to take home to the little woman."

"The metaphors you speak of?"

"Such things as their horses are light and fast, their archers sharp and straight, their wrestlers sturdy and ready for battle. Like that. One presidential candidate boasted that he was raised in the dust of many horses. Yet Ulan Bator is a large, modern Asian city, although there are many yurts in the suburbs."

"Yurts?"

"Yes, those round, bent-wood shelters, the top and sides covered with layers of cloth plus sheep's wool for insulation. In Mongolian the word simply means home."

"I know what a yurt is," Orson insisted.

"You did ask. Now get to your research. Your plane leaves tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, master."

Orson's plane settled down at Chinggis Khan International Airport just after 8 a.m. local time. With only a small carry-on, he cleared immigration and customs without incident, traveling as a tourist, a status that permitted him to remain in the country for fifty days without a visa. He hoped to wrap up the little business he had there in less than a week.

Grabbing a cab he was off to the Best Western Gobi's Kelso hotel with the promise of free Wi-Fi.

After less than a mile the cabbie told him he could not check into the hotel before noon, then suggested a pleasant café to idle away a few hours.

It sounded better than sitting in a sterile lobby or sipping coffee in the stainless steel room of a hotel shop. The café was dimly lit, an attractive hostess asked if had sampled the local drink. She was lovely, with almond eyes and a body wrapped in a tight sarong. Odd, he thought, for such an early hour.

"Are you Mongolian?" Orson asked.

A delightful smile. "We are from everywhere. The Chinese might call us half. Half this, half that, maybe a little bit of something else mixed in. What might I bring you?"

"What is the local drink?"

"The proper name is Arkhi. I think it's made with Kefir. I'm no expert, but it is made from milk, so it's a healthy thing to place in one's stomach."

Orson shrugged. "A small measure should do me no harm."

On that score he was incorrect. The small measure he was given was laced with a drug, something like scopolamine, packing a wallop sufficient to knock one out for two or three days. The next thing he knew he was coming alive on his back, staring at a ceiling, gradually realizing that he was in a yurt.

An old woman was seated against the wall. She appeared to be knitting or doing some type of needlework, illuminated by an oil lamp. When he turned his head to look at her, she returned his gaze and smiled. He doubted she spoke English.

Orson was under a rough blanket and suddenly realized he was wearing only his skivvies. Not yet fully awake, he asked what had happened. She raised a hand intended to shush him, then returned to her work.

He was thirsty, very thirsty, but still groggy. He lapsed back into sleep.

Later on he was shaken awake, opening his eyes to see a young woman's face. "My mother said you were awake a few minutes ago."

He nodded and raised himself on one elbow. "I need water."

"Of course. You were drugged. That was a couple of days ago."

"Days," he said in wonder.

She gave him a cup of water. He drank and she refilled the cup.

"Two days, maybe more. These things happen. A cab driver will take you to a café. They pick you off at the airport. You are drugged. Taken to a back room. Your clothing and belongings divided up. Then the same cab drives you off somewhere, usually a lonely place, and dumps you. They mean you no physical harm."

"No physical harm," Orson said, rubbing his head, suddenly realizing that his eye patch was also gone. "I must look a fright with this bad eye!"

"It looks like it's been gone for some time," the woman said.

"Yes. It's hideous. I need to cover it."

"My mother and I, we're used to such things."

"Do you pick up bodies often?"

"No. We have radios, newspapers, we know what goes on. My mother's a widow. I had a husband, but he drifted off somewhere to look for work. We have chickens, a goat, a small garden, we get by. That's our story. What's yours?"

"You speak fair English."

"I've been to school. It's the common language these days. What's your business, Mr. One Eye?"

"Orson. My name's Orson. I'm an American. Is there a toilet?"

"Out back, a small shed."

"I seem to be in my underwear."

She laughed. "You were dumped that way. They left you something, didn't they?"

"The cab driver and the bar girl, yes. Plus I suppose the bar owner."

"Share and share alike. When you come back we'll have tea and something to eat."

Orson rose and stood on unsteady feet. "Why do you help me?"

"Why not? Maybe you'll help us."

"Why not. We can help one another. I'm in a pickle."

"What does that mean?"

"Tell you later." He left the yurt and found the outhouse.

After hot tea and a bowl of some sort of vegetable gruel he rejoined the living. "I have to do something about my predicament. I'll need clothing. Not much. The weather seems fine. Just a shirt, pants and maybe flip flops."

"What did they get from you?"

"My bag with not much in it. Toiletries, a change or two of clothing. But the main thing, my passport, my wallet, several hundred American dollars, a couple of credit cards, driver's license, insurance cards, a few other cards."

"Watch?"

He laughed. "A twelve-dollar watch."

"Some are worth thousands," she said. "I've seen advertisements."

"You can't have TV."

"True. We have battery radio. There's a sort of shower house-club where there's a TV, 24/7 as you westerners say. That's also a laundry room. Not a bad lifestyle, really."

"I would feel better if I could cover the spot where my eye used to be. Do you have any tape?"

"A roll of that gray stuff, duct tape." She bunched up toilet paper and put it over the eye spot, then slapped on vertically an eight inch section of duct tape.

"That's better," he said.

"Not much of an improvement. Now what?"

"I'll pay you generously when I get some money. But I need the clothing I mentioned, plus you can be my translator and I'll need enough money for us to get around, send an e-mail and take care of business. How far are we from the business area?"

"This section of town is called Nalayh. There is a bus. We do have some money, but not very much. Are you married?"

"Recently, I recently married a retired dancer. Of course you're married too."

"I suppose. My husband's been gone a year and a half anyway. I'm not much of a charmer. And I am 27-years-old."

"That's old."

"Around here it is. I can be your Mongol wife. Was the barmaid who drugged you pretty?"

"She was OK. She had almond eyes. You're more of a Slavic individual. There's nothing wrong with you."

"Good. I'll be your Mongol wife for as long as it lasts."

"You will not regret it financially. But it won't last for long."

"Why? What's your business?"

"Secret mission." He smiled in an attempt to look sinister. It was hard with one eye and a piece of duct tape covering much of his face. I can't do what I came to do. So that's a bust. What I need to do is get back on my feet and get the hell on out of here."

"You need a passport."

"You're no dummy. You've got that right. So I let myself get drugged on some kind of milkshake. What a dope."

"Arkhi."

"Yes, mildly alcoholic, heavily sedated. Here I sit in my only garments, my underclothes, in a yurt in the middle of Mongolia. It's like I died and went to heaven."

"Or hell."

"If I'm to live in hell, I should know your name."

"Altantsetseg, Alta for short. And you are Orson."

"Yes I am. Good memory."

"As you said, I'm no dummy. Getting you clothing will be no problem. If we don't have enough money I can borrow some with the prospect of getting more."

"I'll guarantee that unless more evil dogs my path."

"You will have clothing and money. Tonight we will have a good dinner, enjoy a good night's sleep as temporary marrieds, then set off for the big city with tomorrow's sun."

"If this isn't heaven, you can see it from here."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After a late breakfast they set off for the heart of the city that apparently had no heart. The bus they rode was jammed after just a few blocks, the city, a boom town with construction cranes jutting skyward here and there; copper, gold and coal mining account for the economic surge, bringing with it the evils of a Chicago by the Steppes.

Despite the boom, Mongolia remained the world's least populated country, considering 600,000 square miles and slightly more than three million people. The first priority was to find an e-mail shop where Orson messaged Katrina and asked her to get five thousand dollars ready to wire to a bank to be named later.

He also asked her to attempt to cancel his credit cards, giving her what information he could remember. And to alert the state department that his passport had been stolen. Then he asked her to tell no one as he was determined to clean the mess up himself and return home on his own and report the failed mission.

Blaming himself for being such a stupid buffoon, he fell back into his old lone wolf character. "Some lone wolf!" he thought. He had Alta at his side in Mongolia and Katrina backing him up in Washington. But he promised himself not to involve the White House unless the word leaked out from another source. With all the spying and eavesdropping going on these days it was a wonder everyone didn't know what everyone else was thinking. Except there was too much information floating around for even an army of individuals to process for any given purpose.

After sending the e-mail they dropped into the first bank they came to and asked an assistant manager if he might open an account in order to have five thousand dollars wired from the States.

Of course he asked to see a passport.

"I've been robbed," he explained. "My passport and my entire identity are gone. I have only a few dollars borrowed from this nice lady," indicating Alta.

"And the five thousand would be wired when?"

"Considering the time difference probably not until tomorrow or the day after. But definitely by the day after."

"You would then withdraw that money," he said.

"Probably not all of it right away. But maybe two thousand. I have to clear up some things including a passport and credit cards."

"Because the money would be here temporarily, there would be a one percent charge. Would that be satisfactory?"

"Very definitely. We're both doing business."

The deed was done and he permitted Orson to use the bank's equipment to send the e-mail to Katrina with the bank name and proper numbers. It seemed so easy. Yet Orson was still without papers – in the old days without papers carried the acronym, WOP.

With that done, Alta led him to one of the better restaurants where they feasted on cardamom-scented lamb marinated in rum and baked in a tandoori oven. There was also mashed eggplant, onions and tomatoes spiced with coriander and chiles. They drank the salty milk tea with a sheen of fat, called suutei tsai.

Full up with Mongolian fare and not quite recovered from his drug experience, they called it a day and jammed on a bus to return to Nalayh to while away the evening hours and sleep like sated bears after a bout of passion.

The following day, too early to check on the bank, they found a web shop in Nalayh and Orson received a scorching missive from Katrina asking what the hell he thought he was up to in Mongolia and why she shouldn't alert the White House and evacuate his sorry ass.

Orson explained the best he could that in his heart he believed he had failed in his mission and it was his lookout to do the right thing. If she insisted, he would simply steal a wild horse, ride out onto the Steppes, never to be heard of again.

She replied that the money was already on its way and that since he was a prime jackass he might simply run out on the Steppes by himself and survive on prairie hay, if such there was. She would await his return with a baseball bat.

Attempting to calm his nerves, Orson had a lengthy discussion with Alta about Mongolia, its religion and politics. A thin majority of the population was Buddhist. But that religion was mixed and altered by Shamanism, which had been practiced in Mongolia since before recorded time.

The major brand was called Yellow Shamanism, which Orson failed to understand completely. There was also Black Shamanism and maybe a few other colors.

It seemed to involve an altered state of mind, ancestor worship and getting in touch with the spirit world. Very likely, mixed with Buddhism, it also involved suffering, which made one zero in on the essentials. Suffering could be looked on as a blessing. Although the sufferer might not immediately realize this benefit, perhaps never, if the suffering proved terminal.

Orson replied to his wife that he planned to return to hearth and home as soon as possible and had a plan, although did not add that the plan was a small seed not yet fully germinated in his brain cage. The two of them went from the web shop directly into the city where they found the funds deposited. Orson withdrew three thousand dollars, presented a thousand to Alta, pocketed two thousand for himself and they returned to the yurt.

During the crowded bus ride back to Nalayh he inquired of Alta if she and her mother might be nomadic because they lived in a yurt. She grinned and responded, "Maybe. We can fold up the yurt, harness it to the chickens and goat and head for the Steppes, free as a couple of birds, battling brigands and foul weather. You've heard stories, haven't you?"

"Genghis Khan and the Golden Horde, rape and pillage, sack, burn and loot."

"They got your number, didn't they?"

"Fell prey to a lovely bar girl. But now I'm thinking of escape to Russia. Any ideas?"

"Russia. You're imagining things. What would you do in Russia?"

"Grab a train to Moscow. You forget I haven't a passport. I have a friend in Moscow."

"For another five hundred U.S. I'll get you a passport. What nationality would you like?"

"Can you toss in an eye patch?"

"I guess. But the duct tape is charming. People pause and stare. Have you noticed?"

"I don't see how you can get me a passport."

This brought a chuckle from Alta. "What do you suppose happened to your passport?"

"Can you buy it back?"

"Probably not. But there are a few more floating around. Any special nationality?"

"British or Canadian."

Two days passed. Then Orson had a new eye patch, a passport photo taken and a Canadian passport issued to a Calgary resident, Robert J. Scholl, age 46. A day later, small bag with toothbrush and a new pair of sox enclosed, Orson boarded a plane for JFK. He planned to rent a car and drive to Washington, entering in a stealthy fashion.

Alta was at the airport to kiss him goodbye. She had opened a checking account by depositing twelve hundred U.S. dollars and had another thousand in her purse.

The plane had begun its descent into JFK when the captain announced. "There's been some sort of a mishap on a major runway. Emergency vehicles, foam, water, people all over the place. We've been diverted to Toronto. Sorry about the inconvenience."

Immediate chatter all over the aircraft. The stewardesses roamed the aisles attempting to calm tempers. Orson was keenly aware of his Canadian passport, but reckoned if the plane was unloaded the passenger would stay within the secure area and there would be no problem.

On the ground in Toronto, he was having coffee and reading a newspaper when a uniformed agent approached and said, "Canadian passport?"

"I'm an American," Orson replied and the official walked on by. A half hour passed and a voice came over the loud speaker: "Would Robert J. Scholl please report to immigration."

Orson hardly noticed the voice and went on reading. In a few minutes he became aware of a general sweep of the boarding area. Everyone's passport was being examined. When his turn came, he said, "I'm an American, but I'm traveling with a Canadian passport."

"May I see it, Sir?"

He handed it over, the official read the name, Robert J. Scholl, and then asked, "You're not Robert J. Scholl?"

"Of course not. That gentleman is a Canadian. From Calgary, I believe."

The official smiled slightly. "But you're traveling with his passport."

"Mine was stolen. I bought that one in Ulan Bator. One needs a passport to board an airplane. You know that."

"There's a passport shop in Ulan Bator?"

"I don't believe it's a legitimate one. A woman I met there bought it for me. She seemed to know what she was doing. You see mine was stolen, probably sold to someone else, maybe this Scholl person. So I bought his. Indirectly, of course. I was simply a visitor who was victimized. Now I'm simply trying to get home."

"Passports are for identification purposes, Sir."

"That's generally true, but when the chips are down and the cards are all out, one does what one must do."

"Generally that would be to visit one's embassy, report the stolen passport, apply for a temporary one. That would seem the right course."

"Who am I to judge?"

"Your picture is on this passport."

"True. That's a necessity. One doesn't board a plane with someone else's mug shot on their passport. That's a dead giveaway."

"A giveaway for what, Sir?"

"That it's not your passport. They're right about that. Letting you board a plane with someone's passport other than your own, you might be some sort of troublemaker."

"I suppose that's why they have passports, Sir. I'll have to ask you to come with me."

Orson frowned. "I might miss my flight." He knew his plight was hopeless. He was nabbed and that was it. Nabbed. But he had tried to make the best of it.

He sat in a holding cell while his initial interrogator attempted to explain his plight to a superior.

Eventually, he was seated in an office. In a few minutes a man who appeared to be the head of immigration plus a police lieutenant entered and sat across from him.

"You are Robert J. Scholl?" the policeman questioned.

"No. I'm an American, Orson Platt. I was drugged and robbed of everything I had in Mongolia. A woman who helped me purchased the Scholl passport for me so I might return to Washington where I live and work."

"And this woman, what might her name be?"

"It is a complicated name. But she goes by Alta."

"And she lives in Ulan Bator?"

"No. She actually resides in a yurt in what you might call a suburb. Its name is Nalayh. She lives with her mother, a goat and a small flock of chickens. They have a small garden patch."

"You have known this Alta for some time?"

"No. I was drugged and robbed shortly after my plane landed. A cab driver told me I couldn't check into my hotel at an early hour. He stopped at a small café where I had a slightly alcoholic drink, made with milk. A bar girl served it, but everyone seemed to be in on it. The drink was heavily drugged. Everything I owned was taken except my underwear. The cabbie must have driven into the country and deposited me by the road where Alta found me."

"At that point you might have called the American embassy."

"If there had been a phone, I could have. But my mission could have been in conflict with the embassy. I was advised to avoid it. So I did."

"You were on a mission?" the immigration official questioned.

"In one sense we are all on a mission. A sojourn through life." He looked from one man to the other, his lone eye holding their gaze.

"Tell us about your mission?" the policeman asked.

"I work for the White House. My title is assistant chief of staff. But I usually do errands for the President. She had sent me to talk to certain Mongolian officials. The country is strategically placed between China and Russia. The details of my mission are secret."

"Perhaps, though, you will share them with us," the policeman said.

Orson smiled for the first time and replied, "No way."

"If you eventually got hold of money, you could have phoned your boss and straightened this whole mess out," the policeman said.

"What you say is true. I simply couldn't bring myself to confess that I had failed. I wanted simply to slink back to Washington and apologize to the President in person. If the plane had not been diverted to Toronto, this wouldn't have happened."

"But you would still be guilty of an illegal act," the immigration man insisted.

"I intended to mail the passport to the Canadian embassy, minus my photo, of course."

"As if that would set things right," the policeman said. "This man Scholl is a wanted criminal. Is there any way you might have a clue to where he's hiding?"

"Well, you said he's in Mongolia. I think there's a good chance he might be dead. He must have been drugged the way I was to lose his passport and probably the rest of his possessions. These people who drug others for a living are not pharmacists. They don't take the age, weight, and medical condition when they administer the knock out drops. Someone with high blood pressure, a heart condition or so forth might easily die. Then there's a chance they might hide the body, or roll it over a hill, leave it to rot or be eaten by wild beasts."

"But if the authorities recovered the body," the policeman said.

"They left me in my skivvies. There'd be no way for even a coroner to identify the victim, except by the usual fingerprints and dental records. Hardly likely in Mongolia."

"This Scholl is a monstrous sex offender," the officer said. "We have no extradition treaty with Mongolia. We know you're not he. We have his particulars. Very likely you have a real scar and are missing an eye. Anyway, you look nothing like him. Just who you are, we don't know. So we will call the White House and get to the bottom of this. Until then you will remain in detention."

"Of course," Orson said. "I could use a trip to the rest room and a sandwich."

"As you say." The policeman nodded to the head of immigration. You take care of the prisoner, I'll do the checking."

"You have my name?" Orson asked.

The cop laughed. "A one-eyed man with a deep scar. Could be a pirate." He left the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Katrina only exploded once when he returned to Washington. She conceded that she had missed him, was even apprehensive, but life with Cook, the nannies and the twins wasn't bad. They had found a harmonious note and life went on in a dreamy rhyme.

At the White House things weren't that easy. He fell under the President's serious eye. She said she had half a mind to turn him around and send him right back to Mongolia.

"Have you ever had it all?" he asked her.

"Had it all? Had all of what?" she asked, immediately suspicious that something was up.

"Simply, had it all. You know, like Bogey and Bacall. Everything comes together. A preacher once told me that heaven is when everything is going right. On down the line, everything humming along, no stress, no straining at the elbows."

He had thrown a curve ball into the conversation. "What brought this on?"

"I had it all in Mongolia."

"You enjoy being mugged?"

"No. But afterward I lived in a yurt with a 27-year-old woman, her mother plus a goat, several chickens and a kitchen garden. That's all a person needs."

"Other than money. You were the cock of the walk with that 27-year-old in tow. Having it all seems generally to equate with sex when it comes to men. You'd flip over a younger woman."

"She imagined she was past her prime, a flower spent."

The President laughed. "You must have cajoled her back in the mood. So you could have returned instantly if you'd called me. Instead it was raw sex under cover of yurt."

"You'll never understand the simple pleasures in life. The great flow of the seasons, agriculture, the good earth, embraced by nature, a man worthy of his hire."

"You weren't hired by anyone except me and the American people. And you're the farthest thing from nature boy, the bib overall brigade, imaginable. You've got it all alright, right here in the White House, and if you screw up again with your Asiatic call girls you can throw away the shithouse, 'cause your ass will belong to me."

That's crude, Madame President. Quite unseemly." Orson stifled a chuckle. "What's next on our busy agenda? You and I against the world?"

"And a cruel one it is. I'll give you one more night with Katrina. Then we'll pull an all-nighter in my quarters and talk strategy."

"Can we make s'mores?"

"Screw you. Get out of my sight."

There was Katrina to deal with. She had led a cultured life and failed to approach the earthy qualities of the President. Orson could imagine the head of state sitting in the backroom of a poolroom smoking stogies and bantering obscenities.

He managed three nights at home with the crowd. He and Katrina shopped for special food – lobster, porterhouse steaks, Frosted Flakes for the tykes. Not to mention the requisite fruit and vegetables. Plus cobbler and ice cream.

Then there came the all-nighter at the White House, which seemed to make his life complete. Not that the daily grind was not challenging. He brought along a sack of small flat pretzels, heavily salted, which they both enjoyed in addition to the usual chips, salsa and semi-liquid cheese.

Right out of the chute, the President said, "I'd like a lot of money."

"You have a fairly well-paying job," Orson replied, opening his sack of pretzels. He then poured each of them a glass of wine.

"I also have thousands in campaign contributions, but that's a no-no for personal expenses. I'm talking real money, millions."

"You have some reason to bring this up?"

"I can talk with Katrina. In fact I have. While you were gone, she called. Concerned. We chatted and got along like ham and eggs."

"Or peanut butter and jelly?"

"Something along those lines. We discussed your household. I think I would fit right in."

Orson had seldom been shocked, or at a loss for words, but this came close. He preferred to be in control. But in truth he was dealing with what had been called the leader of the free world, no slouch.

After a pregnant silence, he asked, "You want to move in with us?"

Mary dipped a pretzel in cheese, took a sip of wine and said, "No. The contrary is more to the point, not that I would welcome that unruly group to the White House. What I'm suggesting is that we, that's me and your extended family, could find a place of our own, perhaps a compound. I simply do not want to live life alone and I see no prospects beyond my current position."

"I'll not trouble you with geographic locations, knowing full well that you embrace the pioneer spirit. But there is something lurking just below the surface here. What might that be?"

"Money, tons of money. We must contrive to build up a substantial amount of cash, millions in cash."

"You throw that word 'we' around quite recklessly, one might say with gay abandon. You and I will raid Fort Knox and carry off the bullion in flour sacks?"

"You lack subtlety."

"Then shall we edge into the mint for a bale of C-notes?"

"Those things have all passed through my brain and been rejected. I am not in the position I'm in by accident. It took work, deals, conniving and sometimes blatant honesty."

"The honesty part is nice. In that case you won't need my services." He refilled their glasses and dipped nacho into salsa.

"Au contraire. We will plot this together. I have no desire to age as a political figure. Serve a second term, become the grand old lady, decay and demise before my time due to stress or maybe even assassination. No, go for the main chance. Take the money and run."

"And the money?" Orson inquired.

"That's up to you and I. We will plot together."

"Then purchase a castle in the air for my brood plus you. Will I enjoy that?"

"Of course you will. Now hear this. The first thought that entered my mind was simply to steal money. There's a lot of it lying about. Our beloved military-industrial complex sees to that. Military contracts, military toys, useless weapons. Then it crossed my mind to simply have people give us the money. No strings attached."

"Selling bridges or highway projects?"

"Good thought. I like a man who can use his brain."

"I have several."

"The jury's still out on that one after your Mongolian caper. But peddling government contracts smacks of corruption."

"It also smacks of federal prison."

"Right you are. How much do you think the presidency is worth?"

Orson laughed loud and fairly long. "You intend to sell the White House?"

"I'm not going to place a sign in the front yard or place it on Multiple Listings. The thing is I could easily win a second term. Common knowledge. I already have the campaign funds. Some left over from last time, some trickling in. So who's to oppose me? There are two or three members of my own party who would like the job and as many in the opposition. All good candidates until proven otherwise. So what if I'm teetering on the edge and could go either way?"

Orson nodded. He was beginning to get the picture. "What about the vice president," he questioned. "What if you resigned?"

"He's a prime jerk," Mary replied. "A total political animal. He was picked because he's from the Southwest and there's a famous photo of him brandishing a six-gun. He would be putty in the hands of any number of lobbyists, all of whom would make under-the-table deals to get him into office. That's the beauty part. The downside is he couldn't be reelected and the cognoscenti know that. So there you have it. Video at eleven."

"I see possibilities," Orson said. "But it's the second part of the plan that troubles me. For one thing, you know what my plans are for the twins."

"I do indeed. Those plans involve tedious home schooling. Maybe boarding school later on, somewhere in Switzerland perhaps?"

"That's true. Tutors as far as the eye can see. That would take care of that. But I am married to Katrina. A second woman in the house might be a poser."

"For Chrissake, Orson. You already have Cook and a couple of nannies, plus one female twin, your protégé. The boy would be mine and Katrina's, plus nannies yet untold. Leave Katrina to me. The plan stays you rustically at home. No more wild roving."

"Your plan, which falls lightly from your lips, will require some heavy lifting. I'll not be your bag man."

"Of course not, Orson. Katrina will take care of that."

His mouth was almost agape. "You're involving Katrina in your sordid plan?"

"There is nothing illegal about it. If certain individuals want to throw some cash my way so I can retire from public service, so what?"

"The so what is that you are the President. Not the county dogcatcher. The money would be little more than a bribe."

"You plan your life, Orson. Let Katrina and I plan ours."

Faced with such a stunning turn-around, Orson refilled the glasses and suggested they would have to crack another bottle. He turned his concentration to the small flat pretzels and dithered between semi-liquid cheese and spicy salsa, which wasn't really spicy.

He frowned and said, "Why don't you get some salsa that has a tang to it?"

"When we get this thing settled, Katrina has agreed to a part-time job in my office. She will not be on the regular payroll to avoid the scent of nepotism."

"Oh, swell. Who ever heard of nepotism among folks nursing on the public tit? So she'll be working in the office, maybe licking stamps or teaching the other secretaries, or should I call them danseuse, à la seconde, arabesque, en croix, fondu, grand pas or revoltade."

"What a string of phony French. I admire you." She had brought out a second bottle and Orson fought the cork out.

"Everyone a legitimate term, I assure you. One of my weaknesses is a memory for trivia. I could reel off a dozen more."

"Please don't."

"These all-nighters plus the specter of sharing some sort of villa raises its unwholesome head. Katrina and I are man and wife with all the joys, despair and heartaches that brings down. Why borrow more trouble."

"Perhaps I should plain speak. I've hinted at it. Katrina and I have reached an agreement to share you, possibly even share one another."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Orson asked.

"Because it sets you free. Katrina is a highly cultured individual with a keen mind and a well-honed sense of humor. We three together along with the rest of the household. Call it destiny. Call it kismet."

Orson laughed and bolted half a glass of fresh wine. "Call it idiocy. Call it a road map to disaster. Call it a psychological mine field."

"Did I mention that we three are intelligent human beings?"

"I believe you covered that."

"Then can you endure such a relationship."

"Of course. I can endure dental work with the proper sedatives. It's not myself that worries me."

"Then trust me. Katrina and I know exactly what we're doing. The three of us will spend long winter nights by the glow of a cheerful fire, little feet scampering here and there, candles glow, pass the pipe, pass the bowl. I can see our future unrolling before us."

"I'm in. We don't need much money. The three of us already have enough."

"But I want more," Mary asserted. "Much more. I'm not leaving this town the way I came in, begging for approval."

"You'll yearn for power when it's gone."

"I've had power for years. Beginning in the state house, then the state senate, then the U.S. Senate. I know what I want now. I want to help rear a couple of practical spies."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In a quiet moment after dinner, after the twins had quieted down, after Cook and the nannies were in bed, Orson asked Katrina, "What do you think of Mary Warren's plan?"

"I'm flattered to be included in a small group proposed by the President. Many people are in awe of the White House and all it represents."

"And your job at that White House?"

"I could be a clerk in a gift shop, or a cashier in a supermarket. But I should do something. Cook and the nannies hold the fort."

"But you will in fact be working directly for the President. There is a certain confidentiality there."

"I know, Orson. And I'm pleased with it. It opens new horizons, fresh vistas. I admire Mary Warren and am pleased I have her confidence. I may have to add to my wardrobe."

"I'm sure we can pick something up at Goodwill. But tell me, Mary must have spoken to you about her lust for big bucks and the group of us gypsies hitting the road and establishing a type of compound; somewhere, I might add, where joys never cease."

"You can add anything you like, but that's probably not one of them. There is reality and there are dreams. Mary has scratched her way to the top on a very tough battlefield. She has watched her every word, planned move after move like a chess master. She deserves a little slack, and her dreams need to germinate."

"Well said, but I wouldn't sell her short. This method of achieving a larger amount of cash than the three of us already have, it puzzles me."

Katrina smiled and sipped her red wine. Late in the evening, or after five, it seemed there were always wine glasses and bottles to fill them close at hand. "I can explain that in one word – foundation."

"My God!" Orson exhibited true surprise. "Of course, a foundation. Who better to start a foundation, than the President of the United States? As the head of a foundation there would be money to burn. Any special program – save the sea turtle, protect the upland grouse?"

"Help the poor struggler. Anyone in need, anywhere in the world, any ethnic group, friend or enemy, help the pitiful wretch."

"She's a bloody genius. And you'll handle that?"

"I will."

"Katrina, you've lifted a great weight from my shoulders. She has a method to virtually steal money, yet it's sublimely legal, in fact she'll be much admired for it. The possibilities are endless."

A day or two later, Orson was on the Hill carrying out his normal routine. This time chatting with a senate committee chairman who had been rumored as a presidential candidate. He was flogging an immigration bill that had been kicking around in one form or another for years.

As was the case with most folks on the Hill, be they elected or staffers, the senator preferred to talk politics.

"I'm guessing your boss is making early preparations for reelection," the senator said, adding, "She has an impressive war chest."

"That's Tom Morgenson's department. I don't bother with politics," Orson replied.

"You should if you want to keep your job."

"The history of second terms involves many of the faithful fleeing the administration. It's like a fresh start. Anyway, why would you think she is so dead set on a second term?"

"Don't you?" the senator questioned, his ears perking up.

"Well, there's this foundation thing. I think Mary Warren is a do-gooder at heart."

"What foundation?" the senator asked, attempting to hide his spiked up interest.

"You know, to help people all over the world. That sort of thing. The usual."

"I didn't know she had a foundation."

"She doesn't really. I think there's been an application for tax-exempt status. If it gets off the ground, that is if she gets the money, she would feel right with it for a start, that might be it."

The senator's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, that might be it."

"President or not, Mary Warren is still a woman. That maternal instinct. She wants to help people. Asians, Europeans, American Indians, anywhere there's a need." Orson could have gone on, but he felt he might lay it on a trifle too heavy. So he offered his hand to the senator and said, "Please, this time let's do something good on immigration. Think of all those minority voters."

The senator nodded and said good day. He was considering minority voters and was thinking of his chances with them and everyone else if Mary Warren booted a second term. He knew for a fact that Orson was close to the President, very close. How could such a thing happen? She had a second term for the asking. She had the minority and women's vote on ice, plus the liberal community. What were the odds?

Orson did his subtle best to spread the word on the Hill. The President was creating a foundation. If successful, she might simply throw in the political towel and do good work. Members of both parties caught the scent of political blood. The next presidential election could be wide open!

The White House press secretary was bombarded with questions about the President's foundation. Finally, Lucy Lapin, the full-time chief of staff appeared in the pressroom and answered, "Yes, the President is starting a foundation. It would help the needy wherever they might be. Those in poverty, the disease stricken, penniless students, oppressed minorities and the list might go on and on. You media hawks might dig up a few more categories."

The Kansas City Star asked, "Is this being run out of the White House with federal dollars?"

"Yes and no," Lapin replied. "By necessity the President wants to keep the initial staff near her, but no federal money is involved. There is the minor use of office space, but if the foundation takes off, or even if it doesn't, that will be paid for with private funds."

"And this staff?" someone shouted.

"The staff is one person, an intern paid with private funds."

"And who might that be?" the Salt Lake Deseret questioned.

"The President's good friend, Katrina Platt."

"She's the wife of your counterpart, Orson Platt," The New York Times said.

"Quite true. They're good friends. Katrina's very competent."

"She was a ballet dancer. How does that qualify her?" the Daily Beast asked.

"Let's say she's as qualified as you are," Lapin said with a sly smile.

"That's no answer," the Beast replied.

"I really have nothing else to say. You have the entire story." Lapin, also known as Bunny, or the Rabbit, turned and was gone.

Sunday morning talk and the late night talk shows squeezed what they could from the President's foundation. No name had been given, so it was simply called the Warren Foundation or the Mary Warren Foundation. Katrina was stunned by the number of calls that came in inquiring where and how to contribute and whether it had been cleared with the IRS as a tax deduction. The intern was forced to hire a secretary at Orson's expense.

The tax situation was soon ironed out and money began flowing into the coffers, the name now official – The Warren Foundation.

Orson and Katrina had more than one conversation over what Mary might have in mind for a family compound. In general, they were in accord with her plan. But the devil seemed to be in the details. Not the foundation, because that seemed to have taken off with a little help from Hill politicos.

Orson made arrangements to lunch with the President, then showed up at her office with a couple of flatbread sandwiches and two cans of diet soda.

He tossed lunch on her desk along with several napkins and grabbed a chair. "Katrina and I have been wondering about the end result of your plan. Where might this compound be located?"

"You're not getting cold feet?"

"No. The idea appeals. We have to live our life somewhere. Just so we can be together, educate the children, have Cook and the nannies, seventh heaven."

"I've given it some thought and I'd like the three of us to get together and hash it over."

"But you have ideas?"

"Well, remotely. I thought of Canada, but it's too cold. Then the Pampas, we could have a large working cattle ranch. Or the Australian Outback. Maybe the large Hawaiian island. What do you think?"

Orson stifled a laugh. "I'd definitely veto the Outback. Maybe I could visit the Pampas, chat with a few gauchos or vaqueros, whoever I might run across. Now the Hawaiian thing sounds OK. You haven't thought this through, have you?"

"I haven't spent a lot of brainpower on it. Maybe if we got a map. The first part to me was the most important, getting a foundation up and going, starting the flow of money."

"That's another issue. Most of the money should go for good deeds."

"I agree. Katrina and I have talked about that very topic. I'll have a salary, she'll have a salary. Maybe Cook or a nanny might have a salary. There will be expenses for travel, flying down to Rio to help the poor at Cape Horn. Katrina has the con."

"I understand. We have time to work something out. You realize several presidential hopefuls are salivating."

Smiling broadly, Mary said, "I know. Isn't it wonderful?"

That same afternoon, Orson had an urgent call from Tony Morgenson, the President's political guru who had an office a few blocks from the White House. He wanted a meeting. Orson agreed to see him at breakfast the following day. He would pick up something from Bojangles and bring it to his office.

"Not too greasy or spicy," Morgenson insisted.

"Would you prefer Dunkin' Donut?"

"Frankly, yes."

"I'll do it."

Morgenson got right to the point when they sat down with their coffee and donuts. "I'm working like hell to keep the campaign money flowing in, and now there's a highly regarded rumor that she won't seek a second term."

"I'll not lie to you, Tony. It's a very real possibility. But the election's a long way off."

"But where would that leave me? Her winning a second term is almost a no brainer. I'm constantly polling."

"I agree. But you are working for the party. You are working for whatever candidate the party in its wisdom deems qualified to carry the banner into the maelstrom. That's how the money would be spent. You will doubtless have a high, if not the highest position, in the next presidential campaign."

Tony bit into his second donut, this one coated with a sugary pink icing, and nodded. "You and Mary would see to that, wouldn't you?"

"Of course. But there's no seeing to it, Tony. You win the spot on merit. You're the best."

"Thanks Orson. We still haven't had that fight, have we?"

"No. And I don't want to get scuffed up this morning. I'm a family man."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

For a time, politics, family life, friends, all was well with the world. Life hummed along like a well-oiled sewing machine. Mary Warren, Katrina and Orson would gather at the town house for family times. The Secret Service had vetted all the staff plus the tutors who would come and go.

During that time, Jake, the head of the security unit, would spend his time in the kitchen chatting up Cook who plied him with goodies. His plump form made even plumper.

The twins had moved beyond the toddler stage and would race about the gathered company, unless occupied with a tutor. There had been constant wrangling over languages, which resulted in French, German, Spanish, Arabic and Chinese all being thrust on Alice and Dan. Their age was considered the ideal time to learn foreign tongues, but five of them seemed a bit much. Regardless, no end of negotiations had been able to reduce the number to three.

Then there were weekends at Camp David with the whole gang on board, including tutors.

There had also been a detente reached in relations among the three major players. The trio was aging and decided to come to grips with facts. On a weekly basis it was decided Orson would pull one all-nighter with the President, while Katrina would do another.

This, only if state dinners, receptions and so forth didn't stand in the way. The agreement was general, but flexible. Meanwhile, both Orson and Katrina were expected to attend all major White House functions. They would always been seen together as a couple.

Of course there were rumors, delicious rumors, much to the delight of all three principles. Washington thrived on rumors.

Orson had his day-to-day duties, attending CIA briefings, conferring with Lucy Lapin, the genuine chief of staff, putting out brushfires. But his major talent lay in handling fairly delicate foreign missions. He could at least understand several languages and speak two or three with some fluency.

So it came to pass that the President called him into her office for just such a project, first advising her secretary to hold all calls.

"Oh for the good old days of the Cold War," was her entry remark.

"We could attack someone," Orson countered. "I'd suggest Texas."

"Too difficult. They have more guns down yonder than the Marines. Our problem is we don't have an enemy. You and I have to create one."

"You're serious."

"Deadly."

"What about Cuba?"

"Come on. I'd like to normalize our relations with that island. Give them Gitmo. Join them for a few rum and Cokes. Russia was large enough to be a threat. Actually, the Soviet Union. China has growled at us now and then. That might be the target, Orson. What do you think?"

He rubbed his hand on his scarred face. His days as a stealth or undercover operator were long gone. "You want me to create some sort of incident?"

"I'd rather not have anyone killed."

"That might be hard to avoid."

"How about getting a young woman raped? Maybe a Peace Corps volunteer?"

"Frankly, Mary. That has happened quite often. The Peace Corps is skilled at covering up such tragedies. And that sort of thing is strictly third world."

"The Peace Corps was in China. Are they still there?"

"I'd have to check. But the Peace Corps takes its own chances. I really don't want to screw around with them, or screw over them. They recruit a strange lot."

"Maybe Pakistan," the President suggested.

"Good point. They'd like to bomb our ass and they do have the bomb. But they are supposedly our ally. So is India, their nemesis. I'm sure you know we have troops deployed in more than one hundred countries, thousands of nuclear weapons and spend billions more on defense than any country in the world. No one would dare openly attack us."

"Of course I know all those things. I also know the average American voter would have a hard time pointing out Korea, or Norway on a world map. But they do become aroused if someone provokes us. How many military personnel were we losing in Iraq and Afghanistan on a weekly basis? Yet only the immediate families really cared.

"But a consulate was attacked, four fairly high-level lives lost. Congress made a big deal out of it and it splashed over the media for weeks. The media is our ally. Create an incident and we jump on it. Congress jumps on it. The media is our ally. They are like dogs fighting over a sensational bone. They take what passes as the truth and advance ten steps beyond. Hearst took credit for starting the Spanish-American war."

"But why do we need an enemy?" Orson was fairly happy with the way things were going, the steady hum of tranquility.

"To focus the public attention away from the real problems of poverty, unemployment, racism, exorbitant health care costs and so on. We don't need a war, but we do need an enemy. Also the military will love it. We can deploy a few destroyers, maybe an aircraft carrier. Alert the Marines and the Green Berets. Do we still have Green Berets?"

"I don't know. You're Commander in Chief."

"I'll get together with the military and go over a few things. I'll need a briefing first. Check on the Green Berets for me, Orson. Be a good fellow."

"Ok. And I'll dig up someone to be our enemy. There was a film, The Mouse That Roared. A tiny country declared war on us briefly, then surrendered and appealed for foreign aid."

"We probably spend too much on the military. Not probably, we actually do. But if we try to close a base there's an uproar from the Congress. Those directly impacted cry out and their colleagues join them, thinking they might be next. Maybe the way to really help people is to get out of office, use my Foundation. Katrina's doing superb work. We're already helping educate poor students right here in the District."

"She's proud of her role," Orson said, and then hurried off to study becoming an agent provocateur.

Finding a worthy enemy was no picnic. Challenging Russia, or China might lead to an actual war. There were South and Central American countries that might fill the bill, but none with substantial military presence. Africa was also not a candidate. Sub-Saharan countries struggled among themselves against tribal differences and poverty.

Orson finally settled on Japan.

"Japan!" the President replied. "Those small islands?"

"Those small islands overshadow the U.K., which once held dominion over palm and pine. They are larger than Poland. They also attacked us in 1941, creating quite a bloody mess. They're also disliked for killing whales and worshiping animals. They have a history of persecuting Christians, and there now seems to be a revival of the Samurai spirit, or Bushido, the so-called soul of Japan, or the way of the warrior."

"I know there's always been a right wing, nationalistic movement. Frankly, it could be a double-edged sword. An opportunity to remove our troops and their dependent baggage. We would likely save millions."

"Not millions," Orson replied. "Billions. The USFJ or Zainichi Beigun as our forces are called number more than 30,000 plus over 5,000 civilians. The 7th Fleet is at Yokosuka, the Third Marines on Okinawa. We have 130 fighter aircraft at Misawa and Kadena air base."

The President considered Orson's story seriously. "There are plans to redeploy some Marines to Guam and maybe Hawaii, but these military plans seem forever pending. Glacial."

"Meanwhile," Orson continued, "There's been all sorts of life-taking vehicular accidents and sexual crime. Many Japanese are hopping mad. Which leads to our fear of a serious incident. Of course we employe many Japanese, which adds to their economy. And the Japanese government pays us about two billion dollars annually in a so-called sympathy budget, or as they put it, Omoiyari Yosan. A drop in the bucket, but enough to enrage a segment of the population. We're protecting them from what? They conquered Korea and most of China before World War Two. They are an aggressive, military nation."

The President actually rose from her chair and strode around the room. "By God, Orson, you've put together a pretty package. We'll begin pulling all of our troops out of Japan immediately." She began to laugh. "Our Marines are supposed to be able to move lightning swift at a moment's notice. We should have them on Guam or back in California next week. It's generally against their policy to have overseas bases. We'll do it, Orson."

"And my role?" he questioned.

"Of course, your role. Go to Tokyo, get a hotel room, contact no one. Watch and keep in touch. Read the English language papers, watch TV. You understand Japanese?"

"I can make sense out of the spoken word. The printed words, no."

"So, TV. Chats with the concierge and coffee shop chums. Pick up on the tempo, what's coming down. When we begin withdrawing at a rapid rate, there'll be reaction. I'll have the press secretary drop hints about a rise in Japanese nationalism and the fear that the so called defense force has been transformed, much as Hitler rearmed Germany before the war. You'll be my eyes and ears in Japan."

"Good plan. I'll get my own ticket, like a tourist."

The President smiled. "But stay away from the geishas and the soaplands. Remember, you belong to Katrina and me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Orson settled into a splendid room at the Shinjuku Prince Hotel at 1-30-1 Kabuki-cho. He admired the structure, 25 floors and 571 rooms, like a small city, perfect for vacuuming up information. With his scar and eye patch he would be the most unlikely spy.

No matter, he wasn't quite certain of his mission. He had pay TV in his room. Knowing Japan he was certain it was porn. There was also the offer of in-room massage. Knowing Japan, Mary had warned him in a veiled way to avoid STDs.

His first choice was to get chummy with the concierge, the know-all, tell-all, about the local goings-on. A well-dressed handsome gentleman occupied that stand-up desk in the lobby. Orson placed a twenty dollar bill on the desk and said he might need information about what to do in the city.

To his surprise, the concierge brushed the money onto the lobby floor with the tart comment, "This is Japan. Our currency is the yen."

Orson stared at the man for a moment with his single eye, then turned and walked to the coffee shop. He wondered how much time the twenty would spend on the floor. So, his mission underway, he sensed anti-Americanism.

By the time he had checked into the Shinjuku the Marines were already leaving Okinawa and all military dependents in Japan had been ordered evacuated. So there was quite a flurry on TV and in the English language papers. Orson was certain the Japanese press and electronic media would be even more strident. The relationship with America had been long, tedious and stressful. But why such a sudden turnaround?

In the U.S. members of Congress and the military were wondering the same thing. The President was lying low for the moment. She had ordered the military not to replace the numbers leaving the Japanese islands. The draw down had begun in earnest.

She had joked with Lucy Lapin about congressmen complaining that she might "hollow out the military."

"With our defense budget, our legions aren't about to melt away. It would take me and two or three future presidents just to get the military-industrial complex down to what one might term a defensive force. While we're on the topic, ask the secretary of defense to make up a list of twenty-five overseas installations that might be shut down. I'll need it the day after tomorrow."

On the long plane ride to Japan, Orson had been studying the Japanese government. He found it Byzantine, fragmented and opaque. Otherwise, it seemed to be doing an OK job of running the country. Japanese generally thought as one. Some wag had suggested they didn't really need a spoken language as each knew what the other was thinking.

But, whatever. Orson took a long, pragmatic view of things. He had never attempted to separate good from evil and had always enjoyed the poem with the line, "I am the slayer and the slain." He had communicated with the President about a decided anti-American tone among some Japanese.

Seated in the lobby, across from the concierge's desk, occasionally staring at the man with his one good eye, Orson had been going through some English language Japanese periodicals when a heavily tattooed muscular man strode by.

Calling out to him, "Sir, do you speak English?"

The man stopped and replied in the affirmative. "If you would pause a moment, I'd like to ask you a question."

The man nodded approval and Orson said, "The man at the desk across from me. I was told if I tipped him he would help me with information. I placed an American twenty dollar bill on his desk and he brushed it off on the floor and appeared to be angry. Because you are Japanese, might you ask him why he dislikes me?"

The man seemed to show a flicker of a smile and walked to the concierge's desk, only to return in a few moments. "It seems he doesn't like Americans. He also told me that I shouldn't be in his hotel. So now he has insulted both of us. What should I do?"

Orson smiled, knowing full well that the tattooed man was Japanese mafia, the yakuza. "Leave quietly, I suppose. He hasn't asked me to leave yet. Perhaps I should start packing."

Someone once told Orson that if you ever saw a Japanese man smiling you should get away from him as quickly as possible. But this Yakuza grinned and said, "Please don't check out. Sit down here tomorrow when the man comes on duty. You might see a great change. I belong to a certain, you might say, 'club.' It does not enjoy criticism. You might say I am honor bound to respond in some way. In fact if I don't respond the entire organization loses face. It's a Japanese thing."

"I see," Orson said. "I will take your advice and be here tomorrow. A person can change his mind."

The Yakuza turned and glared at the concierge, then strode on out of the hotel.

After a late western breakfast (two eggs, bacon, home fries and toast, plus three cups of coffee) Orson returned to his lobby couch only to find that yesterday's concierge had been replaced by an attractive young female person. Because many Japanese women hold their youthful features until well into middle life, it was impossible to tell her age.

Orson approached her with the original comment, "You're new here."

Smiling sweetly, she replied, "I'm usually on the nightshift, dealing with drunks and horny older men."

"Where is yesterday's day shift?"

"Ill. Quite ill."

"He looked healthy yesterday."

"The truth is he's in hospital. Seems he had an accident."

"Anything to do with his insulting a member of the yakuza?"

"No one would be that stupid."

"You overestimate your colleague's intelligence and his ego. I was witness to that affair." Orson placed a twenty dollar bill on the desk and said, "I might need advice as to what's happening in the city."

"I'm here to serve you, up to a point." She slipped the currency off the desk.

"What point would that be?"

"You don't buy me for twenty dollars. Information only."

"What do you think about these stories of American troops leaving Japan?"

"I think it's about time. That war was long over before I was born. No one is about to attack these islands. We have claws and sharp sticks."

"Japan attacked America once. Could that happen again?"

"I was told it never did happen. We fell into the Pearl Harbor trap. But give us a year or two and we can attack anyone that displeases us."

"You're a nationalist."

"Whatever that means, you're probably right. If it means I'm a Japanese patriot, yes. Again, up to a point."

"And what point might that be."

"I sleep with the occasional foreigner."

Orson thought he'd play the game. "Do you think I'm ugly?"

"What's on your face doesn't make a whole lot of difference to me."

"I see. You're concerned with the inner man. Inner beauty. The true and soaring spirit."

"If you say so, Sparky. This twenty buys quite a bit of information. Drop by anytime."

Orson got to know the woman by her shortened name, Kaz, and chatted with her frequently during the next few days. He also talked at least once a day to the President on what he believed to be a secure line.

There was no problem spotting right wing groups in Japan. Every large city seemed to have the huge black trucks or vans that drove rapidly through the streets now and then blaring nationalistic messages through a loud speaker.

The Japanese general name for the groups was Uyoku dantai. There are an estimated one thousand such groups with a total membership of at least a hundred thousand. One of the more militant was the Issuikai, which sees Japan as a U.S. puppet state and demanded total freedom. There was even a small neo-Nazi party.

Orson's research, plus his talks with Kaz and others he met on a casual basis, were all fodder for the President's shadow campaign, which gradually turned attention toward the Japanese Islands as a possible threat to America. Many in the Congress applauded evacuating troops and dependents from the island nation.

There was enough meat on the bones for publicity hungry members of both houses to call hearings. Japanese dissidents living in the States were eager to testify. All of which pleased the President and permitted her to move ahead unhindered with more important work.

Using the list of foreign climes where U.S. military units seemed to be simply wasting away, the President highlighted the top ten and ordered preparations to evacuate.

The number one on that list was Germany where the country not only had troops and equipment, but a major hospital facility. The President proposed recalling all troops and dependents from Germany and relocating the hospital operation to the United Kingdom if an agreement could be reached.

Since so many foreign countries welcomed the removal of the facilities, there would be heavy local job losses with no replacement in sight. So it was not simply a win-win situation. Some U.S. servicemen had spent their entire military careers stationed in Germany, although deployed elsewhere from time to time. They had German wives or lovers and German-speaking offspring.

Although Orson had been hanging out in the vicinity of the Shinjuku Prince for some days, no one had recognized him until a member of the Japanese Diet spotted him seated in the lobby and did a double take.

Orson looked up from his reading to see a yam-shaped, balding man in an expensive suit standing over him. "You work for the White House in Washington."

"You've got that right. To whom am I speaking?"

"Taro Yamaguchi. I am a Dietman."

"A member of the Japanese parliament?"

"Correct. Does your presence here have anything to do with the present anti-Japanese campaign being waged by your White House?"

"That's right to the point."

"Why beat about the bush as you might say. I spent two years at our embassy in Washington and studied at Brown for the better part of a year. I'm familiar with American politics."

"All politics bear a similarity, dating back to Greek and Roman times. There are nationalistic groups in Japan that are happy to see us go."

"We have been good neighbors."

"Not so on trade matters," Orson insisted. "You have refused to buy certain of our products for no valid reason while insisting we purchase your products. How do you account for that?"

"Business is business," Yamaguchi insisted.

There is a certain quid pro quo even in business. We buy your transistors, you buy our rice. Yet we bought your transistors and you bought rice from Thailand. How many transistors do you sell in Thailand?"

"Transistors are passé."

"I'm citing long ago examples. I don't wish to quarrel with you. Our two countries seem to have differences. I suspect the Diet could do something about those differences. What have you done?"

"I am only one member of a large, sometimes unruly body. What can I do?"

"You are only one. But you are one. You cannot do everything, but you can do something."

"It seems to me I've heard that somewhere before."

"But it smacks of the truth. Have you been a good friend of my country?"

"I am a good friend of Japan. And Japan has been a loyal friend of the United States."

"Do you fear Korea or China?"

"Certainly not. We Japanese fear no one."

"Wonderful. Then our military pullout shouldn't bother you in the least. It will save us a few dollars, a few billion that is."

"But it seems a hostile act."

"Bombing Pearl Harbor was a hostile act."

"We were tricked into that. That's well known."

"Well known in Japanese folklore. But let's put aside our differences and be friends. We're both in the same business. No reason to posture."

"What is posturing? Or who is posturing?"

"The Pearl Harbor thing." Orson was having a bit of fun. "Sending carriers across a wide stretch of the Pacific. Launching planes to wipe out our fleet. How could the brilliant Japanese be tricked into doing such a thing?"

"It can be explained."

"Don't bother. The truth is the Japanese will welcome saying sayonara to our troops. Except for the handful employed by them or somehow making money by their presence. But that will fade away."

"You do have a point there. They have caused us no end of trouble."

"Of course," Orson agreed. "Generally they are young, fairly irresponsible men and women, many of them drink and party too much. They get into trouble here just as they get into trouble at bases in the States. Youth must be served. But they will fight, risk their lives, without thinking twice."

"Our young men are much the same."

"We're also trying to draw down our forces around the globe. In Germany for instance. We have thousands, maybe as many as 50,000 military personnel there. The President hopes to bring them home. Certain Congressmen will object. Just as certain Dietmen will raise cane about our troops leaving Japan. The seasons change, but politics endure."

"But there seems to be an anti-Japanese scent in the air," Taro said. "Certain Congressmen have complained that we worship animals and also worship the dead, as if you Americans don't do the same."

"We worship animals and the dead?" Orson asked, and then remembered, "There is a group called the Grateful Dead, often referred to as The Dead, who some folks seem to worship. I don't think it's a religious thing."

"I'm talking about Americans, native Americans, the only true kind. They are known to have prayed to animals."

"Indians, of course. All sorts of tribes scattered across the country. They must have had many different beliefs."

"But the mainstream existing Americans, the sons and daughters of immigrants, they worship the dead."

"I'm not a religious scholar, but you might mean Jesus. He's thought to have risen from the dead and now resides in heaven."

"There is Jesus," Taro agreed. "But the Catholics have maybe a hundred thousand saints and still counting. The so-called Protestants embrace some of these. I have lived in America and I know these things. Those saints are definitely dead."

"You have a point. But that would run contrary to the Christian belief that good people also reside in heaven after death. And anyone chosen by the Catholic Church to be a saint would nominally be a good person. If they had sins, those sins would be forgiven."

"You mean mortal man could open heaven's gates for certain folks?"

"I am not a Catholic, but I believe those people would have to ask forgiveness and that request would go directly to God."

"He must be a busy man. For the record, I know the Protestants don't use all those Catholic saints. But they do use Peter and Paul, maybe the rest of that lot and a few others. I suppose John the Baptist is a saint."

"I'm not certain, but I would guess that's true. I believe there are churches dedicated to St. John."

"It's Joan of Arc that puzzles me."

"You mean she was burned alive by the French. Many of the saints met horrible fates and refused to give Jesus up. Her case was a bit different. You see, she's credited with more or less saving France, if that's possible. She did this by leading the loyal armies to victory and thus restoring the king to power. Then there was talk that she was more popular than the king.

"The king didn't like this. He was after all the king. So he ordered her burned alive as a witch, gifted with occult powers. This made some the people angry. They liked Joan. Then a dead girl didn't really bother the king all that much. So he called in the local clergy and had her created a saint. I think that's the word, created."

"That's an interesting story. I suppose all the saints were created by the Catholics. The ones the Protestants worship, prior to the breakaway. But all this talk, and that's what it seems to be, simply talk, has created something else, an anti-Japanese feeling in America."

"Possibly. And in Japan there is an anti-American undertone. As the Japanese like to say, nothing can be done about it."

Taro agreed. Japanese would say such a thing when faced with a difficult problem. "Our countries will remain good friends and allies," he said, shaking Orson's hand. "But I wonder what you are doing in Tokyo."

Orson grinned. "Taking in the Ginza."

"Yes, you do appear to be a prolific shopper." Taro nodded, then continued on his way.

Orson believed his work in Japan was done, if you could call it that. He had reported on the general atmosphere of the country without stirring far from the Shinjuku Prince. He had enjoyed sushi and sake, a sticky breakfast dish that seemed in the last stages of decay, good beer and a fairly decent French wine.

He had also stumbled on a possible mental disorder he had no knowledge of. Or was it a mental disorder? There seemed to be inconclusive evidence. Although some of those in this category were definite mental basket cases. It was called hikikomori, and the million or so young adults afflicted with it refused to work and avoided social contacts. Some shutting themselves up in their rooms, sleeping during the day, awake at nights, never leaving their parent's homes.

Others might shop in their neighborhoods or visit a library. Orson thought the condition quite interesting and totally puzzling.

He checked in with President Warren and suggested it was time for him to return home. She agreed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Orson was once more in the bosom of his extended family in the Georgetown townhouse. He didn't know if he had contributed to the confusion with his reports from Tokyo.

But the President was quite pleased with his work and hers. The atmosphere of confusion that hints from the White House and elsewhere had created had permitted her cover to withdraw troops from Japan, and the movement home from Germany was well underway.

And bills that had been languishing in committee had been revived. "Stirring up the Capitol Hill animals can work wonders if you are the stirrer," she remarked to Orson." Now I'm thinking of another job for you. Would you enjoy another trip to the Middle East?"

"Give me a day or so to adjust to the time zone and enjoy the comforts of home. I'm afraid the twins might forget their father."

"Forget that face!? Fat chance. I want you to talk with King Saudi again, and you'd better check in with the Israelis, or better yet, both at the same time."

"You have a secretary of state, also major embassies in both countries."

"True. And there are no secrets once the cat is out of the bag. But you won't be speaking in confidence. You will simply be reporting a slight adjustment in course by this administration. I do intend to talk with the secretary of state, also inform Lucy Lapin and the press secretary. But no major announcement. Just a slight change of view."

"And what might that be?" Orson inquired.

"After some study and talking with many sources, I'm ready to give up on the idea of a two-state settlement for Israel and Palestine. It's possible, but not likely."

"I mentioned such a thing to the King when I was in Saudi. It's been voiced around."

"It has. We seem to have missed the boat because of our sensitivity toward Israel. In the late seventies, or early eighties, we could have put our foot down and demanded Israel not start creeping its settlements into Arab lands. Now it's too late. There are Israeli settlements and Israeli roads. Both sides have kept the two-state thing alive for their own political purposes. The Palestinian politicians encourage their people to dream on, a shabby, mindless pursuit."

"I understand what you are saying. I also understand that the old Zionist dream is dead or dying. But what's the answer? I can't see one state emerging overnight."

"Nothing will happen overnight. There will be a gradual realization. Riots, chaos and bloodshed will follow. Blood will flow. No one can prevent it. Not us, not the Israelis, not the Palestinians, not the UN."

"What sort of a message am I to carry?" Orson thought he was looking at a lose-lose situation.

"Simply convey my thoughts. You might do a bit of research on your own. The fact is, America, under my presidency, will no longer be able to support Israel to the hilt. There must be compromise."

"I'll be the most popular kid on the block."

Mary smiled. "That's your job, Orson. Why do you think I keep you here?"

"I've wondered about that. The last time I was in Israel they tossed me in the can."

"According to plan. And I was able to make a few strategic withdrawals. Our relations remain frosty and may grow even frostier. Our well-oiled Jewish community and old line Zionists must step into modern times. Thinking they might pull the wool over the eyes of thousands of Arabs with illegal expansion has basically killed the chances for a two-state solution. Your going to the Middle East is simply another bell in a series of wake-up calls. The Israelis know what's going on. They know they are seated on a time bomb of earth-shattering proportions."

"But you think acknowledging the impossibility serves the interests of both communities?"

"I think it will help them wake up from a dream. This is nothing new. It's been talked about more and more in recent months."

"I need a little time. The Israelis were suspicious last time because I visited Saudi first. They knew about my friendship with the king. I'll get in touch with them both and fly into Israel first. Then try to get the two parties together for our chat. It won't be easy. The king will not meet with anyone below the rank of head of state."

"I'm certain you'll work things out. The sooner we can get some sort of regional settlement the better. There are plenty of examples. The Soviet Union collapsed, didn't it?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When Orson's plane set down in Tel Aviv there was a staffer waiting. Both Prime Minister Yair Landver and King Saudi had been forewarned.

Landver greeted him like a long lost cousin. Orson returned the warm embrace.

"I'm always pleased to meet President Warren's personal envoy. For some reason she doesn't use either the secretary of state or the ambassador. I'm sure she has her reasons."

"I suppose so," Orson replied, "but I'm not certain what they are. Of course she trusts me. But we all work for the same government and we are all here together."

"Well said. And what devious mission brings you to Israel?"

"I am not the bringer of glad tidings. There is a sea change in the President's outlook toward the world. What I would like to do is get you and King Saudi together and speak to you both at the same time. There could be others in the meeting. But you two are the major players."

"I was beginning to wonder if your President considered little Israel a major player."

Orson smiled. "As small as it is, little Israel has kept us on our toes for many years. And we look forward to many more. Is such a meeting possible?"

"Two things. It would be secret until after the fact. And it would be on neutral ground."

"Would Jordan do?"

"Good choice. Maybe the only one acceptable. Have you been in touch with the King?"

"Not yet. I hoped a phone call might suffice."

"No problem there."

"I'd appreciate a secure line without Mossad listening in."

"I'll try. They seem to do whatever they please. But you've been in that game."

"I know it well. Maybe I'd better hop over there. But I'm also not disclosing my mission until the two of you are together."

"Is it cataclysmic, tsunami caliber?"

"You'd probably not see it so. I was about to say something, but maybe I'd better hold my tongue. I should be able to take a plane tomorrow."

"I'll arrange it."

The three of them arrived in Amman, Jordan, the same evening, landing in two private aircraft minutes apart. Orson had flown in with King Saudi for convenience sake.

Under heavy security, they were motorcaded to a building called Government House and told to go crazy calling room service. A breakfast was arranged for the following morning, to be hosted by the king of Jordan.

Neither King Saudi nor Prime Minister Landver traveled with security, depending entirely on Jordan's elite service. Their special agents remained with the airplanes.

Government House itself was on total lockdown. Orson showered, donned a luxurious terry cloth robe, then ordered lobster and a bottle of Chablis from the room service number he had been given. He dined solo, watched CNN until the bottle was empty and slept like a sated bear. What the others were doing he could care less.

With formal greetings out of the way and the wreckage of breakfast before them, Orson suggested that the King of Jordan join the parley. He declined, but Orson insisted. He might be called the titular host. So the four of them adjourned to a sitting room with coffee and pastries and Orson took the floor.

"To be blunt and to the point," he began, "the President of the United States believes a two-state solution to the Middle East problem is highly unlikely. Her thinking has evolved to that point. And I'm certain you are all aware that she isn't the only one holding that view." Orson eyed the three state leaders. Silence for a long moment, then Landver spoke.

"What does that mean?"

"It simply means what I said. It means she will no longer go out of her way or invest time and treasure into seeking a two-state solution. She believes there was a chance for that some years ago, but the U.S. missed it."

The Saudi King was clearly disappointed. "My plan, which brought the parties to the table, has been abandoned by President Warren. It seems like a slap in the face."

"The President," Orson said, "sends you her good wishes. She hopes your plan will prosper. America is far across the water. You are working with your fellows here. If a two state solution is possible, she hopes you will achieve it. That she has been influenced to the contrary should not deter you from moving ahead."

"But America is a player in this game," Saudi insisted.

"Is, but should not be. You know our troops are being withdrawn from Europe and parts of Asia. Alexander the Great conquered most of the known world, then Rome came along and dominated Greece, even occupying the British Isles. Britain established an empire on which the sun never set, yet it did set. Then lately, the Soviet Union shattered. Things change."

"Just when was it," Landver questioned, "that America could have insisted on a two-state solution?"

"She believes, as others do, that it was in the late 70s, or early eighties, when Israel began sliding settlements into Arab territory. America should have put its foot down. But our Jewish community was all for the spread of Israel, which incidentally seems to carry the seeds of Israel's demise."

The Israeli prime minister began to rise from his chair and almost shouted, "You're telling me that Israel is finished?"

"As such, yes," Orson responded calmly. "The Zionist movement is finished. American shores beckon ambitious Israelis. We have the laws that protect them and permit them to flourish. President Warren used the word 'organic,' which to me means natural. So the area will take its natural course, go the way of mankind."

"And what might that be?" King Saudi questioned.

"There are sparkling Jewish settlements on Arab land, Jewish roads that only Jews can use. The list goes on. Israel can only abuse its Arab neighbors up to a point. The Palestinian leaders endure this because they want to stay in power. But the people will eventually speak and it will not be pleasant. There will be riots and there will be bloodshed on both sides. Very likely many will die."

"And from this bloody orgy, what emerges?" The King of Jordan finally spoke.

"No one knows," Orson said. "Those who have placed this scenario on the table are not prophets. Prophets of doom maybe, but not clairvoyant. It should be some type of single state, although not as such. Perhaps a federation of sorts. What will be sought after and should be achieved is equal rights for all. That is not a bad outcome, but the road to such an ending will be gory."

"You have made us all feel wonderful," the prime minister said. "I believe we have your message in full."

Orson asked to add one additional item. "Militant Jews have become very aggressive in attempting to take over the Temple Mount in Jerusalem's Old City. For centuries this has been controlled by Muslims. This can be viewed as a provocation in an area with Muslim, Christian, Armenian and Jewish quarters. Where is the peace? I ask you. I am the messenger. You can shoot me now."

"If that would solve anything," the Jordan king said with a slight smile. "Since the three of us are together, perhaps we can talk of matters more mundane if Orson will excuse us. Then I've planned a luncheon with a few others in attendance. After that you can fold your tents like the proverbial Arabs and silently steal away."

"I'll stay over if you don't mind," Orson said. "I've booked a flight to the States for tomorrow morning."

"You are our honored guest," the Jordanian king said with grace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The house smelled of cauliflower when Orson entered. He enjoyed the smell and knew it well. Cook had been boiling the vegetable as a prelude to mashing, a great substitute for mashed potatoes. He suspected she added milk, but he wasn't certain. A plucky woman, Cook, she ruled the roost, at least her kitchen.

Occasionally she would try something from her Russian heritage, such as kulebiaka – fish, rice and mushrooms enclosed in a pastry. Very delicious and a great family favorite.

Orson found the Georgetown Townhouse much as he had left it, the twins growing day by day, now being burdened with small portions of reading and mathematics.

During cocktail hour they chatted and bickered about Salinger. Should his dirty linen be exposed in public? Did he actually possess dirty linen? Then going over his four published works, zeroing in on Holden Caulfield. What would his unpublished tomes reveal, if anything. The topic was endless. Someone said it may be time to embrace the complex reality of adult life in all its grime and vulgarity and self-contradiction, all its phoniness and squalor.

There would never be an end to talk about J.D. Salinger. Is everything autobiographical? To join the life and the fiction, the secluded lifestyle. But at the White House, day-to-day drama was in full view. Particularly as the election season approached and the Foundation money increased.

A reporter had asked the President how money would be raised for the Foundation when she was out of office. "I'll go on speaking tours. I'll travel the world. Our good works will be a beacon to the one percent to open their deep pockets. But in reality, if the money we have now is invested wisely, the interest alone will bankroll myriad good deeds. That doesn't mean we don't want more."

Orson remarked to the President that the task he had done in the Middle East might have been done by telephone.

"You are my gadfly. You brought them all together and perhaps jolted them back to reality. Perhaps Israel will be more motivated to seek a two-state solution, faced with what many believe will be a chaotic bloodbath. Perhaps you have set them seriously thinking about the future. Perhaps not. Time moves on like a slow freight, or an express train."

"They claim to be in serious negotiations," Orson insisted.

"What a façade that is. Honest plans have been stalled more than once by hopeless negotiations. But we will have other concerns, domestic concerns, that need our attention."

Orson cocked his head and asked, "When you say 'we,' is that like royalty, or does it embrace someone else?"

"Of course we are here together, Orson. You, me, Katrina, the twins and our extended family. It is a wide world, chock full of wonders."

Orson wondered what she was getting at, but changed the subject.

Tony Morgenson, her chief political operative, who headed a small staff a few blocks from the White House, had been after her to announce her intentions. Campaign contributions had fallen off since it was widely rumored that she would retire to the life of a do-gooder.

"I've broadcast the fact that a donation to your campaign is a donation to the party, but indecision seems to dry up funds. You know that old saying about getting off the pot," Tony said.

"The party needs money," the President responded. "Let's plan a grand fundraiser, a glorious dinner, with all invited, and I will make my announcement. But let's try for a record cash crop."

"That's a large order. But I'm guessing we can rope members of both parties into this bash."

"One would think so. It will take a bit of planning and a very large room. Lots of green roast beef, or rubber chicken. But that, such is in the mill will create some excitement."

Tony guffawed. "You bet it will, Madame President. You bet it will."

Only her announcement would still the clamor from both parties and independents, the list of candidates lining up to succeed her in office was increasing on an almost daily basis. Most were as confident as General Custer as he led his troops into the Little Big Horn.

The big night finally came and a glitzy turnout of gladhanders it was. There was food and there was bonhomie plus libations to oil conversations. Party dignitaries took the podium before the President. They were preceded by two or three Hollywood and TV stars. One scantily clad female drew oohs and ahs from the crowd, speculating whether her remaining attire might peel off.

Finally Madame President faced the microphones.

"Reliving the campaign that brought me to this high office today, I recalled my platform, campaign promises, often promptly ignored following an election. A few of mine were immigration reform, voter rights protection, gun control. I'll do name tags rather than bore you with details. Combat sexual harassment in the workplace and the military, minority and women's rights, peace in the Middle East, homeland security, fiscal and tax reforms, tweaking health care.

"There were more, but I failed to jot them down. I'm speaking without notes, without a net. (A riffle of laughter and applause.) My major thrust, possibly not a promise, was to attempt to govern, with a little help from my friends in the Congress and Supreme Court, without fear or favor. My goal at times was to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted.

"Looking back over my record, again without notes, I feel I have made progress. Sometimes that's all we can hope for. Progress. I feel I have promises to keep. Many of you know the next line to that passage. Promises to keep. At this time I wish to announce that I will seek a second term as president of these United States. God bless America!"

With that, she returned to her seat. Half the crowd rose to its feet and cheered wildly. From the other half came an audible moan.

Seated near the back, Orson whispered to Katrina, "There goes our hacienda in the pampas, or was it a villa in Tuscany, or a chateau in Provence, maybe a pineapple farm on the big island?"

"How about a townhouse in Georgetown, a final roosting place."

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," available only in a print edition published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

Connect with Me Online

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