 
#

# THE ZOMBIE FARM

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### By Doug Walker and Mary Z Smith

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

My name is Mary Z Smith. You will note that there is no period after the Z. That is because my middle name is simply Z. In some situations, people who have no middle name are given one. It is NMN, or NMI. It really doesn't matter.

With the last name Smith and the first name Mary, like my mother, my parents felt sticking a Z in there might set me apart. You might know that Harry S Truman had simply an S in the middle and no period was needed, even though one was often stuck there. So let me say that from infancy I was called Zee and will be referred to thusly in this volume if I'm permitted to complete it before the CIA rubs me out.

Welcome to the true world of our global undercover super-sleuth organization.

If I had had the lowdown on the Central Intelligence Agency, after graduating from one of the Seven Sisters (I'll not say which one) other options would have appealed to me – maybe serial killer, sexual predator, everyday housewife, captain of industry, catcher in the rye – there are many more.

To state the obvious, the CIA has a wretched record during its rather short history. The Office of Strategic Services began serving as a clearinghouse for various spy agencies in 1942. The CIA took over from the OSS during 1946-1947; there is some confusion here.

The Korean War in the 1950s helped the floundering organization focus and increase its budget. Then the threat of Communism brought a shower of federal dollars and a huge increase in staff. The major role of the agency is supposedly intelligence, but one would think it was all about covert operations. What's this?

One of its initial failings is the effort to recruit young men from Ivy League institutions such as Yale University. These scions of wealth, many of whom had gone through the same prep school routine, were not the hard scrabble back-alley types one would generally find in a crack spy agency.

Indeed, the opposite was true. They generally entered the CIA as a lark, savoring the title of spy. Not long after shuffling papers in Northern Virginia they might retire, only to retain the mystique of former spy while shuffling papers in daddy's business.

Now to mention just a few of the known CIA screw-ups.

Repeated attempts to kill Fidel Castro, including the use of exploding cigars. The Bay of Pigs tragedy – the CIA finally realized it wouldn't work, but failed to let President Kennedy in on the secret. The infamous mind-control program with the use of LSD. Unwitting participants suffered mental damage, at least one died, others went mad. The agency shredded all documents related to the failed program, which also involved the use of San Francisco prostitutes to dope clients and film the outcome.

Assassins were trained by the agency to get rid of Guatemalan officials in advance of a successful coup that overthrew the democratically elected government. There followed Fascist dictators who ruled the nation by force for the next four decades.

Then there was the agency's two-decade effort to wipe out leftist elements in Laos, a failed effort. Smarting with defeat, the military was called on to bomb that small nation into the Stone Age during the Vietnam War. There it remains. Most remember President Nixon's recruiting former CIA officials for the Watergate disaster that brought him down.

Che Guevara was reportedly executed after being debriefed by a CIA field agent.

The CIA was responsible for installing the dictatorship of the Shah of Iran, which bred a revolution that caught the agency entirely by surprise. Another error involving that nation was the Iran-Contra event involving a man named Oliver North. The agency seemed incapable of understanding the Middle East, but tried by throwing money at two employees: Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden.

Bin Laden was fighting the Soviets and thus qualified for funds and weaponry. The CIA prevailed upon Iraq to attack Iran and supplied that despot with nerve gas and other weapons of mass destruction, which later became our excuse for invading Iraq – twice.

Working with the Pentagon and the FBI, and despite intelligence already in hand, the agency failed to anticipate the 9/11 attacks.

In addition to the above known screw-ups, there have been hints that the CIA might be involved in domestic assassinations such as John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and U.S. Commerce Secretary Ron Brown. These rumors hang by a thread.

The agency's "Black Budget" acts with virtual impunity, overseen and regulated by itself, funding itself through secret slush funds, free of the limitations that come from Congressional oversight. This budget is mind bending. Of course the CIA's budget and number of employees is classified information.

The CIA, for all its misdirected lunacies, has scored victories, some major, mostly minor. But this is my story and I'll leave the sunny side to others.

So call me naïve. Call me starry eyed. Call me immature. After college, I actually applied for a CIA job. I was not so naïve as to be unaware of the glass ceiling, shattered now and again, but generally firmly in place. As long as women have baby-making equipment the ceiling will endure. The carefree man, the happy warrior, can lead a random (or is it randy?) life.

I won't go into the training program at this time, but may revisit it later. Nevertheless, after jumping through all the hoops and spending the better part of three months at headquarters in Northern Virginia, I was what you might call "over the moon." I had been posted to Istanbul.

What romantic visions danced in my head! The terminal of the Orient Express. The place where East meets West across a narrow stretch of the Bosphorus. Then there is the Golden Horn, magnificent mosques and the bazaars. Many Turks have prided themselves on a westernized version of the Muslim faith, yet there exists a hard core of fundamentalists.

My eyes were still starry when two weeks after arriving on station, I slept with the agent in charge. Maybe alcohol was involved, maybe not. But in my defense there was no encore after I learned he had a wife and two children and a third one on the way in Falls Church.

His name was Kurt Dusenbery and most folks called him Dusty. Mid-thirties, male-pattern balding, professorial paunch, maybe five-nine, one eye slightly out of kilter, round shouldered. Have I just described Prince Charming?

On arrival he told me he would give me a month to get my feet on the ground. "Do all the tourist things, take the tours, eat the food, buy a rug for your room, you'll always be quartered here in the consulate."

"Do I call you Mr. Dusenbery?"

"Call me Dusty. Most people do. Of course I want you to get to know the consulate people too. I'll introduce you around, and you'll see them in the lunchroom and at breakfast. For dinner you're usually on your own. Not everyone lives here in the consulate."

So after stowing my few belongings, off I went to explore this exotic location. The consulate itself, a huge white structure situated on a hill had the looks of a fortress with no windows below the second floor and the upper ones of minimum size. The address itself was odd – Kaplicalar Merki 2. I suppose at one time it was the embassy until the capital was moved to Ankara.

But then, things were not so strange. The CIA had hired me for my linguistic abilities. My Turkish was almost fluent and I spoke a couple of other languages and had a working knowledge of two or three more. I'm one of those people to whom language comes easy. There are many, I'd say a majority, who are just the opposite.

I did all the tourist things as Dusty had recommended, even visited a bazaar where I was given a small glass of hot tea in a metal holder. There I purchased a small rug just as an avalanche of tourists had done who had come before me. I wondered if Agatha Christie had made such a purchase. But probably not, too sophisticated. The rug merchant was a youngish, fairly attractive man who seemed enamored with me. He told me, "There is more to life than selling rugs." Certainly an original come on I thought as I stuck my rug under my arm and returned to the consulate.

In retrospect, it may have been wiser to strike up a romance with the rug salesman rather than get involved with Dusty. But no harm done. It was the only ripple in the calm waters of my job for several weeks. I was treated almost like a secretary/file clerk, but the exotic surroundings distracted me from those mundane tasks.

Then, just after two months, I received what seemed to be a genuine spy assignment. I was instructed to dress appropriately and try to win the attentions of a wealthy Chinese businessman staying at a hotel near the Golden Horn.

"I'm to romance this man?" I asked Dusty.

"No. Simply lure him into a romantic situation."

"Will I be armed?" I had been trained with a Glock and was a fair shot, but there had been no mention of bringing down a Chinese businessman.

Now one thing you might not know. With no accountability for its budget, the CIA throws money at black ops and wet ops; whichever you please, they both lead in the same direction.

Dusty had hired a high fashion Turkish shopper-helper and sent me off to a series of exclusive women's clothiers. He had either forgotten that I speak the language fluently, or simply didn't care. Her orders were to trick me out like a femme fatale.

Still taken with my surroundings and duty to my country, thoughts of Mata Hari floated in my immature brain. Many will recall the name, but few will remember she was Dutch, an exotic dancer, quite a seductress and executed by a French firing squad in 1917.

Considering her trade, she had held up well. She was 41 at the time of her untimely death. Neither the French nor the English had real proof that she was a spy. But more than fifty years later German records revealed that the suspicions were well founded.

Tarted up like a dockside whore, I was to hang out in the hotel bar that Mr. Lee was said to inhabit on a nightly basis, chat him up, and if circumstances allowed, invite him to my hotel room. But the room was not my room.

In my mind I had developed a clever ploy. So on the night in question I plopped down at the bar of the hotel and ordered a glass of white wine. Twenty minutes later, no Mr. Lee. I only sipped my drink, and managed to slop it into a nearby potted palm.

The bartender began to chat me up. I ordered a second drink, and he said it was on the house. I smiled and nodded seductively. Still no Mr. Lee.

Leaving my designer purse on the bar (it was empty except for a handful of tissues), I carried my drink to the powder room and dumped it in the toilet.

Returning to the bar, a pair of Chinese gentlemen had arrived. They were a couple of barstools away, but I moved next to the older man, placed my empty glass and purse on the bar, and asked, "Do you speak Chinese?"

He looked at me as if I were crazed, his eyes large behind thick lenses. "Of course, we are Chinese. We speak Mandarin."

"I should have known," I replied. "I'm an American and so many Chinese in America know nothing of their native language. But then I suppose since they were born in America their native language is English. So they aren't Chinese at all, are they?"

"You have a point there," he said, finally smiling. "My name is Wen Lee and my young friend here is Jia Lee. What might your name be?"

I sensed that he sensed that he was in the presence of an air-headed barfly. My exact intention. How things did work out. "I'm Karen from Manhattan. You know we have a Chinatown there. You should taste the food."

"Yes," Mr. Lee acknowledged. "I'm fond of Chinese food. Often dine on it." Now he was all smiles, as was his friend. But now I had two Lees to deal with. I asked Wen if he and Jia were brothers, although they looked more like father and son.

"Not related," he responded. His English was near perfect. "Lee is a common name in China." Noticing my empty glass he asked if he might buy me a drink. I bubbled with delight in accepting and the three of us moved to a table.

After a suitable time, I excused myself for a trip to the powder room. It was empty. I grabbed the nearest booth and called Dusty. He answered immediately.

"Two Lees and I are sharing drinks and mixed nuts at a table. The older one is Wen and the younger Jia."

"It's the older one we want, but Jia's probably in on the mission." A pause while Dusty thought things over. I wondered what the mission might be. Apparently I didn't need to know. Later I learned quite by accident that they were setting up deals to sell what might be considered contraband to countries in the region considered to be "rogue." It was all how one looked at it, but we were working hand in hand with Israeli intelligence, the Mossad.

"If you can pull it off, invite both of them to your room."

"I think it's highly likely and probably very soon."

"Good. Get it done."

Returning to the table, both Lees were in a jovial mood. Obviously they had put their heads together in my absence. I had read that the Chinese were not heavy on morality. They asked if I lived in the hotel.

"Why yes, I have a room here. Would you like to see it?"

"Certainly," the older Lee said. "Should I go up and leave Jia here to watch our table?"

"Why don't you both come up? It's a big room. And I have those little drinks in the bar."

"Or we could call room service," the older Lee said. "I too have a room and I can put the bill on my tab."

"That's such a good plan," I chortled. "But we shouldn't be seen going up there as a group. I'll go and leave the door ajar while I get changed. It's 822."

When I left them, they were two happy cowboys. I took the elevator, stopped on the eighth floor in case they were watching that illuminated display that indicates the floors, then continued to the tenth floor. Dusty was waiting in a tenth floor room. When I entered, he offered me a drink. He had a bottle of Pinot Noir and a couple of glasses.

The dark wine tasted good. My heart was beating fast. I didn't know just what I had done, but I had done it. Dusty suggested we remain in the room for the night as bed partners. I suggested I'd like to get home and into something baggy. There might be a girl or two at the bar he could lure up to his passion pit.

"Well, we're good friends and fellow employees. No harm in a little cross pollination."

"I'll save what remains of my virtue for true love. With your budget and the looks of the girls at the bar, you could easily catch one with a silver hook. Is it safe for me to go now?"

Checking his watch, he said, "I think so, but one minute." He made a quick phone call, then gave me the OK.

I was glad to get back to my room and out of the so-called glad rags. Whatever I had done didn't bother me in the least. Maybe I have no conscience. I was wise enough not to ask any questions, But I guessed the Lee twins had likely been weighted with a length of heavy chain, then tumbled into the Bosphorus with a yo heave ho and a fare-thee-well, six fathoms along on the road to hell.

CHAPTER TWO

With the yellow menace out of the way, things were quiet for the next few weeks. I took a trip to Ankara to check out the embassy, but more about that later.

An incident occurred that set the consulate agog with gossip. A secretary, a girl in her mid-twenties who had been recruited locally, was found hanged to death in a vacant apartment. She had used a bed sheet cut into strips and braided together, and she had left a brief note blaming Dusty.

It seemed that she was pregnant, and Dusty had refused marriage. Apparently, this innocent young lady had not known about his wife and family in the States. Such happenings could cause an international scandal on top of a foreign service scandal. The best course of action would have been to fire Dusty and send him packing, and attempt to pacify the girl's family.

Initially, this was done. Dusty was placed on the first plane to Dulles. But then the CIA intervened. Dusty was a prize employee, knew the Middle East, worked hand in glove with Mossad, had a network of informants, spoke various languages and for toppers, claimed he did not get the young lady pregnant.

He acknowledged sexual contact, in fact multiple times in that very apartment where the girl was found dangling. But he claimed it was protected without exception. The dead girl was of a solid Istanbul family. Of course they were Islamic, but not fanatics. Yet a pregnancy would have scandalized the family and reduced the victim's chance of marriage to zero, unless she could have been sent abroad to seek a mate. She was a looker. The charge d'affaires worked with the father over a period of days. The victim's body was quietly cremated. Her mother was shattered, but recovering. Fortunately, there were siblings.

In addition to the CIA stepping in on his behalf, Dusty maligned the girl by claiming she was promiscuous and hung out at the same bar where I had vamped the Chinese. Once again I was called into distasteful action.

This time it was the charge d' giving the orders in Dusty's absence. I was given several photos of the girl and tasked to ask around the bar. My first stop was the familiar barstool and a glass of white wine. The bartender recognized me and mentioned that the two Chinese gentlemen I had been chatting with had jumped their hotel bill.

"But the desk had likely imprinted a credit card," I said.

"No, that's the strange part. They claimed not to have a credit card, which seems highly unlikely. But they gave the clerk a one hundred dollar U.S. bill to guarantee payment."

"Hardly enough."

"You bet. They were here several days, paid for several lunches, seemed like regular businessmen, and were dealing with various government officials from the region. You realize Istanbul is maybe the safest meeting place in the area, it's like an open city." He smiled and winked and drew out the word, "Intrigue," then added, "Maybe you and I could get together for some intrigue of our own."

The offer wasn't the worst I had ever had and he was cute and seemed reasonably intelligent. But I replied brightly, "For now let's just be good friends."

"Agreed," He said with a smile and a flourish, reaching out and shaking my hand, then kissing it in the style of a Latin lover. After that fake show of affection he told me that the government officials the Lees had dealings with were all over the place with their inquiries. He said they hinted darkly that some funds may have been exchanged and the two Lees absconded by night.

I laughed and said whatever they did they probably did it by the dark of the moon, adding, "They seemed full of cheer and bonhomie when I left them." Then I had to tell my bartending buddy the definition of bonhomie. Like many second language speakers he lacked vocabulary, but was eager to learn. This type of person generally loves to pick up idioms and slang words. It crossed my mind to drop in on him now and then. I could use an informant or two.

He also said I was dressed to the nines when first we met. I explained that I had been to an afternoon tea, which he may or may not have believed, but dropped the topic.

Then, at long last, I revealed the photos and asked if he was familiar with the woman. To make a long story short, and we did dwell on it for some time, she was well known in the bar, had a slew of gentlemen friends, and my barkeep buddy, whose name was Pad Nail, had planned to hit on her, but she too dropped out of sight, just like those two dastardly Chinese.

So Dusty was correct, although his reputation was sufficiently soiled that he was through in Istanbul. He was transferred to our embassy in Iraq, further into the breach. And I waited with bated breath for the new station chief.

CHAPTER THREE

I had made one good friend at the consulate. She was Stella Somerset, late forties, slim as a weed, chest like a boy. We often had lunch together at a table for two away from the madding crowd. She was a veteran Foreign Service worker and she filled me in on an array of details, some morbid, some hilarious, many mundane. Have I hit every category?

After a time I thought she might be at least a part-time lesbian. Being gay was no problem in the Foreign Service. They were among the most talented and dedicated. And being in the CIA wasn't unusual. We didn't shout our CIA identity from the rooftop. But everyone in the building knew who we were. And we had regular assignments in an attempt to cover our covert affairs.

The main function of the CIA is supposedly intelligence gathering. But what the Foreign Service has fought for years is the tendency of its embassies and consulates to become incestuous, to look askance at any outside intrusion by these foreign folks. The employees are a family. A small family in their place of work and a larger family in the entire service. They play bridge and Scrabble together, they drink together, they have affairs together, some go mad and some go bad. But generally they are a fine group of individuals, wholesome and loyal to their country.

Stella knew where the bodies were buried. She had a brain like a computer, a network of friends joined by social media, a line on most members of the Foreign Service power group. She was aware of who they were sending as the new CIA station chief and filled me in on his background. She had heard him referred to as a textbook sociopath, but didn't necessarily think that was true.

Dewey Warren was the gentleman's name. He had sandy hair, blue eyes, about thirty, muscular, an exercise freak, all according to Stella. Later she explained what she supposed was meant by the slight deviation from normal. It had been said that he had a mild version of autism, a condition known as Asperger's. Those who have it call themselves Aspies, and many of those individuals are outstanding members of society. Bill Gates and Warren Buffett are among the gallery of figures mentioned as candidates for the Asperger's designation.

At any rate, Warren was spot-on and appeared at my desk one Monday morning.

"Dewey Warren," he announced, extending his hand.

"We've been expecting you." His hand was warm and his grip was firm.

"You and who else?"

"The entire consular staff. There's very little to be excited about in these parts other than a new face, dispatched from far off Washington. The Earth trembles."

"I'm flattered. My reputation precedes me."

"Not really," I replied. "There's just not much to talk about. Any gossip is welcomed."

"What is the gossip?"

"Gossip, rumors, churning away. It's more about Dusty and his misstep, banished to Iraq as it was."

"Gone, but not forgotten, a good man."

"Excellent," I replied. "And he will prosper in Baghdad and the environs. Are you single?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Dusty seemed to have some carnal interest in me, or maybe just my body. Then there was the local hotty. It seems he has a family in Falls Church."

"You had an episode with him."

"Only one. Then I learned of his marital situation."

"You don't mind fessing up to that act," Dewey said.

"You're well aware of the drill. We're like an island in a sea of Islamics. Everyone seems to know everything. I'm not certain how. Perhaps Dusty let drop that he had nailed the new girl."

"You think he's a cad?"

I laughed at that remark. "That's a bit old fashioned. I simply think people talk and that people enjoy talking. Maybe that's why God created people, so they could talk to one another and stick their feet in their mouths."

"You're a Christian then, with deeply held beliefs."

"Oh, come off it, Dewey. I've got work to do. Rumor has it you're gay, a gay Aspie."

This did bring a look of startled amazement to the man's handsome face.

"A gay Aspie," he repeated.

I had meant to shock him. I wanted to show him he wasn't the only one who could lay it on. Rather than reply, I turned to my paper work.

This brought a smile to his face according to my peripheral vision. He cocked his head and said, "I'll be damned." Then walked away.

CHAPTER FOUR

In truth, Dewey Warren and I hit it off quite well. An odd thing occurred in Istanbul that I was able to partially resolve. Except for helping to get rid of those two Chinese, it was the first contribution I could feel proud of. I had mixed feelings about the two Lee gentlemen.

A fanatical group of Islamists had gradually organized in the area and were becoming established. From various sources we had learned that they had begun recruiting suicide bombers who might be shipped off for training to any number of sites.

All of the members, including the recruits, could identify one another by a small tattoo on the right ankle. It was a death's head, a skull, with a snake emerging from the left eye socket.

With my fluency in Turkish I was able to recruit a tattoo artist to make an introductory offer of a free tattoo to the left ankle, for male or female, of the exact symbol. Of course we funded it both in advertising and direct payment to the artist. Before the fanatics realized what was coming down, he had tattooed more than a hundred men, women and children with their secret symbol.

It was no great coup, but it threw the organization into confusion with its members attempting to talk terrorism with perfectly innocent citizens. It resulted in blowing the cover on several of them and was generally done in the spirit of good fun. The Istanbul power structure learned of the stunt and heartily approved. This resulted in everyone having a good laugh at the expense of the fanatics, the worse possible thing they might experience.

Blowing oneself up, achieving martyrdom, that was a mark of honor, and one would be admired by both family and other survivors. But being laughed at! That was a no no.

Meanwhile, I dropped around to see Pad Nail, my bartender chum, at least once a week, although I would generally just have a glass or two of white wine.

Usually I had lunch in the consulate. They served a tasty cauliflower, leek and Gruyere soup that I liked very much. Although often I would have the half-pound burger with aged cheddar, onions and tomato plus fries. I figured I would not start getting fat until I hit thirty.

Pad and I dated now and then, but it nothing serious, simply a hook-up.

There came a day when my chief told me there was a very special, extremely delicate assignment for me that would bring honor to our service and stick a feather in my bonnet. Of course I was suspicious of the build-up, particularly when I learned the deal included killing a couple of people.

"It's the Egyptian," he said.

"A pharaoh?"

"No. He's high up in the brotherhood."

"An enemy of our country?"

"An enemy of our interests."

"Meaning what?"

"The job has been requested by the Mossad."

"We work for the Mossad?"

"They do favors for us. We do favors for them. One hand washes the other."

"And neither hand gets clean."

"Come now, Zee. You knew what you were getting into. You asked for work when you applied."

"Intelligence gathering. I've seen very little intelligence so far. Let the Mossad do its own killing."

"This would be best done by a woman. A woman disguised as a maid. You speak the language. You're perfect. Believe me, I hate to ask you to do this. But you did lure the two Asians to the Grim Reaper. You have what it takes, Zee."

"What it takes to be a cold blooded killer? Excuse me."

"It's a job. It comes with the territory. There's a hundred women in the States who would jump at such an opportunity."

Somehow I doubted that, but I said, "OK, clue me in."

"You go up at dusk. We'll get the real housekeeper out of the way. She'll never see you. The Egyptian has a security man. The routine is to turn down the bed and check the bathroom. You are dressed appropriately. You look around then whip out your weapon and shoot them both. They'll go down. Put the last shot in their heads. The coup de grace."

"There's a silencer?"

"Yes."

"It's a Glock?"

"No. Nine shot fairly low caliber revolver. Put three shots in each subject, into the chest. Then one into each head. No survivors. Remember, they've seen your face."

"It's dicey."

"You can do it. Practice the language."

"That's no problem. There are many regional accents in Istanbul. When do we do this?"

"Not until tomorrow evening. We'll have cocktails later. Remove your apron and leave it in a wastebasket. There will not be a huge hue and cry over these two."

"What if they're not alone?"

"Check the bathroom, turn down the bed and depart. But we believe they have an important meeting later in the evening."

"Ok." I checked my watch. "I think I'll have a drink right now. It must be five o'clock someplace."

"Sure. But stay out of sight. Go to your room and I'll send up a bottle and Chinese. What do you drink?"

"Scotch. No cheap stuff, please."

The chief grinned. "The company always goes first cabin. No one looks over our shoulder."

The double hit job went well. I'll explain later. But during the next few days I cultivated a pair of new friends. The first was Stella Somerset, who I mentioned working with as part of my cover job at the consulate.

Stella is also a linguist and a bit bored with the whole Turkish scene. She had been on station for some years. Kept there because of her language and computer skills. One weekend evening, she introduced me to Clive Williams, a real character who had a fascinating back story. He was a small man, no more than five-six, maybe 140 pounds, a thatch of white hair, and steel rimmed glasses.

After starting out in Asia, he had kicked around the Middle East for years. Nearing retirement, the company found he had gathered information over the years for a blockbuster tell-all book. What to do? They had taken away his passport, found him a retirement apartment in Istanbul and confiscated any notes and writing material they could find.

On the evening we met, brief introductions were made, and Clive held up a permanent sign printed with the words: We Can't Talk Here.

Stella smiled and nodded, and the three of us strolled into the twilight for a bite to eat and some down-to-earth chatter. It seemed everyone I came in contact with was either bugged or believed they were bugged. To not be bugged meant that you were totally unimportant.

I took an immediate liking to Clive. He had a wry sense of humor and his knowledge of CIA activities stretching back thirty-five years was encyclopedic. I would visit him frequently in the days ahead, even though Dewey warned me against it. It seemed that I too was being monitored.

CHAPTER FIVE

Out of the blue, if anything is, I received a call from Maury, simply Maury of the Mossad. He invited me to breakfast on a weekend and asked if I would not mention the meeting to anyone else. Of course I agreed. Why shouldn't I? Apparently Maury believed neither of our two phones was tapped. How naïve!

Here, in this city of intrigue, why shouldn't I have a few more secrets?

We met at a restaurant near the Golden Horn, and he suggested we do small talk until after our repast. We could walk to another location, remote from prying eyes and ears. It was almost romantic.

Maury was slightly overweight, with male pattern baldness, thick glasses, and an unattractive mustache. Hchewed on a cigar. No prince charming.

At a park bench overlooking the water, Maury smiled, slapped me on the leg and said he enjoyed the story of my encounter with the Egyptian.

Slightly startled, I said I thought that was a secret.

"It is, it is," he assured me. "But we were behind the hit. Dusty and I go way back, and I've known Dewey for quite some time. Good men. Good men. But Zee, you, a young woman, to walk into a room with the Egyptian of all people and his burly bodyguard, then gun them both down. Incredible."

"I was a maid and they were surprised," I countered.

"But weren't you frightened? People would say my heart was in my throat and things like that."

"There was really no time for dramatics, Maury. I was concentrating on the job. First, I had to be a maid, like an actress. Second, even though my language is fluent, I had to get the words right, wondering what a maid would say. Turn down the beds, check the bathroom, ask if they needed anything and so forth. No time for fear."

"So what happened?" He was eager to hear the gory details. It was like two killers, sharing stories.

"First a chink of door, chained, then they admitted me. I said a few words, then entered the bathroom. Of course they didn't follow. Reaching under my apron I withdrew the gun, a move I had practiced. The silencer was already attached."

"You wore a skirt?"

"No, slacks with a deep pocket on the right. Gun in hand, I stepped out of the bathroom. They were standing nearby, talking, half turned towards me. I fired two shots into the security man's chest, then did the same with the Egyptian. The first man merely fell away from me.

"The Egyptian appeared surprised, his knees began to buckle. I fired a third bullet into his chest. Both were down very quickly. Then two shots squarely into each man's head. Gun back in the pocket, I left the room, pushed the trolley back to the end of the hallway where I had found it. Took off the apron and the plastic gloves. There was a trash sack hanging on the trolley. Textbook case." I paused and smiled.

Maury rubbed his forehead. He seemed a bit emotional. "That's beautiful. Really beautiful. Any regrets?"

I didn't know just how to answer, but decided on the truth. "I suppose I should have regrets about killing two human beings, but I don't. Maybe they were family men. I had no reason to hate them. But it just doesn't get me. Is that wrong?" I did enjoy telling Maury that story. It was like a therapy session between two people in the same profession. Perhaps I did have subsurface doubts, or recriminations. But here I was, chatting up a fellow spook.

"Of course it's not wrong, Zee," Maury sympathized. "You knew they were enemies of Israel and thus enemies of America. You were moved by patriotism, like any soldier, and you deserve a medal."

Shrugging and shaking my head no, I said, "I'm no soldier, Maury. I'm a heartless killer. Those two could have been salesmen from Kansas City and I would have the same reaction. The company hired me, and I do my job. That's it."

Maury looked at me with eyes glowing with admiration. "And you are a linguist and you don't look Jewish."

"I'm not Jewish. I was born a Methodist. Why should I look Jewish?"

"No reason. It's just that not looking Jewish could be a great asset along with your languages. You are a rare creature. Steely nerves, capable of killing with no regret or attack of conscience."

I laughed. "Hooray for me. What a job description. Do you suppose I can find a husband with that description if I go online?"

Maury's enthusiasm didn't falter. "In Israel we have women in the military. But generally women have their own place in our society. Nurturing, loving mothers, dutiful wives, the keeper of the home."

"Not cold blooded killers."

"Exactly," Maury exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. "The Mossad needs you, Zee. Come over to our side. You'll get your fill of the type of adventure that whips up the blood!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I stared at him blankly. "I would never desert my country, Maury. Not for love, not for money."

"Of course you wouldn't." Maury backed off. "I spoke too soon, I suppose. I was carried away. But we can make arrangements. We could pay you well for certain jobs and arrange travel."

"Murder for hire," I suggested.

"That's placing it in the wrong light. We could work with your handler, with Dewey, or without him. You are a valuable asset – your sex, your looks, your languages, your skills, your solid mental state I won't try to kid you along. You've got what it takes."

"I've never been so flattered, Maury. Give me a few days to chew on your words and digest the situation. In effect I've helped you already with the Egyptian. Maybe we can do business."

"Ok, Maury agreed," then added, "Something might come up very soon. Something that might mean very big bucks."

Then we parted.

CHAPTER SIX

I think it was my breakfast with Maury and the conversation that followed that got me to thinking about my future. It might seem unethical, but the idea of freelancing for the Mossad for big bucks did not turn me off. I didn't really need the money. I had land back in the western United States, and I was a trust fund baby. But a large shot of money might help with that germ of an idea that was incubating in my brain.

There was also Clive. His life was not a chamber of horrors, but I felt it could be better spent and that he would be up for some excitement of the treacherous variety. And I had just the key that would open that door. And what about Stella Somerset? I might rope her in on the plan.

It might seem odd, it did to me, but during my next visit with Clive I was forced to listen to him describe his continual struggle to become an atheist. I wouldn't think it would be that difficult living in a Muslim country, but apparently Clive found it so.

I didn't call him at first because of listening ears. The company must have spent a zillion keeping Clive under wraps. His service was such that simply killing him would seem both ungrateful and in extremely poor taste. So there was a dilemma with horns somewhere lurking.

Showing up at midmorning, he flashed his Can't Talk Here sign, and we were cast away on the streets of Istanbul. We took public transit across the Bosphorus to Asia. To say such a thing always gives me a bit of a thrill. In Europe one minute, Asia the next. My sorties with Clive were always great surprises, never in the same place twice.

In Asia, which really didn't seem much different from non-Asia, we strolled and talked. Clive said he had spent brief periods of time for some days staring at a magazine photo of a dead fish. It was accompanied by a recipe, and his plan had been to prepare and devour such a fish. He had torn the page from a magazine in a doctor's office.

Then one day he turned the page over and become enamored by Yoko Ono. A brief story excerpted from a longer piece was printed there about this oddly artistic individual, mentioning in passing her third marriage to the Beatle, John Lennon.

Her art included such things as ordering the supplicant to capture moonlight on water in a bucket. Or suggesting the viewer burn her painting, or coughing for a full year, or to use negative space positively.

"It takes lack of ego to yell with your silence," Clive observed. "And just what does it take to hang unpainted canvases and ask viewers to trod on them, or pound holes in the non-work. She believes if one accepts loss it is less likely to stay lost."

I contributed little to the conversation. I let Clive ramble on in an effort to better know him. Then he mentioned that Ono's lifestyle enabled her to survive outside the culture. This statement seemed to transition nicely to his attempt to become an atheist.

But before getting into that he announced defiantly that he "would not now or ever cook that fish." This seemed to please him because he smiled broadly and his step seemed to quicken as we strolled by numerous small Turkish shops.

"Atheism," he began, "is a cipher, a zero. It leaves a God-shaped hole that wants filling. The question might be, what should go in that hole."

"I've heard," I replied, attempting to add something to a subject I cared nothing about, "that if one reads the Bible from cover to cover, somewhere along the way a thinking person will become an atheist."

"I've tried that," Clive shot back. "It's not just Christianity, or Catholicism with the nonsense masses, there are other religions who praise God. Think of the Mormons for instance."

"They are Christians."

"Maybe," Clive conceded. "Because they honor Christ. I believe they believe he walked on the North American continent. What I'm saying is that you have an array of beliefs, some contradicting one another. I'm really not interested in shouting from the housetops that I'm an atheist. Really, who would care? Certainly not the company."

"Then why the academic struggle?" I questioned.

This brought another smile to his face. "Academic struggle," he repeated. "I enjoy your company Zee. I'm simply an old man stuck in Istanbul with very little to occupy my time, no real friends, just a few companions such as yourself and Stella. My life has been Foreign Service and I will die far from home, unwept, un-honored and unsung."

"I believe I recognized those last few words."

"Yes, I read poetry as a youth and enjoyed the dramatic. Tell me, Zee, what does your future hold? Will your life end as mine? Not really so bad. We have good food, a comfortable place to live, friends of average intelligence, literature, the web. We lack only fame and excessive wealth."

"Amen. Tell me more about your struggle with atheism."

"I'm happy to. But first I'd like to recite a few lines from the Italian. You know, I'm a linguist also."

"I do. My Italian isn't perfect, but I have a working knowledge."

"Ok. Here goes: _Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra_

Trafitto da un raggio di sole:

ed e subito sera.

You comprehend?"

"I do. It is touching, moving and the story of life. I see how it might apply to atheism. But I also see how an organized religion might diminish that feeling of being alone."

Clive seemed to brighten. "That is exactly right. A feeling of being a member of a group. But what group? Who organizes such a group? Certainly not Jesus. He's long gone, but hardly forgotten. And can you imagine the profound problems religion has introduced to the world? Wars, mass killings, genital mutilation, the sale of young girls, death by stoning, for what? I could go on."

"But can you replace religion with something of value?" I questioned.

"Well, of course, ethics. The common values of almost every culture. Caring for children, trying to get along, housing, food, health, the usual community or individual needs. Well, I'm struggling; I'm all at sea. Please help."

This drew a chuckle from me. "I'm not a philosopher, or a deep thinker. But I have a germ of a plan that might divert your energies to other activities. You may yet have something to offer to the world." Eyeing him critically, I said, "You're not so old."

"Are you about to spring this plan on me?" he asked.

"Too soon," I replied. "Rave on about atheism."

"Ok, I'll be patient. Do you know what a nihilist is?"

"I've always wondered what that word means."

"Good. It took me some time to find out. A nihilist rejects all religious principles. He or she believes nothing really exists."

"Well, isn't that something?"

"I don't know if it's something or not. I'm still not sure what it means. But if you drop the word in now and then when you're talking about atheism, people seem to be impressed."

"But they're afraid to ask."

"I think so. Now there are those who seek a good reason to go on living. Some say there isn't any. But I don't agree. We might want to watch and see how an international dispute is settled, or who wins in a sports event, or if we can score sexually with a certain individual, or if our ship will come in and we can take that luxury vacation. There are many reasons to go on living."

"You've got that right. I ordered a new outfit from L.L. Bean. I can't wait to try it on."

"To each his own," Clive observed wryly. "If one is tired of living, pills are available. Medications will snap you out of it or place you in a sedated, thus more cheerful state."

I asked if we might be straying from our atheist theme.

"Yes and no. We can very likely eliminate Moses and perhaps Abraham. Also the Hebrew children imprisoned in Egypt. Products of ancient spin doctors to jack up the troops. But the atheist's sense of isolation plays against him. Community is good, lonely is bad. One wants to feel comfortable in his or her own skin. So we return to where we started with one of Yoko Ono's blank canvases. The gallery is well turned out, the invited guests sip cocktails and munch snacks, but the canvas is blank."

We stopped for coffee before re-crossing the water. From an open window in a nearby apartment came the low register of a piano, followed by ascending octaves on the keyboard. Then there was a plaintive sound, a pair of halting phrases. The coffee came and I doctored mine with cream, no sugar. The harmony of whatever was being played lingered. Notes that seemed to fight one another were oddly lovely. Clive was also listening intently. Then the sound faded and the moment passed.

Then it was back to Europe across the water and a farewell to Clive with the promise of soon revealing my developing plot.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Not two days later I received a late night call from Maury. He asked me to meet him at sunrise on the park bench by the Golden Horn. "I'll bring coffee and croissants. Do you take cream and sugar?"

"Cream only. See you at sunrise."

"Romantic, isn't it?" he said, then ended the call. I would have used the phrase "hung up," but one doesn't do that with cell phones.

When I arrived the next morning, the sun was lighting the eastern sky, and Maury was already there. The coffee was good and the crumbs from the pastries weren't a bother in that setting. There are likely few turkeys in Turkey, but there are pigeons in Istanbul, and they enjoy an occasional crumb.

"There's a job. Just your meat," Maury said as we finished up the croissants. His voice was low and furtive. Yet there was no one within a hundred yards. I suppose it's a spy thing.

I nodded in agreement. Things were moving right along.

"It's a high level envoy from Lebanon, a man in line to take over in a month or two. It would be a disaster for your country and mine."

"He's coming here?" I questioned.

"Yes. Same hotel the Chinese occupied. The middle of next week."

"His name?"

"You'll find out. It'll be in all the papers and on TV."

I marveled. A man without a name. This was high drama. "What's the drill?"

"Zee, this will be your show and your opportunity to do your stuff. You'll emerge from this as a top dog."

"Top dog," I repeated. "I can hardly wait. But I've been thinking. How does fifty thousand dollars sound?"

Maury chuckled. "Sounds good. I'd like to have it."

"But I got here first. This means going rogue. I'll do it for that price. Cash."

"Maybe we could negotiate," Maury countered.

"If this man with no name isn't worth fifty thousand to Israel, he must not be much of a threat. I'll wait to hear from you and, by the by, thirty thousand in advance." I rose and walked away.

Maury just sat there, staring at the Golden Horn.

A messenger came to my office just before noon. The slip of paper in the envelope said simply, "You're on." I dashed off a reply. "I need the initial offering by noon Friday." There were things to do, people to see.

The ball was in my court. That night, toward closing time, I dropped in on my barkeep friend, Pad Nail. Pad kept his ears and eyes open and had a large group of friends. After closing, we sat in the empty bar and grill and I asked my question.

"In this town, Pad, how much would it cost to have a person killed?"

Pad showed no surprise. He was aware of my job description and may have even thought I had something to do with the disappearance of the two Chinese. "Depends on the person," he replied. "Ordinarily five hundred U.S. dollars or less. Heads of state are slightly higher." He sipped his brandy and soda and grinned.

"There's a high muckity-muck coming next week to this very hotel. Might be the next leader of Lebanon. But not loved in some quarters." I looked him in the eye. "The shooter should be professional, daring, and I'd want to be kept entirely out of it."

Pad was thoughtful and finally said, "Two or three thousand might do it. Depending on the circumstances."

"And a thousand for you. What if I just give you five thousand in cash. Might we get it done? This would include weapon and all expenses."

Pad drained his glass and got us both a refill. "You're a fun person, Zee. I'm in. What's the plan?"

That was a bit complicated since I didn't have one. But I picked one out of the air. Rambling on for some time, tweaking here and there, him asking questions and me making modifications, we seemed to end the evening agreeing on an outline, plus a few other things of a satisfying nature.

If I was euphoric over the deal, which I wasn't, apprehensive would have been a better word, I was brought up sharp at noontime the following day, which served to hasten my fallback plan.

Stella Somerset called just before lunch and suggested we eat alfresco in a nearby park. She even offered to bring food from our own eating shop.

After munching through what would pass for a poor boy and sipping a noxious soft beverage, Stella opened up. "They're going to throw you to the dogs, Zee."

Chuckling, I responded, "I've been there before, more than once as matter of fact."

Stella put on her serious face and continued. "They have either cooked up or will cook up a perilous task for you, place it firmly in your lap, a sure-fire journey to disaster, and let you dash over that cliff."

In my mind I knew whatever she was talking about had already been dished up and the plate set before me, but why? "Do they hate me so much? Whoever they are."

"Dewey's jealous and Maury wants to nab you for Mossad. He would step in as your lifeline and offer you a post with his agency plus Israeli citizenship. Langley couldn't touch or harm you."

"My God," I replied, "that's double-domed underhanded slimy spy stuff, if true."

"It's true alright. Have you been approached?"

"I'll have to say, yes. I've been given an extremely sensitive assignment. I suppose I was suspicious because I've taken care to distance myself from it."

Stella smiled. "That simply bears out what Dewey thinks about you. You're one slippery fish."

"Maybe not as slippery as I'd like to be. I trust you, Stella, and I have a plan. If you'd like to shake the dust of Istanbul from your feet and join me, you and Clive, I'd like to huddle with the two of you."

"Whatever it is, the sooner the better. I'm bored to tears with this assignment. Too much backbiting. I spend half my time protecting my jugular."

"Come Sunday morning, let's get together with Clive. Can you arrange it?"

"Bob's your uncle."

CHAPTER EIGHT

My first priority was to coordinate with Pad and finalize the assassination. It was almost like planning a wedding or a birthday party, except for the deadly part and the repercussions No petty quarrels or after-party hangovers. Looking back, it's hard to believe how matter of fact it was.

The hotel lobby soared three stories, white paneling toward the upper section, topped by some frou-frou, fancy decorative topping, like the frosting on a cake. I had scouted the third floor, and there were two or three storage rooms that backed up to the paneling. My idea was to cut a hole in the paneling from one of these rooms, a hole large enough to give the shooter a clear shot. A simple white board would be placed over the hole until the appropriate time.

Pad agreed. "There will be confusion after the shot," he said, "allowing the shooter to simply leave the room and exit the hotel by a rear entrance. The white board can be quickly replaced and the weapon, free of prints, left in the storage locker."

"Sounds good," I replied. "With that panel back in place, and if no one sees where the shot came from, it might take days to find that rifle. But how to cut the hole without attracting attention."

Pad laughed. "I've got that figured. I know every prostitute in this part of the city, and I'm in a position to do them favors. It's a two way street."

"Whores can cut holes?" I asked.

"They can do many tricks. Say at four a.m. when the lobby is empty save for a sleepy young male clerk, a couple of the working girls could come in for a good time. They can distract the clerk for as long as necessary while the shooter himself does his work on the paneling. He will know the proper dimensions and he will get it right. For that money I can get a journeyman."

"A journeyman killer. That sounds good," I said. "A man who's served an apprenticeship and has won his spurs."

"Man or woman," Pad added.

"That's music to my ears. I don't want to know. I should have the cash by Saturday morning."

Things were moving right along. Friday noon I met Maury at our usual spot, and he had a cashier's check for thirty thousand U.S. dollars.

"You can cash it anywhere," he said, handing it over.

"If I can cash it anywhere, you can cash it anywhere," I said, "Handing it back to him."

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"No problem. I want the cash."

"This is like cash."

"Some folks think tofu is like meat. That check doesn't look like cash to me. How's your eyesight, Maury? Are we getting a little long in grade?"

He pulled a face and asked, "What must I do?"

"Cash the damn check and give me the money. It's not like a crossword puzzle."

"I insist, you cash it." He seemed to be turning on his male superiority.

"If that's the way you want it, Maury. You keep the money. You shoot the man from Lebanon. Our deal is off." I walked away, swiftly.

Maury actually ran after me. "You win, Zee. It's no problem for me. We'll both go to the bank."

"We will like hell, Maury. This is my lunch hour and I'm eating lunch. If you call me between two-thirty and three I can break away and you can give me a bag of money. If not, you've got more than one string to your bow."

It didn't matter to me. After what Stella had told me I was willing to let the job go. I could use the money, but I didn't need it. Also, I was certain Stella and Clive had built up some funds. Foreign service people are well paid and can get by on very little. As it happened, Maury was eager to see the deal through and called just after two.

We met for coffee and made small talk. I left the shop with the bag and went directly to the bank where I had a small account. Opening the bag inside, I stuffed five thousand in my trouser pocket and took the remainder to a teller.

"I'd like to wire this money to my bank in Valentine, Nebraska, U.S.A." I pushed the bag and the account information across the counter.

The young man told me he would have to check with a person equivalent to vice president, then disappeared into the bowels of the bank. The conversation was totally in Turkish.

Reappearing, he handed me a slip of paper and said the matter was being taken care of. I could wait, or return, in maybe an hour. Such transactions seemed to take a bit of time. I returned to work, confident that I had been observed, probably by the Mossad. I hoped they thought I had simply deposited the money. Returning just before closing time, the teller offered me a receipt and assured me the transfer had been made.

The five thousand I stuffed in an envelope and dropped it off with Pad during cocktail time. Progress was being made.

Sunday morning rolled around as it always does. Not a big deal in Turkey, a moderate Muslim country, but a free day for many. The three of us met at a park adjacent to the Neve Shalom Synagogue, also not a very active place on Sunday.

Explaining my plan took a bit of time, interrupted by a bevy of questions. But in brief, here it is:

"I own, inherited from my family, a farm, or a ranch in the Sand Hills area of Nebraska. It encompasses eight thousand acres more or less." This drew an almost audible gasp from Stella, but Clive was cool with it.

"My plan is to go there, write a tell-all book about the CIA. I hope you will both help me." Both started to speak, but I raised my hand to shush them. "An old couple lives in the main house and holds the place for me. Some livestock produce enough money to feed the old couple and pay the taxes. I hope to develop various rural and not so rural activities on the place.

"As both of you know, the CIA will sense our plan, even if we don't let them know upfront, and try to stop us. My plan is to protect the place with zombies. Are you good with that?"

"Wild," Stella enthused, "the undead, an army of the undead." Clive laughed his ass off.

"And werewolves, Goths, vampires and any other cult figures who care to join us. There is a network and, once summoned, I believe these creatures will come."

"Will they ever," Stella said. "I'm a fan. I'll go for Goth."

"Yes," I continued, "the place is so large, and small dwellings scattered here and there doing their own thing, always on guard, any agency would have difficulty finding us, particularly if we have a well-developed communication system. I have some money, but I'm also getting seed money from the Mossad."

"From Maury?" Clive asked.

"Yes, I've arranged to do a job for him. It's a trap, but Stella tipped me off."

"I'd need help getting out of the country," Clive said. "No passport."

"Let's pretend we're being watched," I suggested. "The three of us huddle together and I'll slip Clive a package. Hide it away."

That done, we resumed our seating arrangement, Indian style on the ground.

"Is this a passport?" Clive asked.

"Three passports. My cover job gives me access to any stray passports kicking around. From dead people to lost and found. I would think you might doctor at least one of them up."

"You bet. When do we leave?"

I sighed. "If all goes as planned, I should get the remainder of the cash from Maury by Friday. I thought I might let Stella take care of the travel arrangements."

"Of course. The CIA is a covert organization, and it's quite simple and raises no eyebrows to rent a car. We'll drive up through the Balkans to Germany and maybe take a plane from Frankfort, or beyond."

"I'd like to see Paris again," Clive grinned. "Ooh la la. Tell me, Zee, what's this property you speak of like?"

"Not much to say. There are three streams. The Snake, Gordon Creek and the North Loup. Route 61 runs north and south through the property. Very little traffic. There's a small grassy airstrip near the house. The nearest towns are Whitman, Brownlee, Merriman and Nenzel. But the biggest would be Valentine. Some of the property has never been ploughed. Failed farms dot the area. The soil is sandy and fragile, held together by grass. It will support cattle, and some is given over to Buffalo Commons."

"Buffalo Commons," Stella repeated.

"Yes," I explained. "There's been an effort for years to restore the area to the original buffalo herds. We permit that on part of the land, but I still own it. So we can build huts, or camps, whatever. It should be an interesting project."

"I'd say," Clive agreed. "Interesting, hazardous and dicey. Just my meat."

"How did your family get so much land?" Stella asked.

"Near worthless land. Pioneer spirit, I suppose. There has been some money in the family for years, going back to the UK. Great-grandfather was a minister who didn't minister. Something like a rabbi inasmuch as he had a great book collection, many of them in Greek and Latin. So he was a scholar. He craved isolation and let his wife and children tend the property. When other farms and ranches failed, they sold out for a song. He knew that tune. So, here I am, the sole survivor, ready to take the helm."

Godspeed," Clive tossed in.

CHAPTER NINE

Wednesday rolled around and we were ready to go. Istanbul is a city of more than thirteen million souls, so very little kicks up a stir. We would have to watch closely for the man from Lebanon. I had purchased three throwaway cell phones – one for me, one for Stella and one to Pad to give to the shooter who would take his position early in the day.

Stella took up her post at the airport. As a consulate employee she could move freely with the press and so-called dignitaries who would greet the visitor. He would move with his small entourage directly from his jet to a waiting limousine, a few handshakes in between.

She had studied his photograph, but there was really no need. He was obviously the center of attention, a tall, thin swarthy man with a commanding appearance. On his head was a red beret, not a floppy hat, but fairly close fitting, much as is used by the U.S. Army. This would be a godsend to the shooter.

As the limo pulled away, trailed by a police escort, Stella made her call. I answered immediately.

"They're leaving the airport. Our subject is wearing his standard red hat. He also stands half a head above most other people. Check with you later."

"Thanks," I replied. Throwaway phones or not, this was no time for a chat. From outside the hotel, I stepped aside from the crowd and called the shooter to relay the information about the hat and the height of the subject. Promised to call when he arrived.

As the limo pulled to the curb, I made my second call, then took my time returning to the consulate. The plan went off without a hitch. All eyes seemed to be on the man from Lebanon and not one soul had any idea where the shot came from.

After a stunned silence, eyes were turned to examining the room, the tell-tale hole had been covered by a white panel. The shooter was already nearing the rear entrance.

At the consulate I was soon informed there had been an assassination at a nearby hotel.

"Anyone I know?" I inquired.

"Probably not. Just some official from Lebanon."

In this modern world, life is not precious as it might be, except to the individuals in jeopardy. But then, through the ages there have been wars, famines, floods, earthquakes, murders, and wholesale killings for religious reasons. Soon I would embark on a venture that would place my life and the lives of two others at peril. Each of us knew the risks and relished the battles to come. Might boredom, the mundane, be a great motivator to break the shell?

Not hearing from Maury by noon Friday, I rang up his cell phone. His answer was a simple hello. I knew he had caller ID, so I simply asked why he hadn't called.

"No reason," he replied.

"Shall we meet and greet?"

"If you say so."

"I do. Half hour at the usual spot." I signed off knowing something was up.

What was up first was that Maury was a half hour late, then strolled up with the gait of a turtle.

"You've brought the cash?" I questioned.

"What cash?"

"I believe you made a promise."

"Possibly, but for a job you didn't do."

"Does the man from Lebanon live?"

"I believe he is deceased," Maury responded, "But who killed him?"

"You are actually telling me you don't know?"

"How am I to know? No one knows."

"English is not your first language, but I believe you know what a welcher is."

"I've heard the word."

"It's a person who doesn't pay his debts."

"Who could that be?" Maury had a cavalier look about him.

I chuckled. "I'm looking at him. Do you know what becomes of welchers?"

"Are you actually threatening me? Me, a member of Mossad?"

"Oh, goody, Mossad protects it's welchers. You'd better hire a group of mourners to say Kaddish for you. I don't think there'll be many volunteers. Our meeting is over. Some men die for honor, you pass on for a fistful of dollars. Goodbye Maury." I turned and walked away.

Maury hurried after me. "Do you think I want to keep that money?"

"You'll never know where the bullet came from. Of course you'll be beyond caring."

"Zee, you are a witch, a ruthless killer." He blurted out those words without thinking, then reconsidered. "Of course I'll pay you. I merely wanted to know how the job was done."

"You don't need to know, Maury. You know that. Loose lips sink ships along with idle gossip. What kind of agent are you?"

He looked me in the eye and insisted, "I'm a good agent. I like you, Zee. I wish you were my partner. We could go far together. You're born for this work. I'll get your money."

"Real money?"

"Yes, if you insist. Yet today." He broke down and laughed. "I would never want you to come gunning for me. How about I see you here at five?"

"Agreed."

"Then we can have a drink and nosh."

"I'll buy."

CHAPTER TEN

Walter Dutcher found his wife in the kitchen fixing chicken salad. "I've an e-mail from Zee, she's coming home."

"She's coming here?" Maude sounded slightly amazed.

"This is her home," Walt said. He smiled broadly and added, "She's included quite a wish list. Things she wants us to buy."

"With whose money?" Maude asked indignantly.

"Hers. She asked for all our bank information and said she'd wire ten thousand dollars. She wants quite a bit of stuff. She's expecting company."

Maude turned and faced Walt. "With winter coming on? In Nebraska? In the center of the Sand Hills? What kind of moron would come visiting? They might get snowed in."

"She knows that, Maude. She grew up here. You want to hear her requests?"

"I'll fix coffee. Some things are better sitting down."

They sat at the large kitchen table, covered with green oilcloth. The entire house looked like something out of the thirties, deep depression era. Yet they had electricity and running water. There was a kitchen garden and a few chickens in the farmyard, plus a pair of farm dogs, outside canines.

There was also a fair sized hip roofed barn, a bunk house that had been used for cowhands during beef production days, a corral, a couple of sheds and a chicken house. The entire area, almost an acre, was fenced. There were two gates, one large one for vehicles, the other smaller, yet not too small. Horses could enter and exit, plus cows.

Walt drank his coffee black, a hangover from his Navy days. Maude took cream and fake sweetener.

Walt looked sick and pulled a face. The coffee was scalding. He had printed the e-mail and now flattened it on the table. "She wants at least two milk cows, three fair sized steers, a good flock of chicks for both eggs and meat, a few sheep and goats if possible."

Maude interrupted. "My God, it sounds like Noah's Arc."

Walt looked up and smiled. "It goes on. She's well aware of the possibility of some snow, even though our climate is almost arid. I think it's the zero temperatures that concern her." He paused, tried another hesitant sip of coffee, then continued. "At least a hundred pounds of sugar, two hundred pounds of flour, fifty pounds of coffee, ten cases of beer, a case of bourbon, several cases of diet drinks, condiments, yeast, ketchup, mustard, salt, pepper, all in fair quantity."

"She's opening a restaurant or a bakery?"

Walt looked up again, this time with a faint smile. "We do work for her, Maude. We aren't family. Things might get pretty lively around here. It would be a welcome change."

"I guess, Walt. But I enjoy reading, TV, home movies, chatting with you. You know I've always liked Zee. I'm sure she's going to do the right thing – whatever it is."

"There's more. She wants us to store the maximum fuel oil even if it means buying extra tanks or barrels. Also see to it that there's plenty of feed for the livestock. With these quantities, I think we can have most of this stuff delivered. There might be a small charge for gas. That's another thing she wants, gasoline."

Maude was pensive, then asked, "Could she be stocking a type of fortress?"

"You mean one of those militia things?"

"I suppose."

"It could be."

Maude wasn't far from the truth. Each of the three conspirators expected a CIA response. They knew too much. They were counting on the vast acreage, the barren land and the undead to protect them.

Zee had already been on the web in an attempt to rally the undead to a type of commune or safe gathering in the heart of Nebraska. The response had been hopeful with a flurry of requests for details.

She had long been a fan of that genre with the undead, or the Zombie, linked closely to vampires, Goths, witches, warlocks, werewolves and maybe even goblins. Creatures of the night, some of whom could revert to animal form and back again, creatures with incredible strength and agility. The history of the undead is rich and complex and stretches almost to the dawn of time.

As an example of the diversity, the Australian aboriginal culture had the yara-ma-yha-who, a red man about four feet tall with a very large head. He had no teeth, but swallowed his food whole. At the ends of his fingers and toes were suckers capable of draining blood from a living body.

Many will remember the name, Theda Bara, the silent film star who popularized the word vamp, or vampire, as a woman who attaches herself to a man and destroys him. Theda was a Cincinnati girl named Theodosia Goodman who used a combination of letters from the words Arab death to form her stage name.

When to depart Istanbul was debated among the three. Zee had received the final twenty grand on Friday. It was decided to wait a week and depart after work the following Friday. They set off just at sundown, headed for the border with Zee at the wheel. She felt a rush of adrenalin, and the spirits of the trio soared.

It was into Bulgaria, Zee relinquishing the wheel at Sofia. Then the three took shifts through Serbia, coffee and gas at Belgrade; on to Hungary, Austria and finally Germany and Frankfort. Clive had once stayed at a hotel called the Savoy, and that's where they holed up, fairly exhausted from the long drive.

Sunday, they were on a flight to JFK. Then it was on to Omaha where they rested at Hilton Garden Inn in the downtown Old Market area, spending a day to look around the area. Zee served as guide. She had visited the city several times during her growing-up years.

She sent the home folks at the ranch an e-mail detailing their progress and making a guess at when they might arrive. With winter coming on they purchased warm clothing plus several handguns, rifles and a quantity of ammunition.

Zee had spent much of her youth and teen years hunting and fishing throughout the region. It was known as a sportsman's paradise. As an afterthought, they all purchased hunting and fishing licenses.

As Zee wheeled the used car they had purchased out of Omaha and beyond, Stella was impressed by the emptiness of the landscape. "Usually in Europe you will see small farms here and there," she said.

"Not always," Clive said. "It depends on the fertility of the land and the water supply."

"True enough," Zee countered. "In the old days many farmers tried and failed. The country we're bound for has very little rainfall and a sandy surface suitable for grass. We've built up the turf immediately around the farm. It makes a good kitchen garden."

"These Zombies you speak of," Clive questioned. "How are they to occupy their time?"

"That has been a puzzle," Zee said. "There are a few jobs. I've arranged for more livestock. Chickens, turkeys, beef, cows, pigs, goats, sheep. They will take some care, but that will be limited. That means more hands at the farm. So kitchen work, cleaning, that sort of thing will sop up quite a bit of energy. Then a few people will be deployed on a rotation basis to watch our backs."

"I don't see a lot of income here," Stella said.

"That is the next step. We can build up the feeder beef and maybe the porkers, which might bring in a few bucks. But the Zombies, and I use that term generically, will have to brainstorm what they might do. Some will have useful computer lives, some might write, some might do crafts. In many ways this is an old time commune."

"Yes, Comrade," Clive spoofed. "One for all and all for one. One thing we haven't talked about is that the CIA has drones."

"I've thought of that," Zee responded. "Whether they can use them in the States with impunity, I don't know. Whether we could guard against them, I'm not certain. It's beyond my brainpower, but someone might come along."

"A Zombie savant," Stella tossed in. "Let's pray for such an undead person."

"Maybe a cast off from the Pentagon," Clive laughed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The two dogs barked and almost did flips when the three arrived at the farm. Walt and Maude came out to greet them, embraced Zee and shook hands with the others.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Maude said, almost in tears. "I thought I might never see you again."

Walt was all smiles, but silent. Zee could see his emotions were just below the surface. They were home folks, like family. Maude tried to hush the dogs that were still jumping and wagging their tails.

"Well, let's go in and get you settled," Walt finally broke his silence. Stella was all eyes, gazing around taking in the farm and environs. She liked what she saw, recalling Little House on the Prairie, although this was a fairly large house on Nebraska's Sand Hills.

By dinnertime things seemed totally normal. Each had settled into a room and Zee helped set the table. Maude had fixed fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green peas and apple pie for dessert. Stella wondered what could be more American.

Although they were near exhaustion, they sat at table with coffee long after the pie was gone and talked until well beyond what would normally be bedtime.

The next couple of days the three of them got better acquainted with Maude and Walt and explored the farmyard, sheds, bunkhouse, barn and livestock. Walt suggested he needed help with the milking. Clive volunteered and Zee said her cattle call for Zombies on the web should soon pay off. She wondered what was happening back in Istanbul.

Midday of the fourth day a VW camper pulled up to the gate, inhabited by five persons in their late teens or early twenties. Zee welcomed them and brought them into the spacious kitchen.

"You don't appear to be Zombies," she said.

Curt, a muscular man who seemed to be the group's spokesman, replied. "You can call us roving fun lovers. Simply driving America in the spirit of the early pioneers." The others, two male and two female, either laughed or giggled. We saw your various messages and decided to drop by. Any problems with that?"

"Of course not," Zee responded. Clive seemed a trifle wary. Curt's tone was a bit on the aggressive side.

Zee said, "Everyone's welcome who wants to work and play by the rules. I've had application forms printed. We need to know your bona fides before you're officially admitted to the group."

"No official nonsense," Curt said. "We'll just hang out here for a few days, then maybe move on. You seem to have a good thing going." Once again the others either chuckled, or giggled. They were either immature, or on something.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Zee said firmly. "Either play by the rules or get back in your bus and move on."

"Who's going to make us," Curt said defiantly.

"We could call the sheriff," Zee said, almost relishing the conflict.

"Yeah, call the law," Curt said. "And who might make that call?"

"Probably no one," Clive said. "We can take care of the problem right here."

"You and who else?" Curt questioned, arms akimbo.

"The two young ladies here. This is a remote place and we're all armed."

"You, armed," Curt sneered. "You couldn't hurt a fly."

Zee had already snaked her pistol from in back of her waistband. She sent a shot just below Curt's crotch. He jumped, his eyes wild with fear.

"The next one could make you a soprano," she smiled. "Clive, why don't you see if you can clip his ear?" The old man was quick to react, sending a slug whistling close to Curt's ear. Zee immediately said, "Stella why don't you go out and shoot up their bus?"

Gun in hand, Stella was about to comply, when the entire group began to insist they'd leave quietly and rushed for the door.

Zee followed them and shouted. "You're in Cherry County. I know the sheriff. He could have a car standing by at the highway by the time you get there. Would you like that?"

"No," Curt shouted back. "I'm sorry for all that happened. We'll clear out of the country."

Walt, who with Maude had watched the entire scene unroll, said, "Well, that was interesting. I can't wait for the next car-full of visitors."

"You've got a point there," Zee said. "We can't be too careful. But there go the bad apples. It should be clear sailing ahead."

"I've got to work on my milking," Clive said and headed for the barn.

Stella chimed in, "I'll feed the chickens and gather a few eggs."

"I'll chill a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio for dinner," Zee said.

"I'm thawing a roast. I'd better peel a few potatoes," Maude headed for the kitchen.

Walt yawned and said he'd catch a few winks.

In Istanbul it was Dewey who was the first to note that Zee was missing. Both she and Stella were often assigned to projects away from the consulate, so not showing up for work was no novelty.

He called Maury to ask if he had people watching her. "I thought you did," the Mossad man replied.

"No. I think we were watching you. Or maybe it was the Russian or the German."

"It's hard to keep things straight," Maury said. "In Istanbul everyone tries to watch everyone. Isn't it great, what a time for espionage!"

"Truth to tell, Maury, we don't get much done using our assets to watch one another. It seems there would be more important things. But we must justify our existence."

"It might be wise to see if anyone else is missing," Maury said. "Zee has been pretty thick with that bartender, Nail, I think his name is."

"Pad Nail," Dewey said. "I'll check on him. You sniff around and see if something else is up."

It was late afternoon before Dewey found Pad behind the bar, polishing a glass, which seemed to be the favored pastime for bored barkeeps.

"No, I haven't seen Zee all weekend. A bit strange. She usually drops by for at least a drink and some beer nuts." Questioned, he said he had no idea where she might have gotten to.

It was late in the day and he went on to his apartment, but he was beginning to feel concern. She had managed to do in the man from Lebanon, and maybe someone had figured that trick out and sought revenge. He would have to get to the bottom of it, but tomorrow.

Things came together the following day. Dewey learned that Stella was missing, and Maury told him that Clive was also gone.

"Clive had no passport," Dewey insisted.

"He had been seen more than once in the company of Zee and Stella. The three of them were conspiring about something. Getting a passport would be a fairly simple matter for any one of the three. They are all clever people."

Dewey nodded and responded, "Holy shit. If Clive had dropped hints about writing a book, what might the three of them do? They could blast us and you out of the water. We'd best get working on what happened to them."

Most of the leg work Dewey left to Mossad while he sent for copies of Zee's employment papers and biographical material from Langley. He soon learned about the Nebraska farm. For some reason she always referred to it as a farm, although ranch would be more fitting. Probably it was the farm life – chickens, cows, that sort of thing. He learned she had been home schooled until her parents were killed, their pickup truck hit by a cyclone.

Dewey also spent time on Stella's and Clive's life prior to the CIA. Clive was a small town Indiana boy, went to a state college. Nothing very exciting there. Never married. Got a girl pregnant while working for an ad agency. She refused an abortion and he joined the CIA. Somewhere in Indianapolis there is likely a middle-aged Clive who wonders where his dad might be.

Stella, an army brat, came naturally to the CIA. No roots, no strong spiritual attachments, her father was killed in a helicopter crash, her mother drifted off into alcoholism. A typical child of the times. So, what a trio. A very dangerous trio, Dewey believed.

Three days later Maury popped up to parley with Dewey. "They rented a car."

"Where did they turn it in?"

"Frankfort."

"They're probably in Nebraska by this time. Zee owns a ranch there, eight thousand acres, isolated, cattle and buffalo country."

"Wild Indians?" Maury questioned.

"They probably run 'em all off. But they might be difficult to approach. You gave Zee money?"

"Thirty thousand up front. Then I tried to withhold the last twenty thousand to find out details of the job."

"And, what did she say?"

"She told me nothing, but she called me a welcher and threatened to kill me."

"You took her seriously?"

"Damn right. She has ice water in her veins. She could gun me down while drinking a cup of coffee and never spill a drop. She's a marvelous person. I've never met anyone quite like her."

"You're enamored."

"Damn right I am. She and I could make beautiful music together in the Mossad. Let's face it, Dewey, it's not easy to find talented people anymore. It's like picking a wife. She has this quality, but she lacks that quality, she might be a good cook, but a lousy lover, her family sucks. You get the idea."

"I do. I think you should go after them. I think they're on that big chunk of land that Zee calls a farm."

"You want me to go to your country, the United States of America, and kill three people and anyone else who might be standing around? Is that it?"

"America's like any other country, Maury. There's violence, there's unsolved crimes. Who would suspect you?"

"You might say who wouldn't suspect me. But wait. We could go together."

"Not so, Maury, the CIA isn't supposed to operate domestically. It's against the rules."

"Rules!" Maury almost shouted. "You want me to kill three people and you're talking about rules?"

Dewey permitted himself a chuckle. "It is a bit ironic, isn't it."

"Yes, it is." Maury pondered a moment, then said, "How about we just let them write their book and see what happens. Or why don't you simply tell Langley what you think they're up to?"

"They might blame me for letting it get this far. We need to handle this ourselves. I have the money, you know that. You can be in Omaha by tomorrow night, get a car, scout out the area. The largest town nearby is called Valentine. Drive, ask questions, do the usual spy thing. Then get in touch. No harm done."

"I suppose I owe it to you, Dewey. Then Zee did kill the Egyptian, helped get rid of the two Asian boys and had the man from Lebanon gunned down. I'd like to know how she's doing and what she has in mind."

"I'll arrange the tickets and some extra cash. If you need a weapon you can buy one from a private party in Omaha. No need to go unprepared."

CHAPTER TWELVE

During the long flight, waiting in airports, eating fast food, Maury was troubled. He tried to examine his life and wondered what the hell he was doing, exactly what lay in store for him. Confusion.

He felt like the walking dead after taking a shuttle from the Omaha airport and checking into the Hotel Deco on Harney St. near Douglas in the downtown area.

He slept until almost noon the following day, ordered lunch in his room, took a nap, read a hotel pamphlet, then ordered an in-room massage, a feature of the Deco. After all, Dewey was paying for it. The masseuse was a hefty middle-aged woman who knew her stuff. Her touch was neither too soft, nor too harsh. When she was gone he slept until after sundown.

A hot shower and he was off to the hotel restaurant for a steak, baked potato and a bottle of red wine. Life was good, but his mental confusion endured.

The following morning he woke before eight and lay in bed watching CNN on what the hotel advertised as a thirty-seven inch flat screen.

Sometime later he dressed and went downstairs to the coffee shop. Sometime during breakfast he decided on visiting someone with whom he could talk over his problems. He thought maybe a rabbi, then a priest, but rejected both. He needed a professional if he was going to do it.

If the Mossad learned he was seeking psychiatric help, they might offer him a retirement plan of a permanent variety. Maury was reasonably certain no one except Dewey knew his whereabouts. Dewey had good reason to keep that information confidential.

After a long time going over the Yellow Pages, agonizing over this service and that, he eventually called a woman who seemed to be in practice alone.

"I'm a stranger in town," he announced when she answered. "I have a problem that's been troubling me. Is there any way you can work me in?"

"I've had an eleven o'clock cancellation, you could come then." He checked his watch, nine-thirty.

"You're near downtown, aren't you? I'm at the Deco."

"About four blocks away. Leave your hotel, turn left on Douglas."

"I can do that. How much time will I have?"

"A psychiatric hour, fifty minutes."

"I might need more time."

"You can come again in a day or two. That's sometimes best. Let the water settle, things become clear."

"I'm traveling."

"I suppose we could go into the lunch hour."

"I could bring sandwiches." The woman laughed, her voice was melodic.

"You do that. My name's Misty Wig. See you at eleven."

Maury easily found the office, introduced himself and placed the bag of sandwiches on a small table next to an easy chair. Misty asked him to take a seat. She was a small, dark-haired woman, maybe close to his own age. He took an immediate liking to her.

"Those are good sandwiches," he said, nodding toward the bag. "Someone in the hotel told me about a famous Omaha deli."

"Bellies Deli," Misty said. "No one goes there anymore. It's too crowded." She laughed at the old joke.

Maury too laughed. He was enjoying the visit.

"Well, we should get started. Maybe I should learn a little about you. What are you doing in Omaha?"

"So far having a pretty good time," Maury said, then asked, "Are you Jewish?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Why do you ask?"

"For one thing, I thought most American Jews were in New York City. For another thing, I thought they had a slight accent, like New York, or Brooklyn."

"Also a part of New York. Your English is good, but you must be European."

"Somewhere over there. The fact is I'm Jewish."

"No kidding," she smiled as if it were a delicious joke.

"No, I'm not kidding. My name's Goldberg. Maury Goldberg. What could be more Jewish than that?"

"Maybe a bagel."

"Yeah," Maury laughed. "A bagel. But I'm not just a bagel. Tell me, are you married?"

"I'm supposed to be asking the questions. But I might as well tell you, I'm a widow. My husband died two years ago. I've dealt with it, but I don't like being alone. You know, Jews like to talk. This office is my life. But we'd better get on with your problem."

"I don't have a problem," Maury said. "Hey, let's eat those sandwiches."

Misty stared at him blankly. "You don't have a problem?"

"I thought I did, but you cured me. Now I feel on top of the world."

"I may have to commit you. Your problem might be bigger than both of us. Tell me about it."

"I was feeling what Americans call 'down in the dumps.' My job was getting to me, distasteful stuff. Then I bought the sandwiches and began talking with you and I feel okay."

"What sort of work are you in?"

"This is confidential. I mean you're like a priest, right? They take some kind of an oath, or a vow."

"It's the same, only more so. We're legally bound to silence, confidentiality."

"I'm a spy."

Misty burst out laughing, then finally managed to say, "You're a spy?"

"Yeah, I've been a spy all my adult life. It's sort of a lonely occupation. No time for a wife and family." He reached for the sack and handed Misty a sandwich, then took the other for himself.

Considering the situation, Misty thought it best to go ahead and eat the sandwich. She was hungry and the sandwich looked great. Corned beef on rye with sauerkraut, lettuce, good mustard and a slice of dill on the side.

After a couple of bites, she asked, "Do you have a rabbi? It might be best if you talked to him."

"I'm not observant. I told you I was staying in the Hotel Deco. How about you and I having dinner together? You pick the spot."

"That doesn't sound too hateful," she replied. "But if you're here to spy, maybe hurt people, perhaps it wouldn't be such a good idea."

"I'm not spying in Omaha. Just passing through so to speak, but I might linger on."

She took another bite, then after a bit of chewing and swallowing asked, "Have you killed people in your work?"

"Not many directly, but I've been in on such things. We might refer to them more along the lines of executions."

"Well that does put a better face on the action. Sounds almost legal."

"Well, if it's sanctioned by a legally established government, you might say it is legal."

"Then before a killing you always check with what? The high court or government leader?"

Maury smiled knowingly. "There's usually not time for that. Some of these things are almost knee jerk."

"Then you are the judge, jury and executioner."

"We don't think just like that in the spy game."

"Just what country do you represent, Maury?"

"Israel."

"And you've come to America to kill somebody."

"No, not really. I agreed to come to America to maybe kill three people, but I don't want to do it. I suppose I called you because I was mentally torn up about it. So after talking with you, I think I'll try to negotiate."

"I did all that?"

"In a word, yes. Now can we have dinner tonight?"

"Of course, I'm touched."

Maury smiled and finished his sandwich. He hadn't brought drinks.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The first legitimate individuals to arrive at the farm were a pair of young women dressed as Goths, totally in black with black eye shadow. Although they filled out forms with their true statistics, they were called Raven and Crow. Raven had her nails painted black along with black lipstick, a death head tattoo on her right forearm. Both had jet black hair, obviously dyed.

Zee let them stay in the house and assigned them to kitchen duty. They were delighted at the thought of being the first to join in this thrilling new venture, a commune of the undead on the plain of the buffalo.

A day later four farm boys-cowhands arrived via pickup truck. They were web-savvy and answered the call. They had seen a few vampire films, but had no intention of entering the culture. They simply wanted to join the fun.

Zee, Stella and Clive huddled and decided they were just what the farm needed on several levels. The boys, two sets of brothers aged nineteen to twenty-one, were a wholesome lot and were determined to play by the rules, so they signed them on.

At that time Clive had posted a sign about a hundred yards back from the highway:

"The Zombie Farm. Strictly law abiding. Members must fill out a form to be admitted. The sheriff has access to all information concerning members. We are an armed camp. Forms will be available at the gatehouse once it is built. Before that, drive to the farmhouse."

The four healthy boys, Tim, Billy, David and Hank, were ideally suited to construct the gatehouse. A portion of the materials and tools were already in the barn. The four lads went about their work with enthusiasm and vigor, pleased to be in on the venture.

Zee was pleased that they knew cowboy jobs and other farm activities and that they could instruct others. She realized that as the population grew there would be sexual hook-ups, jealousies, reconciliations, bitter tears and shouts of joy. Did I leave something out?

The gatehouse grew almost overnight along with a small bunkhouse nearby. Barriers on either side prevented vehicles from avoiding that sole entry to the farm.

Two female vampires and a werewolf were the next to arrive. The vamps were dressed as Goths and had dental grade acrylic vampire choppers, complete with fangs. They were definitely permanent and definitely scary, permitting the wearer to eat, drink, sing and possibly suck blood from unwary victims.

The girls were Gisela and Krill, while the werewolf, also dressed in the popular style of a Goth, was a young man named Kaden who wore a tight fitting hat made of fur that extended down the back of his neck and furry gauntlet gloves with the fingers cut out.

The three CIA retirees were delighted with this addition. Now they were getting somewhere. After that, as Krill put it, the gates of hell seemed to open up as carloads of vampires, witches, warlocks, zombies and goblins pulled into the farm, each individual being duly registered and committed to work.

And work there was. Cleaning up the bunkhouse, straightening up the barn, slaughtering animals, milking the cows, and looking after the chickens. The three founders were busy assigning sleeping areas, separating young members of each sex, settling minor disputes and laying future plans. And the farm population continued to grow. There might come a time when limits must be established. But Zee thought otherwise.

"So far," she told her two cohorts, "we have all the help we need, we have renewable resources in livestock, we can weather the winter and get started planting early in the spring."

"That's simply hanging on," Clive said. "These people will eventually eat us out of house and home, deplete the fuel supply and possibly kill one another."

"Along with us," Stella tossed in.

"The secret is to keep them busy," Zee said. "We can organize book clubs and other diversions to wear the long winter out. But mostly we must plan for the future. I envision small colonies spotting the acreage. Potteries, art studios, writing clinics and so forth, eventually becoming self-supporting."

"A virtual Mecca for something or other," Stella grinned.

"Yes," Clive tossed in, "Grandiose. You are a modern-day Napoleon."

"But peaceful," Zee said. "Make no small plans."

"Maybe we should let the troops in on this," Stella said.

"It's imperative. We've got to get everyone behind this. I'm sensing already that there will be drop outs."

"Drop outs and drop ins," Clive said. "So far, steady growth. But what do you think is coming down at Langley?"

"I haven't had time to worry about that," Zee said.

"I don't believe they can kill us," Stella said. "But they could have infiltrated covert agents already. Maybe Clive should look over all the bona fides for something that doesn't add up."

"Damn right," Clive said. "I should be able to spot a phony."

Zee laughed. "If we find a mole, I don't think we should, you know, bury him or her here on the lone prairie."

"We cannot cross the Platt River until we come to the Platt River," Clive said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The ever-growing group had been assembled in the barn. Several members had requested a mission statement, inquiring after long-term plans.

The barn was a makeshift theater, with zombies, vampires, Goths, various members of the undead lounging on hay bales, sitting with legs overhanging the hayloft, cross-legged or sprawled on the floor.

Zee cleared her throat and began her spiel. "First of all, we don't want closed cult status with the outside world thinking members are forced to stay here, or that we exclude people. Some of you are here simply for a vacation experience and will move on with stories to tell, others are long term. Follow the rules and you can come and go as you like. But there are rules."

A Goth stood up and said she and her partner were vegetarians. They were having trouble with the food.

"As if that's a new problem," Zee said. "We're trying to deal with it and you all can help. One thing we've done is lay on an adequate supply of peanut butter. It can support life and appeals to vegetarians."

"We have ongoing problems and will continue to have them. We will try to solve them as a group, but we all must try to work out our own problems individually. Food preference might be a place to start."

A vampire rose and suggested a true democracy might vote on every issue.

Zee smiled broadly. "We have not come together as a democracy. This is my land and my home. With the help of Stella and Clive I have set up a Zombie Farm, so called, although it embraces an assortment of factions as most of you know. We have common sense rules and we have ways to enforce them. There are rules and then there is the law. We have worked and will continue to work closely with the sheriff."

The vampire nodded and said he could accept those conditions.

"Good," Zee said, "there is no attempt to brainwash anyone here or deviate from a wholesome lifestyle. If your culture is to drink blood and you have a legal way to obtain it, good on you." This drew a ripple of laughter. "Also we have set up Wi-Fi in order to keep in touch with the world out there and," pointing to a giant flat screen TV, "we have installed this TV with a large collection of vampire, zombie, werewolf and other horror films stretching back into the twenties. Now that is something you can democratically vote on, what to watch. Raven is in charge of the discs.

"My interest in the undead started in early childhood. I'll give you a few examples. Elizabeth Bathory, the female Dracula, who tortured and murdered hundreds of peasant girls in her castle, now located in Slovakia. The castle didn't move, the countries changed."

"She poured water on naked girls in the winter turning them into ice statues," a female voice shouted out.

"That among other things. Her mistake was running out of peasants and raiding the Vienna nobility. It was said she drained the blood of her victims and bathed in it to retain youthful beauty. In this case beauty was truly skin deep. In addition to a vampire, she was also accused of being a werewolf."

"As if that's a bad thing," a boy in a fur hat said in a stage whisper.

"I've always been fond of bats," Zee continued. "That form of vampire goes back to the sixteenth century. The vampire bats are largely in Mexico and Central America. We don't have bats here, but maybe we can get some.

"Some of you may have heard of the Vampire of Berwick, a town in northern England. A wealthy man died and his body was seen roaming the streets into the night, keeping the dogs howling. The residents retrieved his body, dismembered and burned it, thus solving the problem."

"The dogs," someone shouted from the hayloft.

"There have also been attempts, successful I might add, to cure vampirism. I refer you to the 1956 short story: 'She Only Goes Out at Night.' Then you may have heard of the Dracula gathering place, Borg Pass, now in Romania. To end my presentation, I'm certain most of you are aware that we have three Brides of Dracula in our commune. I suggest a standing ovation."

Zee bowed and beckoned to three young women dressed in semi-bridal garb, who also curtsied and showed their appreciation as the gathering burst into applause.

"Now the mission statement. I foresee satellite communities working for profit. As you know we have installed a doublewide within walking distance and have constructed a kiln house. Our pottery supplies should arrive soon and will be up and running. And there are serious potters among us."

"Will we attempt to sell pots in the wilds of Nebraska?" someone scoffed.

"Not pots or anything else. We might take our wares to Omaha or ship them to New York, but I envision selling whatever we produce largely on-line. We will have the usual art studio for the numerous art and art history majors so that they put their near worthless degrees to use. But I'm hoping we will be able to manufacture some unique but useful artifacts. It will be your minds and your genius put to the test. Look inward, pilgrims."

"There are many ways of making money on-line, or using the web," A Goth-dressed vampire tossed in.

"I agree," Zee said, adding, "Honest ways. So we will meet again in solemn convocation. Anyone with ideas, bring your agenda."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Maury tarried in Omaha. He was quite enamored by Misty Wig. She had heard the story that at her age she was more likely to be killed by a terrorist than to receive an offer of marriage. Then along came Maury. And Jewish too.

She did have doubts about his occupation. She really didn't want to tell her friends that she was married to a spy. She couldn't expect a doctor or a lawyer, but a spy? It would be an interesting conversation piece. But marriage to a spy is one thing, sleeping with a spy is quite another.

They had fun together, enjoyed one another's company, and on the third date they spent the night together. Maury talked of marriage, he said he had money and could give up his line of work. Misty was non-committal, but was not about to give up on the relationship.

So Maury set off for the Zombie Farm confident that the knot would be tied. He had a fairly good idea where the place was, but there was also a homing device built into his rental car.

The gatehouse had been up and running for some time by that time, staffed by professional looking young people, mostly garbed in black, some with deep eye shadows. "Maury Goldberg," he announced, "a friend of the three founders, Zee, Stella and Clive."

A call was made to the farmhouse, answered by Stella. "A middle-aged balding man, chomping on a cigar is here to see you. Says his name is Maury Goldberg."

"Oh, surprise. Maury, of course. Pat him down for weapons, search the car thoroughly for anything that might be a weapon or an explosive, then send him over."

"Are you serious?" the gatekeeper asked.

"Deadly."

"Will he stand for that?"

"Of course. He expects it. I doubt if you'll find anything."

And, of course they didn't.

The three CIA rogues were all on hand when Maury drove up to the house.

"Maury, Maury, Maury," Stella said, embracing him. Zee gave him a hug and Clive shook his hand.

"Well, kids," was the first thing he said, "I'm in love."

Clive suppressed a laugh and repeated, "In love."

Maury looked at all three, smiling broadly, "Head over heels. I met this woman, this lady, in Omaha. Misty Wig. She's a psychotherapist."

"Sounds more like a stripper," Clive said.

"It is an odd name," Maury agreed, seriously. "But nevertheless, I think we're going to be a pair."

"It's not confirmed?" Zee asked.

Maury wiggled his hands in an odd way and said, "She's not sold on my occupation. You know, a spy."

"You told her?" Clive asked. "Isn't that a no-no?"

"Not when you're giving your heart to another individual," Maury said. "You have to open up."

"How did you meet a psychotherapist?" Stella inquired.

"That's exactly the point. You can imagine that Dewey asked me to come here and deal with you. He's paying the bills. The CIA has dough out the kazoo and no questions asked. Try that one on the Mossad if you will. So I was mixed up, checked the phone book and chceck in with this wonderful lady."

"You told her your innermost secrets and she said what?" Zee asked.

"I told her nothing. I was immediately taken with her. Did I tell you she's Jewish? No. Well, she is. We just started to talk, you might say banter, and my troubles flew out the window."

"You decided not to kill us," Clive said glibly. Then added, "No offense meant."

Maury gave him a look and said, "None taken. But OK. I don't know what Dewey had in mind. Maybe it was killing. As if I would do that to my friends. He simply said, deal with it. You know, we cooperate. We're Israel, America's staunch ally in the region."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Dewey said you might disclose some CIA secrets, maybe stuff that wouldn't be flattering to the agency, in a book of some kind. I thought I might drive over here from Omaha, attractive city that it is, and ask you to lay off. Not write that book. Then everyone's happy."

He gazed at each one hoping for a favorable answer, guessing one would not be forthcoming.

It was Zee who spoke. "Maury, we've got a lot on our plate here. Very likely you don't know what a Zombie Farm is. It's a collection of people who enjoy the undead, zombies, vampires, bats, werewolves and so on. We've come together as a type of commune, you might say a kibbutz, and we're just getting organized. It's going to take time, but we're enjoying it. I, personally, have had my share of killing people, maybe for a good reason, maybe not. Anyway, we've had little time to work on a book. Beyond that we can make no promises."

Maury looked toward the other two and asked, "Does Zee speak for all of you?"

Both nodded in the affirmative.

"You'll have no problem with me," he assured them. "But I'll have to tell Dewey."

"Of course," Stella said. "You've had a long drive, you'll stay the night. Get acquainted."

"You bet. I'm among my fellows. Bloodthirsty spies. Vampires have nothing on us."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Clive had combed through the applications on file and discovered two people who were using fake names. A warlock named Fred Kilru and a witch, Diane Christie. He and Stella had put their heads together and located the names of a pair of FBI agents who matched their description, Charline Broom and Steve Talford.

He had explained to the four country boys that there might be trouble from time to time and had them build two small cells, one in the basement, and a second one in a remote shed used for grain storage. This took less than two days.

Maude asked Diane to fetch supplies from the basement, and Zee and Stella followed her down and said they would have to detain her for a few hours.

"Detain me?" the witch exclaimed. "What do you mean and for what reason?"

"We are checking everyone. So please step this way," Stella said.

Diane realized she was being led to a small cell-like room and turned to escape. Although she was young and chipper, Zee and Stella easily overpowered her and pushed her into the crude cell, slamming and locking the door.

"Please don't cause a ruckus," Zee said through the door. "We don't wish to resort to tear gas. You won't be harmed. We simply wish to check out your credentials."

"Let me out of here, you bitches," she screamed.

"Ready for the tear gas?"

Realizing she was in a small, confined area, she called out, "I'll be quiet."

"Stella questioned, "Diane, are you a vegetarian?"

"No. I eat regular food."

"Good, you'll be fed regularly. Also we'll bring a flashlight and reading material. Sorry about the sanitary facilities, there's a bucket and toilet paper."

"You bitches," she muttered. "You'll regret this. You don't know who I am."

"Au contraire," Zee said as the two climbed the stairs.

Clive and two of the farm boys lured Fred the warlock into the shed and shoved him into the cell.

"What the hell are you three doing?" he shouted.

"We're detaining you for a background check," Clive raised his voice to talk through the door. "You seem to be a nonexistent person. I realize warlocks are a spooky lot, but most of them have identities beyond a fake name and address."

"OK," Fred said. "Diane and I simply didn't want to be identified as members of a Zombie Farm. It's something that might hurt our resumes. So let me out and we'll be gone."

"Sorry, Fred. You'll be well fed. There's a bucket, toilet paper and warm blankets. It gets downright cold at night in unheated sheds. You'll rest quietly knowing Diane's in the basement. Similar cell."

"Can I call somebody?" Fred asked.

"Maybe later." Clive had searched the couple's cubicle and found and confiscated their cell phones.

Two of the farm boys were assigned to care for Fred, who had a slight frame and was no match for either one of them. They had been instructed not to listen to any wild tales they might hear from this congenital liar. Stella and Zee would do the care and feeding for the witch.

Three days passed without incident, although word had gotten out that Diane and Fred were being held in cells. Very likely one of the farm boys had dropped the secret. The outer door to Fred's shed was padlocked and no one was permitted in the basement.

Questioned about the detention, Stella and Zee told anyone who asked that the Farm had rules and one of them was properly filled out forms. It seems the two of them had lied about their real names and backgrounds, and they were simply being held in humane quarters to learn if they were wanted criminals. This seemed to satisfy all but the most skeptical.

A group of five skeptics approached Zee to ask if they might talk to the prisoners.

"That seems reasonable," Zee said. "Pick your representative and then pick which prisoner with whom you would like to speak."

"We'd like the five of us to speak with both of them, privately," Norm, a werewolf, demanded.

"You seem to have the idea you're in some sort of public institution," Zee said evenly. "This is a private farm, and when a person, or persons, signs on under totally false names and backgrounds, we reserve the right to investigate in our own way. There will be a time when we bring the sheriff on board. But if we find these two are innocent, except for bad judgment, we will simply let them go their own way, or even remain here. The investigation goes on."

About this time the sheriff also called. "I've been asked to check on a couple of your members who seemed to have dropped out of sight."

Zee chuckled. "Most of our members are somewhat isolated from the real world now and then. You mean they were members and they've left the farm. That happens."

"No, according to their uncle they have stopped corresponding both by e-mail or cell phone. You do have both out there, don't you?"

"Why, yes, John, we do. We've gone to some trouble and expense to keep those links up. Tell me what their names are and I'll check our records. They might have gone off and forgotten poor uncle what's his face. What is his name?"

"He just said Max. The names are Charline Broom and Steve Talford."

"One minute, I've got an alphabetized list right here." Zee scanned the list, knowing well the names were not there. They must have made up fake names at the last minute without telling their boss. "Sorry. No such persons. Tell Uncle Max those folks were never here."

"Well, I will, but he claims to have talked to them via cell phone and received e-mail messages."

Zee laughed again. "Those might have come from Australia or Yellow Knife. The two youngsters were probably fooling old Max."

"You've got that right. I'll check with Max."

"How do you get in touch with him?"

"Cell phone."

"Then you don't know where he is, or if he is really Uncle Max, do you?"

"I can't say that I do. I'll get that straight too."

"Thanks, John. We're an open book here."

"I know, Zee. I'll be in touch."

Zee got word to the five skeptics that things were coming to a head and that they would soon be able to talk with both Diane and Fred, nose to nose. This seemed to satisfy them.

The following day, Sheriff John Prather called again.

"Max lives in Omaha. His last name is Mabe and he's certain his nephew and niece were on the farm. So where do we go from here?"

"Max may have bats in the belfry, or he may be sincere. If those two are here, they used fake names. So if we can get photos of the two, maybe we can do business."

"How about I have them sent to your e-mail address," the sheriff said.

"Fine by me. The sooner the better. I'd like to get out from under this cloud."

Clive was closely following the action and went to work on the name, Max Mabe. It didn't take long to identify him as the agent in charge of the Omaha FBI office. He seemed in high spirits when he delivered this message to Zee.

One glance at the pictures and Zee was on the phone to the sheriff. "Yes, they are here. In fact we've been detaining them for filing false papers. We thought they might be criminals and we've run web searches with no results. If you and Max can show up here, we'll release them to him."

"I don't know if you can legally detain people, Zee. I'll have to look into that."

"Well, John, this is private property, eight thousand acres of it. We need law and order. The form people fill out and sign demands the truth. If that is violated we would like to know why. We could simply kick people out, but what if they are criminals, hiding from the law. We have some obligation."

"I totally agree. I'll ignore it for the moment. I'll call Max and, if possible, he and I will show up tomorrow."

As it came to pass, it was possible. The sheriff, Max and the five skeptics assembled in the kitchen and Maude had poured coffee for all when Zee, Stella and Clive joined them.

Introductions were made all around. "We'll bring the two fake name folks in directly," Stella said. "But first Clive would like to say a word of two."

Clive directed his first remark to Max. "The sheriff tells us you're the uncle to the two people with the fake names. Is that true?"

"I have said such," Max stated. He was a stout man, not fat, but thick and broad in the shoulders with a fine shock of red hair, dressed in a three-piece dark suit and diagonally striped tie.

"It strikes me as odd," Clive continued, "that the FBI station chief in Omaha would have two agents working for him who were in fact his niece and nephew. Is that usual?"

Max chuckled. "You seem to have found us out."

"I am guessing you are conducting an unauthorized investigation of the Zombie Farm. Washington knows nothing about this?"

"We are able to work independently up to a point," Max said.

"Before we bring your two agents in, would you tell us why you are conducting this investigation?"

"Of course," Max responded smoothly. "Such a farm like this, so called, a commune, smacks of the Communist. It seems to me to be un-American."

"It's nice of you to share your feelings with us. There may be a witch hunter or two in Washington who might agree with you, some cave man, a throwback to an earlier era, long ago repudiated. So let's bring on the agents and let them tell us what awful truths they've discovered."

Max said not a word, but bristled with moral conviction.

A cowed Charline and Steve were escorted into the room. They were seated at the kitchen table and Maude poured coffee. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Finally, Max asked, "Have you been mistreated?"

Charline said, "Yes, miserably. Locked in a small room with very little light and the bare essentials."

"Much like a prison cell," Clive said.

"Exactly," Steve agreed. "And I was in an unheated building."

"With a large pile of blankets," Stella said. "We found that these two had violated their forms, lied to us, were spying on us, were not wholesome members of our community. Perhaps criminals hiding from the law. What sort of treatment might they expect?"

"They are U.S. government employees," Max said.

"Oh, dandy," Zee said. "This entitles them to special treatment?"

"No it doesn't," the sheriff said. "They must play by the same rules as everyone else. This is my jurisdiction and unless I learn some harm has been done to someone, I'll ignore these events. But, you, Max, I think you'll have to pay a price when Washington learns of these shenanigans."

"I acted within my rights," Max insisted.

"These two young agents lied to get into this farm and you lied to me. You are not their uncle. Again, why did you do such a thing? What right do you have to send secret agents into the midst of the hard working people on this farm?"

"It's un-American," Max insisted.

"Take your two agents and get out of here," the sheriff seemed angry. "There's more to it than this, isn't there."

Max dropped his guard for a moment and blurted out, "Ask the CIA."

"So the CIA's involved," the sheriff said. "Is that news to you, Zee?"

"Of course not. Max and his two-person crew would have eventually worked out an assassination plot. The CIA wants the three of us dead. These two were simply a foot in the door."

"That's not true," Charline almost shouted. "We were simply to watch your movements and take notes."

"Whose movements?" Clive asked.

"Why, the three of you. You, Stella and Zee."

Clive smiled. "Is that true, Steve?"

"Yes it is," the second agent agreed. "You three were the targets, or the principles. Frankly, I wondered why."

"And who would do the dirty work?" Clive asked Max.

"I don't think there was such a plot. I would have no part in that sort of thing. I was asked to contact a person who is living temporarily in Omaha. His name is Maury."

"Oh my God," Stella exclaimed. "Maury Goldberg. He was just here, may still be here."

"No, he's gone back to Omaha," Zee said. "I think he's out of the business. I don't think he would attempt to harm us. He wants to get married."

"Will they let him retire? They know his whereabouts."

Zee shrugged. Clive said, "Probably not." Then turned to Max and said, "You'd better take these two rookies and head for home. There must be a few papers to be shuffled in your office."

Max gave him a sour look, but signaled his two agents and the three left the room. The five skeptics, none of whom had said a word, also left with whatever they had gotten out of the session.

Sheriff John Prather rose to his feet and said, "Never a dull moment," then departed.

This left the three founders plus Maude, who replenished their coffee cups and refilled her own. "I think we made some progress here," Clive opined.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The satellite communities were moving into high gear. The pottery was turning out pots, dinnerware and objets d'art. It had combined forces with the art community, centered in another doublewide several miles away and surrounded by a series of huts, or cabins, in various stages of construction.

The combination of the two turned out essentially nonessential objects with the help of doting and affluent parents of a few of the zombies. Galleries had signed them on in several major cities. The comings and goings of FedEx and other carriers became a common sight.

Money began flowing into the farm and the management managed to cut itself a slice of the pie. In fact a werewolf and a math-attuned Goth had been saddled with the task of financial management and charged with seeking not-for-profit status, perhaps an impossible dream.

With things seemingly advancing smoothly, a couple of flies appeared in the ointment. Maury and his bride had honeymooned in St. Louis and then rented a flat in Santa Fe with the thought of settling down. But both the Mossad and the CIA seemed to have different ideas.

Tipped off that something was afoot, Maury and Misty popped up at the farm one early spring morning and begged for political asylum.

Stella laughed and pointed out that the farm might be a force unto itself, but it was not a political state. "If you have no devious plans of selling us out, we might effectively hide you."

"I am an honest man," Maury insisted. "An honest wedded man. Also, we have a steady supply of funds from investments. I'm certain you are looking out for your own security, and that umbrella could easily cover us."

"What Maury says is God's own truth," Misty chimed in. "He has outgrown his past, and we have even attended temple, although we are not entirely kosher, but that may come."

The three proprietors put their heads together and gave Maury and bride the green light. "And your money must sustain you here on the premises," Zee said. "We keep a careful watch on finances and have just this month passed the break-even point."

The lovebirds were given the guestroom in the main house while mulling the satellite locations. Misty had always pined to paint, so they would homestead at the art colony. Maury, it was decided, would lecture on political science during Saturday morning gatherings at the barn. So the two of them fell into the rhythm of the farm as spring advanced toward summer.

The next event featured Sheriff John Prather showing up one fine morning, gathering the ruling trio together and announcing there had been rumors, too many rumors, that pot was being grown, processed and marketed from the farm.

"Cannabis?" Clive inquired innocently.

"Some say," the sheriff replied, flashing a grim grin.

"Mary Jane," Zee asserted.

"Crops have been tried here before and failed. The history of the Sand Hills of Nebraska is well known. Scores of homesteaders have known heartbreak," Stella explained.

"Truly," the sheriff agreed. "Yet the rumors persist."

"We have eight thousand acres, more or less, John," Zee said. "We can't be everyplace at once. Truth to tell, we generally stick fairly close to this farmyard, our little acre."

"Well, what am I to do?" the sheriff questioned.

"Ignore the rumors," Clive suggested.

"There are God-fearing folks opposed to mind-bending pot smoking among those who voted me into office. It isn't beyond the pale that one of my deputies could go on an anti-pot campaign and run against me."

"It's true that some do smoke pot to relax. It is a major recreational drug that's becoming legal in some states," Zee said.

"But not in my jurisdiction."

Zee scratched her head, then said, "What if we find a pot grower and give him or her up to you. Might you lightly rap their knuckles and let them go with a promise to sin no more?"

"I could talk to a judge," John said. "But then if the rumors persist, the problem remains."

"We would work tirelessly to quash the rumors," Stella said.

"Shut down the pot industry," the sheriff suggested.

"Something along those lines," Clive said. "There are many methods of cat skinning."

As it turned out the judge fined the miscreant one hundred dollars plus a suspended thirty-day stint in the county workhouse. Pleading guilty was an attractive female Goth. She said she had grown a small quantity of the plant for her own use and had been persuaded by a town boy to sell him a portion.

The story was duly reported in the local weekly and on the low wattage am radio station.

Zee, Stella and Clive stood by their young charge in court and promised to place her under the care of a licensed psychotherapist, who happened to be opening an office on the farm. Troubled locals were also invited to therapy sessions at a price.

So Misty Wig was back in business, juggling her newfound art career with her previous profession. Everyone came out a winner.

In the meantime, the three proprietors called the serious pot growers in and read them the law. They were strictly forbidden under penalty of expulsion and prison if they as much as sold or gave a weed or a seed away locally. A way must be found to ship their product as far away from the farm as possible, or else shut down the operation. The next slipup would be their last.

Once more life on the Farm flowed like a peaceful river as spring gave way to summer. A few vampires drifted off the farm, savoring their experience, while new members arrived, causing a net gain in population.

Then one dark night the gates of hell did seem to open wide with the thump, thump, thump of choppers and men on ropes descending like so many Jacks and the Beanstalk in reverse.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The ruling trio, wakened from their various beds or occupations, gathered in the kitchen, each hastily dressed and well-armed.

Clive called around on his cell phone in an attempt to find out what was going on. Finally, he announced news from the barn – "We've been invaded by a team of Navy Seals!"

"Impossible," Stella said. "Federal troops are not permitted to violate state's rights. It's one of our most cherished doctrines." She picked up a landline and speed dialed the sheriff's office, telling the dispatcher that federal troops had invaded the Zombie Farm.

Just after she made the call a Navy Seal burst into the kitchen, his automatic weapon hanging loosely at his side. Three pistols instantly had him covered.

"You may be wearing body armor," Clive said, "but you might notice we're aiming at your face. Place your weapon carefully on the table, step back and step out of that body armor."

The seal did as he was told.

"Now toss your dog tag on the table," Zee said, still drawing a bead on the young man. "And tell us why you're here, invading one of the fifty states in your home country?"

"It's a training mission," the young man said. He seemed in excellent physical condition, bulging muscles and a neck like an oak tree.

"And what might that mission be?"

"To extract three rogue CIA members."

Stella stifled a laugh. "Where is your officer?"

A look of disgust crossed the young man's face. "He's in the barn talking to a group of people. He seems fascinated by three loosely dressed young women who call themselves the Brides of Frankenstein. He's taken off his armor and shirt and showing them his tattoos."

"That is peculiar," Clive said.

"He's an odd ball," the seal said. "His father was an admiral. All he talks about is leaving the Navy. I don't know how he got this far."

Clive picked up the automatic weapon and unburdened the seal of extra ammunition. "You might as well have a seat. We'll wait for the sheriff. You likely know that, whoever cooked up this fiasco, it's strictly illegal for federal troops of any sort to invade states without the governor calling them in or some unforeseen disaster."

"I'm aware of that. As I said, our officer is a bit of a rogue himself. I'm guessing this will end his career. I could call the choppers to retrieve us. They're just over the horizon."

"What do you think?" Clive asked the women.

"Might as well. We can illuminate the barnyard so they won't have so much trouble," Zee said. "Go ahead and call."

The seal explained the situation and it wasn't long before the thump, thump, thump of two choppers was heard. They settled down into the farmyard, and the seal ran out to greet them.

He soon returned to say eight men had been deposited, but only seven were returning. "It seems that our officer is staying on. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Clive said. "The sheriff will be here soon. That'll be someone for him to talk to."

"Can I have my stuff back?" the seal said, eyeing his weapon, body armor and dog tags.

"Sorry," Zee responded. "We don't want to come out of this empty handed."

The seal looked a bit sick, but managed to say, "That's government property."

Stella laughed and said, "Have a good day. Better catch the chopper or only six will return to whence you came." The seal turned and ran off.

The sun was yet to rise, but they made coffee and sat around the kitchen table. Maude came down and began making biscuits. Walt showed up, then left to supervise the milking. He had several young charges.

Sheriff John Prather pulled into the farmyard with lights blinking, but no siren.

"Pull up a chair and have a cuppa," Clive said. "Biscuits will be ready soon."

The sheriff grinned and asked, "Where are the invaders?"

"Apparently the officer in charge of the team is still in the barn discussing politics with the Brides of Frankenstein among others. The other seven were extracted via helicopter. Long gone to somewhere," Clive said.

"Should I go out there now?" the sheriff asked.

"No hurry," Stella said. "One of his men said he's quite a character. Son of an admiral. That's apparently how he got to where he is. Annapolis very likely and tattooed. Later on it would be nice if you could confiscate his weaponry."

"Good idea," the sheriff said, then accepted a cup of coffee. "I love hot biscuits."

When Walt returned from getting the chores started, Zee asked him if he would mind going to the barn and inviting the seal officer to join them for breakfast. "And have him bring his artillery."

Minutes late he returned with a tattooed young man who introduced himself as Treat White, late of the U.S. Navy. He shook hands all around and seemed the perfect officer and a gentleman, save for the tattoos.

"Have a seat," Clive invited. Treat pulled up a chair and stacked his automatic weapon and body armor on a small stand nearby. "'Late' means you are no longer with the Navy?"

"I've been thinking of resigning for some time, and this screwed up mission did the trick. This was a so-called training mission inspired by the CIA. They wanted three people, I guess three of you, brought to Washington to face some sort of charges. Said you were active CIA employees who had gone rogue. I knew the mission was illegal, but it gave me a good chance to bow out. You see, my Dad's a retired admiral living in Coronado. I'm supposed to walk in his footsteps, but I can't hack it. Annapolis was bad enough. I've been a Navy brat all my life."

"So this is a career move," the sheriff said. "What are your intentions?"

Treat grinned. "I like it right here. I've been told there's opportunity for an undead guy like me."

"Welcome aboard," Clive said, giving him a second handshake. "You might join our farm boy security team, or make clay pots. The horizon is limitless."

"You sure this won't cause trouble?" the sheriff said.

"No problem," Treat said. "I'll make a couple phone calls today. Frankly, the Navy will be glad to get rid of me. My Dad might be a trifle upset, but he'll get over it. I've lived up to my obligation and then some. Been wounded twice on genuine missions."

"I'm told the crowd in the barn seems quite taken with you," Zee said.

Treat grinned. He was a handsome man. "Tell me, if I play the role of Frankenstein can I have all three brides?"

"For one thing," Stella attempted to explain, "it's not Frankenstein, it's the three brides of Dracula. That might be a lot easier. He was a darkly handsome man with flashing eyes and an interesting wardrobe. I think if the girls will go along with it, no harm done. A bed large enough might be hard to come by."

Clive pushed the platter in Treat's direction. "Better eat a few biscuits."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A few days later Treat dropped by the house and said he would like to be a cowboy. "I've always wanted to ride a horse. So why not punch a few cows?"

This gave Zee a chuckle. "There is a place for horses, but this is a huge spread with fairly thin grass. So our cattle graze over thousands of acres, some side by side with buffalo. Four-wheel drive trucks are the usual vehicle of choice."

"I can do that."

"Sure you can," Zee said. "And you'll be good at it. As far as I can tell, we have maybe three cowboys and two cowgirls and can use more. The puzzle is to build up the herd to the optimum size, not to overgraze. And we need to take the buffalo into consideration. They are more migratory inasmuch as they can roam up and down the Great Plains, more land is being added to their territory every year."

"Can we kill or market buffalo?"

"People do it on the sly, but we shouldn't go there. The meat is said to be very healthy. In the old days the Plains Indians were among the most robust with their steady diet of buffalo meat. But we do our thing and let the buffalo folks do theirs. How are you coming with the three brides?"

Treat looked a bit sheepish. "They are just regular girls in odd attire. They enjoy courtship games."

"Oldest game in the world. I think all three of those girls were English majors. Most everyone here is playing a role. Fans of the undead, vampires, werewolves and so on, their name is legion, worldwide. We have here established the largest permanent gathering place for such creatures. Yet we are far more. Artist's studios spring up like mushrooms. A whole doublewide devoted to the Internet trade, whatever that might be. The cattle industry should be the true money cow, to coin a pun."

"Most of the people seem to be young. There will be sex and there will be pregnancy. In the Navy we have that on extended carrier cruises. How about marriage?"

"We've come close, but still looking for the first one. Maybe the result of a pregnancy," Zee said. "We still get mixed up over just who the brides are for, Frankenstein, or Dracula. Although I know it's Dracula."

"I was never exposed to this undead culture. Where is it rooted?"

"Historically bats and cats are involved. Some vampires take the form of bats. Cats were worshipped in ancient Egypt. There is a cat culture throughout the world. On a visit to Venice I saw a fenced lot along the Grand Canal where women feed feral cats, the dishes lined up in a long row. A battle has gone on over the same issue in Rome, with some trying to rid the city of cats. But the cats were there before Rome rose as a world power and doubtless will remain."

"How does that bear on the undead?"

"Witches have cats," Zee said. "I've thought of adding more cats, but they seem to thrive on their own. You may have seen cats in the barn. They control the mouse population. The milkers fill their dishes even though dairy products might not be their most wholesome diet item. Of course we have the two dogs. They warn us of the unusual."

Treat changed the subject by asking if Zee and her two allies were actually rogue CIA agents.

"We all have CIA experience, but we are no longer on the payroll. So we are not agents of any sort. What the CIA fears is that we will put our heads together and write a tell-all book."

"And are you doing that thing?"

"Frankly, no. We simply haven't had time. Running this place, dealing with scores of young people, our hands are full. You know we have a psychotherapist on board. That shows you we have come of age."

Treat nodded in agreement. "To care for the deviate and twisted mind of the undead. Quite a challenge. But tell me, why would the CIA fear a tell-all book?"

Zee had to laugh. "I shouldn't go into it." She looked him over and wondered if he could be a plant, a spy. She decided to have Clive look into his background. A fiasco extraction by Navy Seals. One of the members coming into the house and badmouthing the officer. What a setup this might be. If Treat was CIA he simply had to ingratiate himself, wait for the right moment, then do the three of them in all at once. And, poof, vanish. Such a charming individual.

Her thoughts had taken only an instant. Then she completed her thought. "I actually shouldn't go into it. It's something that if we do it, the three of us must do together. No rumors, simply the final product, or no final product. The jury is still out.

"You asked about the history of the undead. The bride thing came directly from Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula. They've been called 'Weird Sisters' or 'Ghostly Women,' always made up of the vampire's victims. There was a craze in the '90s for things related to Dracula. But it was Tod Browning who brought both Lon Chaney Jr. and Bela Lugosi to the screen. He is best remembered for his 1931 film, Dracula. Browning himself appeared as a horror persona in carnivals and then directed that film genre. But the true Brujah vampire clan spans time as far back as the fifteenth century and very likely beyond."

"I'm guessing 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' helped keep the craze going," Treat said. "I used to watch the TV series."

"Yes, Buffy contributed, but the list is long and the interest profound, sometimes overwhelming. The task of separating fact from fiction can be mind boggling."

"You mean there might be true vampires, zombies, werewolves, maybe even witches and hobgoblins among us?"

"If such creatures exist, they are probably here."

When Treat had run along to explore the cowboy world, Zee called Clive on his cell phone and asked for a meeting. They were joined after lunch by Stella and, with an eye to the old days in Turkey, strolled out of the barnyard into a grassy meadow.

Zee told of Treat's coming in for a chat and recounted just when the thought that he might be a plant had struck her like a safe falling from on high.

"My, God," Stella exclaimed. "It's possible."

"He asked about our CIA background and why they might have it in for us."

"What did you tell him?" Clive questioned.

"As little as possible after the thought of a plant crossed my mind. Can you check this out for us, Clive?"

"Damn right. And soon. It's just like those stupid Langley people to contrive a double-domed plot like this. They never could stick with the simple life – pay off a sheriff's deputy to drive in and gun the three of us down."

"It's fairly obvious the Seals never meant to capture the three of us," Stella said. "They wouldn't want to involve themselves in murder, yet the CIA could convince them to plant an agent on the farm."

"Damn right," Clive said. "Langley won't be satisfied until we're dead. Our only guard against that is to write the book and have it published, or at least post it online."

"You think they'd give up then?" Zee questioned.

"I do," Stella said. "Because we could stick in a prologue that would blame the good folks at Langley for any harm that might come to us."

"Have we got a picture of Treat?" Clive asked.

"Oh, sure," Zee said. "I had him fill out the usual form, took a shot and clipped it to the form."

"I can use the whole form," Clive responded. "Make a copy."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Farm was outstripping zombies, vampires, cats, bats and the run of mill undead. Residents were calling family members and school chums to join in on the fun and profit.

The computer folks were turning out web sites, and sales were beginning to get out of hand. Stella was hurriedly setting up both a sales office and accounting department.

The products had grown beyond pottery and simple objets d'art. A bakery was actually mailing out two-pound loaves of cheesecake in banana or lemon-ricotta. One small shop was turning out Gothic rings, including death heads, bat designs, scary looking cats and earrings. Cuffs were also being produced and sold, complete with weird devices. Bracelets with compartments for exotic scents were manufactured, plus an entire industry using old denim.

A pets industry – dog beds, catnip items, pet treats and pet dining equipment was flourishing. Then there were knives, axe heads and other items being hammered out in the blacksmith shop. The small price of a bottle gas-fired forge and anvil had surprised Stella.

Decorative items for every known holiday were manufactured. The range of items was largely upscale, marketed to the affluent with excess disposable income.

The Zombie Farm, with all its acreage, cattle and farm products, plus manufacturing, was definitely a success, but going far beyond the way initially envisioned. Brains, the Internet and youthful vitality came together.

During this hustle and bustle and the sweet taste of success, Clive reported to the other two that Treat White was not what he appeared to be. "I'm almost a hundred percent certain that he's CIA," he said.

"Definitely not a Seal drop out?" Stella questioned.

"Of that I'm certain. I can't imagine that he doesn't know that we would find out. Maybe wondering what took us so long."

"You believe he wants to parley?" I asked.

"Very likely."

"Call his cell phone, ask him to drop by the house."

Treat was miles away at what the ranchers called a line shack, but said he would be in by early the next morning. And he was as good as his word.

All smiles when he entered the house, he had guessed what was up. "Live and learn," he said, addressing all three.

"You're CIA?" Clive asked.

"Spot on."

"You have a mission, don't you?" Stella said.

"Right again."

"You know we could kill you," I tossed in. "You'd vanish without a trace."

"Absolutely," Treat said, flashing his largest grin. "Danger is my business."

"Sit down and have a cup of coffee," Clive invited. "There's biscuits and honey."

Stella poured him a cup of coffee and then asked him, "What's the deal?"

"It involves leaving two of you alone and letting you run this lunatic operation. But the CIA wants Zee."

At this I drew my weapon and got Treat in my sights. "Are you armed?" I asked.

"No."

"Stand up and let Clive pat you down. I don't want a gunfight." Then to Clive. "First lock the door."

"He's clean," Clive said after a thorough search. Treat resumed his seat.

"Can I explain?" Treat asked.

"Make it good," I replied, sticking the weapon in my belt.

"The company wants your talents. It was Maury and Dewey who painted a charming picture. You lured two Chinese to their death, gunned down a pair of Egyptians at close range, arranged the shooting of a man from Lebanon. That, incidentally, was the perfect crime. The shooter has never been found. But it's not just your record. Your language skills are remarkable, you don't look Semitic and you seem to have no conscience. Hence a ruthless, cold-blooded killer with nerves of steel." Treat smiled broadly and asked, "Do you fit that picture?"

"You flatter me," I said shyly. "What if I refuse the offer?"

"C'est la guerre," Treat said, motioning failure with his hands. "And give up a good thing, a chance to climb the ladder of opportunity?"

"Or a shallow desert grave. What do you mean, leave Stella and Clive alone?"

"We would hope they would put ideas of authorship behind them and end this impasse. This operation, this Zombie Farm, has caught on. It would seem to be a profitable venture extending into the future."

"It's my land and my future," I insisted. The entire idea was mind-boggling. I was to leave my land and my idea in the hands of Stella and Clive and run off to do God-knows-what in the Middle East.

"Zee, your talents conditioned you for a certain lifestyle. You aren't a good fit on the Nebraska barrens."

"They're my Sand Hills. Everyone loves their home," I insisted.

"Then defend it," Treat said. "Your enemy stalks the Middle East."

"That, Treat, is laughable. I have no enemies other than the CIA. The company sees bogeymen behind every bush. It simply attempts to justify its lavish budget, uncounted millions poured down the drain for no reason."

"Then you'll do it?"

"Where and with whom would I be working?"

"You and I. We'd be partners, free-wheeling through Europe, Asia and Africa. That about covers it."

I pulled the pistol from my belt and returned it to my back waistband. "Why don't you go back to your home on the range and I'll talk to you in a day or two."

"Bob's your uncle." With that quaint bit of Australian slang, Treat rose, unlocked the door and departed.

"There's the ring of romance to the offer," Clive said, "but the danger, the flirtation with death, would be with you always. You've carved out a great empire for yourself and us, Zee. You turned wasteland into a beehive of production."

"I agree," Stella said, then hesitated and continued, "Oh, shit. I just know you're going to do it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Three days passed before I called Treat and suggested that he drive in that night and sack out in the barn. Then early in the morning we would drive to the highway and have breakfast a diner called the Blue Bonnet. He agreed.

We began our chat in the car as I drove. I suggested that because the nation was pumping down on foreign wars, the CIA would become larger and more important in the field of foreign affairs. He seemed to agree.

"The CIA, in cooperation with the military, has killed thousands with its drone projects," I said, "but the public doesn't object because the attacks attempt to be precise and they save the lives of members of our armed forces." Again he agreed. I was simply stating common knowledge as a basis for our talk.

The sun was just over the horizon of the Sand Hills, illuminating a broad stretch of sky when we arrived at the Blue Bonnet. A gathering place for the scattered rural community, breakfast was in full swing.

Treat ordered scrambled eggs, home fries, sliced tomatoes and coffee. I preferred my eggs over lightly with biscuits and gravy. Then the usual endless cups of coffee.

"I think you've gotten by on good looks and charm, Treat. I know you could have any or all of the Brides of Dracula for the asking. What I don't understand about you are the tattoos. Educate me."

He smiled his charming smile. "I've always tried to fit in. I thought those might help. My father is a retired admiral and comes from old money. I attended boarding schools in Switzerland, then a prep school that feeds into Harvard. After that a year at Oxford, then Annapolis. Upon graduation I joined the Seals; I suppose as a sign of rebellion."

"Most people do that sort of thing during their teen years."

"I was always a slow learner, but I liked the physical side of that outfit."

"I haven't heard the saying for a few years, but you may know it: 'Tell it to the Marines.'"

Treat nodded yes. "As a Navy brat, yes. Supposedly, at least in the old days, they were so dumb they'd believe anything."

"Yes, and the Seals would seem to be super Marines and that would be super stupid."

"They are jocks," Treat agreed, then added, "I hope you don't think that of me."

"No, except for the tattoos you'd be the catch of the season. You do speak a foreign language?"

"French, German and some Italian. I suppose I could get by in Spanish."

I chuckled. "All fairly useless in the Middle East. As a CIA agent, where have you been posted?"

"London and Paris."

"Splendid. You would fit right in. But otherwise, I don't think you could hack it. You know Maury Goldberg?"

"I've really never met him. Know of him."

"He's a good spy. Looks like he should be selling insurance in Duluth, or stock derivatives in Sioux Falls."

"What's a stock derivative?"

"I haven't the foggiest. But you get my point?"

"I do. I'm not cut out to be a spy. Yet Langley wants me to team with you."

I had finished up my eggs, was on my second cup of coffee and knew I shouldn't eat all of my biscuit and gravy, but intended to do so anyway. The waitress probably thought we were lovers of the illicit type, lingering over breakfast. She topped off our coffees.

"What Langley wants, what the company wants," I began on my main talking point, "is to neutralize Clive, Stella and me. Clive made the mistake of telling someone he might retire and write a tell-all book. He does know where the bodies are buried."

"Were there repercussions?"

"You can bet your pink pajama. He was a prisoner in Istanbul. He had a nice apartment. But they seized his passport, paid the police and neighbors to keep an eye on him, bugged his apartment, and confiscated any papers they could find. A real professional job."

"Might they have killed him?"

"I don't know. He was an old spy, much beloved. They don't like to kill people, but they will if forced to the wall. Of course we spirited him out of Turkey. We couldn't risk public transport so we secretly rented a car and skedaddled out of town, driving through to Frankfort where we flew to the States and to Omaha."

"Where the three of you will write your book?"

"That's what Langley fears. It wouldn't torpedo the agency, but at a time when it is moving into the fore and the military is retreating, it isn't something they would desire. So I'm interested in protecting Stella and Clive. If Langley believes getting me back on the books will do the trick, I'd like to have that chat."

"Then you and I should high tail it out for Langley."

I had to laugh. "What's this you and I, Cowboy? Your home is on the range. You get me a ticket to National from Omaha, book me a hotel room and give me a contact. I'll do the rest."

"What about me?"

"What about you? You're a big boy. Hook up with a Bride of Dracula, get happy."

Treat had to smile. "You would leave me rustically in the Sand Hills."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

At the airport I picked up a copy of the Omaha World-Herald, the primary newspaper for Nebraska and southwestern Iowa. Thinking of Iowa, I recalled a friend of mine from that state who visited New York. Asked by a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker where he might be from, he said Iowa.

She replied, "We know about Iowa here in New York, but we pronounce it Ohio."

So much for that. On the plane I started to read a story about naked people in San Francisco, became instantly bored and put the paper aside. Instead I read a series of short stories about zombies, vampires and the undead in a paperback I had brought from the farm. We have a large library of material of that genre, plus a large number of movies spanning the decades.

The particular story I skimmed was about Radu R. Florescu, an eastern European historian, born in 1925. He was one of the scholars to study Vlad the Impaler, the historical Dracula of the Vampire legend.

Teamed with a colleague, Florescu was interested in tracking down any real history on that fifteenth-century Romanian prince who had been linked to vampirism in Bram Stoker's writings.

Their studies encouraged other work and changed the treatment of Dracula in films, such as the 1974 version with Jack Palance and the 1992 version by Francis Ford Coppola. There were also novels such as Children of the Night linking Vlad and Dracula. Florescu was honored with an award from the Transylvania Society of Dracula for his input to Dracula scholarship.

The amount of material written about the undead, werewolves and the like was staggering. Plus an ever-growing supply of films. The1987 flick, The Lost Boys, was the first major movie to feature flying vampires. Before that vampires generally took the form of a bat in order to fly. In a pair of 1992 films, Innocent Blood and Dracula Rising, the camera was used to take the bat's view of the situation.

Once down at National, I checked into the nearby hotel and then took the subway into the District where I was carefully measured and fitted with a tuxedo ensemble, quite a load to tote back to the hotel with suit, vest, shirt, tie, socks and shoes. It just seemed fitting to appear at Langley the following day dressed in a bizarre fashion. Perhaps they would think I had flipped out and hasten me back to the Sand Hills.

But, as you may have guessed, no such luck.

A car was sent to my hotel the following morning. I did get some looks, very likely both for being a woman and in formal wear so early in the morning.

Also the secretary at Langley seemed to freeze for a long moment. My contact was Gregory Stone. Of course I had to wait in an outer office, possibly part of the game. Flipping through a magazine, my eyes fell on a certain word, gothic.

I read a few sentences, became interested and tore the page out and stuffed it in my pocket. Here's a bit of the story, picked up in the middle:

"It occurred to her that she was living in a gothic novel. 'All the markers were there,' She said 'The woman travels to a strange place, her life is constrained there, and it's controlled by a man who seems to change his nature from the situation in which she first met him. There is the moment when she fears she is going mad. And then she has to realize, no, I am not going mad, it is the external world that really is persecuting me.' She was keeping a diary and she realized that she was almost writing the book already – she just needed to find the core of it. One day, she climbed up onto the roof of her building, because it was the only place she could go outside and get some air. 'I was craning down for some reason, and on my neighbor's balcony I saw a big crate, and something went click, and I thought to myself, You could get a person in that crate. And then I suddenly knew what kind of a novel it was."

Really, I didn't have too long to wait. Gregory Stone himself came out to greet me and lead me into his office.

"Well, Ms. Smith," he said, "I've been looking forward to your visit."

"Call me Zee. Everyone does."

He gave me the once over, but he didn't mention the tux. We sat in two comfortable chairs and he asked if I'd like coffee.

"Sure, with a little cream." He buzzed his secretary and gave her the order. I pointedly avoided women's issues and he attempted not to examine my attire. "I'd rather not talk about killing people."

He shrugged, obviously embarrassed and said, "Anything you like. I thought Treat might accompany you."

"You mean as a senior partner?"

"We're all equal here, Zee." It crossed her mind that the secretary-waitress would seem to be the exception. "Treat's a good man."

"That bizarre entry into the farm must have been cooked up by a half-wit. He could have driven in and introduced himself."

Gregory shrugged again. "That's the company for you. Always something a little different. Penetrating your defenses."

"We aren't at war. It would have been in the poorest of taste, you might say gauche, to have simply killed the three of us. Extracting would have gotten you into big trouble. Federal forces invading one of the fifty states. A decided no-no."

"We're not here to discuss past misdeeds. I'd like to discuss your future, Zee."

"So I've been given to understand. If I rejoin the company and Clive and Stella give up thoughts of authorship and concentrate on running the farm, my farm incidentally, you'll stop threatening us with mayhem and dismemberment. Am I on target?"

"That would seem to be the essence of it. We could team you with Treat."

Chuckling, I said, "That pretty boy. He'd be big trouble anywhere other than the UK or France, maybe Belgium would be OK. You know he speaks French, German and some Italian and Spanish. I'm fluent in several Middle East languages. Not a good fit."

"He's athletic."

"So was Jim Thorp."

"How do you see yourself?"

"Free lance. Solo. Bouncing around from pillar to post."

Gregory was thoughtful. He finally said, "I don't want to talk about your killing people, Zee, but what if you were killed? We might be right back where we started with Stella and Clive."

"I'll have a pre-death confab with them. Make things all better."

"Frankly, Zee. I couldn't believe what I'd heard about you. But you're better than your reputation. I really don't want to risk you out there. Solo, you might take too many chances. You're good, but you're not immortal. Could you stay another day or two and let us both think about it?"

"I'm not unreasonable. I don't want to be the Lone Ranger. But team me with Treat and disaster would be just around the corner. I could work with either Dewey or Dusty."

"That's progress," Gregory agreed. "Now, I mean no offence, and people are quite open these days, but are you a lesbian?"

I did laugh this time. "You mean because of the tux? No, I just put it on for impact. Incidentally, you're paying the rental. Do you like it?"

"Fetching, very fetching. I thought if maybe girls were your meat, so to speak, that's why you might have rejected handsome Treat."

"No. Strictly professional reasons. I am a pro."

Gregory said he and others had kicked several ideas around and that something should firm up overnight. He asked if he might pick me up for dinner tomorrow night.

Of course I agreed.

Returned to my hotel via CIA courier, I whiled away the day doing very little. The following day I took the subway into D.C. and returned the tux. After that I made my way to the Washington Monument and walked on the Mall all the way to Capitol Hill where I explored the Capitol, office buildings and grabbed lunch, then cabbed back to my hotel in Northern Virginia, that part of the state the remainder of Virginia doesn't claim.

I was in the lobby when Gregory arrived, dressed as I had arrived on the plane, faded blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with only a few paint spots.

He gave me the once over, but said nothing. I could feel the choice of restaurants being downgraded, also the wine selection.

We ate Indian and I favored the spicy curry and tandoori bread, delightful, simply small talk.

Over coffee, Gregory laid out the best deal they had come up with.

"Istanbul," he said.

"Good choice," I agreed. "A more or less open city, the crossroads to everything. What else?"

"There's a bicycle shop run by what you might call an asset, an ex-pat. You could work there. Do the books, greet customers, learn a bit about bike repair, keep your eyes and ears open, get job offers from Langley. And living arrangements. There's an apartment over the shop. It's yours for the taking."

"Thoroughly bugged, I'm sure. Where does the owner live?"

"His name is Miki Kugel. He has an apartment some blocks away, married to an Afghan."

"He's married to a dog, or a couch throw?"

"Cute, Zee. What do you think of the set-up?"

"Sounds OK. The apartment's fine for starters. But I may look for my own place later on if there is a later on."

"What do you fear, Zee?"

"Global warming."

Gregory smiled. "I like you, Zee. I hope you make old bones."

"I'll do my damndest."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The company's offer puzzled me to say the least. It was explained that I was on the information-gathering end and it was hinted that more information on my role would come later.

On the return flight to Omaha I skimmed magazine ads that offered a hang gliding experience for $200 or a chance to be stalked by the paparazzi for four days starting at $550. This included having a loudmouth constantly shouting your name and snapping photos. After scanning bagpipe lessons I laid the magazine aside and picked up my undead volume.

I came across a few paragraphs on Peter Kurten who was called the Dusseldorf Vampire, although he was more of a serial killer. His obsession with blood earned him the title. He killed his first person when he was nine, shoving a playmate into deep water, then shoving in another playmate who attempted to save him.

In 1913 he cut a ten-year-old girl's throat and was delighted by the spurt of blood. Constantly changing his method of murder, he seemed to live for the kill. He was convicted and decapitated in 1931.

More contemporary is Interview with the Vampire, the initial vampire novel by Anne Rice, and as sequels were produced became known as the first volume of The Vampire Chronicles. A film based on it in 1994 with Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Kirsten Dunst and Antonio Banderas was a smash hit and introduced the modern star vampire, Lestat de Lioncourt.

Then there was the vampire in space craze with The Thing from Another World, Not of This Earth and Terror From Beyond Space. Then there was the laughable Plan 9 from Outer Space directed by Ed Wood.

It's interesting to note that in 1972, Donald Frank Glut authored the book, True Vampires of History. It was the first volume to bring together accounts of both real and pretend vampires. In 1977 he brought together his two heroes in Frankenstein meets Dracula. Glut is an award-winning author.

As the plane soared over the Mississippi five miles up where it's always bright and sunny, I polished off the peanuts and Bloody Mary mix, reclined my seat as much as possible and closed my eyes with thoughts, not of sugar plums, but what might lie ahead dancing in my head.

Returning to life as the plane neared Omaha, I was still dressed in my jeans and weary gray sweatshirt. I wondered what others thought of me, dressed in such attire. To see ourselves as others see us. What a gift, as Robert Burns had written.

My seatmate, an elderly gentleman well turned out in a gray suit and old school tie, engaged me briefly in conversation. One of his lines was what would I like if I could have anything I wanted. This seemed to be a sure-fire conversation starter.

I told him, "I would not like a horse, or part of a horse."

This seemed to amuse him and he asked, "In what context?"

That puzzled me, but I think I got his drift. "I had a friend in college who had a little money, but she could not afford a whole horse. So she went in with others, mostly strangers, and bought a part of a horse. I'm not certain what her share was, or which portion of the horse she owned."

"I assume this was not a riding horse?"

"No, a race horse. There was a manager and there were jockeys and there were various tracks, transportation, feed, training and so forth. Plus the hope for winnings."

"Did it pay out?"

"I don't know. I lost contact with her after college, but I believe this joint ownership created a false group of friends who may have e-mailed or twittered to and fro, possibly bonding in some fashion. This would be more meaningful than simple horse-portion ownership. It might be until death do us part, more sustainable than many marriages."

The man nodded and smiled. "So you would not pick horse ownership, even though it might be appealing in some ways."

"But still costly. I like a good steak, usually New York strip, roasted ears of corn with lots of butter and salt, smoked salmon bits as snacks, a light beer, white wine, simple attire, stage or screen musicals, maybe romantic comedies, a decent book and objective reporting. How's that?"

"Wonderful."

"Funny thing, I just recalled. I do own horses. I inherited a ranch in the Sand Hills and there are horses."

"Working animals," he smiled, "not high strung thoroughbreds."

I shrugged.

We were descending to the airport and I wrestled my small bag from beneath the seat in front of me, effectively halting our sparkling banter.

Rain was falling in Omaha from leaden skies. Not normally a drab city, but under these conditions damp, chilly, forbidding. I longed to be safe and warm on the Zombie Farm. Off the plane I sought refuge in the baggage claim area. There were really no seats, just a couple of cold benches. The time was mid-afternoon on that dismal day.

Hesitating, I decided to find an airport motel for the night. Finding a battery of phones, I located a motel nearby, made a reservation and sought out the small shuttle bus, which delivered me to a warm and comfortable environment. Soon I was luxuriating in a hot shower, tons of soothing water tumbling down on my naked body slathered with soap.

On the morrow I would enjoy a free breakfast of corn flakes, milk and coffee, then strike out for my beloved farm. Someone had given me the name of a private pilot in Omaha who had a frail plane on the lines of a Piper Cub who would fly me to the farm for a couple of hundred dollars. We did have a grass landing strip with high hopes of improvements down the line.

According to Stella, there had been a couple of developments during my brief excursion to northern Virginia. An under-construction-building near the gatehouse had a grand opening as The Zombie Art Gallery. The hope was to attract national and international attention.

Certainly high hopes for such a remote location, but a much-improved airstrip with adjacent facilities would be a plus.

Clive, no great admirer of fine art, said with some glee, "The building is divided into four major rooms, known as Room One, Room Two, Room Three, and, yes, Room Four."

"Simple enough," said I. "And are there exhibits in each?"

Stella fired up the office computer and brought up the current schedule: Room One – Greece through Irish eyes, Jewish eyes and Italian eyes. Room Two – Toxic plus Cosmic Experience. Room Three – non-threatening sociological events. Room Four – Crumpled Post-its and newspaper scraps, or what can be done with nothing. Absurd.

"It's a start," I suggested. "Will art critics gather?"

Clive grinned mischievously. Stella said, "Nothing yet, but it's only two-days old," then added, "Tomorrow evening there's a Hen Do." A glance toward Clive, "He's not invited."

"I'm an old rooster," he said.

"Old, tough and well past your prime," Stella said. "So we're honoring a bride who happens to be a Brit. Otherwise it would be a bachelorette party."

"Is this one of those male stripper and drink till you drop type gatherings?" I asked.

"No. Definitely not," Stella said. "Although those do exist on both continents. I'm thinking this will be in quiet good taste. One can only hope."

"Tell me about the lovely couple."

"A witch and a werewolf, a coupling made at the fieriest and most despised level of Hell!"

"Score one for the Zombie Farm," I agreed. "I hope there'll be media coverage."

"Clive and I thought it best to take advantage of the situation. So far we have reservations for TV crews from LA, St. Louis and New York. A London tab is sending a reporter and photographer. There've been other inquiries."

"So far, so good. Will the coverage include the Hen Do?"

"We've decided to admit female reporters, electronic and print, but without recording gadgets. We do want to achieve a bit of dignity. Marriage remains a solemn affair, even among the undead. But this will be the first exposure of the farm to widespread media. We're hoping for CNN and MSNBC, maybe even Fox."

I had to laugh at that, but said, "That about covers the waterfront. I too have news. Langley is posting me back to Istanbul, I'm to work in a bicycle shop, new, used and repair shop, gather intelligence."

Clive frowned. "At least that's what they said."

"It is. They simply want me there and for you two to forget about deathless prose. We'll all have our hands full."

"But how will your life be as a hostage?" Stella asked. A dark mood had descended on those two, much as I had expected.

"Be of good cheer. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. If things get out of hand, I'm back here like a jackrabbit."

"Some rabbit," Clive said, still depressed.

"If you can live with it, so can we," Stella finally said. "I'm sure you've turned it over in your mind."

"Over and over. Anything good to eat around here?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Hen Do was still on my mind as my plane said farewell to Omaha, heading toward JFK. I had been told such a celebration, or goodbye to singlehood, might sop up an entire weekend with the bride-to-be whisked away to a distant venue by a bevy of admiring hens – girl friends, that is, or the occasional older woman.

This might involve almost kidnapping the wedding-girl in the pre-dawn hours and transporting her to a destination known only to the arrangers. In cases of well-to-do Brits it might involve channel hopping to France or beyond.

Generally they are demure gatherings, sometimes parlor games are played. There is food and beverages. But female rites of passage have been known to equal the male equivalent, the stag party. This might involve passage to Amsterdam, highlighted by bleary-eyed Do-ers crashing into swamps of alcohol and drugs attended by half-naked male dancers. Drink up, freedom is fleeting.

With this thought and others, including brief excursions into what lies ahead, I kicked back in my seat and closed my eyes. JFK was the usual madhouse with some flights cancelled, some gates changed, crowds milling this way and that, travelers in wonderland.

Finally, it was off across the pond and I read the in-flight mag for the first twenty minutes, failing to work the sudoku, then turned to my zombie book.

My eyes fell upon a chapter concerning the southern Slavic vampire. I soon tired of it after reading about shtriga and vjeshtitza, blood sucking witches, who attacked at night, sometimes in the form of a moth, fly or bee. They lived in the community and were difficult to identify, although a certain sign was a young girl's hair turning white. Keep the dye jar handy!

In the old days the Balkans seemed alive (paradoxically) with vampires. Exhuming suspects from the grave, finding them in robust health although dead, was quite common. They were then staked and burned, sometimes first decapitated for good measure.

A trolley passed down the aisle, and I invested in a double scotch to assist me in dozing for the remainder of the trip. In my slumbers I hoped no one would confuse me with the undead and attempt an in-air staking.

I arrived in Istanbul without incident, although tired, hungry and slightly hung over. I had continued to indulge during the tedium of the trip. Getting there was something less than half the fun.

Rather than check in with Dewey at the consulate, I grabbed a cab and went directly to the bike shop where I found my future boss, or partner, whatever, stretched out in a fake lazy-boy drinking a cup of coffee.

He seemed pleased to see me and said I was expected and might immediately get settled in my apartment above the shop. He asked what my immediate needs might be.

"Sleep, then a shower, then more sleep."

"Good plan," he agreed. Miki Kugel was not tall, about five-seven, sparely built, jet-black hair, slightly curly, brown eyes, a pleasant enough person. He took me to my apartment and returned to the shop. I would see him by and by and immerse myself in the bike trade.

After returning to the living, I called Dewey Warren to tell him I had arrived. He told me I was working indirectly for him and that we should get together in a few days. I was curious to learn what indirectly meant.

After purchasing the few toiletries that I needed and buying an extra set of work clothes – I always travel light – I got with Miki to talk bicycles.

During the next couple of weeks I learned a lot about the bike game. I could have sold bicycles easily, as each one was equipped with a price tag. Miki told me I could cut the price up to ten percent if forced to the wall. I don't remember ever making such a transaction from start to finish, but I may have initiated a few, then let Miki take over.

For one thing there were levels of bikes. A quite common use was simply a shopping bike, one a housewife would ride to the market. These featured a large basket and few or no gears. Beyond that it was Nelly bar the door in features and puffery.

But we were big on repairs and selling supplies. We could straighten disc brake rotors, replace disc brake pads, bleed disc brakes, clean and oil chains, install derailers (also spelled derailleur), true a wheel or install a jockey wheel and get technical about bicycle history.

Possibly the first thing I learned is that to work on a bike one must hold it off the floor in either a bike rack, or suspended from the ceiling. This permits free movement of the wheels. Then in Miki's absence, I learned to rely on someone on-line named Sheldon Brown. Always a fairly quick study, after three weeks I was saturated with bicycle lore, which came seeping out at odd moments.

Then I huddled with Dewey over evening cocktails, surreptitiously, of course, as if everyone in Istanbul weren't watching everyone else. Ah, the sweet scent of intrigue. All the time keeping in e-mail touch with Clive and Stella.

Then came the day when Dewey asked me to meet him in the park by the Golden Horn. It seemed he wanted me to board a plane for Frankfurt, stay in a certain hotel and shoot an individual also staying in that hotel. I would be equipped with a Glock 21SF.

No longer the raw recruit, I told him to take his job and his Glock and shove it.

Dewey grinned and said, "I thought that might be your reaction. Let me add a bell and a whistle. First of all, this request comes from the top. It's not a Mossad job.

"But you want me to shoot somebody. There's a commandment against that."

"It's not such a novelty, Zee. You're like a grizzled veteran."

"Pardon me if I don't feel grizzled. I'd rather feel pretty."

"I've always thought of you as pretty, Zee. But here's the payoff. Do this job and you're free to go back to the farm, or anyplace you'd like. Your two friends will also have home-free cards. Let me tell you one more detail. You knock on this person's door early in the morning, snap off a shot or two with a sound suppressor in place, then a car will be waiting to take you to an airfield where you will board a plane for Pakistan."

I almost burst out laughing. Board a plane for Pakistan. Why not fly to the moon. Rather than reply I waited for Dewey to explain.

"This legitimizes your presence in Frankfurt. You will not be a suspect. You are joining a party as an interpreter, definitely one of your skills. Frankly, if you take this job, I'd hate to lose you and the company hates to lose you. You'll be free to stay on if you like, or take a vacation, then come back."

Holy Christ! Why did this appeal to me? Am I a born killer, or simply a restless spirit? A fine housewife I'd make. If I had children I'd likely abuse them before roasting them for dinner.

I shrugged and agreed, then asked, "When do I get the Glock? That's quite a weapon."

"It and two clips of ammo will be waiting for you in Frankfurt. You might need it in Pakistan. Not a total vacationer's paradise."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

So there I was, checking into an airport hotel in Frankfurt. A soldier had met me when I got off the plane and handed me a brown paper package tied up with string. It had the heft of a loaded automatic and then some.

Once in my room, I opened the package, checked the clip and pushed the pistol under my jacket into my back waistband. The suppressor I dropped into my bag, the extra clip in my pocket, then visited the coffee shop for a fried baloney sandwich with tomato, lettuce and dark German mustard. Almost heaven.

There had been a cryptic note in the package with the number of a room, a floor up from mine and a message that a blue VW Jetta would be waiting outside the lobby for me beginning at 6:30 a.m. The rest was up to me.

I drank one of the small whiskies from the reefer, then took an exceptionally long shower. Pink and glowing, I sipped my way through one of the half bottles of wine, then slipped between the sheets. Why wasn't I keyed up? I was just hours before ending somebody's life, someone I didn't know and had no grudge against. I could rationalize, if I didn't do it, someone else would. With that thought I drifted off to sleep, waking at my usual time, just after five a.m.

After making myself a couple of cups of that awful in-room coffee, I went to the desk and checked out, careful to pay for the booze I had consumed. The desk clerk was a sleepy young man who had been watching an American soap rerun when I disturbed him. Of course it was in dubbed German.

Back in the room I fitted the noise suppressor to the Glock, checked and rechecked the clip. Waited until just 6:30, then walked through the deserted hall up one flight to the room in the note.

My first knock on the door went unanswered. Knocking again, cautiously. Others were sleeping nearby, the door opened a crack and a women's eye peered out at me. She had not bothered to throw the bar, or chain the door.

"Hotel security," I announced. "There's been a burglary." She wore a hotel terry cloth robe, open at the front. I was certain she was a prostitute, at least I hoped this was the right room. I pushed through the door, shoved her aside and walked past the bathroom.

A drowsy looking nude fat man sat on the side of the bed, balding, probably in his late fifties, or early sixties. His back was to me, but when I entered he looked around. I put a bullet in his left eye, then one in the vicinity of his heart. He simply slumped forward on the floor without a sound. Wheeling, I shot the woman twice in the chest. She was not young, bottle blond, mid to late thirties. She went over backwards, blocking the door.

By my reckoning, both were dead. I tried the door, but her body held it fast. Pocketing the suppressor and sticking the weapon back in my waistband, I tugged her away from the door by one foot. Not a pleasant task. But I regained the hall and strolled nonchalantly back to my room, retrieving my bag and down the stairs, through the lobby to my waiting ride.

"Sorry to get you up so early, Ma'am," the driver said. He was a youthful soldier, but not the same one who had delivered the package at the airport.

"I'm an early riser. Maybe there'll be breakfast on the plane."

"I could drive through McDonald's."

"There's a McDonald's here!" This did shock me.

"Oh, yes. Egg McMuffins galore."

"We do have time, don't we?"

"Sure. I don't have to deliver you to planeside 'til 7:30. I'll step on it."

"Don't get a ticket."

The boy laughed. "Konrad could care less."

As we sped along toward fast food, the events of the last few minutes came together. It was unfortunate that I had to shoot the prostitute, but there was no other option. She was not thin, but then again not fat. You might say sturdy. A good body for a whore, it could take a lot of punishment.

Whoever the man was, and likely fairly high level, when found in the room with a dead hooker, even his country might try to suppress the story. It did add a certain dimension, a certain cachet, to the execution. There could even be love-triangle speculation.

On the small two-engine turbo-jet, I was given a seat in the rear. No one bothered with introductions. I was a low level staffer. Of course I chatted with my seatmate, Magee Meek, also a low level staffer.

Magee did know something about the party. Two of those upfront were undersecretaries of state, a pair of military attaches, plus the three-person crew. Magee's role was electronic technician. Exactly what the mission was he didn't know and could care less.

He said this type of thing went on endlessly and very little seemed to come of it. I told him I was a free-lance interpreter who usually worked in an Istanbul bike shop. A bike enthusiast, he wanted to talk about building wheels, a subject I knew a little about and could add a choice morsel here and there to the conversation.

Cold corned beef sandwiches were passed back to us, along with cans of Coke. The dill pickle that came with the sandwich was quite tasty.

I remarked to Magee that we seemed to be flying quite low.

"We're over eastern Afghanistan," he said, "and they try to keep it below radar."

"I suppose that's good," I replied, "but what about ground fire?"

He started to answer, but was interrupted by an explosion at the front of the plane. Stopped in mid-sentence, he uttered one word, "Ground fire."

We were going down and quickly, soon to be bouncing along the arid desert floor, then grinding to a halt. The front of the plane was completely shattered; smoke was rising from the wreckage, a few flames danced here and there. Aside from being shaken violently, I seemed to be okay.

Magee moaned from a few feet away. "You okay?" I questioned.

"Not hardly, I can't move."

He was pinned under part of the shattered fuselage. Struggling through the debris, I pulled and pushed, finally managing to lift the weight from his shattered leg.

"For God's sake, Magee, crawl out of there. I can't hold this forever."

"I'm hurt, Zee. I don't know if I can move."

"You'd better drag your raggedy ass out of there. When the flames reach the gas tank, this plane goes up."

He managed to struggle free and I helped him to an upright position.

"My leg, it's busted, useless."

"Hop like a bunny rabbit, you sick bastard. We've got to get clear of this wreckage."

"Don't leave me, Zee."

"I'm here, Magee. But you've got to hop to and get a red nose."

"What does that mean?" he questioned, beginning his hop.

I actually laughed. "I don't know. Just something I heard long ago and in a different country. Come on, you can do it."

And we did it, just far enough from the plane so the explosion simply knocked us flat on our faces, but not seriously injured. Next we were aware of a giant black ball of smoke highlighted by flames rising maybe a quarter mile into the air, enough to be seen for miles around.

Pulling ourselves to a sitting position, I said, "Now we can wait for whoever shot the plane down to come for us. You suppose they're friendly?

"Christ, we should be armed."

I didn't mention the Glock. Whoever it was would never suspect me of carrying a weapon. At least that's what I thought.

Then the far-off sound of a vehicle, growing louder as it approached.

"My God," I babbled. "They're mechanized. I thought they would come for us on camel back."

Magee looked grim and tried to straighten his leg with his hands. "Wrong country. At least I'll be out of pain soon. One quick shot to the head."

Now I could see the vehicle kicking up dust on the trackless desert. Whoever was driving spotted us and turned in our direction. As it slammed to a halt, I said the obvious, "American military."

"Thank God," Magee shouted, almost in tears.

"Are you the only survivors?" a soldier in desert camos asked.

"I suppose," I replied. "Who are you?"

"Corporal Miller, at your service." His accent was heavy Southern.

"Late of Dixie?"

"Mobile, Alabama, Ma'am. Your friend seems to be in some distress."

"Busted leg. Plane crashes aren't for sissies. Maybe seven good folks in the forward area have literally bought the farm."

Another soldier had emerged from the vehicle and had been looking over the wreckage. "Hey, Don," Miller shouted, "give me a hand with this wounded cowboy."

As they were drag-carrying Magee to the Jeep, I asked if there was a military base nearby.

"Base camp," Miller snapped back, busy with Magee. "Camp Nowhere, constantly under attack. If we don't head back soon we'll have lots and lots of hostile company."

With that I headed for the Jeep, climbed into the passenger seat and let Don fuss with Magee in back. Miller gunned the vehicle in the direction where I assumed Camp Nowhere was located. We were there in minutes, the Jeep climbing over a well-guarded earthen wall.

A Sergeant Crow was soon directing four men to carry Magee Meek into a shelter, then turning to me he said, "Long time without feminine companionship, at least of the Anglo type. You injured?"

"Just mentally, but that's nothing new. Nice place you have here. The USO hasn't dropped by recently?" I took in the scene, a shabby collection of huts and one fairly substantial, but damaged barracks-like structure, windows broken and sealed over with rags. The few men I had seen so far seemed filthy in body and attire. Most had beards.

"We are more or less on our own, Miss, Miss what?"

"Call me Zee."

"You spell that Z?"

"Zee."

"I'm Sergeant Crow. You can call me Crow. I'm the ranking non-com and the man in charge in the absence of an officer."

"This place doesn't rate an officer?" I inquired.

"This place is a death trap, Zee. I don't know if Washington doesn't know about it, or maybe they just don't give a damn. There should be a helicopter here tomorrow, just about dawn. They try to resupply us every week or two. We can get your buddy with the bad leg out, but there'll be no room for you. We have two body bags that take priority."

"I can reserve a spot on the next flight out?"

"If we don't have too many more casualties."

"They resupply you with troops?"

"Hell, no," Crow said. "Why throw men to the wolves. You've heard of the Charge of the Light Brigade?"

"Liked that sort of thing as a child."

"Good for you. Then you know everyone knew it was a mistake, but they did it anyway."

"That's what's happened here?"

"Totally. Half the men would desert, but there's no place to desert to. So here we are. Anyway, you can have the officer's quarters. We can outfit you with fatigues and all the essentials. Dead troops don't need toiletries and underwear." Crow called out to Miller to show me to the officer's hut and equip me with a few necessities.

A dirty looking troop standing nearby said in a loud voice, "You can have his personal latrine. Officers think their shit don't stink."

I cast a look toward Crow, wondering if a lone woman would be safe in this situation, among an embattled group with little hope of salvation or long life for that matter.

He understood and gave me a reassuring grin and a thumb's up. Decked out in a shapeless outfit and a billed hat pulled over my eyes, I mingled with the men, shared their chow, largely MRE picked up on a random basis, then had a good night's sleep behind a locked door, Glock under my pillow.

Rising at my usual pre-dawn hour, I lit my candle, brushed my teeth with some dead soldier's equipment. I'm certain the rest of the troops were like me, not really getting undressed to bed down. I stumbled out into the dark and managed to follow the smell of coffee.

The ramparts, if one might grace them with that term, were manned day and night. Night goggles and night gun sights made the difference between life and death at Camp Nowhere. I later was to learn the post was officially designated 11G.

Magee had been made as comfortable as possible, and I had a few moments alone with him before the chopper dropped into camp. He said he was in some discomfort, but his leg had been stabilized with splints, and last night he was given morphine.

Dawn was breaking over the mountains to the west when we heard the chopper coming. It was a gunship, coming in high and ready to fire at the slightest movement outside the post. It would drop down abruptly to avoid enemy fire.

At the last moment, Magee gripped my arm and whispered, "Zee, you saved my life. How can I thank you?"

I really hadn't given that much thought, but I said, "By making the most of the life you have left. Be a good person, live a good life."

He smiled, loosened his grip and said, "Kiss me."

I pecked him on the forehead, then the food and ammo was unloaded, the body bags with their grim contents were placed on board and finally it was Magee's turn.

As I stood in the stiff breeze from the blades, the gunship rising almost straight up, I was joined by Sergeant Crow. When the noise died, he suggested that being a non-military female among these love-starved unkempt troops might be a little daunting.

It was then that I told him I carried a Glock and was capable of using it. "If any of your men attempt to break into my quarters at night, I'll shoot them." I had given the matter some thought.

"Fair enough," Crow said. "I'll pass the word. How good a marksman are you?"

"Good enough."

"How about long guns?"

"Better yet. I grew up in Nebraska hunting deer, shooting coyotes and the occasional buffalo. I didn't waste ammunition by missing."

"Buffaloes? Is that legal?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. In the Sand Hills of Nebraska with a weapon in my hand, I was more or less the law. Meat is meat. I didn't hunt for the sheer joy of it."

"Zee, my best sniper is traveling in one of those body bags. How would you like to fill in for him?"

"If there's something to shoot at, I wouldn't mind, but sitting behind that pile of dirt from morning 'til night, waiting for someone stupid enough to approach this post, sounds a trifle boring."

"There will be targets and you'd be working through the night. The hostiles attempt to approach us in the dark. Apparently they never learn, or simply long for martyrdom. With equipment that makes the night transparent, a sniper can do a little damage. We have a Private Von Littleton who is good with the night goggles at spotting hostiles, but can't shoot worth a damn. You can take the dead sniper's place. It doesn't matter if you fall asleep. Von, that's what he's called, will keep watch and wake you."

"Sounds good. I'm something of a bat, or a vampire, a creature of the night. Also I'd blend in with your men, not be simply a stray woman."

Crow laughed. "Tonight's the night. Tell me why you carry a Glock?"

"My employer gave it to me in Frankfurt. I'm not new to this business and I'm not squeamish. I can protect myself and others."

"Ok. Von Littleton will check you out on the sniper's piece. You'll find it a reliable weapon."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I had read that a certain jellyfish is immortal, yet I never wanted to be one. The fish, or jelly blob, or whatever it is, apparently rejuvenates. That is it keeps the same form forever and ever, but replaces cells.

And as a youngster I was told that human cells, such as in the skin, replace themselves every seven years. That probably isn't true. We become old and our skin wrinkles, bones and brains deteriorate. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Regardless of these human characteristics, I return to not wanting to be a jellyfish, bobbing around in some ocean or sea, not really ever knowing where I am, eating something very likely invisible to the human eye. What's for dinner, Dear? This is pretending I am in the company of a fellow jellyfish.

Why, you might ask, do I bring this up? It's because I also never wanted to be a sniper. But here in a sand hole outpost, apparently forgotten by the Pentagon, there is very little opportunity for employment. As a woman, housekeeper-cook might be my occupation. But because there is very little cooking going on here and no discernible housekeeping, I opted for sniper. In fact I would always choose it in a New York minute over housekeeper-cook.

Von Littleton, hereafter referred to as Von, checked me out on the sniper gear, and impressive equipment it was. I fondled it as a lover might, loaded, unloaded, reloaded it. Oiled it, cleaned the already immaculate barrel. Falling in love again. Hurry nightfall.

As advised, I brought a sleeping bag to the rampart. Nights are cold on the desert, the stars dazzling. The night doesn't have a thousand eyes, it has millions. I chatted with Von until midnight, hometown talk, pizza recipes, beer preference, famous mouth-watering poor boys, oysters are my personal favorite.

Von described himself as a good Christian boy from Little Rock, Arkansas. He tried selling Bibles door to door, which netted him sex with a few middle-aged housewives. Then he signed on for a soldier.

Just after midnight, I dozed off, but was jarred awake a couple of hours later. "Two of them," Von whispered. "One almost in front of us, one off to the left, widely separated. Which one do you want first?"

"Should we let them get closer?" I asked.

"We could, but if you can shoot them, there's no reason. You see, if you hit them, just after dawn two or three men will come along with a white flag and a cart to pick up the bodies."

That silenced me for a minute. "This happens all the time?" I finally asked.

"Oh, yes. Bodies deteriorate quickly out here. And the scavenger birds and small animals come. We honor the Muslims and their traditions."

"But we shoot them first?"

I could tell Von was smiling. "Of course."

"I'll take the one on the left first."

Two shots, two Muslims down.

"Hey, that's okay, Zee. Two kills the first night. That should discourage others on this night."

"Two men down," I said. "We aren't coroners, or doctors. They may not be dead."

Von chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so. You might as well go back to sleep unless you want to have sex."

"No thanks. Think of me as a good Christian girl from Nebraska."

I got at least one hostile every night for the next two or three nights. Crow was very pleased. He said those who missed would send a bullet zinging by the hostile causing the hostile to run like mad in a zigzag fashion, not possible for that same shooter to hit.

I couldn't understand why anyone with a night scope could miss, but nevertheless, it was possible and a frequent happening. There was a sexual undertone among some of the men, but Crow had advised them to keep a lid on it, and there was no doubt he was in charge, a born leader.

We talked about the officer who had been in charge who had been killed. I now lived in his digs and enjoyed the private latrine, such as it was, simply a hole in the desert floor, in a shack attached to my hut.

"Officers are necessary, but the military is run by non-coms and always has been. Also they must be kept separate if possible. In that way we respect their uniform, perhaps not the individual."

"What about Napoleon?" I asked.

"Great generals have great staffs. Napoleon was the non-com's, non-com. You'll remember he said an army travels on its stomach. So true. Can you imagine the task of care and feeding of thousands of men, marching or traveling by vehicle daily, or even attempting to survive in trenches? The logistics are staggering."

I reminded him of the Russian debacle.

"The Russians knew their winters. They destroyed food supplies, emptied cities, were careful not to leave the French army a scrap of food or even fuel for fires. And the mounted Cossacks could hit and run with impunity. Those Cossacks were wonderful horse soldiers. They wore multiple layers, often silk shirts, and as long as they had their horse they had food. They knew how to stick the animal, draw maybe a pint of blood then seal the puncture. Imagine how much blood is in a horse."

Trying my best, I couldn't imagine.

"Now take our case, Crow continued. This base is untenable, and there's no reason for it. As the saying goes, when you're up to your ass in alligators it's hard to remember your original intention was to drain the swamp. The original intention here was to be friendly with the locals, but there are none. Some guy in the Pentagon with a map screwed up. So we are simply fading away."

A couple of things happened in the next few days that were not to my advantage. One, the gunship chopper arrived. I had spent the night on watch and had just fallen into a deep sleep. Good old Crow failed to wake me. I could have been on that return trip.

That same chopper deposited a Lieutenant Ivory, who took command of the base, relieving me of my quarters. Ivory turned out to be something of a martinet, or at least aspired to be. His immediate goal was to restore discipline, have the men clean-shaven, cleaned up, all the things that had nothing to do with defending the base.

Or at least that's what I thought and that seemed to be the general view of things. I was still sleeping, but he apparently huddled with Crow for a couple of hours. He was at least that smart.

Then he and Crow came into my hut. The good sergeant had failed to tell Ivory that there was a female on board.

"Who's that in the bed?" Ivory asked, as I was waking up.

"A woman. Her name is Zee."

"Private Zee?" Ivory asked.

"No, Sir. She's a civilian, but serving here as a sniper, a real sharpshooter."

Sitting up on the edge of the cot, fully clothed, I asked, "Where did this person come from?"

Ivory said nothing, but looked from me to Crow. "The gunship brought supplies while you were sleeping."

"You bastard," I raised my voice. "There was room on that ship." I guess you'd say I saw red I was so angry. Here I was in this trashy Camp Nowhere with no mission except to shoot people who were very likely defending their homes, and I was stuck.

Usually in total command of his emotions and voice, he almost pleaded, "I need you, Zee. You've become almost a rallying point for the men. They are defending you as much as the post."

Ivory finally found words. "This is extremely unusual and defies any military code that I know of. Dragooning a woman into sniping at the enemy."

"She's very good at her job, Sir. So far she hasn't missed. I've noticed that the night attacks have slacked off because of her."

"One woman, she can't defend the entire perimeter."

"Of course not, Sir. But we're backed up to a cliff. Her location actually covers most of the area where the attacks occur. We're in a very dangerous position. Percentage-wise, our casualties are incredibly high."

"I hope to correct that," Ivory said.

Totally depressed, I said, "You must be some kind of fucking magician."

"I'll not tolerate insolence or insubordination from any quarter, Sergeant Crow."

"I understand, Sir. The lady is upset. She could have been on the gunship that delivered you and the supplies. But I consider her very close to vital."

"And you consider my life worthless. Just like the rest of us here, you included, lieutenant. That we haven't been overrun so far is just short of a miracle. I hope you brought some decent rations. I could eat the asshole out of a skunk."

"Holy, Christ," Ivory said. "Crow you've probably violated two or three regulations worthy of courts martial simply to keep this uncouth woman by your side. Is there a sex angle here?"

"No, Sir, Zee's a good Christian girl from Nebraska."

Finally, I felt like laughing.

"You'll have to move your gear, Zee. This hut belongs to the lieutenant."

"If there is a final straw, this is it. Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"You can use my hut. You stay on the ramparts all night. I'll stay out of the hut all day. Share and share alike."

To Ivory's amazement, I pulled the Glock from under my pillow and stuck it in my waistband. Almost spellbound, Ivory said, "She has a pistol."

"Yes, Sir. I can explain that. She survived an air crash nearby. We rescued her and a wounded companion. She was on a mission for the state department and authorized to carry a weapon."

"Should we permit her to keep it?"

"I think so, Sir. We have limited jurisdiction over her and she is a lone female among a ragged bunch of troops. She might be an item of temptation."

"I understand, Crow. Perhaps we should make the transition to my command. Then later on we might have the troops fall in for a pep talk."

"Very good, Sir. Of course most of them are on duty guarding our position. Others do watch for eating and sleeping. But I'm certain they will welcome your leadership."

Ivory turned to me and suggested I gather up my gear and go to my new quarters. "Sure, I have a toothbrush and a tube of paste, maybe a bar of soap and a towel. That's about it."

He forced a smile and said, "He travels swiftest who travels light." I think he made that up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

So there I was, sharing Crow's hut, which was more like a hovel, although he was something of a neatnik, everything stowed away in a military fashion despite the sordid conditions.

Because I was totally pissed off about missing that gunship, I had gotten off on the wrong foot with Ivory. Incidentally, I later learned his first name was Kenneth. He probably thought of me as a crude low-level bitch. Oh, to see ourselves as others see us.

In the days ahead I was super careful about what I said to Crow. He had books in his quarters that I enjoyed reading during my waking hours. There was some chemistry between us and it would have been so simple to slip into a dirty romance.

Dirty because we were both filthy. Showers were non-existent. There was enough bottled water to drink, fix coffee and brush one's teeth. That was it. I suspected I was cultivating a family of lice in my hair.

Of course the troops imagined us as a pair of lovers, locked in steamy, smelly, disgusting sessions of wrestling around on an army cot or on the hard desert floor. But their belief that I was Crow's girl, or crow bait as I might picture it, kept me off limits for even lurid remarks.

Ivory must have spent hours shaving and grooming, trying to appear the perfect commander. He at first demanded salutes, but later gave it up in case an enemy sniper might be nearby. He disrupted any spirit the camp had and was generally disliked. Rather than adding a dimension to a bad situation, he had taken something away. A young officer, he should have been permitted to work all those bad things out of his system in a more kindly atmosphere.

I continued to work with Von Littleton and rack up an average of one kill per night, although I didn't call them kills. I would often hang around after daylight to watch the enemy roll out their cart under a white flag and pick up the dead. If the game hadn't been so deadly, it would have been good sport, almost slapstick.

Our camp was backed up to a stone face that loomed over us, partly overhanging, which protected us partially from assaults from above.

Crow had figured out a way to send a two- or three-man team to a spot where they could observe anyone climbing to the top of that precipice, which was some job in itself. The few who tried were easily picked off, and thus others were discouraged.

Following my childish rage over missing the gunship, I underwent a period of disgust and self-loathing. How quickly one adapts. This grizzly death trap had become my home and these people my people. Confessing such to Crow, he managed to convince Lieutenant Ivory that I should stay on as a valued sniper.

Ivory declared that there must be military precedent for such a thing. There had been Indian scouts on the frontier of America, and the Green Berets were constantly picking up troops in foreign lands. And think of the British in India. So, yes. Is there a saying, err in haste, repent at leisure?

So the enemy grew tired of their picayune little martyr-making attacks and, a couple of hours after midnight, Von nudged me awake and said, "Zee, would you feature this!"

A large truck was lumbering across the desert toward our compound. Focusing my scope I saw the windshield was covered with a large plate of what appeared to be iron except for a tiny peephole. I fired and could definitely hear the ping of the round hitting the heavy metal.

A sniper's rifle is not an automatic weapon, but I fired as rapidly as possible, first at the tires, then the radiator and finally at the militants who jammed the back of the truck. It was a stake truck, so some of the terrorists were exposed to my fire. As the truck drew nearer I could hear their cries as I fired among them.

The shouts and prayers of the wounded must have triggered a general panic because men began to leap from the truck and dash in crazy patterns, some attempting to scramble to safety, some headed toward our line.

By this time I was joined by others on guard duty equipped with automatic weapons. The hostiles assaulting our ramparts were easily cut down, others escaped. The truck bounced along on punctured tires and attempted to turn, thus exposing the driver and two companions in the cab. All were shot dead, the truck slowing to a halt.

Sergeant Crow apparently had been awake and took charge of the scene, stopping Corporal Miller and another man who started to dash toward the truck, apparently to bring it into our compound.

"It may be a bomb," he shouted. The dead lolled in the cab and two or three bodies were sprawled in the back. A couple of the hostiles had neared our compound before being shot. We suffered not a casualty.

We waited and watched the bodies through night goggles. After several minutes, Crow, who had finally been joined by Ivory, fired a flare to illuminate the area. We could count eight or ten dead Muslims, including the ones in the truck.

As the flare fell to the deck and burned out, a terrific explosion sent the truck five or six feet into the air, turning it on its side before crashing back to terra firma. There would be no need to pick up those bodies.

The truck burned to a blackened skeleton, and the smell of burning rubber and human flesh drifted into our compound on the night air.

Crow walked over to where I lay, half in my sleeping bag, and remarked, "They are getting serious."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Crow was right, the enemy, whoever they might be, were getting extremely serious. My good spotter Von once more alerted me to the situation, and I told him to run and arouse the camp. This appeared to be apocalypse now.

They had somehow come up with two earth-moving machines, slow crawling track vehicles with large steel blades raised in front of them. There was no way we could shoot through such a barricade. They stayed side by side with hardly a gap between them.

Behind them you could be certain there walked about a zillion angry Muslims. Our only advantage was their slow process. Von soon returned followed by Crow and Ivory. Crow immediately said we should call in gunships.

Lieutenant Ivory objected. "We can handle this ourselves," he asserted. Of course even I knew we couldn't, and time was running out. Ivory surveyed the situation like a young Napoleon. All he lacked was a white horse to straddle and a spot on the horizon.

Crow excused himself on some pretext, maybe to rally the men. I was certain he would call in the gunships. I tried firing between the two steel shields with some success. My shots must have found their mark because the huge blades came together and the tractors stopped, probably to get their heads together.

Crow returned and he suggested we send what troops we might spare out to the right and left to fire on the crowded attackers from the flanks.

Ivory pontificated. "A first rule of battle is never divide your forces."

There was nothing Crow could do, but wait for the inevitable. When the two vehicles reached our ramparts, their greater numbers could rush out and we would be overwhelmed in what would amount to hand-to-hand combat. At least at the end. Or the tractors could simply plough through our flimsy ramparts.

Ivory was not a coward, but he seemed to be frozen with indecision. Minute by minute an overwhelming force was drawing near. Finally, he asked Crow's advice.

Crow shrugged. "At this point I'd say simply fight to the end. You know what we call the keep or the dojo?"

"You mean that large pit?" he asked.

"Yes," Crow smiled. "A castle keep is a tower. This keep is dug into the ground. It's large enough for everyone. We would be protected and we can fire over its rim."

"There would seem to be many hostiles out there," Ivory observed.

"Yes," Crow agreed, "and I don't think they are up for peace talks. I'm guessing they've brought in fighters from other areas. It's a shame we can't simply surrender and go home."

Lieutenant Ivory nodded. "We don't even speak their language, do we?"

"Zee does."

"She's quite a girl, isn't she?"

"Multi-talented."

Of course I was listening to every word they said. It seemed strange on a night like this. The desert sky full of stars, and certain death was inching toward us like a deadly snake. It was almost romantic. Had Crow called an air strike?

The lieutenant almost came to attention when he issued his order. "Assemble the men in the keep." He looked down at me, still partially prone on the rampart. "You too, Trooper Zee."

There was a spark of humor buried somewhere in that man.

The keep was the last post and had been carefully dug over the weeks and months. Even with every last man, there was still plenty of room.

Crow suggested that I sit cross-legged, if that was comfortable, at the rear of the hole and use my Glock in a last ditch fight. "There's no room for long guns. I'm sorry about this, Zee."

"Don't be. I wouldn't have it any other way." Oddly enough, I meant that.

In the distance, over the rumble of the construction vehicles, there was a buzz. I was certain it was an approaching air strike. At that moment the tractors hit the ramparts and a screaming mob of Muslims came from behind with shouts of death to America. All hell came tumbling into camp.

I watched as a bullet felled Ivory. He fell face down with his head near where I sat. He seemed to be breathing so I turned his head so his mouth and nose were not in the dirt.

As fierce and desperate as the fight was, it didn't last long. Our men were cut down like wheat at the harvest. The last words that Crow yelled to me were, "Sell your life dear, Zee."

I was ready. Sitting in the bottom of the pit, Glock in hand, the shooting seemed at an end, but I could hear the choppers nearby. A pair of Muslims appeared to look into the pit, possibly to loot the bodies.

Firing twice, they disappeared. The Glock packed quite a wallop and could knock a big man off his feet. Then the gunships were upon us with their lights illuminating the area and automatic fire rained from the sky.

There were three ships, and the hostiles scattered, but I doubt if many survived. I took little pride in killing men who were defending their country. I hope that's not disloyal. Because I am a loyal American.

The gunships touched down and found me scarcely scratched and the Lieutenant unconscious, but breathing. Two or three of the men may have survived for a few minutes, but soon passed on to wherever dead folks go. I'm no expert on that.

There were not enough body bags for our dead, and it took forever to load them on board. But eventually, the bodies and anything of value at the camp, records, electronic gadgets, were loaded. The generator was too heavy and was left behind.

So the three copters moved out in orderly fashion, in grim array, back to their large well-fortified base camp. We were headed home, and the rest of our troops would soon be out of the sinkhole that was this country. Why had we forgotten the Soviet failure and the futile British attempt at conquest in Kipling's days?

If one could be so mundane after such an experience, I thought of a hot shower, possibly shaving my head, and eating a hamburger with lettuce, tomato and onion, dripping with catsup. And I thought of Sergeant Crow and his last words.

One regret, I never got to know Crow. But how does one get to know anyone? A bad way is to become a lover. They continually lie to one another. It might take a lifetime to know someone, or to know oneself, then you might be fooled. Then it came to me that I did know Crow and I knew him very well. We were the best of friends.

And his last words were something he would have said to his best comrade – Sell your life dear! When I thought of that, there was a sea change in my chest and my heart was at rest.

Sometimes I exaggerate my own importance, at least in my mind. I was treated by the military as a state department survivor of a plane crash, to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Ivory had never mentioned me in e-mails to his commander. Later, I learned that Crow had mentioned me more than once in e-mails to headquarters.

Simply set free after military air rides to Frankfurt. I did a bit of shopping for a fresh kit, basked in a luxurious hotel room, drank gallons of good coffee and a few bottles of wine.

Then I booked passage to Omaha after sending my Glock ahead via FedEx, the weapon in one package, clip and ammo in another. Believe it or not, both packages arrived.

It was great to be back. Clive and Stella bubbled with sheer joy. Walt and Maude Dutcher, my old faithfuls, hugged me warmly.

Things were going well. Members of the undead societies had arrived, others had departed, but there was a net gain and the various industries were thriving. After a few days, I was at loose ends. Stella kept the books and Clive moved among the zombies, vampires, warlocks, witches, werewolves and sundry eccentrics, keeping the peace, reporting and solving problems.

While debating my future, one day a youthful female army lieutenant, Sandra Gates, arrived via Jeep with a National Guard driver.

She told me the White House was planning a ceremony to honor Lieutenant Kenneth Ivory, the hero of a little known outpost in Afghanistan that had been overrun by hostiles.

"I'm familiar with that post," I said, "officially known as 11G."

"That's correct," Sandra said. "You were a guest there. That's why I've been sent. Perhaps you have some personal knowledge of Ivory. There are no other survivors."

"Does Ivory live?"

"Yes, seems rather healthy, but in a coma. There's hope he will pull out of it. Apparently there's a bullet in his head, a delicate situation, but there's a chance it can be removed."

"We do need our heroes, don't we?"

"Yes," Sandra agreed, adding, "the genuine article is hard to come by. I've read some of the e-mails from that post before it fell. I understand they even let you fire a rifle now and then."

"That's true. I got to fire a rifle."

"Well, good. You were well treated and protected. I'll bet you're happy to be alive."

I faked a yawn and said, "I suppose."

"Well, do you have any stories about Lieutenant Ivory? Anything that might enhance the ceremony? He'll receive a Congressional Medal of Honor of course, even in his comatose state."

Trying not to laugh, I asked if they'd wheel him into the Oval office.

"Oh, no. The ceremony will be in the Rose Garden, and he'll be in the hospital, intensive care. What can you tell me about him?"

"Two things stand out," I said. "First of all, the bullet in his head – why it didn't kill him, I don't know – is of U.S. manufacture. It came from friendly fire."

"From American troops?" A puzzled look. "But you were all in that hole in the ground."

"The lieutenant was shot by one of his own men. He was and is young, unseasoned and should never have been given that command. The bullet also saved his life, what there is of it. If he hadn't been shot, the hostiles would surely have slaughtered him."

Sandra recoiled in disbelief. "You're lying. You have some reason to lie. Did he spurn you romantically?"

"Oh, for Chrissake, Sandra, don't make an ass of yourself. You came to hear the truth, I'm telling it to you. There's one more interesting angle. With a large number of the enemy in sight, advancing slowly behind armor, Sergeant Crow, the top non-com, said gunships should be summoned. Ivory stupidly refused. Crow slipped away, disobeyed orders and called in gunships.

"If they hadn't arrived at the last moment, I wouldn't be here and Ivory wouldn't be taking up a hospital bed. If there's a medal to be given, give it to Crow. Otherwise the hostiles would have picked the camp clean at their leisure."

"I don't believe a word you've said." She was pouting like a spoiled child.

I gave her a hard look and said, "Get the hell on out of here." She complied. Of course they would have their ceremony and America would have its hero. She would tell her superiors that I was a mindless nitwit.

A day or two after she was gone, I put in a call to Dewey Warren in Istanbul.

"This is Zee."

"Yeah, I have caller ID. What kept you?"

"I don't want your damned bicycle shop. I'll take the consulate, or the embassy in Ankara."

"Pick up your ticket in Omaha day after tomorrow."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

My assignment was to kill a crippled woman who occupied a hospital bed. After a hiatus, I was back on the job. My job description does not include killer, or assassin. Also, it's never too late, but I was beginning to think for myself.

Her name was Olga, incidentally, and she and I were similar in age and shared an occupation. In retrospect these two facts, plus the common gender, might have softened my heart, but at the time it didn't cross my mind. What did come to mind is that there might be a better way, a more fruitful route.

Perhaps some explanation is order. To begin, I never intended to write beyond the events related up till now. Dewey and Dusty were dead set against the previous revelations, and I mean dead. This was to be a separate book, but I decided to add it to the first one.

I had been on holiday following an unpleasant experience in Afghanistan. Retreating to the Zombie Farm for a rest, I found that Stella and Clive had that thriving business well in hand, and I was a fifth wheel.

So at Dewey's invitation I returned to my old job in Istanbul, a crossroads for international spy-types and sundry intrigue. During the first few weeks, I did the job the CIA was tasked with – gathering intelligence. Because our military was standing down, the CIA was standing up. I don't mean upstanding, but we were replacing the military in the field of international relations.

So one develops a series of informants, or sources. One gets around and chats with anyone who seems to have half a brain. A scrap of information here, a snippet there, usually fed back to Langley piecemeal, and a picture comes together and becomes part of the larger scene. This is the guts and daily bread of why the CIA was formed, and why it is lavishly funded with little or no oversight.

Then came the afore-mentioned assignment. Either on TV, or in the paper, I had learned that a woman had been run down in a pedestrian crossing and thrown onto that grassy strip that we call the tree lawn in the States. She was badly injured, but not killed.

Dewey and I took a walk and he explained the situation. We walk and talk if there is something private to be said because in Istanbul one assumes every office is bugged by someone. There are also directional microphones, so one can't be too careful even walking and talking. I am a linguist and know several languages, but so do many others.

"You may have read or heard that a woman was hit by a car, attempting to cross the street quite legally, badly crippled, but not killed," Dewey began. We were approaching the banks of the Golden Horn. It was a beautiful day, birds sang, the sun shone brightly, the water sparkled.

"I did. In a city of millions, accidents are common."

"It was no accident. The hit was intended to kill the woman, a woman named Olga. Although the KGB no longer exists, she was, or still is, an agent of its successors. She is said to be a liar, a thief, a turncoat and a disgrace to our profession."

"We have morals?" I inquired.

"Of course we do. You know that, Zee. She has betrayed her agency, sold out to Mossad, double dealt with everyone including the Saudis and us. She richly deserves execution."

"Why, might I ask, are we having this conversation?"

"Come on, Zee. Who better than you, a woman, to slip into the hospital and end her miserable life?"

"I can think of about two hundred people. Give me a day or two and I'll bring you a list."

"Very funny. The ball's in your court. You've done great things in the past and you can carry this off without a hitch."

"I do so enjoy flattery. I'm guessing Olga played the evil one for financial gain. She isn't just out for fun and games."

"True. The Russians skimp on their espionage. They expect loyalty to the state to carry them through."

"How quaint. Okay. I'm assuming Langley knows of this caper."

"What Langley doesn't know, won't hurt them. We're playing our hand in concert with the Saudis, Mossad and the Ruskies. It will mean a star in our crown to complete a job they botched."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Olga was sleeping when I entered the room. I had brought a book, a paperback by Tom Brady. The room contained one comfortable chair, so I plopped down and began where I left off, page 139, Chapter Twelve, which began, "When they got back into the car..." I had gotten to page 170 when Olga returned to the living, gradually looked around and became aware of my presence.

Her first words were, "You've come to kill me."

"You know who I am?"

"Yes, you're Zee, CIA. How did you get in here?"

Smiling, I said, "I have friends in Ankara."

"Why didn't you kill me while I was sleeping. It would have been best for both of us."

"There's something about killing crippled women that goes against the grain. I'd rather you commit suicide."

Olga actually smiled. "I am depressed, helpless, far from Moscow, in a Turkish hospital, but not that depressed."

"If you were in Moscow you would no longer be among the living. Everyone seems to want you dead. You've betrayed the Russians, sold out to Mossad, who you tricked, screwed the Saudis, toyed with the CIA. Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing important. Why would you think I would kill myself?"

"Simple. To prevent me, or someone like me, from doing it. Do you have family?"

"I do. A mother in St. Petersburg. A brother and a sister."

"There you go. It would be quite easy to kill you, but it's not my cup of tea. I'd rather you settle up things with your family. Say goodbye, perhaps pass on what money you've laid up. Then with some tranquility, do yourself in. I'm certain you can figure out a way. If not, I'll assist you up to a point. I won't be present when the deed is accomplished."

"You think I'd go for a deal like that?"

"It's the best offer you're going to get. Otherwise someone comes into your room some dark night and simply whacks you. No time for tearful goodbyes."

"What if I agree and then go back on my word. I don't have much of a track record."

"Then it becomes messy. Why not death with dignity? You've had your run on the fast track. No one lives forever."

"Can I think this over?"

"No. I have a needle. I can smother you with a pillow ala Hollywood style. I have a revolver. I could simply strangle you. Think quick."

"You'd be risking your life."

"Probably not. But I've said I don't want to kill you. So I would leave that to others with the same set of tools while you lie helpless in a hospital bed."

"Since death is inevitable, I'd rather enjoy it as much as possible. Maybe I can have a last meal."

"I'll have it catered. Start working on a menu. I'm out of here. You might know the eyes of Istanbul are upon you."

"Thanks for dropping by, Zee. And thanks for your thoughtfulness. I've heard rumors about you, but I'm thinking of you now in a different light. Thanks for this chance. I may even get religion."

Smiling, I waved goodbye and left the room. I left the book on the chair. It really wasn't that good.

The next morning I visited Dewey's workspace and placed a note on his desk asking to talk privately.

Silently, we left the consulate and turned up a near-deserted side street. "I talked with Olga."

"She lives?"

"I'll take care of it, one way or another. Killing a crippled woman is a bit heartless."

"She deserves it."

"I stopped and turned to Dewey. "Maybe we all deserve it. But I talked her into saying her goodbyes to family and friends and then doing the Dutch act."

"Suicide?"

"A quiet, blameless suicide, depressed by life's little trials. If the room is bugged that's what the listeners heard. Then, later, something better occurred to me. Wretched little deceiver that she is, she's been around for a while and knows a thing or two. I'd like to send her to the Zombie Farm and let Stella and Clive debrief her."

Dewey had to think that one over. Finally, he replied. "How might that be accomplished?"

"Fairly simple. We fake her death, sometime after midnight. The mortuary folks come to pick up the body, bag it and drive to a waiting plane. The plane lands on the grassy strip at the Zombie Farm. Stella and Clive take over."

"Just the kind of stunt the company likes," Dewey said. "Of course Langley wouldn't know until we had some useful info. If none was forthcoming, Clive and Stella could take care of the party of the first part." He paused a minute, then inquired, "Have you grown soft, Zee?"

This brought a faint smile to my face. "Soft? Hardly. She is a woman and she is a spy. I do identify with such things. But she is also a double and triple dealer, probably to line her pockets. No, I'd see the suicide thing through, but her information might be startling."

"You think she would talk?"

I chuckled at that question. "Stranded in the middle of the Sand Hills with Stella and Clive. I'm certain she's aware of their reputations. She'd sing like a parrot. There would be taped interviews over a period of weeks, maybe months. She would know that. One would have to have total recall in order to lie. She'll talk all right. Also we've reached some common chord. We like one another."

"Excellent. I'll arrange a death certificate. What's her full name?"

"Olga Katerina Smerdyakov."

"Jot that down when we get back to the consulate. How about coffee and a slice of pie?"

We found a nearby coffee shop, half deserted at this hour, and took a table near the rear wall. Turkish coffee is very strong and quite good. The pie was sweet, made with raisins and something not readily identified, but good.

Maybe it was because I had mentioned that Olga and I had become casual friends that our coffee shop conversation took an odd twist.

"I know you're not a lesbian, Zee, but are you bisexual? There's a certain something about you that puzzles me."

"Well, if I'm mysterious, that's all to the better, isn't it?"

"I suppose, in our line of work. That's all you have to say? Is there some childhood secret you're hiding? You've never told me about Afghanistan. That was some dust up."

"Yes it was. You might even believe me, but most people wouldn't. But getting back to your bisexual inquiry, and I'll speak in generalities, passing the time in a Turkish coffee shop. Men are said to have a feminine side and women a male side. We look for clues, we grasp for straws. Yet a good day is when nothing evil befalls one."

Dewey grinned. "Perhaps I can find a clue in that statement."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Consider this: Gay couples were not reviled in Israel, nor was it a badge of honor. But when gay men and women began adopting children they were embraced by their parents who desired grandchildren and also admired by outsiders because Israel needs more Jews."

"Does this have some bearing on our conversation?" Dewey asked.

"We're chatting while drinking coffee and eating pie. We might delve into fantasy and reality, masculine and feminine. You brought it up. One thing seems to be generally known, being gay is not a sickness. Cross-gender concerns can cause problems. However, drag kings and queens, transsexuals and cross-dressers are generally more accepted today. Some seek psychotherapy and some just go their way. So what if you didn't get a Barbie or an air rifle for Christmas."

"All I asked, Zee, was what's up with you?"

"Nothing. I'm simply an ordinary straight person. How about you?" I leaned forward and in a confidential tone asked for his most profound longings and secret desires.

To this he replied. "We'd better get back to work. Do you have a time frame for Olga?"

"I'll give her written instructions, then destroy them. Then she'll have the chance to bid family goodbye and transfer her cash to Mommy. If the debriefing is successful, she'll likely be given a new identity and a new beginning somewhere in the States. She's bright enough not to contact family or friends. If things don't work out, she'll have a deep, unmarked spot in the Sand Hills. Shallow graves are so passé, don't you think?"

Dewey nodded in agreement and muttered, "The end of a beautiful friendship."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Olga thing went smoothly well after midnight. The two burly henchmen had already zipped Olga into a body bag equipped with breathing holes and were loading her on a gurney when I approached the night duty nurse and handed her the death certificate.

"What's this?" the startled nursed asked abruptly, eyeing the paper. She had fallen asleep reading a romantic novel.

"Death certificate," I replied. "Olga Katerina Sonerdyakov, the woman in 308 passed away."

Wide eyed, the nurse demanded, "Why wasn't I told?"

"I'm telling you now. You're not really to blame. She committed suicide. Depressed, you know."

"Who are you and how did you find that out?" The nurse was angry and rose to her feet, still shaking off sleep.

"I'm a friend of hers. She called me and told me. She didn't want her family to know. Suicide can be considered something of a disgrace."

The nurse, an elderly, overweight woman, white hair and thick glasses, seemed partially satisfied. Then realized she was holding a death certificate. "Where did this document come from?"

"Her doctor. He visited her last evening and she explained the whole thing. He issued it in advance."

"I never heard of such a thing," the nurse said, once again angry.

I remained calm and explained. "She's dead. That's a proper death certificate. The body will be gone to the crematorium by daylight. If you object to any of this you'll simply be making trouble for yourself. I'm sure you've received death certificates in the past and know what to do with them."

"Of course I do."

"Then handle it." I walked off, down the darkened hall and joined the two ruffians already in the van and waiting to drive to the airport.

The nurse studied the document for several minutes before realizing she hadn't discharged the body, or learned the name of the strange woman who brought the news. She rose and decided to check on Room 308. Of course deaths in the hospital were routine. After all, that's why people come to hospitals. What better place to die?

After seeing the body off and paying off the henchmen, I returned to my apartment and slept 'til noon. Considering the flight time and the time zones, I waited until after the cocktail hour to call the Zombie Farm. Stella reported that Olga had arrived in good shape and was locked away in a comfortable cell prepared for the purpose, which was much like an efficiency apartment, equipped with radio, TV, small refrigerator, hotplate for making coffee plus a tape recorder. She had been encouraged to spend several days telling her life's story, leaving nothing out. One caveat, lying would bring dire consequences.

Stella's news lifted a burden from my head. Killing a person by shooting, stabbing, poison or whatever, was quick and final, but dragging out a drama such as this was something of a minor torment. If anything could go wrong it usually does. But Olga was safe under lock and key at the Zombie Farm. Stella and Clive, both company veterans, were my wise and trusted friends.

The following night, Dewey invited me to dinner, I suppose to celebrate the Olga event and hope that interesting information might be forthcoming. We dined at a Russian restaurant, both ordered Stroganoff, but ignored the vodka, opting instead for white wine.

After giving my account of the Olga caper, our talk turned to the mundane. Dewey inquired if I was a religious person.

"No."

"Then you have no religion," he added.

"Not true."

"Your answers are puzzling."

"Perhaps you would like to talk about the food or the weather. What interests you on this splendid evening?"

"I dislike prying, although it is my major occupation, but might you clue me in on your religious beliefs?"

"It's private."

"Okay, you don't want to talk about it."

"I didn't say that."

"You are enigmatic."

"Not so. It's simply that I have my own religion and because it's solely mine, it's private."

"Might you tell me about it?

I laughed at this request. "Of course not. If I did, it would be like sharing. Then it would no longer be my private religion. You might tell others and Lord knows how many might hear about it. I might even get converts."

"Is it like Scientology?"

"No. That would be ridiculous. Also, I'm not entering into any guessing game, except to diss Scientology."

"Then you are the priest and the whole shooting match."

"That's one way of looking at it."

"In Judaism, they say that every man is like a priest or a rabbi."

"You speak of men, don't you?"

Dewey shrugged. "I suppose. Women have their place, but it's in the home."

"Child rearing, floor scrubbing, that sort of thing," I countered.

"Perhaps I hit on the wrong religion. I suppose you're gender sensitive."

"No more than your average clown. Do I put you in mind of a rabbi?"

His turn to smile. We had been eating right along, aware of a few curious glasses. There were a scattering of Russians in the restaurant, some of them in the spy game, who we both knew, but would not publicly acknowledge. Dewey hefted the bottle and refilled our glasses The Pinot Grigio wasn't bad, only slightly chilled. Holding the bottle up, seeing that it was empty, he signaled the waiter for another. "What do you think of religion as a whole?"

"What sparkling dinner confab," I replied. "I think religious people are like birds."

"Birds in flight?"

"Birds of a feather, flocking together. People enjoy being part of something. The meanest pilgrim might enter a congregation of feathered friends. Most are born into the flock, some drop out through enlightenment, others switch flocks through marriage. The list goes on."

"Are you the enlightened one, Zee?"

I couldn't tell if he was mocking me so I drained half a glass of wine before replying. "I don't consider myself so. I have done hurtful things and my religion is a comfort."

"What about agnostics and atheists?"

Perhaps Dewey was slightly intoxicated. I was feeling fairly good myself as we cracked the second bottle. "They are religions unto themselves."

Dewey was cleaning up his plate. He looked up and said, "Without benefit of clergy."

"Not at all. They have leaders." I had to chuckle. "There are people out there who go out of their way to deny something that does not exist. Perhaps that's the wrong way to put it, but they make a big deal out of saying there is nothing there. Why bother?"

Although I was enjoying the evening, the dinner and the wine and Dewey's company, it was time to change the conversation. So we discussed Middle East affairs, who was doing what to whom, and why Washington couldn't seem to get it right.

Also, one fairly respected retired CIA agent had been arrested and faced prison time for e-mailing the name of a covert CIA officer to a reporter. He argued that he meant no harm and had made the revelation to give the reporter an anonymous news source. But he admitted to an indiscretion. At any rate, during the fairly wet evening, we kicked that around for a few minutes.

My religion was in fact something along the lines of meditation, often asking forgiveness for those things I considered hurtful, some real, some imagined. To me it was a calming influence, superior to alcohol, although I enjoyed alcohol as a recreational accommodation. I might have found succor in drugs, but that had never been one of my options.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Always considering myself a simple, straightforward person, my life became complicated in the immediate future. Dewey was called back to Langley on TDY (temporary duty), apparently to supervise workshops for new employees. With the downsizing and withdrawal of the military from various parts of the globe, the CIA was standing up to new challenges.

Drayton Dalton III was sent out to replace Dewey. A cold fish, his family was old foreign service and thereby hung his reputation, or lack of it. He had been with the company for two years, both of them at Langley. He was not a people person and took an imperious view of me and the other covert worker at the consulate. I did my best to ignore him.

Then one day he tracked me down and asked, "Miss Smith, what have you been up to? You haven't given me one report since I've been here."

"Please call me Zee, everyone does."

"The reports, Miss Smith, or Zee, if it pleases you."

"My reports go directly to Langley."

That produced a cold stare, then a reminder that he carried the title of station chief.

"You probably couldn't understand my reports."

"I assure you I can read and comprehend English." I thought he might hand me a copy of his CV, but he didn't. Checking his background, I had learned that much of his early education had been in boarding schools in the UK and Switzerland and that he had graduated from an Ivy League university.

"I'm a linguist, Mr. Dalton. Many of my reports are in Middle East languages. They would often lose something in the translation." This was only partially true.

This stopped him, but only momentarily. "Please keep me abreast of your activities. In fact, how do you spend your days? You're seldom at your desk doing the work required of you by the consulate."

"I have a network of assets. I often simply chat, or have coffee with these sources. In the evening I might share a beer or a glass of wine with them. Shreds of material sometimes become a pattern. The normal way to collect information, much as a journalist might do. One difference, sometimes I must make a donation."

"You pay for information?" Dalton seemed surprised.

"Of course. We spies have been doing that for years."

"Bought information. It could be unreliable."

"Probably some of it is. We have experts at Langley to make those judgments. They compare it to other bits and pieces from other sources. Typical spy work. Not unlike drudgery."

"Well, you might draw up a list of your sources and turn it over to me."

I almost shuddered to think of doing such a thing. "That's simply not in the cards. I've cultivated these sources over a period of time. They trust me. That is me, not you or anyone else. I'll not betray them."

"I'm the station chief, Miss Smith, or Zee. I'm your boss. So please do what I ask."

"I'd rather seek another line of work. You'll find I'm no different from most other spies. Check with Langley. Check with Dewey. I'll not betray my sources."

"I was sent here to get this station running in a more businesslike manner. I'm sorry we're having trouble, but you'll have to do what I ask. I'm the boss."

"Please yourself. If you're the boss, you can fire me and I'll be on my way. I won't protest."

He gave me a sharp look and said, "You're a killer, aren't you?"

"What does that mean?"

"I was told at Langley that you've actually killed people. That that's your idea of gathering information."

I must have blanched. I could feel the blood drain from my face. "You think I kill people for my own amusement?"

"Killing is old style spy work. You're a throwback."

"Oh, for Chrissake," I said. Turning, I left his company. We were at an impasse. For the next few days we avoided one another and later only talked out of necessity. He never gave me another direct order.

At that time I would occasionally date the charge d'affaires. His name was Bart Weaver and we enjoyed one another's company, occasionally sharing a bed. Bart comes from old money, but not Washington. His destination was, and still is, Wall Street.

He had done the equivalent of the grand tour during his gap year, kicking around Europe with a Eurorail pass and a backpack, briefly in Bangkok, other Asian spots including the brown rice scene in Kyoto. Then to Princeton and now serving an obligatory tour in foreign service, a high class Peace Corp. Later Daddy's money would beckon and there would be a four-million dollar condo in Manhattan. For both of us it would be "thanks for the memories."

The one thing Bart brought to the relationship was a Saudi Prince. How many Saudi princes might there be? Their name is legion. This one had been Bart's roomy in college and was now serving his embassy in Ankara. They would occasionally visit back and forth.

In Istanbul, I'd dig up a date for the Prince and we would hit the town. I'm certain the prince had a name. But Bart and I and anyone else we met up with simply called him Prince. One night the prince let slip that he had been approached by a man who claimed he was peddling weapons of mass destruction, the same WMD scare that had led us to war with Iraq some years back.

This piqued my interest and I pursued it as diplomatically as possible. With Bart's help, the prince's input and dipping into background information, the picture began to come clear.

The WMD scare usually involved some type of poison gas, and the delivery system was always the main drawback. One has to go back to World War I for the beginning, when chlorine and mustard gas were used in the trenches of Europe. One German scientist called gas warfare "the highest form of killing."

After the second World War it seemed the Germans had developed nerve gases in primarily three forms: soman, tabun and sarin. The U.S. government got hold of the formulas, and a few of the Nazi scientists, and brought them to a facility called Edgewood Arsenal, now virtually abandoned, attached to a military proving ground on the Chesapeake Bay.

It was decided to concentrate on sarin, maybe twenty-five times as deadly as cyanide. This could be made into an aerosol, not a handy way to deliver nerve gas. But then there was tabun and VX, and both could disable their victims without killing. The hope was to conquer an enemy without mass slaughter and destruction of property. Such debilitation would lead to terror and conquest.

Another use might be in the field of espionage. An agent might introduce a type of chemical quite innocently – a piece of chocolate, a contaminated fork, an aspirin – and drive a key diplomat to the brink of insanity. The Army sought incapacitating agents and also their antidote. Military men, serving as guinea pigs, exhibited fantastic symptoms, insane hallucinations, objects that would appear then vanish.

In actual combat, the chemicals would need to be sprayed, a difficult job even in test conditions. With certain chemicals, subjects began acting as if they were dreaming with no need for weapons or hostility. But how to use the chemicals? After stockpiling tons of BZ the government announced they would not be used because of numerous variables, a host of uncertainties. In addition, hundreds of servicemen were used as laboratory rats and there was no follow up on long-range consequences.

So after much ado and millions spent, the project was abandoned. Now up pops Prince to say he had been approached by a man with a plan, a plan to safely deliver a chemical that would disable, but not kill, and spare buildings and infrastructure.

Over a weekend of partying, I managed to learn that the chemical weapons salesman frequently toured the region and had in fact banked considerable money as a down payment on the ultimate weapons secret. He used the name Ed Tucker, obviously an American, but Prince did not believe that was his true name.

But Tucker, or whatever his name might be, was a convincing salesman, and the governments he visited – and he didn't discriminate – had advanced thousands of dollars to a numbered bank account somewhere in Europe. Prince thought the obvious, that it was in Switzerland, but even that was unknown.

The new twist to gas warfare that had been kicked around since World War I was that the nerve gas had been refined to cripple, but not kill, and the deployment had been brought under control to hit specific targets without injuring others, or, indeed, those attackers.

These apparently were simply hinted at – bombs dropped at low levels that would produce gas clouds that would linger and not dissipate. Armored vehicles that could do battle, popping canisters at the enemy from considerable distances while protecting the warriors. But specific plans and field trials were promised for the near future.

That any country would buy this pig-in-a-poke technology relied on two points. One: The fact that Tucker was a super-salesman who was capable of selling sand to the Arabs. Two: That every country approached was frightened of being left out and would gladly toss a few thousand dollars in the pot to stay with the crowd. It seemed a game of high stakes poker, and so far Ed Tucker was salting away thousands.

This left me in something of a quandary. I was reluctant to brief Drayton Dalton, who might have dismissed the entire story as cocktail chatter. If so, I would be thwarted. So I called Dewey on a secure line to Langley and explained the situation.

He too was not a hundred percent sure of Dalton and said he would be returning to Istanbul soon, so I could carry on my investigation with his blessing.

Hopping a local flight to Ankara, I journeyed from Europe to Asia. At the airport, I boarded a shuttle to the hotel where Prince had said Ed Tucker had stayed and held court. It was the Swissotel Ankara, not far from the Atakule Tower and Botanik Park. That hotel has many amenities, but the one I most admire is a steam room where I might sit and feel my troubles drift away through the warm fog.

Hotel showers are also one of my first loves. I luxuriated in one shortly after check-in, then wrapped in a warm, what I suppose was a Turkish towel, I popped open a beer from the fridge and watched CNN. After a nap, I explored the lobby and coffee shop, giving particular attention to the concierge, the know-all eyes and ears of his lobby kingdom.

Getting to know him (jet-black curly hair, dark flashing eyes, swarthy skin), I learned his name was Allie. Inquiring if he knew Ed Tucker, he replied, "Very well. He's a businessman from the United States and asked many questions. He is also a good tipper."

"As a businesswoman from the States," I replied. "I am also a good tipper if there is a reason."

He leaned close and said in a low, romantic tone, "Perhaps I can come to your room this evening and we can get to know one another better."

I smiled and replied, "If you come to my door this evening, or any other time, you'll be out on the street the next day seeking work."

His dark flashing eyes revealed little, but he asked, "How can I help you?"

"Where in Ankara can I find a good Reuben sandwich?"

"You have come to the capitol of Turkey seeking a strange sandwich?"

"People have come for lesser reasons."

"I am not a caterer or a chef. But I'm certain you will find many good foods in this city. Explore, enjoy yourself. I am at your service."

With that I left the hotel and strolled the streets of the city. I felt I had made a good beginning with Allie, and he would help me later on. He was just the type of unethical opportunist I could place my trust in.

Like many ancient cities, there were archaeological sites – Hittite, Phrygian, Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine according to a tourist pamphlet I picked up. I visited the Temple of Augusta, which dates from about the time of Christ, known locally as Monumetum Ancyranun, then returned to the hotel for dinner at the coffee shop, a bottle of wine in my room while watching CNN, then a wonderful night's sleep. If there is one thing I've learned, it's not to rush things.

At breakfast, I visited the omelet station and asked for the works, washing it down with at least three cups of coffee aided by a croissant. Back to the room for another shower, then to the lobby for a chat with Allie.

He was chatting up someone who had the look and manner of a lady of the night. When my turn came I asked for information about Ed Tucker.

Allie took a haughty pose and asked, "Why should I help you?"

Looking off into middle space, I replied. "For one thing, I could have you fired." Then I slid a ten Euro note across his counter and said, "That's for nothing. If you help me, the rewards will grow."

He smiled like a jackal and asked, "What would you like to know?"

"I'd enjoy knowing with what credit card he paid his hotel bill. Any details."

"That would cost you five hundred Euros."

"You know that's too much, Allie."

Continuing his devilish smile, he said, "I've been to New York. I know all about you rich Americans, touring the world, seeking excitement. If you went to the manager and told him I suggested sex, he would simply ask you for sex. You can't fire me. So, five hundred Euros and I might help you."

"Allie, you're something of a chauvinist, but we could work together, which would profit both of us over time. I suppose I'll have to have you fired."

"Foolish girl. What's a chauvinist?"

I smiled. "Even visiting New York doesn't give you perfect English. You talk well, but lack vocabulary. Call me after you're fired. You know my room number. Then I might arrange to have you rehired. How does that strike you?"

"Go away, crazy woman. I'm an important man around here."

"It's a man's world, isn't it, Allie?"

He failed to reply and I walked out of the hotel and stopped at the first shop where I could buy a throwaway cell phone. It was not too late in the States, and I got through to Dewey and told him my story. "Allie could be a valuable recruit once he wakes up and smells the coffee. What do you think?"

"I think I'll see if I can have him discharged yet today. I'll get through to the embassy and they in turn should call the hotel and offer to put the establishment on a warning list. No more trade from America, and maybe its allies, if Allie doesn't go."

"Thanks, Dewey. I'll keep you informed. Meanwhile, might you dig up any passport information on a gentleman named Ed Tucker?"

"I've already checked that out, Zee. There's more than one Ed Tucker, but none fall into anything like your man's territory. He's totally a fake persona. This makes the cheese more binding. We must find him."

Hanging up after promising to do my best, I sought out a café and spent the next two hours sipping Turkish coffee and mulling over the local news. It was always a challenge to sharpen my language skills. Use it or lose it.

The jangle of the phone jarred me awake just after midnight. Allie was on the line, his speech slightly slurred. "I've been fired."

"Have you been drinking?"

"What of it?"

"Nothing. Just curious. Do you have a question?"

"I'm very upset."

"Perhaps I can help."

"If I don't kill you first."

"Don't threaten me, Allie. If you get yourself in a hole, you should stop digging."

"Am I in a hole?"

"What do you think?"

"Perhaps."

"Let's talk tomorrow."

"It's already tomorrow."

"You're not totally intoxicated. So here's a warning. Do not mention the possibility of us working together to anyone. You should be okay by noon. I'll meet you in Botanik Park. Now, goodnight." I hung up.

He might sleep, but I was wide awake. I had been sipping on a bottle of red wine and it was only half gone. Was it half full, or half empty? I got a glass from the bathroom and filled it. The bottle was maybe three-quarters empty, but the glass was half full. I opened a sack of salted pretzels and switched on CNN.

Although I often watched local news to sharpen my language skills and keep up with events, this was not the time. Just after one, I returned to bed and fell asleep almost instantly. The bottle was totally empty.

After walking this way and that in the park, I found Allie waiting on a park bench. "Is this Tucker a lover who dumped you?" Were the first words out of his mouth, obviously still smarting for getting fired.

"I can live with you or without you, Allie. If you can't act decently, let's say goodbye now."

"What about my job?" he protested.

"What about it? There are plenty of fast food restaurants even in Ankara. With four million people to feed you can't go wrong."

"Why was I fired?" he questioned.

"Because, you've been a bad boy. I made you a straight out offer and you screwed it up. And you're still screwing it up." I hadn't sat down. Now I turned to walk away.

"Wait. We can do business."

"On your terms, I suppose."

"No, you're the boss. I'm sorry for my attitude."

"So, how does Ed Tucker pay his bills?"

"What's in it for me?"

"At the moment, nothing. For some reason you think you're the boss. I'm sure you've been overpowering women with your native charm, making conquests. But who's conquering whom? The women go on to make something of themselves, leaving you, the fool, to drift through life. I can't trust you, Allie."

"So I'm the fool," he said haughtily, standing.

"When I first saw you in the lobby, you were talking to a prostitute. You had set her up with a john staying at the hotel. You received money from the john and then clipped her for part of her take. You are a pimp, not just a pimp, but a double pimp. Is that your chosen lifestyle?"

"That's ridiculous. I'm a concierge. Of course people tip me for my expertise. A pimp is a lowlife. You slander me."

I smiled. "Do I. I'm sorry we can't do business, Allie. You could be a great help to me and my organization."

"Just what is your organization?"

"We gather information."

That stopped him for a moment, then he realized he was no longer employed and that every hotel in Ankara might well blackball him. "Can I get my job back?"

"I don't know. Are you capable of doing what I ask and keeping your mouth shut?"

"I can do that. How did you know what Vicki and I were saying? We weren't speaking English."

"Why would you think that I speak only English. You have a second language."

"I'm a man. You're a foreign woman."

"So, that ends our conversation. Goodbye, Allie." I began to walk away, knowing that he was my only current link to Ed Tucker. But I really couldn't take much more of this stupid banter.

"I need my job," he protested loudly.

I stopped and turned. "I could give you a trial period without pay. If things work out I could put you on the payroll."

"You mean a salary?" He was impressed.

"Yes, a permanent spot with my organization. It comes with pay, it also comes with consequences if you betray us. I'm not alone in this venture."

"I understand."

"How did Ed Tucker pay his hotel bill?"

"Cash. No credit card."

I nodded. "I thought so. But he likely had associates and he may have used a card outside the hotel at restaurants. See what you can find out, and I'll see about getting your job back."

"You promise?"

"I'll do my best. You do your best. You have a cell phone."

"Of course." He scribbled his number on a slip of paper, and I told him we shouldn't be seen talking with one another. Then I left to call Dewey and attempt to get Allie working, this time for us. Converts were hard to come by, but he seemed to be properly motivated.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

But the self-doubts continued. I did call Dewey and more or less enrolled Allie into the company. My inner thoughts of him were as a fairly high-grade, functioning moron, not to be totally trusted. Time would tell. His status was probationary asset.

Not usually depressed, my self-doubts remain, but I have learned two things – I exercise whenever possible, without overdoing it. I delay gratifications, which I think of as being entirely in the food category. We can narrow that down to sweets, ice cream, cake, chocolates, pie – I love an assortment of pie – and shortbread. If you're not familiar with shortbread it contains about a third sugar, a third butter and a third flour, quite a potent and delicious combo!

Self help had long been an area I had attempted to explore, but had shied away from the shelves of self-help books at Barnes and Noble and the bounty of such items on-line. As far as I could determine no one had ever pinned down "the self." The notion that it's in there someplace never dies. And folks keep trying to stick pins in it to make it show itself.

Some believe in an educated self and a primitive self. Sophistication versus raw emotions. Many believe in a sacred soul residing inside that tabernacle of clay we call the body. This might lead to a give-up procedure – simply surrender yourself to God, or Jesus, or some other deity created by your own imagination. Perhaps a six-foot-tall rabbit named Harvey.

Self-help literature depends on simply sound advice, the same good advice that has been kicked down through the eons. Good advice is one thing, but implementing that good advice is quite another. That is, we may know what to do, but do we do what we know? One might feel torn between two paths. Do we take the one less traveled by, or do we make the proper choice when we see there are not two trails, but an abundance of trails, each leading where?

I once read about a fairly prominent individual who while going around his daily activities was constantly looking for his doppelganger as a source of enjoyment. Not an exact look-alike, but some characteristic, perhaps not even male. His quote compelled me to mention him here: "You could say it about finding myself."

Some years back there was a song that piqued my imagination: "Life is a rock, but the radio rolled me." I used to think about that and wonder if there was some higher meaning. Then I concluded, naw, it's just a song.

One reason that self continues to confound us is that we can't even find it. Of course this is where we came in. But some believe we are here to help ourselves and let others fend for themselves. This flies in the face of giving oneself to Jesus and maybe an outsized rabbit.

There are Buddhists in this world, and some believe the self is simply a few thoughts floating in the clean air. They might also tell you, know yourself, forget yourself, forgive yourself.

So it boils down to a few words. Eat well, exercise, socialize with good people, talk things out, button up your overcoat when the wind blows free.

So much for self-seeking, I turned my thoughts back to seeking Ed Tucker and the attempt to find out just what he was trying to sell and to whom.

Well, Prince had definitely said that Ed had approached the Saudis. With no immediate leads, I decided to visit Riyadh, capital of Saudi Arabia, just the type of ally America likes, an absolute monarchy with totally repressive laws. The main law is based on Islamic Sharia, plus royal decree and tribal law. Beyond that judges can interpret these various laws almost any way they desire.

Punishments embrace beheading, stoning, amputation and lashing. There were 345 executions between 2007 and 2010. The last reported execution for sorcery was in June 2012. This in an oil-rich country of 16 million plus nine million expats who constitute the work force, plus maybe two million illegals.

Did I mention that homosexual acts are punishable by flogging or death? And that lashings are common for the use of alcohol, neglect of prayer or fasting obligations?

I had been to Saudi before. As a linguist I had thoroughly traveled the Middle East, placing a first-hand grip on the various languages and dialects. Saudi is always on the brink of something, but no one knows exactly what. It is the only country in the world where women are not permitted to drive.

Because of its wealth from oil, it has a remarkable welfare program. This has created a class of young people who have never worked, relying for simple services on foreigners. Then there is a dreadful fear of the oil wells running dry. Because of its peculiar culture, a majority of Saudi men marry a cousin. Strolling through a residential area one does not see porches and lawns, but walls. Everyone is partitioned off from everyone else.

But the Internet has brought about a refreshing breeze of change. Young people now know about the outer world. The specter of a type of Arab spring might be buried somewhere in the future. But any radical change will likely be enjoyed only by generations yet unborn.

It was with full knowledge of this background that I boarded a plane for Riyadh, a country where foreign women are sometimes treated as honorary men, even though they must cover their bodies. But would I be permitted to drive? Why take chances.

Once in the air, I felt that we would fly over the two holiest places in all of Islam, Mecca and Medina. It was Mecca where Muhammad was born, about 571. Although he was responsible for the Koran he never learned to read or write. Rather than write him off as a hapless illiterate, the world of Islam thinks of it as genius that such a person could produce the Koran.

With my aircraft descending to King Khaled International (RUH) I had been scanning a map of the region and thought of all the pesky problems Saudi's neighbors might introduce.

The country, which takes up the bulk of the Arabian Peninsula, is bordered by Jordan, Iraq, Kuwait, Qatar Bahrain, United Arab Emirates, Oman, Yemen, the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. Little wow!

In Saudi it seemed things had changed for the better and the worse. The good news was the king had granted women seats on the country's top advisory council. It was at least a foot in the door, but my guess was their influence would be at best slight.

This welcome decree comes at a time when women are not allowed to travel, work, study abroad, marry, get a divorce or be admitted to a public hospital without permission from a male guardian.

Then, of late, airport authorities were instructed to send text messages to the phones of male guardians, these might be husbands, fathers or brothers, with information about the movements of their wives, daughters, or sisters.

Foreigner, or not, I knew if I walked alone on the streets I would be harassed, catcalled and possibly pinched or groped. Taking one consideration with another I decided to hire a male guardian, an interpreter, and pretend I had no knowledge of the language. It was the usual tired trick, but women were so poorly thought of, who would guess my fluency.

I had booked a room via Internet at the Hotel Al Khozama on Olaya Road. For Riyadh it was cheap, only $128 a night. Also a good location, near Al Faisaliyah Tower, Kingdom Center and King Abdul Aziz Library.

Technically, alcohol is forbidden, but fruit juices and other material for its manufacture are readily available.

After shuttling to the hotel and settling into my room, I toured the lobby and had coffee at the coffee shop, then approached the concierge. He was polite and spoke perfect English. His name was Bandar, and I told him I was seeking a guardian and interpreter.

"There are many," he replied. "But I know the best. Do you have romantic intentions?"

"No." I deadpanned a look that tried to say you are an idiot. "I'm a businesswoman. Are you a pimp?"

He caught my meaning and looked confused. "Of course not. But I am here to be of service."

"Then you are not a pimp or a procurer?"

"Certainly not. Those are coarse words that are not used here in Riyadh."

"Coarse, of course. I thought you might be offering to procure male sexual companionship for me, but I suppose I'm wrong. If I desired such a thing, I suppose I might call room service."

Bandar smiled, a full set of even teeth. Saudis enjoy free dental care. "You might try that and see what happens."

"Not interested." I gave him my room number and asked him to call when he found a guardian. I would have tipped him, but the thought that Saudi is floating in oil money stayed my hand. I would tip him when he produced a guardian for poor little me. After all, he was a workingman and probably not a Saudi.

Awake, but still groggy from an afternoon nap, Bandar called and said he had found the perfect candidate. He gave me the name, Abha, and said he would have him drop by at my convenience. I suggested we meet in the lobby at seven and have dinner in the hotel, but maybe that would be too soon.

"No," he replied. "Abha is eager for work and eager to meet foreigners, particularly Americans."

"Why Americans?" I questioned.

"He spent time in England and complains about the food."

"So does everyone. But that's the price you pay. The Brits have good beer."

"I've heard. I'll call him and you can count on his being here promptly at seven."

So I was set up. Or was I set up? Time would tell. I would have liked a drink with dinner, but maybe this was my chance to cleanse my body of that nasty stuff. At six I showered and freshened up, then switched on Saudi news until almost seven to brush up on the local dialect.

When I reached the lobby, Bandar was off duty. I had hardly found a chair when a young Arab man approached and asked if I was Miss Smith.

"The same. You must be Abha."

"At your service."

"I was expecting a British accent, but you talk like an American."

"I'll tell you about that if we go someplace where we can talk."

"I thought dinner. Right here in the hotel. Expensive, but if you're paying, I'm in. I'm strapped for cash at the moment."

The restaurant was on the top floor and he was right, it was expensive. But I had a company credit card. We ordered lamb stew that was delicious and served with crusty bread.

His name sounded unusual and I asked him about it.

"I'm named after a city, the place where I was born, where my family still lives, it's in a province near the Red Sea."

"Bandar said you spent time in England."

"Yes, my family sent me to boarding school. I spent a year there as a teen. I had already studied English in Abha with an American teacher. I didn't mind the UK except for the weather and the food. And of course the English. It wasn't all bad, I had a British girlfriend. Unfortunately she became pregnant."

"Shit happens."

"I didn't quite complete the year. My family had to pay a sum, I'm not certain how much. I still don't know if she had an abortion, or if I'm a father."

"Wouldn't it be nice if we could have a bottle of wine with this good meal?"

"That's not impossible. I can tell you more about that later if we reach an agreement."

"You seem okay, Abha. I suppose it's a matter of price. What do you charge?"

"I don't know, I'm new to this." We had almost finished our stew and he looked around furtively as if we were being watched. "I need help. My parents have confiscated my passport and they've cut off my money. They want me to marry a cousin whom I've never met. Very likely she smells like a camel."

"Does the word incest mean anything to you?"

"Indeed. My parents are cousins. Both sets of grandparents are cousins. If this keeps up we're going to be a splendid family of congenital idiots. Genetically speaking, we're screwed."

"What's the answer?"

"I'd like to escape to America, the land of opportunity. I went to school there for a year in Dayton, Ohio."

"Dayton, Ohio," I repeated. "What a strange place for a Saudi family to choose. Why Dayton?"

"There's a university there. The University of Dayton. It's a Catholic school, but they take everyone. My father had a military connection and he was there once to tour a large air force base and the Air Force Museum. It's quite an attraction."

"You liked Dayton."

"Sure, good food, good social life, freedom."

"No trail of frail young ladies with child."

"The burnt child dreads the fire. But there are a lot of Africans there. That surprised me."

"You mean colored people? African Americans?"

"Yes. They're apparently native to Dayton, most of them."

"And not really black black, are they?"

"I suppose all shades of brown, but with sub-Saharan features and crinkly hair. I met some and they're very nice. They must be partly white. Is it true?"

"Certainly, they're Americans, the great melting pot. We had a famous senator, a man called Strom Thurmond who was from the South and quite a racist, yet he fathered a child with an attractive black household servant. He never questioned paternity, helped the mother and child through their life. Most people didn't know, but the maid's family knew. Thurmond was a brilliant man when young, but he outlived his brilliance. Nevertheless he passed good genes on to his offspring and they prospered."

Abha was thoughtful. "That's quite a story. Maybe one of the reasons I'd like to go to America."

"A one-way trip?"

At this point we had outstayed our welcome in the restaurant. I was probably thought of as a western hooker who had nabbed a fat cat. So I paid the bill, or do they say check over yonder, and we adjourned to the lobby.

Seated in comfortable chairs, Abha explained that he would likely have to remain abroad if he was to escape marriage to one cousin or another. It wasn't only women who have it tough in Saudi.

I told him I could help him if he could help me.

"As a guide, an interpreter?" he asked.

"Of course that, but I seek information. I'm looking for an American, a man named Ed Tucker. I represent people who might want to have dealings with him."

"Financial?"

I bit my tongue, but said, "Yes."

"Where can I find this man?"

That gave me a good laugh. "If I knew I wouldn't need your help. Let me explain what I can do for you. I have a large piece of land in the Sand Hills of Nebraska," I began, then spent the better part of a half hour explaining the Zombie Farm.

"But how could I get there?" Abha questioned. "I don't even have a passport."

"Trust me, I can do it. You wonder why I'm here, a woman in Saudiland, much like wonderland. I have certain connections that I must keep to myself." That seemed to satisfy him so I asked him to explain the current political situation in this odd kingdom by the sea.

He explained that four forces are irritants to the royalty, but that these four in a way might offset one another. The first would be Sunni Islamic activists. The second, liberal critics of the Kingdom; there are such things. The third would be the Shi'ite minority, and fourth, tribal and regional opponents. Tribes are close-knit and the chiefs are influential.

We chatted for the better part of two hours and got to know one another quite well. We agreed on price and I gave him an advance of fifty Euros, which were welcome in the kingdom. He would pick me up in midmorning and we would see the sites. Before he left he wrote down the name – Ed Tucker, the mystery man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

During the next few days the two of us toured the city, even rented a car to go into the nearby countryside. We spoke to various people, almost all of them men who were unaware that I spoke the language and who made many ribald comments about the immoral western woman. Through all of this Abha handled himself quite well and I learned to trust him.

Taking a series of normal tourist photos, including one mug shot of Abha, I forwarded them to Dewey who was still at Langley. Clearly puzzled, he called me on a secure line and asked their significance.

"Just one, the mug shot. My guide, a Saudi named Abha, he's promised to help me and I've promised to get him out of a bad situation in Saudi."

"Oh, promise me," Dewey replied. "Is he a crook?"

"No, he's from a province near the Red Sea. It seems that in this closed society many men are forced to marry their cousins. His marriage has been arranged and he wants out. His English is totally good, totally American. I want to send him to the Zombie Farm. So he needs a passport and an identity, probably from some neighboring country. Later on, he might be a good asset. He's honest."

A silence while Dewey considered the situation. Finally, "If you say so, Zee, I'll take care of it. The package will be sent in your name to the U.S. Embassy by diplomatic pouch. Make sure there are no slip ups."

"I will, Dewey. Be sure to check for any visa considerations."

"Bob's your uncle." With that quaint bit of Australian slang, he signed off.

There was very little I could do in Riyadh except place my faith in Abha. He assured me he had a network of concierges looking out for our pigeon. In the meantime we browsed through the camel markets and cheered along with the crowds at the camel races.

Abha attempted to interest me in a dairy farm that supposedly fed, watered and milked 29,000 cows each day, plus provided them with air conditioned splendor during the torrid Arabian summers. Another glimpse of wonderland. I might have agreed, but the farm was miles from the city.

We did enjoy more than one lunch at the Spazio restaurant that sits three hundred meters above the ground and overlooks all of Riyadh.

Then, late one night, Abha roused me from my slumbers to announce that Ed Tucker had come to town. The news was startling because I had all but given up, even thinking maybe there was no such person.

We met in the lobby and adjourned to an all-night coffee shop. Tucker was staying at the Hotel New Taj on Al-Ghorabi street in the Al-'Amal district, not far away.

I had kept considerable cash on hand and passed Abha an envelope to pay off his source and extract a vow of silence. We also plotted to have Tucker followed, to learn who was telephoning and most important of all, to get into his room just after he left it to collect items he had touched for fingerprints. No question, there was a real flesh and blood conniving person there somewhere, and it was not the mythical Ed Tucker.

Abha escorted me back to my hotel and we agreed to meet in the lobby early the next day, and both of us would make the trip to the New Taj. With any luck, I could get a picture of Tucker.

The following day we were in the New Taj lobby by seven thirty, each with our cell phone cameras at the ready. I ducked into the lobby coffee shop for breakfast and Abha waited until his friend came on duty at eight.

When Abha joined me he had Tucker's room number, 803. The man had checked in yesterday fairly early and never left his room, but he had been visited by at least three men, spaced at least an hour apart. Even as we spoke he was having breakfast in his room.

It struck me as one of those lightning face-to-face visits, in and out of town quickly. I hastily laid out what I thought was a bold plan that had every earmark of blowing up in our faces.

"Let's go to our room," I told Abhu, putting down money to pay for my breakfast. Fortunately, we were alone on the elevator, except for the watchful eye of a camera. I punched eight and we started up. "We'll patrol the hall separately, walking our beats back and forth, passing 803. If the breakfast dishes come out we grab them, if Tucker comes out we follow him. Simple, yes?"

Abha gave me a skeptical look. "There'll be security cameras. Everyone in Saudi watches everyone else."

"If we see them, maybe we can avoid them," I suggested.

"Did your source tell you what this guy looks like?"

"He's never seen him."

The elevator doors slid open and I told Abha, "You go first. Snail like, he moved down the hall." A young couple emerged from a nearby room and headed for the elevator. Smiling and nodding, I followed in Abha's footsteps.

The elevator gone, I slowed down, arriving at 803 where I stalled for a long moment, then resumed my walk. Abha was returning from the other direction. We nodded glumly and continued.

Turning at the end of the hall I began the return trip. As I approached 803 the door opened and a big man came bustling out, suitcase in hand. I almost bumped into him. "Sorry," I said, sidestepping.

"Pardon me, ma'm, I have a plane to catch."

"Go right ahead, Sir. I'm in no hurry."

"Will do. You a fellow American?"

"Yep, on holiday."

"No place for a single woman," he said, hustling quickly down the hall.

"I have a male guide and interpreter. This city is something else."

"It is that. You see what money can buy. In some ways it's almost eerie. Camel jockeys falling into black gold. You know that French phrase, nouveau riche."

"I've heard." If this was Tucker, I had taken an instant liking to the man. Con man, criminal or what, he seemed all right. We were joined at the elevator by Abha. I nodded in Tucker's direction to tip him off. The doors slid open and we let Tucker drag his small carry-on in then we followed.

The three of us were silent as we descended to the lobby. Tucker likely reluctant to speak of camel jocks in Abha's presence.

In the lobby, Tucker hustled toward the desk to check out and I whispered to Abha, "Get his picture." I too began shooting, I hoped surreptitiously, at the man's large backside. I then stationed myself in a seat near the door and started fumbling with my cell phone. With any luck I could catch him as he left the lobby. Abha had also taken a strategic seat as we both awaited our prey.

Tucker had paid his bill and hurried away with hardly a look this way or that. With any luck we would have some excellent shots.

We both stood and watched Tucker enter a cab that merged into city traffic and was gone. "That was close," Abha said.

"Perfect timing," I replied. "Let's go up and get those dishes."

When we reached the eighth floor, a maid's trolley had just been wheeled off a freight elevator. I asked Abha to explain to her that there was a chance of medical contamination in 803 and we had been ordered to remove the breakfast service.

He attempted to do so and failed. Like most other workers in Saudi she was a foreigner and spoke a different tongue Abha didn't understand. It was almost laughable. I became the interpreter. She and I hustled down the hall to 803 with Abha trailing behind.

We brought the breakfast trolley back to her equipment and dumped the dishes into a large black plastic bag. There weren't that many. And the two of us managed to get them out of the hotel and into a cab.

When we were settled in for the ride to my hotel, Abha finally asked, "How did you know her language?"

"I know a range of Middle East languages. I'm a linguist, my specialty."

"You tricked me," he said seriously.

"My job is to trick people. But I'm an honest trickster. Later today I'll pick up your passport and tomorrow you should be headed for Omaha, Nebraska. Did you pay off your friend?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"What are you going to do with this bag of dirty dishes, garbage and silverware?"

Something about his question tickled me and I burst out laughing. When I stopped I said, "I'll think of something. The two of us did a remarkable job this morning. Give me your cell phone and I'll give you money for the cab. Come back about five. Can you bring a bottle of wine?"

"I think I can manage. White or red?"

"White. I'll have fish for dinner."

We each had a couple of remarkably good shots of Ed Tucker. I attached the lot to an e-mail and sent them off to Dewey. Then I called the embassy and asked if there was a package for me. Sure enough there was and someone offered to send it to my hotel. Always cautious, I said I'd come get it. Grabbing a cab at the front door of the hotel, going to the embassy and returning the same way offered no exposure to the bad boys on the street.

I had the package in hand, which contained Abha's fake passport with his new identity as well as a bag of dirty breakfast utensils. Pleased with myself, I snacked on a bag of chips and took a well-earned nap. I hadn't gotten much sleep last night.

An insistent tone from my cell phone jarred me from sweet dreams. It was Dewey. He would have no use for the dirty dishes. The photos were immediately recognizable – it was Todd Langdon, senior staffer to the Senate Armed Services committee, which is chaired by Max Hadley, a well respected Democrat from South Carolina.

Frankly, I was speechless. I finally managed, "My God."

"Yes, Zee, my God. I've told no one. It's a major scandal at a time when we do not need major scandal. Hadley and Langdon are like Siamese twins, now you might say thick as thieves. I want you to handle this one."

"Me, why me? I'm no freaking diplomat. Don't you remember, I shoot people."

"You're in up to your eyeballs, Zee. Fly to Washington tomorrow. I'll personally meet you at the airport. I've already ordered your ticket. It'll be waiting at the airport."

"If you say so, boss. I have the fake passport for Abha. Why not put him on the same plane I'm on."

"I can do that. Do you anticipate trouble?"

"Not really since he's not a Saudi according to the passport. There are millions of foreign workers here, coming and going on a daily basis. They don't mean diddly shit."

"Fine. Anything else?"

"Yes, bring me a firearm, preferably a Glock."

A pregnant pause while Dewey digested that one. "Ok, Zee. I trust you to do the right thing."

I was smiling when I told him about the breakfast garbage and utensils I had tossed in a corner of my hotel room. "I'll place them out in the hall for the staff. I wonder how long it might take them to find they're from the hotel across town."

"You always surprise me, Zee. Keep the faith."

"Hanging up, I wondered just what faith I was keeping."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Abha and I enjoyed a robust going away party. He brought not one, but two bottles of wine, one white, one red. Where he found them in Saudi – don't ask, I didn't. I told him we would both be flying out the next day and gave him his mint new passport along with a non-Saudi identity.

He couldn't have been more pleased. Non Saudis were hardly glanced at, except to check for bombs or guns, and that was mostly arrivals. After a few drinks I decided to order room service.

The Saudi elite deny themselves nothing. Most everything is available. I ordered cioppini, a hearty Italian stew that contained clams, sea scallops, shrimp, mussels and crabmeat along with an assortment of other ingredients. All this with crusty bread and salad.

Abha was eyeing the second bed with thoughts of bunking in for the night. But I sent him home to pack lightly and return by nine in the morning to accompany me to the airport. As we were leaving I would over-tip Bandar, the hotel concierge who had found Abha for me. It had been a totally good setup and as little as possible had gone wrong.

I'll not go into the usual hassles and heartaches that dog the international air travel, but Dewey was waiting for me in Washington and we launched a tired but happy Abha on his way to Omaha and the Zombie Farm beyond. He had outwitted his parents and the Saudi system. During the flight he had tediously expressed his thoughts in writing to his family, and I would mail the letter in Washington. He had made no mention of the desolate Sand Hills of Nebraska and his new life.

We drove to Langley and Dewey gave me a packet of information on Langdon and Senator Hadley. Reluctantly he gave me the automatic pistol. I had felt perfectly safe in Saudi, but was a bit edgy about Washington. I did have my CIA ID, which would protect me from the now ubiquitous metal detectors.

I told Dewey that I needed at minimum a full night's rest and maybe two showers, but promised to get to work as soon as possible. He had booked me into The Liaison Capitol Hill – an easy walk to the screwed up seats of gridlocked power. It was remarkably cheap. I guessed that Washington hoteliers had overdone it.

I had biographies on both of my targets and both had extremely wholesome CVs and seemed the most honorable of men. There was more to this than met the eye and that was obvious even to slow-witted me.

Thank the fates that wine is legal and plentiful in the good old USA. With the help of a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a bag of pretzels, I slept like a sated cat for twelve full hours. Was this living, or what!

Making my way to the offices of the Armed Services committee, showing my ID when my gun tripped the bell, I asked a secretary for Todd Langdon.

"Do you have an appointment, Miss, what is your name?"

"Mary Smith and I don't have an appointment."

"I'm afraid he's tied up for the day. Perhaps I could give you a pamphlet on the responsibilities of the committee."

"I have nothing against pamphlets, but I need to see Mr. Langdon. You can tell him it involves Saudi Arabia."

"I'm sorry, Miss Smith. But he is occupied. I don't know when there'd be an opening. Will you be in town for long?"

"Long enough to talk to Mr. Langdon. I'm here on a very serious matter. Please tell him it involves Saudi Arabia."

The secretary gave me the fish eye and said, "You'll have to go, or I'll have to call security."

I eyed her evenly and said, "It would be extremely embarrassing to Mr. Langdon and to Senator Hadley if you called security. I'm here on an extremely delicate matter."

Knowing Washington scandals, I believe the secretary thought it might be something that involved sex. She rose, said she would disturb him, adding that this better be good, and left the room.

Langdon, the big, buff, cheerful, balding man I had bumped into in Riyadh, came bustling out of his office without a clue as to who I might be.

"Can I help you, Miss? My secretary says it's important."

"It is, Sir. I need to talk with you in private."

He shrugged. "No secrets here."

"I believe I rode an elevator with you, from the eighth floor down, a very few days ago."

That stopped him in his tracks. He gave me a thoroughly stunned look. "Perhaps we do need to discuss this. Come into my office." He led the way.

When he was seated behind his desk and I had taken the visitor's chair, he said, "You recognized me in Riyadh."

"Not really. I had been seeking a man named Ed Tucker. You seemed to be occupying his room. But I didn't recognize you. My associate and I, the man who was also on that elevator, snapped several pictures of you with our cell phones. I sent them away and you were immediately recognized. You're fairly famous."

He nodded and seemed to be thoughtful for several seconds, probably wondering who I was and what might be in it for me. "And what might you be up to now, Miss Smith?"

"Please call me Zee, everyone else does. Smith is so common. I'm hoping to straighten out the mess you're in without fanfare."

He did not flinch, but another long pause followed before he asked, "I'm in a mess?"

"I'm certain you're totally aware of the risks you've been taking and what exposure might do not only to you, but your committee."

"And you might stifle this exposure? What, for a price?"

I smiled. "No devious thoughts, Sir. I'm a CIA agent. So far me and my boss have kept a lid on this. As far as I know only two, maybe three people know about it. We are all patriotic Americans here. If we can end this little drama without publicity, believe me, we will."

"I'd like to see your ID."

"Oh, yes, and I'd like a steak smothered in mushrooms and a good bottle of wine."

"You refuse to show me your ID?"

"I'm not going to play your game, Todd, or Ed Tucker. You're not in control here. I'm guessing Senator Hadley is also up to his armpits in this shit. You're either going to help me straighten this out, or you're going down. What the frickin' hell do you think I was doing in Riyadh? Enjoying a girl's night out in that male-dominated hellhole?"

"Well, Zee. I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot."

"I agree and I'm sorry. But I'm the only hope you've got. Because I got wind of you from Istanbul and followed up in Saudi I've been given carte blanche to deal with the situation. You can work with me or you can go into the chasm. It's that simple. But no nonsense and no throwing your weight around. Right now you're on the water and you can either sink or swim."

Langdon smiled. "Call me Todd, Zee. You have a colorful way of talking. Where do we go from here?"

"You have to tell me the entire story. I'd like to know how close you've come to giving away Pentagon secrets, whether you've just made unfulfilled promises, and why do you need so much money."

Langdon rubbed his hand across his broad brow. "You're right, I'm on the water, or I'm on the spot. Let's have coffee, shall we?"

"Here?"

"No. Let's go for a walk. There are plenty of restaurants and shops up here on the Hill. It's totally gentrified, not like the old days."

The two of us left as friends. An amazing transition. Langdon may have been pleased he had been found out. His dangerous game was at an end. He told his secretary he would not be back today. She gave him an odd look, but said nothing.

As we entered the corridor, I said, "She's pretty. Are you banging her?"

Langdon laughed and shook his head. "You are a character, Zee. But try not to be so crude."

"I'll give it a shot."

We found an out of the way table at a nearly deserted overpriced coffee shop. Todd paid for it – I was calling him Todd now – then we had to fix our own coffee, but the selection was good. And for me it felt good just to be back in the States. Foreign service is great, but sometimes it wears one down.

After slopping a bit of coffee on a napkin, I gave it a stir and remarked, "I assume we're not under surveillance."

"You've been too long in the Middle East, Zee. Although this isn't like Charleston."

"Charleston, South Carolina?"

"That's the hometown." He paused for emphasis and said, "Our hometown, mine and Max Hadley and Edna, his wife."

"How about your wife, Todd?"

"A lovely woman, also from Charleston, but she's been dead for some time. Felled with a particularly aggressive form of cancer. Died almost immediately after it was discovered. Is it the ancient Greeks who did tragedies, or is it Russian novels and plays?"

"I think both," sensing a melancholy mood.

"Okay, here's the story, and I'll begin in high school. I was a jock and Max was a nerd. We palled around with Edna, a beautiful quick-witted young lady from quality folks in Charleston. I'll work numbers in here. There were the three of us. Both of us more or less dated Edna. Nothing serious. Those were light-hearted days."

"But high school must end," I said, hoping to contribute now and then to the conversation.

"Truly. That's when it ended for me. Both Max and I attended the Citadel, you know, the corps of cadets, military school, uniforms, shine your shoes and shine your brass and so forth. And that's when Max and Edna became engaged, making them two and me one. You see I was madly in love with Edna and am to this day."

I almost choked with this announcement. I suppose I should have choked up, quite touching for a man of his age in his position, quite a confession. And I'm fairly confident I was the first to know.

"She attended the University of South Carolina. You've probably heard of the Game Cocks, regularly trounced by Clemson." Todd smiled slightly at this, still a jock to the core. "They were married a week after graduation. I opted for a tour in the army."

"You were an officer," I tossed in.

"Oh, yes, and a gentleman, a true Southerner, a graduate of the Citadel. When I resigned my commission and returned to Charleston, Max was already a member of the state legislature. His family connections were excellent, while mine were good enough, but not exalted."

"But he had won election," I said. "By popular vote."

Todd carried his cup across the room and fixed himself another cup of coffee. When he returned he said he had switched to decaf. "Yes, popular is the operative word. A handsome man, good campaigner, can think on his feet. A political dream. He moved right along to a seat in the U.S. House and I was helping him. With nothing else to do I accompanied him to Washington as his AA."

"Administrative assistant?"

"Correct, Zee. An old senator died, Max was appointed for the interim seat, easily won reelection. I became a career staffer and he became a career politician, with me often at his side. In the meantime I had married this lovely lady, also from Charleston, who I mentioned died some years ago."

Todd stared off into middle space as if thinking of old times. I wondered where this tale was going and what it had to do with selling WMD to Middle East countries.

"So there you have initially four," he finally said, still seemingly fascinated with numbers. "That almost sets the stage. Young as he was, and he was young for the senate, Max moved along quickly and became chairman of the Armed Forces committee, often called the powerful Armed Forces committee. He then moved me to ranking staff member on that committee, in effect in total charge of that committee's activities as long as our party held power."

"But you were not elected."

"No, in the army I learned than non-coms run the military. Officers are mainly there for show. We turned out for parades and so forth. Staffers run the Congress. We do the research and write the legislation. We hold meetings and we set up hearings so our elected bosses can spread praise or blame around and look congressional. They aren't the brightest people in the world and richly deserve the low marks they get as a functioning or nonfunctioning body."

"And that has gone on for some time."

"It seems a lifetime. My wife died, we were back to three. The three of us often had dinners and other social events together. It was almost surreally like high school. And I'll tell you why. I was tuned into this couple and I sensed some undercurrent, possible problems, in their marriage. Because I am trying to be upfront and frank with you, Zee, I'll let you in on a secret, if it is a secret. Max seems to have grown attached to his new AA, a rather foppish young man, also from Charleston, named Jim."

I anticipated correctly that Todd would say we're up to four again. Then I asked him, "Is everyone in your life from Charleston?"

He laughed and said, "The important people."

I went to refill my cup. So far I had been subjected to something not unlike a soap opera, as your stomach turns type material, but I sensed the best was yet to come.

When I returned to the table he said, "Then Edna became ill. This was a low blow for me. I had actually entertained an idea that those two might divorce and that I might marry Edna. Think of that! Bathe in that golden light. Bask in the beauty of my glorious end of life story."

"It was serious?" I questioned.

"Deadly so. But not quick like my wife. No, it was cancer, but an insidious type that eats away at the substance. Hell, I'm no doctor. But locally, and we have the best advanced medical help here in the district, she would die. Well, bit by bit, my life was crumbling. I have considerable research facilities at my fingertips and I cranked them up to crusade status to find a cure for Edna. There was research being done in Switzerland that appeared promising. I gathered as much information as I could, then flew over there."

"What was Max doing at this time?"

Todd sighed. "He had given up. Edna was hospitalized, receiving every comfort possible and Max would visit her daily, generally early in the morning. I'd usually drop in late in the afternoon or early evening. We had some grand talks. She was a wonderful person, Zee. I wish you could have met her."

This sounded a bit ominous. But Todd went right on.

"The Swiss researchers agreed to take her case, but they were lacking funds. The price they quoted was astronomical, even by Washington standards. There was no way that much money could be raised with such a slim chance of success. It was then I came upon the idea of peddling so-called weapons of mass destruction to three Middle Eastern countries."

"Your act would be treasonable?"

"I didn't consider it so, Zee. You know there are people in Congress who throw money at the military. Many of them Southerners and Westerners. So the army had never really abandoned its campaign to bring gas warfare under control. What was needed was a safe gas that would temporarily incapacitate the enemy. We actually had something similar to that years ago. The delivery system was the second part of the equation."

"Such a system in the hands of a fanatic enemy could be turned against us."

Todd smiled. "Such a system does not exist. I was in possession of papers and plans for such a system, but all field tests thus far have failed. Anyway, I wanted money sent directly to a Swiss bank account that could be accessed by the scientists working to save Edna. I had tunnel vision in that direction, and I'm a fair salesperson."

"And you were out to arm the enemy to save one woman's life?"

"You might say that. But in truth, the countries I dealt with had no plans to use such weapons outside their own borders. And they were seeking a weapon that incapacitated for a short time, but did not kill. A weapon that did not destroy infrastructure."

"Inside their borders?" I questioned.

"Certainly. These despot leaders are frightened to death of their own people. They have nothing to fear from other countries. They live in fear of their constituents, if you could call them such. Peasant slaves might be more to the point."

"So," I asked, "what were you doing in Riyadh?"

"Closing up shop. Telling my clients that hopeful field tests had failed, but I'd remain in touch. Lying to them."

Sadly, I nodded. "I think I have the sordid picture. So what's your next move?"

"Edna died."

"I gathered as much."

"As soon as I can find a pistol, I'll shoot myself."

I must have frowned because he told me to cheer up. "It should solve your problem," Todd said.

"And it will solve yours. You are serious?"

"In earnest."

"I have an untraceable pistol in my waistband. You might be familiar with the Glock."

"Of course. I'm an old soldier and a Southerner. Guns are my heritage. You'll give it to me?"

"I will if you'll do two or three things for me."

"What have I got to lose?"

"Go to your apartment. Write a long note mentioning you're depressed. Don't confess anything. Make it as pleasant as possible. Do not fortify yourself with alcohol, then do the deed."

Todd thought over my words for a moment, then said, "Good advice."

"Okay, I'll grab a newspaper, go in the rest room, thoroughly rub down the piece inside and out for fingerprints, wrap it up and bring you your final birthday present. You still agree?"

"Zee, you're a wonder. I'm glad we met. And yes, I have been fooling around with that attractive secretary. Having an apartment on the Hill has lead to a series of afternoon delights. But she is a wholesome young lady with a splendid family in Falls Church. This will be an out for her as well as me."

In the rest room, I was faced with removing the clip and wiping each round individually for whoever's partial prints might show. I could picture myself seated on a toilet, dropping ammunition into the bowl. Fortunately there was a baby changing facility and I used the tray to do the work. In my heart, I knew Todd was sincere, but shooting oneself is a serious business and the tendency to vacillate is always there. But I wrapped the weapon in newspaper and delivered it to my victim. I couldn't have boarded a plane with it anyway. Simply having it made me feel whole.

Todd and I said our goodbyes, pecks on the cheek and a final warm embrace. Then we parted, he for his apartment, me for my hotel. I checked out and caught a cab to the airport, intending to catch the first plane to wherever it was going. So I ended the day in Atlanta at an airport hotel, a bottle of wine and a pepperoni and anchovy pizza, CNN on the tube.

I had already showered and was having a cup of that awful made in the room motel coffee when Dewey called.

"Where the hell are you, Zee?"

"In an airport motel in Atlanta."

"Thank God. There's been a slight event on the Hill not too far from your recent residence."

"Any survivors?"

"One casualty. DOA."

"I had quite a talk yesterday with the man with two names. It was his idea to take positive action."

"Zee, did you fly to Atlanta?"

"Of course."

"Any problem taking your weapon on board the aircraft?"

"I did anticipate one, so I handed it off to a friend on the Hill."

"Complete with fingerprints?"

"No. Rubbed down inside and out. I didn't want to hand off a dirty piece."

"We're clear, aren't we?"

"If this call isn't monitored by a super-sensitive sleuth."

"My line's secure and I believe yours is also."

"Our man with two names had gotten himself in deep shit in more ways than one, he was a mental basket case waiting to explode. Everything's settled. I really liked that guy. Speaking of heart to hearts, we had one lulu."

"Where are you off to now?"

"Maybe Istanbul. Touch bases with my good buddy Drayton Dalton the third."

"When will you be back on station?"

"Very soon. You won't have Drayton to kick around for long."

"Music to my ears. You're a strange, strange girl, but I like you Master Jack." Then the line went dead.

Maybe I haven't mentioned it before, but my code name's Master Jack, from the song that begins "It's a strange, strange world that we live in, Master Jack." These code names are filed away in Langley and used only on special occasion, but we all have one. I don't want to give away any more secrets, so I won't tell you what Dewey's is. He doesn't know I know it.

I remained in Atlanta all day and all night, never leaving the motel, showering twice during the day and taking three naps. On the web, I booked a flight to Istanbul with a layover in Paris.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

In the weeks and months ahead I concentrated on the real job assigned the CIA – gathering information. I had established a robust chain of sources in Turkey and, with Bandar's help, was building a network in Saudi. Bandar continued to work as a concierge in Riyadh and put me in touch with friends in the same trade. Birds of a feather.

But Saudi was a tough nut to crack without bartenders, nightlife and other social activities. There was little I could learn in the mosque culture, but I did manage a list of the liberals who occasionally participated in mild protests.

There came a day when I invited Dewey to have dinner with me. I had reserved a table in a secluded section of the Haci Baba on Istikal avenue, a favorite of mine.

We were halfway through the main course, and Dewey was likely wondering what I had in mind, when I dropped my bombshell. "I'm pregnant."

He was silent for some time, then asked, "How might that have come about?"

"The usual, too much to drink, unprotected sex." Pausing a moment, I then added, "It's a hell of a lot better than AIDS or some other devastating STD."

"You want me to arrange an abortion?"

"No. I want to carry the child."

This seemed to shock him, imagining me as a mother. Perhaps he saw my career going down the drain. All that glamor and excitement. It took him a few minutes to digest the thought, then he said, "You want to rear a child?"

I laughed. "Of course not, stupid. I simply do not want to take a human life." Our wine glasses were nearly empty. Being a helpless female I suggested he refill them.

"You're reluctant to kill someone?" He seemed a trifle incredulous.

"Yes, an undeserving creature. There are those who walk this earth who deserve killing, have earned it, and might do further damage."

"I'm not sure what you're driving at. You don't want to raise a child and you don't want an abortion. Maybe give it up for adoption to some deserving Russian family?"

"Something like that. At any rate, I need your help. I've studied this thing and believe I can hide the condition until the third trimester. At that time I figure there would be less than three months to go. When that time comes I'd like to be transferred to an office job in some obscure consulate where at least better than primitive medical care is available."

Dewey nodded. "Good plan. How about Lyon? Excellent food and wine. Very little out of the way international intrigue. So boring, in fact, the post is generally vacant."

Grinning like a jackal, I said, "Great choice. With the company, money's no object, huh."

"Truly, but don't bandy it around. Someone might get wise."

"Not Congress."

Dewey had to laugh. "Not in our lifetime. They're too busy backbiting and making grand statements. Everything for defense and homeland security. Not a penny for the undeserving louts who labor in the vineyards." He paused and added, "Maybe that's an exaggeration. But I also didn't know you as a pro-lifer."

"Of course I'm not. Everyone should do just what they want to do."

"That would be pro-choice?"

"I suppose. I've never thought of it in those terms. I'd rather not take a stand that I would have trouble defending. Maybe I don't want to get involved. I'd just rather not be part of the herd."

"There's one thing that shouldn't worry you."

"What's that," I asked.

"Getting pregnant again in the next few months."

Unable to come up with a snappy comeback, I simply scowled at him.

Being pregnant wasn't much of a drawback. I wasn't cursed with excessive nausea. I made the rounds of my assets including a couple of trips to Saudi, remained productive, and was able to hide my condition through loose clothing, scarves and ponchos. But the time did come for me to board a train for Lyon, the gastronomic center of France. Ooh, la la! Who said French women are never fat?

It was difficult to understand in the midst of mountains of delicious food. Just one category, croquante, would be enough to balloon the thin man. Under this guise would be croquembouche, croquet-monsieur, cromesqui, also called kromesky. But enough of that light stuff.

Beefsteak à cheval, beefsteak à l'andalouse and cold boiled beef à la parisienne are just three out of many ways to prepare that delicious meat. And the list goes on into charcuterie, chasse royale, chaud-froid and chicken chipolata – even the names seemed to add pounds to my pregnant body. The day after pigging out on a heavy meal featuring partridge a la perigueux I woke in a food induced stupor and decided to switch from feasting to exercise. Truly, many French women are not fat.

There was adequate work for me at the consulate, but my days were not jammed and my with-child status was known by all. I had settled into what we call in America a studio apartment and what the French call something else. Quite comfortable and a short walk to work.

There is a Buddhist temple in Kyoto with the nickname Temple of the Easy Birth. Pregnant women visit it to pray, or at the adjacent Shinto Shrine. Such a small shrine accompanies almost every temple in Japan. A favorite shrine is dedicated to the fox god, although the snake and other animals are also popular. But I digress.

The reason it was called the easy birth facility is because it was located in the hills overlooking the city. Walking in the hills lends the supplicants the condition needed for an easy birth. With this in mind, I asked around and found local rail transit that ran into the countryside through just such easy birth territory.

One fine morning, I dressed for hiking, placed a few essentials in a backpack in case I would be gone overnight, stuffed my Glock into my rear waistband and boarded the train.

Staring out the window well into the countryside, I waited for a small pastoral station without a farmhouse in sight, only a small unoccupied parking lot. Detraining, I strolled over the nearest hill, then over another. Woodlots, pastureland, a cow or two, a small flock of sheep, a small farmhouse in the distance.

Topping a hill and striding into a small valley, I descended the hill, turned past a thicket of shrubs and came upon a man and a woman seated on a log next to three tethered goats. Knowing I would be coming to this area, I had been studying French and knew many words, and I managed a simple greeting.

They returned the greeting, and I asked if there was a village nearby. I realized my pregnant endurance was not what I thought it might be.

The man said there was a village just across the valley and through a small wood lot. Slipping off my backpack I took a seat beside them on the log. The woman asked if I was pregnant. I told her I was and she inquired after my husband.

I managed to piece together the sentence, "to become pregnant a husband is not needed." She understood and nodded toward the man, who I guessed was either her husband, or father. He could have been either from the looks of him.

"It is good to rest," the woman said, then asked where I came from.

"I am working in Lyon. I came this far by train and then on foot. The pregnancy and the good food, I need to exercise."

The man agreed that exercise was good.

I asked if there might be an inn in the village.

Instead of answering the man removed a bottle of red wine from a basket I had not noticed before, pulled the cork and passed it to me. I drank; it tasted good, peasant wine, maybe homemade. Perhaps all French wine is homemade.

They too drank. Then the man said, "The village is small and there is no inn. Few people visit on such a country road. But the priest will give you food and shelter for the night."

"Does the priest live alone?"

It was the woman who answered. "No, not at present. There is a housekeeper, a woman some consider to be a witch. He has had a niece living with him. She helps tend the house, but she may soon be called by the church."

"You mean a convent?"

"Yes. It could be a convent, or it could be the hand of God. It might be a necessity. Perhaps she is like you, a mother to be with no husband."

"We should not speak of this," the man said.

"Well what will be will be," the woman replied. "She was the darling of the village and the priest was working to arrange a proper marriage. She was a good girl, but a sly one, slipping off to meet a handsome young man in a thicket near the stream. The priest was not fooled for long."

"What happened?" I questioned, barely able to keep up with this revealing French conversation. It was not often they met a foreign person who knew nothing of village life.

"The young man's parents sent him to live with an old uncle near the Belgian border. He resisted and there was a large fracas, but in the end he was sent away. The girl was devastated and the priest is human after all. This whole thing probably shortened his life."

"I agree with that," the man said. "It is a tragic thing. We have a good village."

"One thing we did not tell you," the woman said, "the niece is not a blood relation. She was a child, stolen by gypsies from somewhere to the south. No one knows where."

This story was beginning to tax my imagination. "Did the priest buy her from the gypsies?" I asked.

"No," the man replied. "The authorities had been after that particular gypsy caravan for the theft of a pig from a neighboring village. They found the girl who was obviously not a gypsy. Those gypsies were small of stature and with a brown complexion. So what to do with the girl?"

"At that particular time she was like a gypsy. And she would have spent her life happily as a gypsy. But the authorities took her."

"And apparently gave her to the priest," I tossed in.

"Exactly," the woman said. "And the priest raised her as his own, as if a priest would have a child. Although it has been known to happen. Under that black exterior there is a man."

The man chuckled and passed the wine bottle once again. I enjoyed the wine, but was careful not to drink too much. It would not be wise to spend the night in the open.

"The priest is not without the shadow of sin," the woman said. "He had eyes for the girl, even though his intentions might have been the best. They were under one roof and she was grateful and beholden to him."

"You're saying the child might have been fathered by the father, that is the priest." I patched the sentence together.

Both nodded solemnly in agreement. They said they had come to this place in search of stray goats and had found these three, two of them theirs, the third belonging to a neighbor.

I stood and said I would try to reach the village and find the priest.

"You will find him at the church," the man said. He pulled a large watch from his pocket, stared at it for several second then said, "The bell should toll soon. That will lead you."

Thanking them, I set off in the general direction they indicated, wondering about the priest and his niece. During the conversation they had mentioned the priest was a good man and contrite for any sins he might have committed. How they might have come across such knowledge, I did not know. But there was something lacking, they seemed to be hiding something, perhaps not hiding, but avoiding.

A few clouds studded the sky and a chill wind rose from the woodlots. I was sorry I had come so far, but to turn back would have been foolish. I had a schedule for the local trains and by the time I reached the small station they would be finished for the day. So the priest and the church were my best bets, other than burrowing into a haystack as the chill of night overtook the day.

Cresting a hill, I could see the spire of a church and heard the tolling of a bell. Was it the angelus? I had heard that word linked with the tolling of the church bell. But as I drew closer I saw what appeared to be a funeral procession, a group trailing a coffin carried by pall bearers, the black robed figure of a priest in the lead. Had the couple with the goats known of this? Were they intentionally avoiding this ritual?

Slowing my gait to avoid that final ceremony, the lowering of the box, the lumps of dirt thudding down with a hollow sound, six-feet under for all eternity, the end of a life, but what life? Pausing, I sat on a rock and waited, considerably higher than the church. The crowd dispersed and then finally the priest walked slowly out of sight around the church. Only one man remained, doubtless the gravedigger, now shoveling earth into the hole he had recently fashioned.

Resuming my journey, it took me the better part of half an hour to reach the church. What passed for the sun was touching a hill to the west. Shadows darkened this hill country. A half-timbered dwelling sat near the small church. Approaching the house, I knocked on the large front door. It was made of planks, featuring ornate iron hinges studded with decorative nails. A handsome door, very likely for the finest house in the village, the residence of the village priest.

Time passed, but finally the door was opened by a spare woman, her face weathered with age, an odd cloth hat covering her head, a large apron protecting her dress. She gave me a hard look, but didn't speak.

I managed to string together a few sentences, that I was a hiker from the train station, had come from Lyon to exercise and needed food and a place to sleep.

Stepping aside, she bade me enter. I told her that a couple with three goats had told me the priest might offer such accommodations and that I was in need of a toilet and might even enjoy washing my hands. She nodded and led me to what passed for the guest bathroom.

After I emerged, she was nowhere to be seen. I wandered the house, eventually finding her in the kitchen, a cheery place, a savory pot of stew bubbling on a large range. The smell of fresh baked bread. She told me that I would be fed and then shown to a room, that I would dine with the priest. Taking a seat in a straight-backed chair against the wall, I dropped my backpack on the floor and waited as the woman set the table for two in the kitchen.

A loaf of bread and butter on the table, cutlery, large spoons, napkins, a flagon of red wine, large bowls, salt, pepper. Finally she went to the door and shouted down the hall. The priest entered slowly, almost furtively. She explained in rapid French my presence. I could catch most of the words. He looked my way, nodded and motioned toward the chair at the table. We sat and he clasped his hands, bowed over the empty bowl and said a few words in Latin.

The woman, who had not introduced herself, brought the large metal pot of soup to the table and ladled the fragrant liquid into our bowls. She then left the room. An aura of sadness seemed to hang over the house. Of course it crossed my mind that the niece might have been buried. I did not ask.

The priest tore bread from the loaf and passed it to me. Then he filled his glass and pushed the flagon in my direction. Everything was excellent – soup, bread and wine. All it lacked was cheerful company. The priest ate hastily, rose and bowed in my direction, wished me good fortune with my journey and left the room.

When the woman returned I had finished my soup, devoured most of the bread slathered with butter and was on my third glass of wine. She said she would show me to my room. The room was Spartan – narrow bed, straight chair, dresser, a bath down the hall. I was tired and the hour was late. The meal and wine had been soothing and I was soon deep in sleep.

Waking before dawn, I spent time in the bathroom, then donned my backpack and descended the stairs. A light was coming from the rear of the house. Exploring in that direction, I found the woman already in the kitchen.

Her mood though sober, was not cheerless. She ordered me to sit at the table and offered coffee and croissants with the rich country butter. She said the day would be fine, ideal for hiking. Then she left the room.

That was the last I saw of her. When I left the house daylight was struggling with the dark. By the time I reached the crest of the first hill it was full light. I made my way back to the small station, waited for a train and returned to Lyon by early afternoon. To this day, sometimes I puzzle over that adventure. My strange encounter had pushed me up against the true texture of life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Not long after that, still a full month away from my due date, I was asked to visit the Basque country of Spain. It seems that the young daughter of a famous American film personality had been kidnapped by Basque nationalists who were demanding three million Euros in ransom.

It was explained to me that there was very little the CIA could do in such a case, but since Lido Bello is a famous American, married to a wealthy Wall Street type, we must show the flag.

"I know it's nearing your time, Zee," Dewey said, "but the job is simply to hold hands with the family, offer comfort, let us know if we can offer any assistance, simply be a nice person and assure them our resources are at their disposal."

It seemed okay by me. "What's the status?"

"Three million in cash is not chump money. It's being collected and bagged. You will likely be there before the payoff if you get going now. I mean within the hour."

"No problem for me. Do I fly my broomstick to Bilbao?"

"There's a small plane waiting at the airport even as we speak. Bilbao's a fair sized city with a large metro area, hard by the Bay of Biscay. You'll be there by dark, a car waiting at the airport for your royal highness."

"Sounds like a sweet deal. Spanish food, flamenco dancers, Spanish wine, boots of Spanish leather."

"Don't throw that word Spanish around, Zee. You're entering the heart of the Basque autonomous region. They eat, sleep and survive on Basque culture. The Basque bad boys have killed hundreds, but a cease-fire has been in place. This event may cast a pall over that uneasy peace. Watch your step."

"Okay, I'm off."

As advertised, I was flown to Bilbao and delivered to the Melia Bilbao, a hotel on Lehendakari Leizaola where, mentioning my name at the desk, I was given a room key and offered a bellhop to drag my small bag. I refused. The key was of course an electronic card.

The room was great, luxurious. I had asked for the room number of Lido Bello, and was told that it was confidential, but the hotel operator would put me through to her apartments. The woman at the desk said apartments. Odd.

My first task was to talk to that woman, so I called immediately. A man answered and refused at first to put Lido on the line. I insisted and said I had flown in from the U.S. consulate in Lyon. Lido herself gave me her apartment number, one floor above my room and invited me up.

A policeman was stationed outside her door, and the door was opened by a security guard, but Lido herself stood just behind him. She looked exactly like all the pictures and promotions I had seen of her, slim, curvaceous, perfectly made-up.

Offering her hand, we shook. Then she looked me up and down and exclaimed, "You're pregnant!"

"The miracle of childbirth," I replied. "Happens every day."

A slight smile. "I know. That's where my baby came from. And now she's been taken from me. Why exactly did they send a pregnant woman to help me?"

"Pregnancy is not the issue. I was available. I'm more of a liaison. I can be in touch with any agency of the U.S. government that might be of service. So, I am here and I am at your service."

"So I'm expected to be the problem solver and let you know my needs?"

Shrugging, I replied. "That would be nice, but we can talk this thing through and I might be able to help."

She looked at me suspiciously. "Are you a secretary at the consulate?"

Smiling, I said, "My official designation is file clerk, but in truth I'm an agent of the CIA. I'm not covert, but I'd rather nor spread that around if you don't mind."

She looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. We were standing well apart from four other people in the room, three men and one woman. "I'll keep your secret, file clerk Zee."

"Maybe we can have a drink, or sandwich, or something, and you can tell me your story."

"I've had dinner, but a glass of wine, cheese and crackers are available. Did you eat on the plane?"

"No. It was just a flimsy private plane. Me and a couple of fly boys. I could eat something, like a pizza or a ham sandwich. I am trying to watch my weight."

"And no alcohol?"

"I'm not really into this pregnancy thing. It's unplanned, but I will have the baby and hand it off to friends. That's my story. And no, or yes, whatever, I do imbibe. If I give birth to a small alcoholic, there are twelve step programs to take of that."

Lido almost laughed. "But first the toddler must admit that he or she has a problem."

"Exactly."

Lido introduced me all around. Her husband was not present; the woman was her personal girl Friday. She then led me into a sitting room where she called room service and ordered food, snacks and wine.

"The shock of the kidnapping has worn off," she conceded. "We are now in the phase of collecting three million Euros in cash. Not a simple matter. Of course I'm worth far more than that, and I'd pay more to get Sandu back. Of course I'm haunted by the thought that we make the payoff, and they still kill my daughter."

Nodding in agreement, I said, "Maybe I can help in that area. I'll get as much kidnap information as I can from the FBI."

"That might help," she agreed.

"Let's start at the beginning. Why did you come to Bilbao?"

"Why does anyone come? For the Guggenheim, specifically for the Fernando Botero exhibition. It was my husband's idea. He used to collect art for his offices. Maybe you've heard of him, Whit Rocher, a Wall Street type."

"I have. Only because his name has been linked with yours. I understand he's not the father of the child."

"No. That would be Chet Banks, who you very likely have heard of."

"Oh, yes. Action movie hero, philanthropist, out to save the world from almost everything."

"Ain't it the truth," Lido agreed. "When we were married he was a good actor, but also a rather wild playboy. Not that I was a tame beast. We had our ups and downs, tumultuous one might say, and finally split. No one's fault but ours. He's somewhere in darkest Africa saving natives from something; no one has heard of but him, and maybe a close confidant. I haven't been able to reach him."

"I can give that a try."

"There you go. You may be just the ticket, Zee. At least you're an intelligent human being I can talk with."

"You do have a husband."

"Ho hum. We share a bed, but his head is crammed with stocks, bonds and little else."

"I've seen his picture. He's a handsome man."

"Telling a book by its cover can be challenging. We have a marriage and it's peaceful. What does one expect from life? If you can tell me that, Zee, I'll give you three million."

Room service pushed a trolley into the room accompanied by a security guard who watched while the polished domes were removed. Lido told the guard to have her girl tip the man. Then we settled down on a love seat, the trolley within reach. Crackers and Brie for her, a ham sandwich for me. Lots of mustard, kosher pickles, lettuce and tomato, a slice of onion.

Lido poured us each red wine. Taking a good grip on the thick sandwich, I said, "This is what I want out of life. Live for the moment."

"Amen," she mumbled, her mouth choked with cracker and cheese.

During our discussion, I learned quite a few things. One, her husband was at the Guggenheim, which was within easy walking distance of the hotel. Botero, currently exhibited, a native of Colombia, given to colorful paintings of overweight people. There was some sort of cocktail party there this very night, and the couple decided they might as well go on with what lives that could salvage. Of course Lido would remain in seclusion.

The thought was that Basque separatists had done the kidnapping. The six-year-old Sandu had wandered away while the couple was touring the Guggenheim, never to be seen since. There had been a phone call and even a note with the child's handprint.

The puzzling question was what group might be involved and was it simply for money? The Basques had already been given fairly liberal autonomy. Basque country was not considered part of Spain by the Basques. And there was still a desire for full independence.

The strife had been going on for many years. At first, purity of blood and the supremacy of the Basque race over the Spanish was stressed. More recently, as the blood was mingled, language and customs were featured. Basque country extends into France where the desire for independence is far less substantial.

A major independence group, the ETA, declared a ceasefire after two of its major leaders were captured – Garikoitz Aspiazu Rubina and Ibon Gogeascoechea. The kidnapping embarrassed the authorities, but nothing had been asked of the government, only money from Lido Bello, known to be quite wealthy. That no concessions were asked from Basque authorities or Spain might be seen as puzzling. Although money talks.

I was off on a good footing with Lido; she seemed to put her trust in me and count on me to discover things that might remain a mystery. Her girl Friday was simply that, a guileless former beautician who was adept at running errands and giving makeup and style advice.

After our meeting I returned to my room, called Dewey on my cell and gave him a list of items he might look into, including getting help from FBI kidnap experts. After that a long, lavish hot shower and a goodnight glass of wine. It had been a lengthy day and I slept like a python that had eaten a pig.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The money had been gathered, quite a bulky lot. They brought it from the bank just before lunch on the third day after my arrival. It was in three canvas bags, and there was an extra guard assigned exclusively to the cash.

The husband Whit Rocher was there. I had already made his acquaintance. He seemed nice enough, handsome, just under six feet, maybe 190, full head of sandy hair, greenish eyes, nice smile, good teeth, fairly quiet, unlike Lido who didn't ration her vocalized thoughts.

The three of us together opened the bags and pawed through the Euros. It reminded me of something I had heard once, a young woman had saved up a few hundred dollars, withdrew it from the bank in fives, tens and twenties, dumped it on her bed and rolled around in it. So we waited for a phone call.

The three of us had lunch together in the apartment living room. Spinach with poached eggs and the Basque equivalent of corn bread. Plenty of strong coffee. The conversation involved the Guggenheim, and Whit mentioned a Flemish painter, Jan van Eyck who seriously influenced Fernando Botero. I could have cared less, but the food was good.

When I was young caffeine bothered me, but I grew out of it. After lunch I returned to my room and fell asleep almost instantly for an afternoon nap. The hotel phone woke me prematurely. It was Lido. There had been a phone call. The caller had asked that the pregnant woman deliver the ransom.

After asking the source of the call, she said it came from a throwaway cell phone and the caller was too abrupt to get a location. There were instructions however. They could be found under a flowerpot outside the hotel. A guard had been sent to fetch them.

The instructions called for me to drive along a lonely road. There was little cover in this particular area, and one could see for miles. I was then to pull off onto a small, even less maintained road on the right, where I would spot a red marker fastened to a bush.

Lido read the instructions aloud, I read the instructions, Whit read the instructions, then passed them to a local police detective. They sounded quite simple according to the detective. The stress point was that I was to come alone.

Lido and Whit seemed to agree. I said absolutely not.

"You're afraid," Lido said. "I can understand that."

"I'm not afraid. This is a kidnapping, a large amount of money for a little girl's life. There's no mention of the child. We must ask for clarification."

"How would we do that?" Whit questioned.

"I suppose on TV. Everyone knows about this. Lido goes on, says the money's arrived. The switch can be made. Where do we pay and pick up the child?"

"Very true," the police detective said. Turning to Lido, he said, "You can be on the evening news."

So it was agreed. Whit suggested we train a camera on that flowerpot in case the new instructions were placed there. The cop liked that idea.

It was quickly arranged. She taped a spot that would air both on the evening and late night news. A pair of local radio stations was also informed. It was a novel twist that I was to be the courier, so the media would have no interest in dogging my trail. That was almost a genius touch by whoever was behind this operation.

I had trouble sleeping, got up at midnight for a glass of wine. There was a feeling of déjà vu. Thoughts coursed through my brain that I had seen a film similar to this. But maybe not.

The call came just after breakfast. The three of us, Lido, Whit and I had just finished scrambled eggs, lox and bagels. This time the note was rolled, stuffed into an empty wine bottle and dropped in a dumpster behind the hotel. So much for the flowerpot cam scam.

The instructions were the same. Because there was no cover in the vicinity of the drop, it would be next to impossible to hide someone near the scene. Anyway, Lido's only consideration was to get the child back. She cared nothing about the Euros.

When the money was paid, I would be given the key to a motel room along with the address of the motel. The child would be tied up humanely in a closet in that room.

"My God," Lido said. "I hope Sandu isn't already bound and gagged and in that closet. How horrible that would be."

I tended to agree. I also wondered why the child had been named Sandu, but wasn't about to ask. I was to leave the hotel at 9 a.m., armed with the proper map and briefed by the police on just where the road was and how best to get there. The instructions would be followed to the letter.

The bags of money were placed in the trunk of a VW Jetta. I liked the car; it was peppy and responded well to the wheel. I loved to drive, but tended to go too fast. The last thing I wanted was a speeding ticket on this day. A foreigner, driving someone else's car. Wow. Suspicion.

The road I sought was quite some distance from the populated area. It was like a wasteland out there, worthless land, even unsuitable for grazing. Maybe a goat could live on it. I spotted the red marker and turned off one bad road to a smaller bad road. I had gone not even half a mile when a masked man jumped out from behind a bush and signaled for me to stop.

He shouted in English for me to remain in the car and give him the money. I was happy with English. The Basque dialect and I didn't agree. I told him I must get out to open the trunk, then emerged slowly.

Standing by the car, I asked, "Where is the child?"

"I'm here to pick up the money. I know nothing of a child."

"You kidnapped a child. That's what the money is for. It's an exchange, the money for the child."

"I know nothing about that. Open the trunk and you won't be harmed."

The man wore a half mask, something along the lines of the lone ranger. He had dark hair, was swarthy and had a Spanish accent. I was certain he was not Basque. Once more I demanded the child's whereabouts.

"I am unarmed," the man said, "but my friend is not." He motioned a few yards away, almost behind a thorny shrub, where I could see a car was parked.

What do you know, another masked man, a long gun dangling from his right hand, the barrel pointing toward the ground. I knew in an instant that I must kill this man. When I looked at him, he waved and smiled.

Smiling back, I waved. What if he knew he had less than a minute to live?

"So, open the trunk and give me the money, or he will shoot you. We will take both your car and the money and leave you dead in this desolate place."

"Frankly, what you propose frightens me. I'll click the trunk open and you can have the money." Positioning the clicker in my left hand, I pressed and heard the trunk door react. The man moved to the trunk and began to open it.

I drew the Glock from my back waistband and took careful aim at the man a few yards away. Startled, he made his move too late and I gunned him down with a pair of holes in his chest. He dropped like a sack to the hard ground.

At the crack of the pistol, the man at the trunk whirled to face me, his face a blend of fear and hatred. By this time he was firmly in my sights. "Move and you're a dead man," I cautioned.

"You bitch," he sputtered. "You murdering bitch."

"Keep that up and I might lose control. Now climb in the trunk."

He tried to calm down and shook his head as if to remove the cobwebs. "If I get in that trunk, you'll kill me. I'll be at your mercy and you clearly have none."

"I have a contrary view. If you don't get in that trunk, I'll kill you. Then both of you will be lying along this road dead, while I drive off into the sunset, richer by three million Euros."

""You'd steal our money?" he cried.

"Your money? Is there honor among thieves?"

"We worked for that money."

"Was there ever any intention of returning the child?"

"How should I know. I'm not the boss."

"Who is the boss?"

"I won't say." He eyed my weapon and thought of his dead companion and amended his statement, "I can't say."

"Is the girl still alive?"

"I don't know."

"Get in the trunk now or you're a dead man."

He climbed into the trunk, curled up around the money, a rather tight squeeze, and I slammed down the door."

The area was fairly isolated, a few small dirt roads that seemed to have little use. Perhaps a drought had wiped out farming. After maybe half an hour I found a deserted farmhouse and pulled up behind an outbuilding.

Clicking open the trunk, I ordered my man out. He climbed out stiffly, complaining that he was near suffocation. I ordered him to sit down, his back to the rotting building.

"First of all, I want your name and the name of your dead companion and your home town."

He sneered and replied, "I'll save those for the police."

Rather than reply I fired a shot that tore his trousers at the crotch.

"You're a crazy woman," he shouted. "And you're going to be a mother. Have you no decency?"

Taking careful aim, he realized I was about to fire a second shot. "I'll talk. Why not. You might kill me right here. I'm José María Gomez and the dead man is, or was, Pedro Azkuna."

"Okay. Throw me your wallet. If you've lied to me, there will be a penalty."

He struggled to remove his wallet, tossed it my way and protested that he told the truth. Sure enough, he was who he said he was, and a citizen of Madrid. "That clears that up," I said. "You are not Basque separatists. You're Spanish criminals. So how did you come to be in Basque country?"

"Three of us were recruited. The third man is our boss. I might as well tell you. His name is Evaristo Navarre."

"He planned this kidnapping?"

"Oh, no. He was recruited by someone else. I don't know who. There was also a woman to take care of the girl. We were kept in the dark. Are you going to kill me?"

Shrugging, I replied, "Not if you're honest with me. If I did kill you, who would know?"

"No one. I'd die in this desolate place and no one would know or care. I have a wife and family in Madrid. I may be a career criminal, but I have feelings."

"I know you do, José. If I don't kill you, I'll probably have to turn you over to the police, but I'll put in a good word for you if you're honest with me."

"Why not simply let me go? I won't bother you. You could give me a few Euros. We could be partners."

I laughed. "Partners in crime. I'm really not going to steal the money. Obviously, I was trusted to do this job. But letting you fly free isn't out of the question if you could finger the big boss man. I'd like to wrap this thing up and go someplace and have a baby."

José finally smiled. "If you would let me go I might be able to find out for you."

"Right, and maybe fish will fly and you and I will become flamenco dancers. Search your memory, you may have heard something."

"Your best bet is to let me go. What is your name? We could be friends."

"You are a perfect charmer, José. And if you keep this up, I might let you go. One bullet through that thick brain of yours and you will be released from the hardships and trials of this life, your spirit floating free in the wind. Your body to remain rotting where it now sits. Perhaps wild beasts will come and devour your mortal bones."

"You paint a pretty picture. Perhaps you should live the life of a poet instead of a hardhearted killer. You, a mother to be. I pray you consider my mother and what the loss of a son would mean to her."

"I don't have time for any more shit, José. Think hard. If you can come up with any clue as to who might have planned this heinous crime, things might go better for you."

It would take some effort for José to rise from his position and attack me, but I kept the gun on him while I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and punched in Dewey's number. Oddly enough, remote as we were from town, the call went through and Dewey answered on the third ring.

After a few minutes of explanation I gave him the names of the three felons from Madrid, two of them still alive, and asked him to do background checks.

"Someone has planned this thing so that he will be above the fray. I've tapped the bottom layer here. This Navarre is the boss of the two men sent to get the money. He in turn was hired by someone and that someone seems to have been hired by the top man. I'll let you try to figure it out, but I'm getting a sneaking suspicion. I saw a movie like this once."

"Don't shoot José, Zee. Turn him over to the police and let them sweat him. They'll enjoy getting their hands on a Spanish criminal. There is some hostility between the two groups."

"I'm becoming increasingly aware of that. And thanks for your good work so far, Dewey. We're headed back to town."

Pocketing the phone, I ordered José up off the ground and back in the trunk. Reluctantly he obeyed, muttering that I might smother him.

We were back at the hotel within the hour. I called the room from the car, talked to the police detective, told him what had happened and asked guards to come for the money and the prisoner.

"When I got to the room I was barraged with questions from all quarters. The bags of Euros were also back in the room along with guards.

"The men they sent knew nothing about the child, not even where she is being held. There was no reason to give up the money."

"They might have killed you," Whit said.

"I weaseled out of it," I replied, intentionally being obscure.

"But the detective said there was a prisoner," he added.

"I lured him into the trunk," I responded, then sought to change the subject. "I must go to my room and freshen up." Lido had fired a few questions at me, but now stood mute. As I left the room, I took her hand and whispered, "Walk with me."

She followed along and I steered her to my room. Once inside, she sat in the chair and I sat on the bed. "There's something badly wrong here," I began, "your husband's broke."

"Broke," she said. "You mean no money."

"Exactly. Bad investments. Really bad investments. I believe his family had money and he frittered it all away. The last of the big time spenders."

She was pensive and then blurted out, "He's not my husband."

This puzzled me. "How can that be?"

"Quite easy. After Chet and I broke up, I really didn't want to remarry. The thought that Chet and I might get back together was always there, I think for both of us. But then he was linked to the female lead in one of his action movies, so I began dating Whit. He wanted to marry, but I resisted. We took a trip to Mexico, returned, said we had married down yonder. Not true, but convenient. I was thinking of Sandu, that her mother should be married."

"My God," I almost exclaimed, "that rounds out the equation. If you were married, Whit could simply have had you killed and taken over your fortune. That option gone, he decides to kidnap your daughter."

"Oh, please, Zee. That's outlandish."

"Not so much. Whit and I may have seen the same film. It plays out like that and there is a final act."

"You mean they kill Sandu?"

"I hope not. You must make a pitch on TV, but keep it quiet until Whit and the world knows. I think it might flush all the characters out into the open."

"I'm desperate, Zee. You've saved our bacon so far. If you had given up the money they probably would have killed my little girl. How did you pull that off?"

"I'm armed and dangerous, Lido. I gunned down one of the kidnapers and captured the other. They didn't expect that from a pregnant woman. Nor did Whit. You heard the questions he was asking."

"You could be right. Give me the spiel and I'll read it."

"Right or wrong, this should shake up the kidnapers to the degree that they may just release the girl and get the hell on out of town." I sat down and penned the message on hotel stationary.

Lido read it over twice, then looked up at me and said, "Holy Christ."

We returned to Lido Bello's apartment and she asked the police detective to invite every TV and radio station in the area. She would read a statement in one hour.

Whit Rocher asked what she might say.

"Of course it's an appeal to have Sandu released, Whit. A mother's appeal."

"That's fine Lido, but you might also put in that a guarantee of Sandu's release is to be given when the money is dropped the next time. That might do it."

"But they might simply lie."

"It's a business deal," Whit said. "I know about business. They have your property. You're buying it back. Simple."

"I'll consider it. But let me make my appeal. I need a drink. Just a glass of wine to give me strength."

"Of course, Lido darling."

With that, three bottles of red wine already in the room were opened and we all had a drink. Lido asked her secretary to order more along with snacks for the news media. Then we waited, but the hour soon passed and the microphones and cameras stood like soldiers ready for battle.

Lido stepped center stage and unfolded the note I had written.

"This is an open letter to the group that has taken my child. We made an unsuccessful attempt to pass the ransom money to the kidnappers early today. We learned that no provision had been made for the release of my six-year-old daughter. We can only assume that she might be or is about to be murdered."

Lido paused, looked up at the camera, seemed to choke, then continued. "I've put up with quite enough from these fiends, who incidentally are not Basque freedom fighters, but common criminals. The three million Euros I have under guard in this room (hand gesture toward the bags of money) will now be used as a reward for whoever tracks down and brings to justice the person who planned this hideous crime. I am placing that price upon his or her head.

"You may be a gang member, you may be anyone who has knowledge of these individuals, the money will be yours. Of course I'm still hoping and praying that my daughter will be freed. If she is not, I will not rest until every member of the group responsible is hunted down and eliminated. If you doubt my resolve, you might know that one member of the pick-up team was shot and killed this morning in an armed shoot-out. Thank you."

I was paying particular attention to Whit who seemed to have paled and to be in a state of shock. He glanced around furtively, then poured himself more wine and sank into a chair.

The print press dashed from the room to file their stories. The electronic media peppered Lido with questions, then retired to drink wine and pick over the snacks.

Lido pulled a chair next to Whit and asked, "What did you think of it?"

He managed one word, "Awesome."

Retiring to my room, I called Dewey. "I'm surprised I haven't been questioned yet about that shooting, but the Bilbao police are bound to come after me tomorrow. I want that plane here in the morning and I want to buzz out of here. I've done all the damage I can do. I think we've wrapped this thing up."

Dewey asked what had happened, and I told him about the statement I had written out for Lido to read to the assembled press. "Every criminal and lawman in this part of the country will be scrambling to find the kidnappers. It's like a declaration of high stakes war."

"You'll have your airplane," Dewey assured. "Get a good night's sleep. A car will pick you up at say seven thirty in the morning."

And so I was supposed to sleep. I had done enough. I simply called room service for dinner. Dined with a bottle of wine I had thoughtfully brought from Lido's apartment, took a long steamy shower, killed the bottle and sacked out.

Up by five thirty in the a.m., I showered again, a favorite pastime when I'm trying to figure things out, or maybe a favorite diversion. After packing my small suitcase I dragged it to Lido's apartment, was let in by a guard holding a revolver and found Lido drinking a cup of coffee.

She looked up and said, "It's over."

I sank into a chair. She poured me a cup of coffee. Then she talked.

"I woke up about five to find Whit gone. I came out here and the guard (she motioned to the man sitting near the bags) told me he came out fully dressed with a suitcase much like yours and said he needed to get money to give to an informant. He then proceeded to fill the suitcase with Euros." She looked over at the guard and asked how much.

He shrugged and said, "At least a hundred thousand." The other guard said he thought it was more like half a million.

"Then he left," Lido continued. "We put our heads together and decided it would be risky to take such a suitcase on an airline flight. I rented a car when we arrived at the airport, although we had little use for it. But we're guessing he took it and is hotfooting toward the frontier."

"Are you going to try to stop him?" I asked.

"I was, but I changed my mind. Just about that time I got a call from a police detective at a local hospital. Sandu was dropped off at an emergency room after midnight. My girl's gone to get her."

"My God, that's wonderful news," I exclaimed.

"Like manna from heaven," Lido said with a broad smile.

"And Whit?"

"Whatever he took. It's worth it to get rid of him. The rest is yours. You cracked this thing, Zee. A poor pregnant woman threw a band of professional criminals into disarray. The money's yours."

"I couldn't take that money. There must be some law."

"Not that I know of. You brought my little girl back and got rid of that leach Whit."

It took me a few seconds to make a decision. "I'll take what I can carry, just as Whit did." I opened my carry-on and dumped the contents in a corner, then stacked bundles of Euros until the bag was full. When I had zipped it up, I turned to Lido and said I had a car and a plane waiting for me. I idn't want to have a chat with the cops about that shooting. Lido rose and we embraced.

"If you spend those Euros," she said, sniffling with what I suspect was joy, "call me. I'll send a few more."

I laughed and said "I'd better do it before Sandu becomes an obnoxious teen. Then you might pay me to get rid of her."

By nightfall I was back in Lyon, wondering how to dispose of a bag full of Euros.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The trip to Spain and Basque country sparked up my life, but also must have hurried the child along, who was probably anxious to leave my body for safer sanctuaries. There must be some type of thought process in the womb, perhaps meditation. There are things under the sun and in the depths of the sea that would amaze and bedazzle us, also a lot of disgusting stuff, best left alone.

Not two weeks after my return the expected labor pains began. Timing them for a short time, I caught a cab for the hospital after phoning my doctor. She arrived at the hospital just after I did and told me the usual – everything is fine, relax.

The baby did its coming out number in the early hours of the following day. I waited until after breakfast to call Dewey and tell him the event had occurred without serious incident and the young one had been whisked away to a nursery.

"You're okay, Zee?"

"It's over. Apparently a safe delivery. I feel good. They assure me the child's all there and in good health."

"Congrats, Mom. A boy or a girl?"

"Frankly, I'm not certain. I think they said a girl, but I was groggy. The entire thing was painless because I was out of it. A little soreness now, but nothing serious. What I'm calling about, I need someone to take care of the child for maybe two months. At that time it can be shipped off to Stella at the Zombie Farm."

Dewey was enjoying the conversation. "Will you use FedEx?"

"That's your problem, not my problem. I've done my bit."

"You didn't enjoy the agony of birth? An essential part of motherhood."

"Please, Dewey."

"The baby has to be named," he reminded.

"That really didn't cross my mind. If it's a girl, name it Stella Smith. If a boy, how about Dewey?"

"Do you want to involve the father?"

I laughed. "Of course not. He's had his fun. Just make the arrangements and I'll get back to Istanbul. I'll be out of here in two days."

"They'll release you?"

"I will walk out of here in two days. You can take that to the bank."

Dewey hesitated, then asked, "Will you fondle the infant?"

"Have you ever seen new infants, Dewey? They might look like Winston Churchill or they may resemble monkeys, or whatever. But there's a nauseating sameness. The bonding thing is for maybe Stella and Clive. You take care of the details and I'll see you shortly."

In world travel, you may come upon a city you've never heard of in a country you believe is attempting to emerge from the stone age, and find mighty skyscrapers, fine hotels, rapid transit systems, high-line eateries plus organized crime. Of course Istanbul has long been a modern city, long before early settlers cheated the Indians out of little old New York.

Needing to rehabilitate, tone my body and eliminate stretch marks, I hit the gym at a nearby hotel and took lengthy walks along the Golden Horn, watched my diet and even trekked into Asia on occasion.

Feeling almost euphoric, Dewey brought me down to earth with an assignment that wasn't to my taste. I was to be paired with a Navy Seal to rescue two members of Congress who had been kidnapped wile junketing in Jordan.

It was working with the former seal that was unappealing. As usual, I believed, the macho man would be in charge, or enter the relationship with that thought. His name was Warren Miguel, a 5-10, 210 pound, muscular Latino with the usual black hair and black button eyes.

Warren was already in Dewey's office when I was called in. Introductions were made and Dewey explained the task. "We're talking about Senator Kirby Book, who has been mentioned as a presidential candidate, and Congresswoman Millie Heart, a veteran legislator from New Hampshire."

Dewey referred to a paper, then said, "They apparently strayed from a larger group in a small Jordanian town, were seized at gunpoint, hustled into a van and whisked away. There were two or three witnesses."

"Just the two of them," I said.

Dewey shook his head no. "Sadly, a security man had followed them, a large black man named Pete Blanch. He was marched up a nearby alley at gunpoint and knocked on the head." Dewey looked up from the paper, then said, "He survived."

"They mean business," Warren said.

"They mean business," Dewey repeated, then told us the FBI had sent agents to Jordan to work on the case, he didn't know how many, and the Secret Service was also involved. "But our involvement will be independent. I would like you to know, Zee, that Warren speaks Arabic. I figure you two can pair up as a couple of natives. Warren looks the part, you'll need a head scarf."

I wondered if he meant husband and wife, but it didn't really matter. I could handle it. That we could both look the part, if I kept my head covered like a native, and that we could both talk the part, would give us a big advantage, probably over the other agencies that had been put on the trail."

I turned to Warren and asked him how he was feeling and what he thought of this hot weather, in Arabic. His response pleased me, his diction and vocabulary were surprisingly good. We did a high five.

"That's getting off to a good start," Dewey said. "You leave for Amman very early tomorrow. Commercial flight, of course, be in character."

"I'll need a weapon." I said. It was obvious I couldn't take one through airport security.

"That's arranged for both of you. You're booked into a hotel," Dewey smiled, "Two beds of course. You will be visited shortly thereafter and armed, a Glock for each of you." He nodded toward me and said, "Your favorite."

So much for short goodbyes. Hastening off, I compiled a proper Middle East female wardrobe, enough to fill a small carry on along with sundries. The I was up before dawn the next day and off to the airport.

The flight to Amman was not long. We had bogus passports that identified us as husband and wife. The hotel was a no-star venue for budget natives of the area. The room was small and dingy with a couple of beds, midget TV and a closet-sized bath.

I sat in a straight chair and Warren sat on a bed and we got to know one another. I asked where and how he had gotten his Arabic down so well.

"Training," he replied. "Seals are training almost constantly. A lot of it is physical and that takes something out of you over the years, so our active careers tend to be short, maybe ten years. Then there's the language, pick one or more. I concentrated on Arabic, although I can get by in a couple more."

Was he lying to me, I wondered? "Your Arabic is too perfect for even years of training sessions. How come?"

"Dewey said you were smart, Zee. I lived with the instructor for two years and we spoke only Arabic when we were together. It pleased her and it pleased me."

I smiled. "And you pleased one another."

"You bet we did. Those were good days."

"I sense they ended. What happened?"

"I suppose it's an old story, maybe the oldest: different status, different class. She's a Navy officer and I'm not."

"I thought that day was long gone."

"We are all of us human, Zee. Each one of us is sensitive to a certain degree. On a ship, might I go into officer's territory? No. Might I enter an officer's club, except as a bartender? The list goes on. And it's a nagging, niggling thing that eats away at you. In a way I'm glad it's behind me. I can get on with my life, such as it is." He grinned at that last phrase.

He was a Latino and I asked if he was fluent in Spanish.

"My forebears lived in New Mexico when it belonged to the Spanish. I'm not much more Mexican, or Latino, than you. I have that look and that name, but there's almost as much Anglo blood in my veins as there is pure Spanish. And no Indian that I know of, although I'm not proud of that."

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Warren answered. I didn't see who was in the hall, but when he closed the door he held what seemed to be a heavy package – two Glocks and an ample supply of ammunition.

We each spent several minutes checking out our weapons along with the clip.

"We can get to work now," Warren said.

I agreed and covered myself with a large scarf. My skin tone was not a total negative. Over the centuries many races have come together, merged, unmerged, battled and made love in the Middle East.

As we walked out as a couple onto the exotic streets of Amman, the blood coursed through the body with a quickened speed. Our sensors were on high alert. This was the life, the only life, we both felt it.

But where were we? In one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world, a modern urban center of maybe three million souls, bustling traffic, up to the minute transit system, a vibrant, throbbing metropolis, set in a hilly region of Jordan. Where to start?

Dewey had obtained a copy of the police report on the kidnapping. We had the location and the names of a few witnesses who had at first been too terrified to come forward. Violence of one kind or another was no stranger.

The two legislators and a guard were apparently en-route to Citadel hill, known as Jabal al-Qal'a, home of the Temple of Hercules, built under Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, sometime after the birth of Christ. With the aid of a map and the police report, we found the precise spot where the incident occurred and what we believed to be the alley where the black man, Pete Blanch, was slugged.

It was a deserted place with no shops or markets nearby, simply houses, mostly with walls, no windows. That there had been any witnesses was something of a novelty. The report said, upon seeing a van filled with what seemed to be criminal types, what witnesses there were had fled. They were neighbors in the area that had been found during a police canvass.

As the two of us stood reading and rereading the police report and looking over our map, Warren noticed an older woman staring out of a window. He nodded in her direction and remarked, "She has a clear view of the entire area. If she had been looking out at the right time she could have seen everything."

"The police would have talked to her first, but we could give it a try." We walked to her door and Warren knocked. No response. I stood back and looked at the window. The woman remained at what seemed to be her post. Warren knocked again. Still no response. "She hasn't moved," I said.

"Could we be at the wrong door?" Warren asked.

"I don't think so. It would have to be an odd arrangement."

Warren tried once more with no action. "Maybe she's deaf," I reasoned.

"Well, she's not blind. Her eyes are open and they move now and then." As we stood talking and puzzling, a man showed up and made for the door."

I asked him if he lived in the house and he said he did. Explaining our mission and what information we sought, he replied that the police had questioned him, but he had not been at home. Asked if they had spoken to the woman in the window, he replied in the negative. He identified her as his mother who was getting along in years and was a bit senile. Her recreation consisted of looking out the window, sometimes for hours and hours.

I suggested that she might have valuable information for us if we might talk with her. He became defensive and said it would be best not to disturb the old woman.

"We could pay you," I said.

He mulled it over and asked, "How much?"

I named a price of fifty dinar, the U.S. equivalent of maybe seventy-five dollars.

The man attempted to suppress a smile, but could not suppress the Middle Eastern love of bargaining. He countered with seventy-five dinar, and I took the money from my wallet and placed it in his hand.

He beamed, beckoning us inside. "We'll have tea," he announced.

The four of us were soon seated around a kitchen table. The old lady seemed quite pleased with company and tea, quite a break from the day's monotony. The man questioned his mother about the incident, but she did not seem to remember.

This went on for some time and I thought we might simply enjoy our tea, regret the loss of a few dinares and move on. Suddenly, Warren tossed in the saving grace. "There was a big black man."

The woman looked at him with a spark of recognition. "Yes, a large black fellow. They seemed to be playing a game of sorts. There were people on the street and then this big car drove up. The people, passers-by, seemed frightened and hurried out of sight.

"When our neighbors were gone, there were two or three and I recognized them. They often pass by my window. When they were gone the two foreigners, a man and a woman, got in the large car, and one man walked with the black person up that alley across the way. That was the funniest thing. The black man sat down in the alley, the other man joined his friends in the large car, and they drove off."

It was like a bolt of lightning. Oh my God, I thought, a fake kidnapping, but why?

"What did the black man do?" Warren asked.

"He sat there for quite a long time. Then he pulled a cell phone from a case on his belt and made a call."

"Would you like more tea?" The old woman's son asked.

"I would," I said. We had struck the mother lode. We drank more tea, engaged in desultory conversation and occasionally glanced out the window toward the crime scene.

The man was happy with his newfound wealth, the mother was pleased with her tea party and we were both over the moon.

Making our way back toward the heart of the city, we found a bench on the banks of the Jordan River, and I called Dewey and laid out the entire story. He agreed to attempt to contact Pete Blanch, the black security guard, and try to keep the entire thing quiet if Blanch would cooperate.

Dewey said the kidnappers were making demands – free three prisoners from Gitmo and no more drone attacks on Yemen.

Warren and I had little else to do until Dewey made his inquiry. We had snacks at a sidewalk café, then returned to our drab hotel room to watch CNN and wait for dinner. Perhaps we could dig up a bottle or two of wine.

With time on our hands, Warren's thoughts turned to thoughts of sex and suggested we have a session in the sheets.

"No thanks," I responded. "The sexual revolution is a thing of the past. I'm familiar with some of the ins and outs. I'm not buying it."

"There are so many ways of looking at sex. In America many men have been virtually destroyed by what is perceived as scandal. Some prominent names – Tiger Woods, Elliot Spitzer, David Petraeus, Anthony Weiner, to name a few. But these were good men, high achievers."

I had to laugh, but I said, "You might toss in Bill Clinton. But these men didn't dry up and blow away. There are many more, and they're considered martyrs by some. But most of them overcome their so-called humiliation. You're simply talking. I guess it's boring here in this dismal little box. So why not have a little fun? So why not go to a movie, or watch TV, or eat popcorn?"

"Well, I still don't get it, Zee. The man is often paired with a starry-eyed little intern, or dumb cocktail waitress with large breasts. These women look up to a successful man, but aren't they schemers?"

"Jeepers creepers, schemers? This is Amman, Jordan, a fleshpot of the Middle East. The world is yours, Warren. Leave the hotel and pick up some innocent young thing. If you bring her back to the room, I'll crawl under the bed, or go for coffee. Live a little."

"I give up."

"Damn right you do. So how about you going out and scrounging us up a couple of bottles of wine. Maybe I'll get drunk and give in to your boyish wiles. And maybe Hugh Grant will appear and sweep me off my feet."

Warren called over his shoulder as he left the room, "I'll get the wine."

"Ask that 90-year-old bellman who nods away his life in that lobby chair. If there is a procurer, he's it."

CHAPTER FORTY

Dewey was not long in calling back. Pete Blanch talked on the condition that few would be told. The three of them were thick as thieves. Senator Book and Blanch had served in the military together. Millie Heart had been a close family friend of the Books.

They considered themselves small fish in a big pond and planned a daring statement for a dramatic few steps up the ladder. Book had been mentioned as a presidential candidate, but was the low man on a high totem pole. Heart, lost in a porridge of House members, had her eye on a cabinet job, possibly secretary of state.

It was Blanch who had set things up with the fake kidnappers, first in Washington, then a last minute talk in Amman. They were whisked away by swift boat and were now in Yemen.

"Yemen!" Warren exclaimed when he heard the news. "They could be sojourning in hell, or some safe place, but Yemen! Probably the worst place on the planet for Americans."

I had to smile at Warren's protest, saying, "Thank God we're not Americans."

The first thing I knew, Dewey called again and said he was flying Blanch to Amman to tell us the real deal. "There may be more to this than meets the eye," he said. "Hang tough. He'll be there within twenty-four hours."

So we popped the cork on the first bottle of wine and hunkered down to wait.

Pete Blanch called from Queen Alia International Airport just before mid-morning the following day. We had booked him a room at our shabby hotel. He called again after checking in, and the three of us walked to the Jordan River and sat on a grassy bank to talk things through.

Blanch attempted to explain that Millie and Kirby, as he called them, were actually on a peacekeeping mission sanctioned by the White House.

I suggested that was a difficult story to swallow. It was well known we had a functioning embassy in the capital city of Sana'a.

"But that's not the trouble spot," Blanch said. "It's Osama bin Laden's al-Qaeda that's made the mess. That embassy you mention is on high alert and have had to cut to the bone by eliminating nonessentials. Kirby and Millie are meeting with the al-Qaeda power structure. It's not just a political stunt."

"But it's also a political stunt," I countered.

Blanch sighed and almost threw up his hands. "Maybe that's part of it. Frankly, I tried to talk them out of it before I went along with it. There is no question, they are risking their lives."

"So where does that leave us?" Warren questioned.

Blanch shrugged. He was on shaky ground. "There's general agreement we should go in and try to get them out."

I had to laugh. "Who are these people who agreed to this half-ass assignment?"

"The CIA and the White House. I can't name names because I don't know any. Dewey Warren told me."

"Dewey's last name is Warren?" Warren asked.

"It's true," I tossed in, then turned to Blanch. "You can't go. You'd stick out like a sore thumb."

"There are plenty of black people in North Africa," he insisted.

"Your size is against you," Warren said. "You're too big. You likely don't have language skills."

"I speak some Spanish."

"We'll try to dig up a señorita or two while you're holding the fort in Amman."

"They're my friends," Blanch insisted.

"Then don't sign their death warrant." I said. "Let us do the job we're trained for."

"We're trained for this?" Warren inquired.

"As well as the next galoot," I said. "Tell us as much as you know, Blanch. How did they get to Yemen? Any contacts or places? The works."

So, armed with as much information as possible, including an odd list of names, we hired a swift boat to carry us to Yemen, leaving Blanch behind in one of those God-awful depressing hotel rooms.

We landed at Al Hudayah, not too far from Sana'a, but we caught a bus instead to Zabid, the former capital of the country from the 13th to the 15th centuries, but now a rundown collection of crumbling buildings, many of them replaced by ugly cement structures.

There was a chance our quarry's mission was going well, and nother chance that they had been lured here under false pretenses and were simply kidnapped and facing beheading if demands were not met. Anyone carrying an American passport in this part of the world had been warned and warned again to stay as far away from Yemen as possible.

Dewey had provided me with the name of a fleabag hotel used by locals, and Blanch had supplied a contact at a local coffee shop. Asking around, we managed to find the hotel and pay cash for a room. It was much like the one in Amman, although one suspected crawly things. There was no air conditioning and of course one might fry eggs on the sidewalks if there had been any sidewalks.

The room was equipped with a radio, and there was a mosque nearby where we could hear the frequent call to prayers through our open window. Leaving our small bags in the room, we ventured out for tea at a sidewalk café. A blessed slight breeze made life bearable while we plotted out next move: mainly to find the correct coffee shop and trump up some hokey yet believable story.

Time and again our thoughts and talk drifted back to why these two elected representatives had come to such a place when there was a perfectly good embassy and ambassador in Sana'a. Blanch had insisted it was to parlay with the true al-Qaeda, the global militant Islamic organization founded by Osama bin Laden. A non-speaking wall had been erected between that organization and official America. So back-street, or behind the scenes tactics were in order. But why these two?

The shop was called the Basket of the Thousand Smiles, or something along that order. It did suffer in the translation. And our source had the usual name, Ali.

In a corner, over tea, we chatted with Ali about the two Americans and their progress, if any.

"At this point they're thinking of beheading the man and selling the woman to a sheik as a fourth wife. She's not young, but she's fairly attractive and would add a new dimension to the household. He's very rich, you know."

"I don't know," I replied. "Who might this rich sheik be? Has he been talked about in international circles?"

Ali lit a cigarette and smiled slyly. "He should remain nameless."

"Might as well," Warren quipped. "I doubt if he'd put the lady up for resale."

"Truly," Ali agreed. "He's not a wife speculator. There's something very personal about a wife, even a fourth one. Now is there something I might do for you two?"

"Certainly," I replied. "We are interested in the two Americans, their status, which you've already touched on, how they are housed and what might happen next. I understand that you are a more docile al-Qaeda and possibly favored negotiations."

"Truly, but the extremists seem to have won out. So there's very little that can be done. There's a horde of them nearby."

"Where exactly are the Americans being held and under what circumstances?" I inquired.

Ali went to the counter and brought back a sheet of paper. He drew a circle and a square, fairly close together. "The site is not far from here. I can give you the precise intersection. The square is a substantial building housing the radicals. They sleep, eat and live within those walls. The circle is where the Americans are being held, locked in but lightly guarded, because there is no chance to escape."

"A circle might indicate a mosque," Warren said, "A dome."

"There is a dome, but it is not a mosque. It was formerly owned by a wealthy family. I've heard the English word used, 'wunderkammern.'"

Of course we weren't conversing in English because we were a couple of visiting Jordanians. But I did feel compelled to mention that wunderkammern sounded a trifle German.

Ali shrugged. "A large room full of wonderful treasures, or at least it was. Now filled with all sorts of junk and a prison for the Americans. I'm afraid they will soon be out of there and relations between Yemen and the States will further deteriorate, which can bring nothing but trouble."

"What if they did escape?" I questioned. "Where might they go?"

"Only one place," Ali replied. "To the sea."

Nodding agreement, I then asked, "Would you, or could you, assist their flight?"

"Once the alarm is sounded, al-Qaeda radicals will swarm out of the building like a sea tide. I can't see how anyone would get far."

"If I take care of the radicals, will you help the four of us make it to the sea?"

Ali smiled. "You dream great dreams for a woman. But yes, if you can do such a thing, I have a car and the sea is not far. If you have money you can hire a fishing boat."

Warren appeared skeptical. He asked, "Where might that fishing boat take us?"

"To a larger vessel. This is a sea-lane through the Red Sea to everywhere. If you have money, a larger vessel might pick you up. Passage for a price is fairly common."

After learning how to get to the complex where Kirby and Millie were being held, we took our leave of Ali, but promised to return soon. It had been a fruitful meeting, Ali was a moderate, even liberal, and he had no stomach for the harsh stance taken by his brethren al-Qaeda.

The buildings were just as he said, one bulky and square, the other more delicate and round. The round one had a fairly formal entrance. There was a single guard on the door, seated in a relatively comfortable chair, sheltered from the sizzling Yemen sun.

It took some talking to convince Warren that my plan might work, but eventually he gave in. Returning to the hotel, I called Dewey and gave him a word picture of the area, the intersection, and various observations I had made. He agreed to do his best toward rapid implementation.

So we waited, the radio blaring that strange Middle Eastern music, boring weather reports. The heat would endure from now until judgment day. I showered. Then Warren showered. Then the call came.

Just after dawn tomorrow a drone would attempt to place a large bomb on the square building. In the confusion, we should be able to free the two Americans and, God willing, Ali would drive us to the sea.

We hurried back to the Basket of a Thousand Smiles and once again cornered Ali, unfolding our plan.

The impact was a shock to his nervous system. All of his former comrades were to be wiped out by a drone attack! How could he bear such a thing? I should have guessed his reaction. Now, could we trust him simply not to give our plan away and have us in al-Qaeda custody to boot? Obviously, he was beginning to wonder just who we might be.

"I disagree with what they're doing. To behead an individual. To sell a woman into bondage. But some of that lot are my friends." He heaved a sigh. "But they will not change. I cannot change them. If the plan works, tomorrow morning they will dwell in paradise, in the hands of God. I'll help."

Bowing my head, I said, "Thank you," then added. "We are sorry to take human life, but what can one do in this day and age? The world is a mess, religion is a multi-headed demon." My words sounded ridiculous, even to me, but they seemed to console Ali. We had no choice but to trust him, to trust two strangers who planned to execute a host of his friends. Thank God for Islam.

Warren had gotten his hands on two more bottles of wine. On the way to Ali's we had passed a Chinese restaurant. The hour was growing late, so we bought take-out and returned to our room.

We said little devouring our food, I with my chicken Szechuan, Warren with his Moo Goo Gai Pan. The red wine was not as dry as I like, but not the worst I had ever had. Our thoughts were on the pre-dawn activities. Would Ali in fact be on board the hour before daybreak? A hundred things might go wrong. But one thing seemed certain – that square building would be blown from here to eternity just after dawn. Ali had told us the men had pre-dawn prayers inside the structure. So, as the Catholics would put it, they would be in a state of grace when they went to their various rewards.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

We hurried through the darkened streets to Ali's tea room, mindful that to be seen out at this hour might arouse suspicion in a country known for its paranoia. At our knock, Ali opened his door.

His first words were, "It's been a long night."

"Agreed," Warren said.

"May God be with us," I said, using a common Arabic phrase.

"Come inside," Ali said, "We have time for tea. I'm guessing the drone cannot see the building until first light?"

"That would seem to be true," I said.

We sat down to tea and a type of scone. We enjoyed a silent breakfast at first, then Ali asked, "You plan to overpower the guard after the explosion?"

"Possibly," Warren replied, "but we may have to shoot him."

"You have weapons?" Ali asked, incredulous.

"We have pistols."

Ali shrugged and said, "I'll ask no more questions. I'll be glad when this has ended."

"You can come with us if you like," I suggested.

Ali sipped his tea and almost laughed. He was feeling a bit giddy. Finally he asked, "And where might we go? I'm thinking it might be to some underground dungeon."

"If we manage to free the two Americans and make a clean getaway, they could set you up in the States."

"Ah, the American dream," Ali said. "No thanks. Yemen is close enough to heaven for me. Perhaps peace will come one day."

Time was slipping by. Dawn would soon arrive. Ali rose and said, "We'd better go. There will be a few early risers out, some traffic. We shouldn't attract much attention."

The early gray light appeared when we reached the complex. We circled nearby blocks twice, but decided we might arouse suspicion. Parking down the block from the round structure, we sat and watched the sky grow light. What happened next was simply eerie. No sound from above, no shrieking missile hurled toward earth, simply a resounding explosion, smoke and debris in the air.

Ali quickly backed the car up to front the round building's entrance. Warren and I were out like shots dashing toward the elaborate door. A confused guard had left his post and was himself dashing toward the explosion. We had the door to ourselves.

At the last moment an inside guard emerged, unarmed, but seemingly in a panic. Thinking quick, Warren shouted, "We'll take care of the prisoners. Help the others." Complying, the guard dashed down the street to round the corner toward the explosion.

Inside, we found the light switch, then went deeper into the building, calling for the two prisoners. Kirby's voice was the first to be heard. He was locked in a small storage room. Millie's cell was not far away.

Freeing both, we hustled them out of the building while attempting to explain that we were freeing them. Both had been sleeping and were totally confused. The street was in total confusion. Somewhere a siren was approaching. Running to the car we hopped in, five of us now.

Ali was quick to take off, then resumed normal speed and headed out of the city. "So far, so good," I told the pair of them. "But we're still in Yemen and we have a ways to go."

"For God's sake, take us to the embassy," Millie gasped. Kirby agreed.

"I'm afraid that's out," I said. "The embassy's in Sana'a. Too dangerous. It's likely being watched and will be watched more closely once your escape has been noticed."

'Who the hell are you and what was that explosion?" Kirby demanded.

"Don't ask. Just keep calm," Warren said.

"I'm a United States senator and I demand to know."

"You were scheduled to be beheaded. Now you're free. Isn't that enough?"

"Behead me? You're crazy. Who are you?"

"If you like, we'll drop you off here, Kirby, and you can fend for yourself. How about you, Millie, want out?"

Kirby was quiet and Millie said, "No thanks."

"The group holding you had made arrangements to sell you to a rich sheik as his fourth wife. You would have been assigned household chores."

"I can't believe that," Millie said.

"Damned al-Qaeda, a pack of scum," Kirby said.

"Careful, Kirby," Warren cautioned, "an al-Qaeda member is driving this car."

"Holy shit," Millie exclaimed.

"Meet Ali, our savior," I said. "How much farther to the coast?"

The first part of the sentence was in English, the second in Arabic. Ali replied that the coast was quite close. We were headed for a fishing village and he hoped we had the proper funds to rent a boat.

I translated, told them we would attempt to rent a boat.

"We should call the embassy," Millie said.

"You should have done that before you came on this idiotic adventure. Neither of you seem to have good sense."

"You'll pay for this, young lady," Kirby said.

"The offer's still open. You can get the fuck out of the car." This seemed to silence him.

Presently, we were at the village and parked near the fishing fleet. Leaving Warren with the two freed prisoners, I accompanied Ali to bargain with the fishermen. Our goal was to motor to the shipping lanes and book passage on an ocean-going vessel.

We approached a group of fishermen with our proposal. One commented that such a thing would be smuggling. The other fishermen laughed in derision and asked how much we were willing to pay. It might be a full day's work, although usually there were a few vessels.

Ali was familiar with the culture and did the bargaining, ultimately ending up with a sturdy boat and three-man crew for just over the equivalent of a hundred dollars. The fishermen were pleased and I was pleased. We were even promised coffee on board.

After herding the freed prisoners on board, we bid an emotional goodbye to Ali and told him, if possible, we would be in touch again. He said he hoped not, smiled and shook hands.

I was fine with the vessel as long as we were underway, but when we reached the shipping lanes, the skipper cut the engine and we rocked with the chop. I felt a bit queasy within minutes, and Kirby seemed a bit green around the gills.

We held that station for at least an hour. They say at first you're afraid you're going to die, and then you fear you might not. But finally a rusty tramp steamer came our way with a Liberian flag stuck on its fantail. Knowing that English is the official language of Liberia my heart soared. A steady platform on which to shake seasickness plus a type of English.

We soon learned the crew was totally Chinese. Later we learned the ship was owned by a Greek billionaire and that Liberian registry was quite common since that country had few if any standards.

The ship did slow for us and agree to take us on board for a price. The four of us clambered up a cargo net, bid goodbye to the Yemeni fishermen and were off to the wide blue sea.

Only one person aboard seemed to speak English. He was, of course, Chinese, and was the radio operator. His name was He Dongming. Kirby and Millie jumped for joy and demanded the operator radio an American embassy, any embassy, any American agency, immediately, to have them picked up.

"The radio is finished," Dongming said with a bright smile.

"What does that mean?" Millie asked.

"It means it is broken, doesn't work," I explained.

"We'll go ashore soon," Kirby insisted, then added, "but for now let's go to our cabins and freshen up. It's a good thing we slept in our clothes."

"Only one cabin," the radio operator said. "Four bunks. Men on top bunk, women below. A salt-water shower and the toilets are with the crew below deck. Big happy family. You like."

Warren asked where we were headed.

"South Australia," a smiling Dongming said. "You like Chinese food? Good daily price. How you pay?"

###

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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