

### Finding Patience

### by

### D. Allen Henry

### © D. Allen Henry 2015

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. This includes free copies, as Smashwords is utilized to track download totals. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### On the Cover

Public domain photos Photoshopped by the author

### Also by D. Allen Henry

### at

### Smashwords.com

### Hawk Banks

### Those Who Fought for Us

### Of War and Women

### Enlisting Redemption

### My Father the God

### Merging Destiny

### Galileo's Lost Message

### Dedication

### To Lisa...

### Preface

The twentieth century was dominated by a succession of wars, two of which were on a global scale never before seen on this planet. As such, the effects of those wars profoundly influenced the course of history. I am speaking of course of The Great War (termed World War I in the United States), World War II, and to a lesser extent, The Vietnam War, and the Gulf Wars. Although much has been written about the history of these wars (especially the first two), much less has been written about the effect of these wars on the lives of those who lived (and died) through them.

_The Sutherland Saga_ consists of a sequence of six novels chronicling the lives of four generations of the fictitious Sutherland family, the patriarch being the Earl of Winston. Set against the backdrop of world-changing events of the twentieth century, the saga traces the travails of the Earls of Winston and their loved ones. Having been awarded the Earldom of Winston by King James the First, the ancestral home of the Sutherland family is located at Wharton Manor in Gloucestershire, England.

I have chosen each of the four wars mentioned above as the backdrop for one of the stories within The Sutherland Saga. Accordingly, the first book in the series depicts events during the era of World War I, whereas the second and fifth books span the period of World War II. The timing for the third book is during the Vietnam War, and the fourth and sixth in the series span a twenty-five year period roughly corresponding to the Gulf Wars, thereby leading up to present day. As such, the plots are strongly connected to their associated wars and, although the storylines are intimately related to English culture, there is also a strong thread of both Scottish and American ancestry evident as the saga evolves.

The idea for the Sutherland Series was born from my own experiences, travels, loves, and losses, spanning a lifetime. While the stories themselves, including the primary characters, are entirely fictional, the places are not. In addition, I have, where appropriate, included historical figures who played significant roles in the events portrayed within the series. Indeed, I have attempted to portray both historical events and historical figures as accurately as possible. Where I have erred, I offer my sincere apologies.

_Finding Patience_ , the fourth book in the series, depicts the lives of the Sutherland family spanning the era of the fifteenth Earldom of Winston, the backdrop for the events depicted herein being the period spanning the Second Gulf War. As such, it may be read as a standalone novel, or it may be viewed as a sequel to _Enlisting Redemption_ , the characters being related, but the plotlines independent. I hope that this account will provide an enlightening and enjoyable experience for you the reader.

D.A.H.

### Figure Credits

Fig. 1 Map Showing Gloucestershire, graphic drawn by the author {{PD-dallenhenry}}

### Author's Note Regarding Sectional Perspectives

The reader will notice that throughout the text I have delineated sections by the use of boldface titles. These titles normally describe the setting location and date for that section. However, when only a date is included, it is implied that the location for that section is identical to that of the previous section. Furthermore, each section begins with a few boldface words immediately after the section setting. The name of the first person included in boldface within the section is normally intended to be the person whose perspective is taken within that section of the text.

### Chronology

**1615 –** Alan Sutherland is appointed the first Earl of Winston by King James I of

England.

**1883** – William Sutherland becomes the Twelfth Earl of Winston.

**1893** – Robert Sutherland is born in Gloucestershire, England.

**1895** – Margaret MacCreedy is born in Melbourne, Australia.

**1914** – The Great War begins.

**1917** – Trant Sutherland is born in London

**1918** – The Great War ends.

**1918** – Robert Sutherland marries Margaret MacCreedy.

**1919** \- Robert Sutherland becomes the thirteenth Earl of Winston on the death of his

father, William Sutherland.

**1919** – Felicité Delacroix is born in Castiglion Fiorentino, Italy.

**1939 -** World War II begins.

**1945** – World War II ends.

**1946** – Trant Sutherland marries Felicité Delacroix.

**1947** – Trevor Sutherland is born in England to Trant and Felicité Sutherland.

**1948** – Rebecca Carey is born in Danville, Virginia.

**1965 –** Trant Sutherland becomes the fourteenth Earl of Winston on the death of his

father, Robert Sutherland.

**1965-1973** – The Vietnam War spans nearly a decade.

**1971** – Brandt MacCauley is born in Scotland.

**1977** – Rebecca Carey marries Grant Sutherland.

**1977** – Patience Walker is born in Nebraska.

**1986** – Trevor Sutherland becomes the fifteenth Earl of Winston upon the passing of his

father, Trant Sutherland.

**1996** – Brandt MacCauley graduates from MIT and joins the faculty at Cal Tech.

**1997** – Twenty-year old Patience is kidnapped and taken to Las Vegas.

**September 11, 2001** – The World Trade Center is attacked by terrorists.

Fig. 1 Map Showing Gloucestershire
Prologue

**You may ask** how I could have lived through the experiences recounted herein and not have perceived the momentous events that were unfolding. For my part, I can only say that one must live life before one can comprehend life.

I was born in 1971 in Edinburgh, Scotland. Growing up in Edinburgh was profoundly monochromatic, especially in winter. Anyone who has ever been there will know immediately what I mean by this. The central part of the city was constructed of brownstone quarried from the adjacent volcanic hills in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and, with the advent of automobiles in the twentieth century, pollution has deposited a layer of still darker soot on every exterior surface possible. As a result, Edinburgh has become in wintertime the artist's dream for anyone who paints exclusively in tints of grey.

The winter I turned twelve my dad was injured. He worked at the rail yard in the city. I don't know exactly what happened to him, but he was hurt quite badly. His recuperation required bed rest for several months and, although I didn't know it at the time, he would eventually pass away five years thereafter from complications caused by his injury.

That winter I was sent to stay with my Aunt Winnie Sutherland in Stirling, thereby allowing my mother to cope with the extra burden of caring for my dad. Although I was not happy about that, there was a small silver lining – that was the first time that I experienced a winter away from Edinburgh.

To be sure, the winter climate in Stirling was cold and dark as much so as it was in Edinburgh, but unlike Edinburgh, in Stirling the surrounding countryside crept right up to the city. It was so close that you could see right out into the hills from the walls of Stirling Castle. And on a clear day, you could even see all the way to the river, where Scotland was born on September 11, 1297. So this was my first adventure, and my memories of that winter remain sharp and clear after more than thirty years.

Aunt Winnie was old, or so it seemed to me. In retrospect, I suppose that she really wasn't. She was in fact close to the same age that I am now, but the significance of time is quite beyond the comprehension of children.

As I recall, the weather one winter day was so horrid that Auntie Winnie forbade me to even set foot outside. As I had not yet learned the virtue of patience, spending the entire day indoors with an elderly person was nearly unendurable for a boy of twelve. Although I did my absolute best to pass the time of day constructively, I failed miserably, succeeding only in creating a nuisance for Aunt Winnie. For her part, she attempted valiantly to appear unfazed by my hyperactive antics.

At one point, plowing inanely through foodstuffs in her kitchen, I came upon a tiny ladybug. Determined to evict it from our toasty abode, I was certain that Aunt Winnie would appreciate my efforts to protect the sanctity of our small place in the world.

But Aunt Winnie announced sternly, "No, Brandtie, that simply won't do. Our visitor, though uninvited, has a place just as we do in our world, and you must respect that place. If you were to cast it out on a horrid day such as this, what do you think its fate would be?"

Realization sweeping over me that I had not gotten that far in my thinking, I replied, "I am quite certain I have no idea."

"It would have most assuredly perished, my dear boy. And had it done so, it could not have born offspring, and those offspring would therefore not have been able to combat and defeat the vicious spider that is perhaps lurking within the cupboard. And that spider would then have survived and possibly eventually bitten someone, perchance even you, thus causing great pain, misery, and possibly even death!"

Peering at her in momentary horror, I speculated dismissively, "I may be only twelve, but I am grown up quite enough to know that your story is highly unlikely, Auntie."

"Quite so, my boy," she responded pleasantly, "But compassion should not be bestowed on the basis of anticipated outcome. Rather, it is the principle of compassion itself that is paramount."

Scratching my head in confusion, I stammered, "I...I don't understand...what principle?"

"Brandtie, my child," she began, "There are seven deadly sins, but there is only one immortal virtue – compassion. Patience is the parent of compassion, and compassion is borne within the heart."

Still mystified, I responded, "I still don't understand, Auntie Winnie."

"My dear boy, you clearly showed compassion by attempting to put the ladybug outside. Otherwise, you should have simply squashed it. But had you also shown patience, you would have understood that placing the bug outside was ultimately without compassion, for it would surely have perished in the maelstrom without."

That then was the first lesson I learned from Aunt Winnie. I was to spend parts of every winter with Auntie Winnie until I went off to college seven years later, in the process learning much of life from her. But the lesson that I learned on that day was the most important lesson she ever taught me. And now, thirty years on, here is my story, the story of what I learned from Aunt Winnie.
Chapter 1

Spinning the Web

Lincoln, Nebraska – October, 1996

**In those days,** a magical transformation swept over the central plains of North America each autumn. The wheat and corn by then harvested, the farmers were flush with cash. The winter weather having not quite set in, the promise of the reunion of families at Thanksgiving was on the minds of everyone. The trees abruptly turning to shades of burnished orange and deep crimson, they somehow harkened the coming of Christmas, that time of year that was devoted to the renewed commitment to moral principles.

Sometimes, the silent cascade of an early snowfall would gently settle on the soon to be hibernating verdure, leaving a distinct impression that the world was indeed fashioned from the whimsy of a being of supreme benevolence. Such sanguine vistas, like a poorly preserved Da Vinci masterpiece, have lately begun to slowly fade with the passage of time. With the hastened pace of our modern existence, the commitment by the human race to common human decency has slowly but inexorably grown sadly uncommon.

On this day, Patience regarded herself in her bedroom mirror. Having just turned twenty, she was at an age of profound fear and uncertainty. Unbeknownst to her, she was endowed with an exquisite appearance. Although her soft and feminine features were in keeping with her introverted nature, she was nonetheless strikingly tall. And the combination of her pale green eyes, accented by her jet black hair and pale complexion, gave her a distinct air of elegance and sincerity.

Still happily ensconced within that first phase of life when parents are taken for granted, Patience was yet oblivious to the reality that they will not be there forever. Thus, given the surrealistic scene outside her window, Patience's naive sensation that all was right with the world was a completely natural perception. She could not have known that it was fleeting, rushing away from her reality at a breathtaking speed that would soon test her convictions to their very foundation.

"Patience," her mother called to her, "Time to get up, dear."

"Yes, mother, I'm awake. I was just glancing out the window at the snowfall. It's so peaceful."

"Yes, dear, I know, but there is no time for that now. We must go and visit your father in the hospital. Now, please get ready to go."

"Yes, mother," she replied offhandedly.

The drive to the hospital was horrendous, the traffic creeping along at a near standstill. It seemed that each year the populace somehow misplaced their driving skills with the arrival of the first snowfall. Convinced that they would have done better to walk to the hospital, mother and daughter arrived unharmed but nonetheless exasperated by the less than welcome adventure they had just survived.

Shortly thereafter Patience pushed her way into her father's room, exclaiming, "Good morning, Daddy," and, leaning forward to give him an affectionate embrace, she inquired, "How are you feeling today?"

"Just fine," he lied, "What's it like outside, Patience? I hear it snowed last night." Patience's mother followed and, silently embracing her husband, she patiently awaited the completion of his conversation with the pride of his life.

"It's just gorgeous, Daddy. Well, except for the traffic, that is. I love it when it snows this time of year, because it all melts within a single day. That way you don't have three months of ghastly brownish snow mountains that only grow larger and more repulsive with the passage of time."

"Yes, dear, I couldn't agree more," he commented and, turning toward his wife, he requested, "Brenda dear, would you mind going down to the cafeteria to get me a cup of coffee? I've been waiting for two hours for them to bring my breakfast."

"Certainly, dear. I'll be back in a few minutes," she replied, promptly departing the room in her newfound quest.

Her mother having left them to it, Patience asked, "So what gives, Daddy?"

"What do you mean, Patience?" he asked in apparent confusion.

"Don't fool around with me - I saw the breakfast tray on the floor outside the door. You've already eaten breakfast."

At this, he smiled and replied, "There never was any fooling you, my dear. I could tell it when you were two years old. Even then, those pale green eyes of yours were a dead giveaway – the little girl with the grownup awareness."

Listening patiently to his attempt to distract her, she responded pointedly, "Good try, Daddy, but I'm onto your ways. Give it up."

"Okay," he replied and, heaving a sigh of acceptance, he proceeded with, "I just wanted to talk to you alone for a few minutes."

Her suspicions now confirmed, Patience replied doubtfully, "Ok-kay..."

"Dear, please promise me that you will take care of your mom if anything happens to me, okay?"

"Why? Nothing's going to happen to you, Daddy."

"Oh, just promise your old dad, okay? You know I wouldn't steer you wrong."

"Whatever, Daddy," she replied dismissively, "I promise."

Gazing steadfastly at her, he announced, "My dear, you remember what I've always told you - that the true meaning of life is love."

"Yes, Daddy, of course I remember," she responded, perplexed as to why he was acting so maudlin today.

At that moment her mom walked in with the sought-after cup of coffee and inquired, "So, what have the two of you been up to while I was gone?"

"Oh, nothing," her husband replied, "Just chatting idly about the weather, dear."

It was the last conversation that Patience ever had with her father - he died two days later.

Las Vegas – February 1997

**The trio sat together at a table in the corner,** well removed from the other patrons within the bar. One of them was dressed completely in white, his black-banded white headdress identifying him as Middle Eastern.

Leaning forward to one of his associates, he inquired, "Is everything in place, Wassim?"

"Yes, sir, it's all completed and ready to go."

"Are the explosives already prepared?"

"Yes, sir, just as you directed."

"So all we need do is deliver the package..." he murmured to himself, adding, "Alright, Wassim, I believe all is prepared. Meet me at the airport tomorrow morning at 7 A.M."

Wassim and Navid responded simultaneously, "Yes, sir," and so saying, the trio clinked their glasses together.

Lincoln, Nebraska – The Same Day

**Patience inched her car** out of the driveway, slowly testing the slickness of the icy roadway. It was a beautiful sunny day in Lincoln. An overnight cold front had dropped two inches of blowing snow and quickly moved on. Unlike most mornings, on this day she was on the way to visit her mother in the hospital. It seemed like it had only been a few days since she had visited her father in the selfsame hospital, three winter months having already raced by.

The previous day Patience's mother had quite suddenly fallen down. Fortunately, Patience had been at home at the time and, pouring her mother into her aging Pontiac, she had raced to the hospital.

The doctors had insisted on keeping her overnight for tests. Under the circumstances, Patience had been forced to wait out the night at home alone, something that she was not accustomed to doing. She had so wanted to live on campus at the university but, her father's passing having laid all hopes of that dream to rest, there simply wasn't enough money.

Now in her third year at Nebraska, this unexpected development with her mother terrified her. What if, due to her health, her mom was unable to work? The money that Patience made working part time on campus being woefully inadequate, her college education would come to a screeching halt.

She thought about her studies for a moment. Dr. Rohani had been very kind to take her into his study group. The other students, each and every one of them brilliant graduate students, filled her with a profound sense of insecurity. With so many smart people in the world, she wondered how on earth she would ever be able to complete a degree in computer science. But her adoration for the discipline was so strong that she was determined to somehow gut it out. And perhaps, if she could learn enough along the way, she might even be able to get involved in something useful, something that might even change the world.

Lincoln wasn't quite in the Midwest, more like in the plains, but the values were there – strong Midwest scruples. There was a strong sense of commitment to family, a universal belief that everyone has an equal chance to succeed. Patience was committed to working hard, confident in her heart of hearts that she would one day find success.

Still, despite the unusually gorgeous weather this morning, on this day her happy future looked to be little more than a distant dream, casting a pall over her usually sunny disposition. Arriving at the hospital, she quickly went straight to her mother's room. Finding her hospital room unoccupied, she felt a sudden ominous pang. Rushing to the nurses' station, she inquired stridently to no one in particular, "Where's my mother? She's supposed to be in room 232."

Emerging from behind a half-open door, a nurse responded pleasantly, "Oh, she's okay, miss. They're just doing some tests at the moment. She should be back within the hour. You can wait in her room or, if you want, there's a cafeteria on the first floor."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Patience thanked her and decided to try the latter option. Having breakfasted lightly, she was back at her mother's room a short time later. Finding the room still empty, she stepped into the hallway. Seeing her, the nurse promptly came towards her, exclaiming, "Oh, there you are. The doctor came by. He wanted to talk to you. I'll call him. Can you wait here, miss?"

"Sure," Patience replied, fear suddenly driving her heart into her throat yet again.

Shortly thereafter a middle-aged bald-headed man came walking down the hallway towards her, his white coat and stethoscope visibly announcing his profession. As he approached her he made eye contact, inquiring solemnly, "Are you Miss Walker?"

"Yes," she replied and, his excessively serious demeanor distressing to her, she inquired, "Is something wrong?"

"Your mother is resting comfortably at the moment, Miss Walker. I'm Doctor Matthews. Could we step into my office for a chat? Please, this way," and, touching her elbow sympathetically, he guided her within.

Once inside, he suggested politely, "Please, sit down Miss Walker." Paling noticeably at this, Patience dropped into the lone chair within. Coming directly to the point, he posited, "I'm afraid that I do not have good news for you. Tests show that your mother has severe heart disease. Because she was experiencing considerable angina last night, we took some X-rays this morning and, I'm afraid that unless she has replacement surgery within the next few weeks, she will not survive."

By this point in a state of shock, Patience found herself asking, "Replacement? Replace what, Doctor Matthews?"

"Why, her heart, of course. I assure you, Miss Walker, there is no alternative at this point."

Her mind now racing, Patience inquired, "I'm sorry to be so crass at a time like this, Dr. Matthews, but how much does a heart transplant cost?"

"It depends on quite a few factors - at least twenty thousand dollars. Still, I wouldn't worry, Miss Walker. Your insurance will cover most of the cost."

Her shoulders slumping in dejection, she replied, "I'm afraid that we have no insurance, doctor. We lost it when my father passed away three months ago."

"Oh, my, that is indeed troublesome. Are there any family savings? Or perhaps significant property value in your home?"

"We rent," Patience replied flatly. "No, there is no family money at all. Expenses associated with my father's cancer consumed what little savings we had. I'm afraid that my mother and I are alone and quite poor. I am barely scraping my way through college at the moment."

"Alright, I see," Doctor Matthews replied pensively. He contemplated a moment and offered reassuringly, "Don't you worry about that at the moment. Just give your mother all the love and support that you can. I will inform the hospital administration, and they will look into alternatives for financing a heart transplant."

"Thank you, doctor," Patience replied politely, but her mind was already spinning out of control in abject fear and uncertainty.

"You rest easy, Miss Walker. We'll take good care of your mother. One of the nurses will take you to her new room if you check in at the nurse's station. We have transferred her to intensive care." Having said this, he subsequently left her alone to contemplate this new crisis.

Patience did her best to comply with Dr. Matthews' suggestion, but the news nevertheless came hard to her mother. Accordingly, the mood remained somber as the day dragged on. Patience eventually found it necessary to depart for her afternoon classes. Since she simply could not afford to miss the events planned for today, she regretfully gave her mother a kiss and informed her that she would be back in the morning.

In flight over Kansas – The Same Day

**Mitch scanned the horizon,** the private jet streaking through the air at thirty-seven thousand feet. It was a perfect day for flying and, Mitch and his co-pilot chatting aimlessly, the flight progressed without a hitch.

"What are you going to do when we get back home, Mitch?" the co-pilot queried.

Mitch replied, "I dunno. I suppose Sandy will have something cooked up for the weekend. That is, if Mr. Al-Wadi doesn't have another unexpected trip in the next couple of days. How about you, Bill?"

"I was thinking of driving down to the canyon if the weather holds up. Might do some hiking."

"How long does it take to get to the Grand Canyon from Vegas, anyway?" Mitch asked.

"Depends on what part you go to. It's real big, you know," Bill replied, overstating the obvious. Examining the gauges before him absentmindedly, a frown suddenly came over his face, eliciting, "Uh oh...Mitch, we've got a warning light. It's engine number two."

"Damn...just our luck. We'd better land somewhere and take care of it. It's too far to go back to Chicago. See what's the closest place with private jet service, Bill."

"I don't have to look. It's Lincoln - Duncan Aviation. I've been there a couple of times. Good clean airport, excellent outfit."

"Okay. Well, at least we don't have to land in that cornfield."

"It's not a cornfield, Mitch. It's just a small airfield with no services."

"Why do you suppose Mr. Al-Wadi wanted to land there, Bill?"

"Dunno, and I don't want to know," Bill responded dryly.

"You got that right," Mitch put in, "The less we know about Mr. Al-Wadi's dealings, the better. Anyway, what with that engine light, the cornfield is out of the question. How far is Lincoln?"

"It's only about seventy-five miles west of us. We can coast that far even if we have to shut the engine down."

"Okay, get a clearance and tell them we've got engine troubles."

"Will do," Bill replied.

A few moments later the co-pilot opened the door to the main cabin and, stepping through the door, he squatted within in the low-hung space of the small cabin. "Wassim! Hey, Wassim. Wake up!" he called to the nearest passenger.

Lurching awake, Wassim responded groggily, "Huh? What?"

"Where's Mr. Al-Wadi?" Mitch asked politely.

"He's in the back cabin playing patty-fingers with the girls."

"Better get him. I need to speak to him."

"No, I'm afraid that is quite impossible. Mr. Al-Wadi doesn't like to be disturbed when he is with the girls."

"Okay, whatever," Bill replied, "Just tell him when he's done with those two that we have a mechanical problem with one of the engines."

"What sort of problem? Anything dangerous?" Wassim replied.

"No, it's nothing like that. Just an engine light, but we have to deal with it - FAA regulations."

"Okay, thanks Bill," at which point he got up to go aft, in the process murmuring to himself, "I'd better tell Mr. Al-Wadi."

Mr. Al-Wadi and his entourage landed in Lincoln twenty minutes later.

Lincoln, Nebraska – Mid-Afternoon

**Brandt was ushered to the appointed door and,** knocking softly, he heard a voice from within announce, "Come in!" at which he pushed the door open.

Rising from his desk, the person within exclaimed, "Ah, here you are at long last, Dr. MacCauley. I am Nemat Rohani, Professor of Computer Science here at Nebraska State University. Welcome to our campus!"

"Thank you, Dr. Rohani," Brandt responded pleasantly, "Please, call me Brandt."

"With pleasure," Dr. Rohani replied, "My friends call me Nick, if you will. Although I was born in Persia, I've lived in the United States for more than half my life."

"Ah, so you must be one of those unfortunate former students who were forcibly expatriated by the fall of the Shah in 1980."

"1979," Nick corrected, "Yes, but it all turned out in the end. You see, I am now a U.S. citizen."

"Congratulations," Brandt rejoined and, moving on to the subject at hand, he offered, "Let me say what a distinct honor it is to be invited to give today's seminar."

"Oh, the honor is ours, Brandt. Your reputation precedes you, as I'm sure you know. It's not often that we have world-famous professor visit our campus all the way from Cal Tech."

"Thank you. And may I say how impressed I am with your campus. Lincoln is a lovely city, and Nebraska State far surpasses anything I could have imagined."

"Thanks, but you wouldn't want to spend an entire winter here, I can promise you!"

"Perhaps you are right, Nick, but having grown up in Scotland, I've seen my share of inclement weather."

Chuckling convivially at this pronouncement, Dr. Rohani now announced, "Well, as we are pressed for time, I suggest we get you set up to give your seminar, immediately after which we shall meet with my graduate students."

"Excellent!" Brandt responded, and with that, the pair set off for the auditorium.

Shortly After the Seminar

**Patience entered the conference room** and, noticing that she was the last student to arrive, she took a seat in one corner. All six students waited in silence, and shortly thereafter Dr. Rohani entered, accompanied by his visitor.

"Students," Dr. Rohani announced, "I want all of you to meet Dr. Brandt MacCauley, from Cal Tech. Dr. MacCauley has in a very short span of time become one of the leading experts in the world in the extremely complex field of pattern recognition. Please, Dr. MacCauley, have a seat here by me," at which the pair took their seats.

From her vantage point Patience could see that Dr. MacCauley was surprisingly young for one so famous. Not only that, he was quite striking in appearance. At somewhat more than six feet, he carried himself well, and he was possessed of a rather rakish smile.

Dr. Rohani now cleared his throat and observed, "As you are all aware, Dr. MacCauley needs no introduction. Let me simply say this - Dr. MacCauley has introduced a radically new approach to pattern recognition, one so ingenious that his research will undoubtedly change our world dramatically over the next quarter of a century. But before we start, why don't we go around the room and each of you can introduce yourselves. Amit, suppose you start."

At this one of the students jerked his head back, stammering, "Yes...of course, sir..." and nodding toward Dr. MacCauley, he announced, "Sir, I am Amit Patel, from India. I am studying for my Ph.D. in neural networks."

"Excellent!" Dr. MacCauley responded, "And where did you study in India?"

"At IIT Madras," he responded.

"Fine school," Dr. MacCauley volunteered.

"Have you been there, sir?"

"Yes, and a lovelier campus I doubt you'll find in that part of the world," and with that, he glanced toward the next student.

Seeing his turn had arrived, the student said, "Sir, my name is Constantinos Stefalos, from Lebanon. I am also studying neural networks."

"Ah, Beirut, I trust!" Dr. MacCauley put in.

"Yes, sir," the student responded pleasantly.

"Excellent!" Dr. MacCauley replied, turning thereafter to the next student.

The student now introduced himself, saying, "Sir, I am Richard Goldman, from Laramie, Wyoming. I am studying artificial intelligence."

"Ah, an American!" Dr. MacCauley observed. "I wish you luck with artificial intelligence, Mr. Goldman. As for myself, I shall stick to human intelligence. Heavens knows, far too few people seem to exercise their own in this world," at which the group snickered convivially.

The next student now exclaimed, "Hello, sir. My name is Ahmed Safjani. I'm from Egypt. I did my undergraduate studies at The University of Cairo, and I've been here in Nebraska for four years now. I am working on my Ph.D. in large scale computing."

"Very impressive, Mr. Safjani," Brandt complimented, "And where are you from in Egypt?"

"I'm from Edfu, sir. Do you know it?"

"Ah, the Upper Nile," Brandt put in, adding, "No, I've not been there, but I've seen much of Egypt, including Assyut, Luxor, and Aswan. Lovely country, if I may say so."

"Thank you, sir," Ahmed responded politely, at which Brandt turned his attention to the final student.

She now proffered, "Sir, I am Rebecca Chandar, originally from India. I am studying for my Ph.D. in pattern recognition."

"Oh, excellent!" Dr. Mac Cauley exclaimed, "And where did you study in India, if I may ask?"

"Actually, I studied in Christchurch, New Zealand, at the University of Canterbury. My family moved there when I was quite young."

"My, you are a long way from home," he interjected, "And just how did you come by the name Rebecca?"

At this she smiled and explained, "Ah, well, my given name is actually Radhika. My fellow students couldn't seem to get it right, so one day Richard called me Rebecca, and the name somehow stuck."

"I see..." Dr. MacCauley murmured, adding mirthfully, "Sounds quite reasonable to me!" at which the group twittered yet again.

The introductions completed, Dr. Rohani suggested, "Dr. MacCauley, suppose you tell us a bit about your research on pattern recognition?"

"Of course," his visitor volunteered, "But first, perhaps the young lady in the corner should introduce herself."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Dr. Rohani exclaimed in obvious embarrassment and, turning toward her he said, "Please, Miss Walker."

Having hoped that she might be overlooked, Patience squirmed within her seat and, clearing her throat, she announced, "Hi, Dr. MacCauley. I'm Patience Walker. I'm just an undergrad trying to find my way in the world. About the only thing I know at this point is Morse code," at which the other students snickered patronizingly.

At this, Dr. Rohani interjected, "I apologize yet again, Miss Walker," and, turning toward his guest, he announced, "Miss Walker is absolutely the very best undergraduate student I've ever had here at Nebraska State University. I am expecting great things from her," at which Patience blushed noticeably.

"Well, I wish you all the best, Miss Walker," Dr. MacCauley offered, "You certainly seem to have chosen the right field of study," at which the group broke into laughter yet a third time. He now launched into a discourse on the subject of pattern recognition that had everyone's brains swimming within a matter of minutes.

At the end of their meeting, Dr. MacCauley approached the young ladies, volunteering, "I wish you both well here at Nebraska State," and, turning toward Patience, he suggested, "And if at the completion of your undergraduate studies, you are interested in trying your hand at graduate studies, I would welcome contact with you."

"Why, thank you, Dr. MacCauley," Patience responded, "But to tell you the truth, at the moment I'm just trying to get through this semester."

"Certainly," he replied empathetically, "Nonetheless, the offer stands," and so saying, he handed her his business card.

"Thank you, sir," Patience responded and, taking the proffered card, she announced, "And now, Rebecca and I must be off. We are performing at the International Festival tonight in the campus theatre."

"Ah, that sounds adventurous," Dr. MacCauley responded, "Well, then, I hope you have a good time."

Early Evening

**Patience's mood only worsened** as the day dragged on toward nightfall. Still, there was nothing she could do about it until the following day.

Rebecca arrived at her study carrel right on time, suggesting, "Ready?"

Patience replied, "Yes, of course."

Rebecca announced, "I brought the items I mentioned," and so saying, she handed them to Patience. The pair then departed.

Arriving a short time later at the theatre, they headed backstage, Rebecca exclaiming, "Thanks ever so much for agreeing to do this, Patience."

"Oh, it's nothing," Patience responded morosely, "To tell you the truth, I needed something distracting to get me through today, and this international festival might be just the thing."

"Why? What seems to be the problem?" Rebecca inquired.

"Oh, it's nothing. It's just that my mother is quite ill," Patience volunteered.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," Rebecca responded, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"That's very kind of you, Rebecca, but I can handle it."

At this moment an attendant came up and announced, "Time to put on your costumes, ladies."

"Okay," Rebecca responded and, turning toward Patience, she offered, "So here is how you put on a berka," and so saying, she demonstrated by donning her own.

"My goodness!" Patience exclaimed, "It's sort of like a tent," and placing the hood over her head, she added in a muffled voice, "I feel like I'm in a tiny closet or something. I can see out, but no one can see in."

"Yes, that's the general idea," Rebecca agreed, "A woman's body is considered quite sacred in the Muslim world," and observing Patience's appearance, she reached forward to adjust her apparel to its proper look.

The pair were called forth shortly, at which they followed others onto the stage, the announcer saying, "And here we have the traditional clothing worn by women in Saudi Arabia," at which a smattering of applause was heard from the audience.

Within the Audience

**Watching from his vantage point in the third row, Brandt** thought he recognized the two young ladies before him but, he couldn't be certain, their costumes having concealed their identities quite exceptionally. But then he noticed the green eyes of the one on the left, and his doubts vanished.

The Airport – Later that Night

**Mr. Al-Wadi checked his wristwatch** impatiently, subsequently glancing up in search of the anticipated arrival. Seeing an approaching vehicle, he heaved a sigh of relief.

The car pulling alongside the jet moments later, Wassim emerged and said, "I have the package, sir."

"Excellent, Wassim," he responded. "Did she give you any trouble?"

"No sir, I did exactly as you said. The rufilin did the trick in no time at all. She is sleeping like a baby."

"Alright," Mr. Al-Wadi responded and, turning on his heel, he mounted the stairs to the interior of the plane. Reaching the top step, he turned and instructed, "Get her aboard, Wassim. We must be going. Had we not been diverted by that damned engine light, we should have been out of here much earlier. We must try to get back on schedule if at all possible. Otherwise, we shall miss our window of opportunity."

"Yes, sir," Wassim responded, setting to his assigned task immediately thereafter.

In Flight over Utah - Midnight

**Drifting into consciousness, Patience** gradually tugged the cobwebs from her mind. Eventually opening her eyes, she mused to herself, "I must be dreaming," but then, observing her surroundings, she asked herself, "Where am I?" Closing her eyes, she thought back - the last thing she could remember was talking to that guy at the festival. Hearing voices, she opened her eyes a second time.

A male voice exclaimed, "Sir, she's coming to. What do we do?"

"Shut up, Wassim," Mr. Al-Wadi replied rudely. He rose and, crouching as he came aft, he said, "Here, let me get by you. I need to talk to her."

Climbing over to where Patience lay, he cooed pleasantly, "Hello, Miss Walker."

Peering woozily up at him from her prone position, she could only think to say, "Where am I?"

"Oh, you're in the hospital," he lied.

Something, perhaps it was the low hum in the background, made his reply seem not quite right to her, but she couldn't quite place the surroundings in her fuzzy semi-conscious state.

"Here, please sign this, Miss Walker," he suggested.

"What is it?" she responded woozily.

"It's the papers for your mother's hospitalization."

"Papers?" she queried in confusion.

"Yes, for your mother's operation. You recall, she needs a heart transplant. These papers will take care of everything." He handed her a pen and helped her to sit up far enough to sign the paper. He subsequently thrust the paper toward her and, propping herself precariously on one elbow, Patience scribbled her name.

Flopping back down in exhaustion from the effort, she thought to herself, "I wonder who he is. Such a nice man," and then she drifted back into unconsciousness.

Seeing her listless state, Mr. Al-Wadi instructed, "Give her another injection, Wassim, but not too much. We need her ready for tomorrow."

"Yeah, sir," Wassim responded.

Mr. Al-Wadi now exclaimed, "Tell me again how the pickup went."

"She was in that berka, but I talked to her as soon as I got to the festival, so I knew I had the right person. A few minutes later I slipped her the rufilin, and when she began slurring her words, Navid and I hustled her out of there. The rest will be taken care of by tomorrow."

"Alright, Wassim. Double check everything as soon as we get back to Las Vegas. The plans are all in place, so we must move along quickly," and, shaking his head in disbelief, he murmured to himself, "Patience Walker...what a strange name..."

He glanced back toward her prone body and, still shaking his head, he ordered, "Get her back into the berka. We'll be landing soon. We need her to be disguised."

"Yes, sir," Wassim said, rising to do his bidding.

"Oh, and one other thing," Mr. Al-Wadi said, "When we get to Las Vegas, get me the dossier on this woman."

"Yes, sir."

Up front in the cockpit Mitch turned to Bill, saying, "Not bad, we should be in Vegas in less than an hour."

Las Vegas – The Following Morning

**Patience opened her eyes** **again** , this time feeling rather restrained and uncomfortable. Somehow unable to move her hands and feet, she sensed that she must be stretched out on a table. Immediately terrified, she screamed in terror, "Help! Help me!"

"There, there now, Patience," a spinsterish-looking woman cooed softly to her. Stroking her arm gently, the woman added, "Everything is okay. You're just a bit surprised at being bound. But don't worry, you're not injured. You'll be just fine." Glancing over her shoulder, the woman exclaimed to someone that Patience could not see, "Wassim, go tell Mr. Al-Wadi that she's awake. She's gonna be just fine for her performance."

"Excellent!" Wassim replied, immediately departing for his assigned task.

The woman turned back to Patience, inquiring considerately, "How are you feeling? Still dizzy?"

Still disoriented, but somehow soothed by the woman's reassuring voice, Patience replied, "A little, yes. So where am I?"

"You're in Las Vegas," the woman responded reassuringly. "My name's Bernice, and you're Patience. That's a nice name."

"What am I doing here?" Patience blurted in utter terror.

"There, there, just you rest up," Bernice soothed, "Mr. Al-Wadi will explain everything. In the meantime, take a look at the hairdo I done for you," and, as if intending to accentuate her supposition, she held up a mirror for Patience to see herself.

Glancing in the mirror, Patience lurched in shock, immediately attempting to wrench herself free, "My God, what have you done to my hair? I look like a biker babe!" Glancing again, she could see that her head had been shaved, with the exception of her bangs and a large rectangular patch on top. A barrette had been employed to make the patch stand up, causing it to splay out dramatically in every direction.

"Don't worry, Patience. It'll grow back. It was necessary for your performance."

"Performance?" Patience blurted, but added somewhat ludicrously, "How did you get it to stand up like that? It must be ten inches long, standing up in a fan shape, sort of like a horse's mane."

Bernice responded with, "Oh, that. It's my job, you know, to make the girls look special. You make it stand up by using egg whites. I'm real proud of it. I think it's my best ever!" Seeing Patience's doubtful look, she added, "It'll wash out, you'll see."

At that moment Mr. Al-Wadi sauntered into the room, asking in a commanding voice, "How's our newest recruit doing?" He came over to the table on which Patience was resting and exclaimed with an engaging grin, "Hi. I'm Mr. Al-Wadi. Welcome to our organization, Miss Walker."

Scrutinizing him with obvious irritation, Patience spat out vehemently, "Why am I being held against my will, Mr. Al-Wadi?"

At this, he glared at her and replied, "You're not being held against your will, Patience! We appreciate you agreeing to do this for us on such short notice. I am quite confident it will all work out in the end. As we discussed, all we need for you to do is deliver the package for us, and once that is completed, we will have you on your way back to Nebraska in no time at all. And, as promised, the funds for your mother's operation will be paid to you in cash."

"I don't remember anything after talking to that guy over there at the festival last night. I didn't _decide_ to do this," she croaked, "You kidnapped me!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Patience. When Wassim brought you onboard the aircraft, you begged me to let you come along. You said you needed the money for your mom's operation, remember?" and, turning to Bernice, he murmured, "She's just a little confused. She signed the contract. You saw it, Bernice. Give her a double shot of whiskey before we leave. She'll be fine."

Turning back to Patience, he cajoled, "Now, Patience, you signed the contract, and you promised to deliver the package. So you are contractually obligated. You must adhere to the terms of your contract, okay? If you do this, then the money for your mother's operation will be in your hands in short order. But if you fail to deliver the package, then I shall be unable to pay for your mother's operation. It's just business, you understand. I must protect my interests. You agreed to all of this on the plane, so just go with the flow, okay?"

All further thought of disagreement now put out of her mind by the sinister look on Mr. Al-Wadi's face, she replied in abject fear, "What's in the package?"

"Let's just say, it's none of your affair."

"Ah, so it's something illegal," she suggested and, contemplating momentarily, she added suspiciously, "Oh, I get it – it's a drug deal. Must be worth millions to go to this much trouble."

He eyed her noncommittally and, gently squeezing her arm, he said, "It's nothing at all like that, and I assure you, you shall be rewarded with your fair share, Miss Walker."

Attempting to quell her mounting terror, she inquired, "Okay, but what do I have to do?"

"Just do as Wassim tells you," he responded supportively. "Now, let's get everything ready. You leave in five minutes!" And with that he strolled from the room.

Squirming in an attempt to free herself, Patience asked herself aloud, "What the heck am I doing here? How did I get into this?"

Ignoring her questions, Bernice said, "Here, drink this. It'll calm your nerves."

Patience gulped down a whole lot of whiskey, quite enough to make her tongue thick within a matter of seconds. "What am I supposed to do, Bernice?"

"What do you mean?" Bernice asked in confusion.

"The delivery!" Patience asked doubtfully.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Patience. Wassim will tell you where to deliver the package when you get there. Just follow his instructions."

"Okay," Patience whimpered, but it was clear that she was anything but okay.

Moments later Wassim unclasped her manacles and drew her from the room.
Chapter 2

Into the Web

American Press International

February 17, 1997

Las Vegas, NV-Sources report that a bomb was exploded within the Lido Hotel in downtown Las Vegas this afternoon. Sources tell us that, although the explosion was quite enormous, the bomb appears to have been set off in an area that somehow resulted in minimal damage. At this report there are three casualties, one of whom has since died. Further information will be reported as it becomes available.

Mr. Al-Wadi's Headquarters – Shortly Thereafter

**Carrying Patience between the two of them** , Navid and Wassim struggled their way into the office. Observing their arrival, Mr. Al-Wadi motioned to lay her on the sofa and, leaning close to her, he exclaimed, "You stupid bitch! You delivered the package to the wrong office!"

He then turned to Navid and whispered, "How the hell did she manage to get out of there? You were supposed to blow her up!"

"I've no idea, sir," Navid responded fearfully, "We timed it perfectly, just as you told us, and the bomb exploded right on time. We waited for a few moments to see the effects, at which point she came trotting down the street right in front of the van. She'd removed the berka, so she had on her regular street clothes. Fortunately for us, we spotted her coming, so we jumped out of the van and dragged her inside. After that Wassim forced a bit of rufilin down her throat."

Mr. Al-Wadi turned and glanced at her prone body and, turning back toward Wassim, he instructed, "Give her a stiff drink of something. I want her lucid but compliant, because the first thing I'm going to do is fuck her senseless for what she did, and then I'm going to beat her within an inch of her worthless life!"

"Yes, sir," Wassim responded obediently.

Mr. Al-Wadi turned to Bernice and barked in a demanding tone, "Get her clothes off of her and make sure you take everything with you. I don't want there to be any chance of her escaping."

Bernice paled and said, "Yes, sir!"

He then strolled over to the bar and poured himself a drink. Seeing Bernice had completed her assignment, he commanded, "Now, get out of here Bernice. Come back in an hour. By then she's going to need you."

"Okay," Bernice replied, and at this she turned and left.

Having given her the instructed drink, Wassim inquired, "You want me to handcuff her?"

"No, give them to me," Mr. Al-Wadi responded, "I'll do it myself. Now, get out of here!" and at this Wassim left the office.

Mr. Al-Wadi went over to the sofa and rolled Patience over, at which she lurched forward and threw up on him. "Son of a bitch," he grumbled and, intending to get himself a towel to clean up, he glanced around for one. As he glanced away she jumped up and, grabbing a large marble ashtray from the table, she struck him viciously across the face. Mr. Al-Wadi immediately went down and lay motionless on the floor.

Chicago – The Following Day

**Brandt was in his hotel** **room** when Tom banged on his door, bellowing, "Have you seen the news, Brandt?"

Tugging his door open, Brandt responded vacantly, "No, what's up?" he replied.

Tom demanded anxiously, "Turn on your TV! It's on CBN at this very moment!"

Grabbing a towel, Brandt found the station just in time to see the news on the television.

The announcer said, "And now this just in – Sources tell us that yesterday wealthy Kuwaiti businessman Hakeem Al-Wadi was transported by ambulance to the hospital in Las Vegas. Mr. Al-Wadi has apparently suffered a serious head injury and is undergoing brain surgery as we speak in order to relieve pressure caused by his injury. Sources indicate that there is no foul play, that Mr. Al-Wadi appears to have tripped and fallen down the stairs at an office complex owned by him in Las Vegas. At this time there is no word on the severity of his injuries. Stay tuned for further developments on this bizarre accident involving one of the wealthiest men in the world."

Carelessly wiping his face with the towel, Brandt muttered, "What the...isn't that the guy that you knew at Harvard, Tom?"

"Damn straight," Tom replied, "That guy was a genius. On a campus known for its geniuses, he was a genius among geniuses."

"What do you suppose happened?" Brandt responded.

"They just said - he fell down the stairs," Tom replied.

"You can't be serious. Surely you know better than to believe that, Tom."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. No multi-billionaire simply falls down the stairs. Somebody probably tried to kill him."

"You mean attempted murder?" Tom replied incredulously, "Holy crap, this is unbelievable!"

"Wait a minute," Brandt murmured, "Hold on just one minute. I have an idea."

"What sort of idea?" Tom queried.

Brandt quickly logged onto his laptop using the phone connection and his AOL account and, pounding away on his keyboard, he declared, "I'm going to do a bit of checking. "Can you call down and order us some breakfast? This may take a bit of time, Tom. This phone line has an extremely slow baud rate."

"Okay, but it would be nice if you could tell me what you're up to."

Typing furiously, Brandt responded distractedly, "All in good time, Tom, all in good time."

Hearing Brandt erupt in a loud whistle a short time later, Tom tore himself away from the television and asked pointedly, "Find out anything?"

Motioning him to his laptop, Brandt displayed a photo on the screen, saying simply, "Look at this."

Leaning forward, Tom immediately recognized a photograph, exclaiming, "What the...it's a picture of a woman in a black berka going into some hotel. What is this, Brandt? Where did you get this?"

"I hacked the hotel's security network. It's actually a film strip, but this phone connection is interminably slow this morning. I should have the entire clip in a few minutes."

"What - a photo of some woman going into our hotel here in Chicago?"

"No, Tom. It's the Lido Hotel in Las Vegas, and it was taken yesterday afternoon!"

"So what."

"The Lido Hotel was bombed yesterday afternoon!"

"Yeah, I heard, but what's that got to do with Al-Wadi?"

"THAT is the fifty-million dollar question, my friend!"

"You're nuts, Brandt. It's just a coincidence."

"Perhaps, but hear me out. Suppose a person went to a festival, an international festival to be exact, in Lincoln, Nebraska three days ago. And suppose also that at this festival he saw two young women dressed in black berkas exactly like the one in this photo."

"You're not fooling me, Brandt. That would be you, of course, as you were in Lincoln giving an invited lecture to the NSU College of Engineering."

"Right," Brandt agreed.

"So you saw someone in a berka, so what? I admit, they're not too common in the U.S., but Lincoln is a thousand miles from Las Vegas."

"Tell you what," Brandt responded, "Just hold on for a few minutes, and at this he began pounding on his keyboard yet again.

After what seemed an eternity, Brandt exclaimed, " _Stoatin_!"

At this, Tom raced over, inquiring, "What? What's so important for you to lapse into your Scottish brogue, damn it!"

Pointing at his computer screen in shock, Brandt posited, "Take a gander at this!"

Peering at the screen, Tom mumbled vacuously, "What the...I don't understand...what is this...your credit card expenditures?"

"No, Tom, they're not _my_ expenses. They're _Patience Walker's_ credit card expenses!"

"What! Close that web page, you idiot! That's against the law! Do you want to get thrown in jail, you fool? And who the hell is Patience Walker, anyway?"

"She's a student I met at NSU the other day. And relax. I'm untraceable on this line. Besides, this is important," Brandt replied coolly, adding commandingly, "Now, look closely, Tom. What do you see?"

Following Brandt's instruction, Tom peered at the screen yet again and, scratching his head in confusion, he responded, "I don't get it. I don't see anything but some credit card expenses."

"Look at the last one, Tom."

Surveying down to the bottom, Tom muttered, "Seems like some cash withdrawal..."

"Right so far," Brandt observed, "And where was the withdrawal made?"

"Oh...my...God..." Tom stammered, "At some hotel in Las Vegas," and raising up, he inquired blankly, "What the hell is going on, Brandt?"

"It seems that Miss Patience Walker has gone to Las Vegas since I saw her three days ago, Tom."

"What? What's that got to do with anything?"

"I'll tell you what it has to do with anything, Tom. Look at that photo of the woman in the photo there, the woman in the berka."

"Whatever," Tom blurted and, surveying the photo, he said, "What do you want to know?"

"What do you notice about her?" Brandt inquired.

"Notice! Why, how could anyone notice anything at all? The only part of her body one can even see is her eyes!"

"And?"

"And what?" Tom exclaimed in obvious exasperation.

"What about her eyes?"

At this, Tom stared at him dubiously for a moment, then peered closely at the photo, mumbling, "I see nothing...nothing at all...just a pair of green eyes..."

"Bingo!" Brandt expounded victoriously.

"Have you lost your mind, Brandt? First we're talking about Al-Wadi, then some bombing, and now it's the color of some coed's eyes in Lincoln, Nebraska. What's gotten into you?"

"Just this, Tom – the girl I met in Lincoln three days ago had the palest green eyes I've ever seen in my entire life. Her eyes were so unusually green that I decided I absolutely had to see them again. So I went to the International Festival that night. And lo and behold, there she was, up on the stage, dressed in the selfsame berka in that photo. And the reason I know is because the eyes are exactly the same."

Scratching his head in amazement, Tom blurted, "Perhaps she's some sort of terrorist."

Eyeing his friend doubtfully, Brandt abruptly announced, "Hold on. Let me just check on one thing," and, turning back to his computer, he announced with apparent satisfaction, "Yes! It's finished downloading!"

"What's finished downloading?" Tom asked vacantly.

"Watch this, Tom," Brandt commanded, and clicking on a file, the pair watched as a film clip began playing.

Seconds later, Tom roared, "Holy shit, Brandt! That's her, and there she goes, right into the elevator. What the hell was that all about?"

Brandt clicked on it again, saying, "I'm not sure. Let's watch it again."

The pair watched it a second time, and this time Brandt noticed something untoward. When it was completed, he posited, "I think we've got it, Tom!"

"Got what?" Tom blabbered.

"This time I'm going to play it in slow motion. Watch carefully. She comes into the hotel and she walks towards the elevator, but then she stops for a moment and glances around. Then suddenly she looks directly at the surveillance camera. Did you see that?"

"Yes, I saw it, but so what?"

"Okay," Brandt said patiently, I'm going to play it one more time, and watch what she does when she looks at the camera." Having said this, he clicked the film clip one more time.

Peering at the video, Tom announced, "I don't see anything unusual. She blinks a few times, but that's it."

"Exactly!" Brandt crowed.

"Exactly what?"

"She _blinks_ , you idiot!"

"So what?" Tom blathered.

"I'm going to play it again, and this time count the number of blinks, okay."

"Alright, whatever," Tom murmured tiredly and, counting patiently, he announced, "I count nine times."

"Me, too," Brandt replied, "Okay, here goes, Tom. Last time, check the spacing between blinks." Brandt now clicked it one last time, and the pair watched carefully.

Narrowing his eyes, Tom scrutinized the footage one last time, announcing abruptly, "My God, Brandt, it's Morse code!"

"Precisely!" Brandt crowed victoriously.

Tom now confessed, "Unfortunately, I don't know any Morse code, do you?"

"Well, not really, but there is one part that almost everyone knows."

"What's that?"

"Dit dit dit, dah dah dah, dit dit dit."

"Ok-kay," Tom murmured doubtfully, adding, "That does indeed appear to be what she is blinking in the film footage, but what does it mean?"

"It means S.O.S., Tom!"

"Oh...my...God..." Tom blurted.

"I should think that this is proof that she did it under duress," Brandt observed, "And not only that, it proves my suspicion that Miss Walker is quite an intelligent young woman."

"Well, it's a tall order, if you ask me, but you may just be onto something, my friend. So what, if I may ask, do you plan to do about it?"

"I don't know yet, but it gets better, Tom," Brandt replied self-assuredly.

"Okay, I'll bite. What else is there?"

"If my guess is right, she's gone missing, and if I'm correct, she won't be turning up any time soon."

"What in blazes are you talking about, Brandt?"

"I'm saying the woman who bombed the Lido Hotel in Las Vegas yesterday is Miss Patience Walker from Lincoln, Nebraska, and she's not going back there."

"Why?" Tom replied, obviously confused.

"For the simple reason that she can't, that's why," he replied confidently.

"Oh, for God's sake, just tell me what you're talking about, Brandt."

"If my guess is correct, she can't go home to Lincoln, because she's on the run."

"Why would she on the run?"

"Because, if I'm right, she was kidnapped in Lincoln two days ago, forced to bomb the Lido hotel, and last night she tried to kill one of the richest men in the world."

New York City – Four Days Later

**Barbara was waiting** for Patience at the passenger arrival area when she arrived at La Guardia. Without even so much as a polite hello, Barbara blurted, "Geez, you look like you haven't slept in a week, Patience." Surveying Patience's strangely disheveled hair, she added, "And what is with your hair, girl?"

Wading silently into Barbara's embrace, Patience murmured between muffled sobs, "God, it's so good to see you, Barb."

Shocked by her cousin's state of dilapidation, Barbara spluttered, "My God, what happened to you, Patience?"

Patience stepped back and, dragging one hand to her face, she wiped tears from her now swollen face. Between sobs she whispered, "You don't want to know, Barb. Let's get out of here."

Shrugging acquiescence, Barbara led her to the parking lot. They rode in silence to Barbara's tiny apartment in Greenwich Village, whereupon Patience collapsed, sleeping nonstop for twenty-four hours.

Ten Days Later

**Barbara was slowly coming to the boiling point.** Obviously still in a state of shock, Patience had spoken very little at all since her arrival the previously week. Having by now had enough of her slovenly encroachment, Barbara determined to force Patience from her malaise by whatever means possible. Sipping her Saturday morning coffee across the breakfast table from Patience in her microscopic kitchen, she decided on the forceful approach, demanding, "You may as well say something, Patience, because if you don't pull yourself together, I'm going to kick your ass out on the street!"

Staring distantly at her over the rim of her coffee cup, Patience eventually murmured morosely, "I'm sorry, Barb. I'm behaving like a three-year-old, I know that. But I've had a hard time of it, I mean - really hard."

"What the hell happened, Patience? Where were you?"

Shaking her head, Patience responded, "I can't tell you. It might put you in danger."

"Damn!" Barbara exclaimed and, spitting out her coffee in shock, she propounded, "I knew it was bad, but this is worse than I could have imagined! Are you in big trouble?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Are you pregnant?"

"No! It's nothing like that, Barb. Listen, I may have been followed. I was very careful to cover my tracks, but nobody is completely invisible. I'm afraid that I am going to have to disappear."

"Boy, you must have done something really stupid to be this terrified, girl. Please tell me it's not drugs."

"No, it's not drugs, but it might as well be," Patience replied forlornly. "Look, for your own safety, I can never tell you what it's about, but if some unsavory characters ever come around looking for me, I'm going to need your help to escape yet again. In the meantime, I'm going to need a place to hide out. Can I stay here with you for a while?"

"Of course you can, but can you get a job and pull your share of the rent? And don't forget, you owe me the five hundred dollars that I loaned you to pay for your plane ticket from Dallas."

"Sure, but I'm going to need to change my name. I can't be traced, or I'm dead."

At this Barbara paled and, grasping her throat, she replied reassuringly, "Of course, we can do that. Absolutely anything and everything can be done for a price in New York City. Let's take it one step at a time. First, you need a new name, something far away from Patience."

"I already thought of that. I thought about it all the way from Phoenix to Dallas - on the bus."

"So you were in Phoenix?"

"Yes, but don't bother trying to figure it out, Barb, because that's not where it happened, and there's no way I'm going to tell you more than that. Anyway, I've decided to be Christine. I've always wanted to be named Christine."

"What about a last name, er, Christine?" Barbara queried.

"I don't know. Actually, I don't even care. Any suggestions?"

How about something really nondescript, something that will really blend in with the masses, like Smith or Jones?"

"Hmm," Patience, ergo Christine replied softly, "Christine Smith...Christine Jones. I don't like either. I think I'll be Christine Black."

"What on earth for?" Barbara queried.

"It suits my mood, that's what for," she replied defensively.

Barb replied, "Okay, whatever, Miss Christine Black." Noticing that the newly named Christine was toying with something in her hand, she added, "What's that in your hand that you're playing with?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just a barrette."

Sensing another brick wall, Barb replied, "Oh. I suppose that under the current circumstances you can't call your mother."

"Right, and that's the worst part of all. She's really sick, Barb. She might die," Patience responded.

"I know, girl. I checked up on her after you called me from Dallas."

"Really?" Patience responded, staring wide-eyed. "What did they tell you at the hospital?"

"I didn't talk to them. I called my sister in Lincoln. She checked on your mom. She's resting easy, but scared to death about you. She of course was aware of your disappearance."

Paling at this, Patience responded, "They know in Lincoln?"

"Yes, of course they know, and now there is some sort of rumor in Lincoln that you were connected to that bombing in Las Vegas two weeks ago."

Clutching her throat in anguish, Patience blurted, "Oh, my God! What must my mother think!"

"Good question, Patience, But I doubt you're going to find out the answer to that one any time soon."

"What else did your sister say, Barb?"

"My sister says they are aware that you wore a berka to some festival in Lincoln. Tell me you weren't involved in that bombing."

"No, no, of course not!"

Barbara replied matter-of-factly, "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"

"Okay, I guess I'd better tell you something. Otherwise you'll think I'm some sort of scumbag. Look, I got in over my head and I was in Las Vegas, but believe me, whatever happened was against my will, okay?"

"Ok-kay," Barb responded doubtfully.

"And I only did it once before I escaped."

"Escaped?" Barb replied, and now it was her turn to grasp her throat in fear.

"I'm not saying anything more. I'm in danger, and I don't want you to be in danger as well. Okay?"

"Look, let's go for a walk. I'm sure you are in need of some air, Christine."

"I don't want to go for a walk!" Patience replied.

"Precisely, which is why you and I are going to go for a walk," Barb replied insistently. "Now get your tail off that chair and let's get you back into the world. New York is a fabulous place. I'm sure we can drag you out of your malaise in no time."

"Oh, alright Barb, but allow me to register my complaint - I do so under duress!" and at this, the pair giggled for the first time since Patience's arrival ten days earlier.

Pasadena, California – Two Weeks Later

**Brandt awoke with a start.** He had been dreaming again - it was the nightmare that had invaded the very night that he had gone to the International Festival in Lincoln. In the dream, he had been chasing a woman, whom he couldn't quite make out, when three men had chased him down, tackled and beaten him, each time awakening him in terror.

Though a month had passed since the festival, his memory of it had faded not one iota in that span of time, his emotions remaining entirely raw and conflicted. Had she really been the reason that Al-Wadi had ended up in the hospital? As it developed, Al-Wadi was expected to make a complete recovery, but Brandt had been unable to find out anything further up to this point in time.

Beneath it all was a deep and abiding conviction that a young woman he barely knew had bombed a hotel against her will and, to make matters worse, he had somehow become obsessed with her. A conviction was beginning to form in his mind that he was not going to let go of this fixation without taking some form of action. Lying within the enveloping darkness, he pondered his options and, checking his alarm clock, he realized that it was three in the morning.

Still wide awake as the sun came up, he considered what action he might take in order to restore sanity to his lost sense of equilibrium. He was now at the stage where he was losing substantial sleep night after night. Realizing that something had to be done before his health became seriously affected, he resolved to initiate his program of action the following weekend.

By Saturday Brandt had begun to form a plan of attack. First off, he decided to see if he could locate any information online about his obsession – Patience.

Of course, there was always the possibility of checking records of individuals in Lincoln, Nebraska with the name of Patience Walker. He reasoned that there can't have been too many women with that name in a city of two hundred thousand people.

Next, he decided to plan a weekend trip to Las Vegas as soon as possible to see if he could pick up the trail of Patience. Realizing that he had suddenly become a very busy man who now had two full time jobs, he spent the morning gathering what information he could from the web.

By the end of the day, Brandt had determined that there was only one individual living in Lincoln, Nebraska by the name of Patience Walker. He began to assemble a file of information about her. Turning now to his extensive computer hacking skills, he began searching for whatever he could find on her. Within minutes he discovered that her mother's name was Brenda, and that they lived in a house on Juniper in Lincoln. He was able to determine that Patience had worked summers as a barista at Starbuck's, and he was able to confirm that she was indeed a student at Nebraska State University. He logged into the NSU website, confirming that she was registered as a junior majoring in computer science. Unkempt and out of sorts, he nonetheless felt a sense of progress for the first time since his trip to Lincoln.

Grabbing a bite for dinner, he set back to it immediately thereafter, and for some reason he decided to check back issues of the local newspaper in Lincoln. It was painstaking work, but around midnight he struck pay dirt of sorts. Two weeks after the bombing a photo of Patience had been printed in the Lincoln Journal Star. It was a headshot, and it showed a woman with a rather bizarre coiffure, something akin to a mohawk. And, although it was somewhat grainy, it was clearly her, the caption below the photo reading in confirmation - Last known photo of missing NSU student Patience Walker. Why on earth had she done such a thing to herself? The only explanation he could conceive of was – she hadn't. Someone else must have done it to her, for what reason he could only guess.

Around five in the morning, unable to support his head any longer, he collapsed into bed, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks. Four hours later he was back at it, searching yet deeper into the internet.

By now he was focused on what had transpired after her disappearance on the night of the festival. Reexamining her credit card expenditures, he was able to determine that she had made no purchases between the time of the festival and the bombing. And perhaps even more telling, she had made no purchases whatsoever after her lone withdrawal of two hundred dollars in Las Vegas. As it turned out, that cash withdrawal had been made at the Pelican Hotel and Casino, located less than two blocks from Mr. Al-Wadi's office complex. From there the trail went ice cold.

New York City – A Week Later

**As she came in through the door, Patience** noticed that Barbara was sitting on the sofa awaiting her arrival. Sensing that her behavior was a bit odd, she volunteered, "No luck yet, but I'll find a job soon I'm sure. I promise, I'll pull my share of the weight, Barb."

Apparently ignoring Patience's attempt at conversation, Barbara instructed, "Please, sit down."

Now concerned, Patience asked, "What is it, is something wrong?"

"It's your mom," Barb replied with an ominous stare.

"Oh, my God, is it bad?" Patience asked, her face turning pale with fear.

"I'm afraid so," Barb replied gravely, "She died this morning."

Pasadena – The Same Day

**Working furiously during** the daytime on his pattern recognition software, Brandt was by now certain that the solution to this challenge would bring him closer to the trail of Patience. Each night he searched the internet, scanning for clues of any kind related to Patience.

As there was nothing, not even the scent of a trail, he turned his attention to the lone person that Patience appeared to have had contact with since he'd seen her at the festival – Mr. Hakeem Al-Wadi. He was able to determine that Al-Wadi was the CEO of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate named Equus Investments, a subsequent search indicating that he had been born in Kuwait in 1957. His assumption that Al-Wadi was a very shady character by now rather deep-seated, he was therefore disinclined to search any further for information about him utilizing a web address that was traceable. Instead, he determined to be patient until he could access the web from an untraceable site before further investigating Al-Wadi and Equus Investments.

The trail having remained cold, Brandt was beginning to feel like a caged animal. Realizing that the time had come for a visit to Las Vegas, he nevertheless viewed this possibility with considerable trepidation. If his perception was indeed correct, he could be placing himself in danger by going anywhere near the headquarters of Equus Investments.

The Following Weekend

**Pulling his new Porsche 911 out of the parking lot, Brandt** did so with mixed emotions of both anticipation and fear, for he was headed to Las Vegas.

On arrival, he went directly to the Pelican Hotel. Showing the photo from the Lincoln Journal Star to several of the workers at the hotel, he at first drew a blank. Eventually one person bit and, indicating that he couldn't be sure about the face, he assured Brandt that he had only seen those pale green eyes once in his lifetime. It had been around six weeks earlier, and according to him the woman had sported a rather bizarre coiffure that he termed a 'watusi'. He was certain it was the same woman because two men had shown him a photo of her the day after he had seen the woman within the hotel, and the photo was of a woman sporting the same hairdo. Brandt was now relatively certain that she had in fact escaped that night, but as a result he was equally certain that she was in grave danger.

Making his way to the hotel exit as quickly as possible, he was suddenly concerned that he might be spotted by Al-Wadi's associates if he made too much of a show of searching for the woman with the bizarre hairdo. Vegas might be a big place, but it could also just as easily have big ears.

Returning to his hotel room, Brandt shacked up within his room, carefully contemplating his next move. Unable to resolve anything at all, he finally summoned the nerve to do something. As a result, he drove in desperation to Al-Wadi's office complex and parked down the street.

The minutes stretched out, people coming and going intermittently, but no one that he thought might be helpful to him. Eventually, most of the employees having trickled out, he reasoned that they would be of no use whatsoever if Patience had only been there one night. Having no other recourse, he nonetheless continued to watch and wait.

Eventually, boredom getting the better of him, he decided to drive around the block. Turning the corner, he spotted a sign down the street that read 'Equus Club'. The similitude being far too obvious, he decided to pull in and check it out.

Sauntering up to the door, he was eyed menacingly by a rather large bouncer. Attempting nonchalance, he inquired vacuously, "I hear the show's good here, right?"

"Step right inside and see for yourself," the man retorted, flashing a much too compliant grin.

"Thanks," Brandt said, making his way within. Once inside, he realized that though small, it was quite a high-class establishment. There was a respectable crowd, and an exotic dancer was performing on a stage surrounded by a bar, thereby allowing the patrons an eye-popping view of her performance. Brandt took a seat and ordered a drink, intent on determining if there was any connection between this club and Al-Wadi.

Two hours later, having discovered nothing whatsoever, he gave up and left. However, once out on the street, he decided to await developments, just as he had at the office complex. He therefore remained in his car, examining the comings and goings.

Finally, at around three A.M., a middle-aged woman came out, appearing exhausted and bedraggled. She got into a beat-up Ford pickup truck, and for some reason he decided to follow her. She drove about a mile and, pulling into an all-night restaurant, she hopped out and went inside. It was one of those seedy places that are frequented mostly by street people, and as there wasn't a soul within the restaurant other than two waitresses and the woman he had followed, he decided to take a chance.

Climbing out of his Porsche, he sauntered inside and walked directly up to the woman, who was by now sitting in a booth sipping on a cup of coffee as she read a newspaper.

Glancing up at him, she exclaimed before he could even introduce himself, "What do YOU want?"

"Hi," he said, "I'm Roy Robertson, FBI," and so saying, he flashed her the fake ID he had made up for this purpose.

"Right," she replied doubtfully, "An Irish FBI agent, what will they think of next."

"Scottish," he replied.

"Well, that may be, Mr. Rob Roy Robertson, or whatever your name is, but you sure as hell ain't no FBI agent!"

Wincing at her instantaneous destruction of his cover, he nonetheless determined to try and bluff his way out of it. Playing to her gruff attitude, he proffered, "You have excellent powers of deduction, Miss...," and observing her silent glare, he continued with, "May I sit down?"

"Free country," she replied, taking another long drag from her coffee and, suddenly calling out to one of the waitresses, she said, "Sherry, bring my friend Robby boy here a fresh cup of coffee," all the while continuing to eye him doubtfully over the rim of her cup.

A few moments of silence spreading between the pair, she eventually inquired, "So, Robby Roy boy, what can I do for you? Which one of them is it you're after?"

"Which what?" he replied, confused.

"Which girl, you numbskull. You ain't the first guy to come wandering up in the middle of the night flashing a fake ID, you know. Mr. Al-Wadi's girls are all magnets for lonely guys. And every one of you damn fools gets a fixation on one of those girls. It's just a basic instinct with males of our unique and illustrious species."

Blushing at having been discerned so easily, Brandt responded with, " _Touché_ , Miss...?"

Abruptly sucking in yet another sip of coffee, she eyed him and replied succinctly, "Bernice."

His coffee having arrived, he took a swig of his as well and posited, "Alright, I may as well come clean, Bernice. My name is Tom Wilson. I work in L.A. I was at one of the shows about a month ago, and I haven't been sleeping well ever since. I was hoping that you could give me a line on one of the girls."

"What's her name?" Bernice replied.

"Patience, Patience Walker," he responded brazenly.

At this she suddenly scrunched her eyes up, and scrutinizing him carefully, she sneered accusingly, "Oh, I get it. You're a PI, right?"

"A PI, what's that?" he replied.

Very nearly spitting out her coffee at this admission, Bernice snickered, "Hee hee...okay, so maybe I was right the first time – a boyfriend looking for the girl who ran away, right?"

"Something like that," he replied, feigning desolation, "Can you tell me anything about her? She seems to have disappeared."

"And she'd better stay that way, too," Bernice responded. "If Mr. Al-Wadi's boys ever find her, she's dead meat."

"What?" Brandt replied, doing his best at pretended trepidation, "Whatever for?"

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you, since you know her, Robby Boy, or Tommy boy, whichever the case may be. She never got the chance to perform onstage. Instead, she skipped out on Mr. Al-Wadi."

"Skipped out, to where?" he replied.

"Nobody knows, and it's a damn good thing for her, I'll tell you that. Because before she went, she whacked Mr. Al-Wadi with an ash tray, a big marble one. Knocked his eye right out of its socket! Damn near killed him, but he's gonna be alright."

"She knocked out one of his eyes?" Brandt replied with affected surprise.

"Damn straight she did. And they couldn't fix it, so he ain't gonna be real pleasant to her when he finds her, if you know what I mean, Tommy boy."

Acting as if this was news to him, he murmured as if to himself, "Damn, so she's on the run. I get it."

"Yep. You got it," she replied, "Too bad. She was a real sweet kid, you know, and built like a bombshell. She had real potential. The boss wouldda taken real good care of her. Instead, as soon as the boys find her, she's gonna end up at the bottom of some large body of water wearing concrete boots. And believe me, Tommy boy, they'll find her. They won't stop looking till they've turned over every rock bigger than a lizard's dick on this whole damn planet."

Brandt stared at her morosely, and realizing that there was nothing more to be said, he slowly got up and mumbled grimly, "Thanks Bernice, I really appreciate it. Thanks a lot."

"Sure," she replied, "Any time."

As he traipsed towards the exit, she called out, "Tommy!" at which Brandt continued walking. She repeated more forcefully, "You, Tommy!"

Startled, he turned around and, eyeing her sheepishly, he realized that she had outwitted him yet again. Seeing his embarrassment, she exclaimed, "Yeah, I thought so. You ain't no Tommy boy. You're just another one of those lonely guys, ain't you! Was she your girl back in Nebraska?"

Hanging his head in an admission of guilt, he replied awkwardly, "Yes, she was, Bernice."

She responded empathetically, "Well, Tommy boy, or whatever your name is, I hope you find her, and if you do, you take good care of her, you hear? She's a good kid."

Suddenly regaining his composure, he inquired, "Just one last question, Bernice - you don't seem to care much for Mr. Al-Wadi. So why do you continue working for him?"

Sipping her coffee as if she was contemplating exactly how to reply, Bernice murmured sagely, "Because my sense of morality is exceeded by my instinct for survival."

Brandt peered at her and, realization slowly dawning on him, he replied, "Got it...perfectly clear to me. Thanks Bernice. Bye."

Thereafter he drove back to the hotel and, catching a couple of hours of sleep, he simply couldn't seem to stay in bed past sunrise. Having attempted for several weeks to piece together what Patience might have done after her escape that night, his impression of his lone encounter with her was that while she was perhaps naive, she was also anything but obtuse.

If as he suspected she was in fact quite intelligent, he now asked himself, "Suppose I was dressed like a freak so that I stood out in a crowd, and faced with the necessity of getting out of Las Vegas as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, what would I do?" The answer that immediately came back to him was, "Don't leave by any means that is traceable." Suddenly suspecting that she might have hitch-hiked, a new question came to mind, "Where would she have hitch-hiked to?"

He quickly downloaded a map of the U.S., examining it for the better part of an hour. Because she was from Nebraska, he assumed that she would head in a general eastward direction, thereby making it unlikely that she would have gone to Los Angeles. At any rate, he could easily check out that possibility when he got back home on Sunday.

Reasoning that she wouldn't have gone directly north in winter, he suddenly hit on the issue of what she had been wearing when she left Al-Wadi's office. "Hell," he realized to himself, "She had to have removed the berka in order to escape the Lido Hotel."

How she had been recaptured by Al-Wadi was unclear to him, but the fact that she had struck Al-Wadi suggested that she had for some reason returned to his office after the bombing. That being the case, Al-Wadi could well have had his men take her clothing as a means of preventing her escape, meaning that she might not have had much clothing at all!

This suspicion, together with the fact that the bombing had occurred in February, provoked him to focus on destinations to the south of Las Vegas. The answer that immediately jumped out at him was Phoenix. Armed with this new possibility, he grabbed a quick breakfast and headed directly for Phoenix.

Having thought things through in route, he made directly for the bus station on his arrival in Phoenix. Once there he described a woman with green eyes and wearing a strange hairdo to several employees, and within minutes he located a ticket agent who confirmed having seen a woman with that style of hairdo a few weeks earlier. Rewarded monetarily, the man volunteered the single word, "Dallas."

Having justified the long drive, he turned to leave. But, suddenly thinking better of it, he turned back and asked the agent, "Anyone else ask about this woman in the past few weeks that you can recall?"

Still grinning at his unexpected windfall, the agent responded, "Nope, not a soul."

The return drive to Las Vegas fairly flew by, Brandt convinced that Patience was most likely safe somewhere in the eastern half of the country. The trail had once again become blazing hot.

The following morning Brandt drove back to Pasadena, buoyed by the now renewed prospect of locating Patience. Unfortunately, it would be four long years before he was able to trace her whereabouts further.

Las Vegas – A Week Later

**Wassim jumped up** as Mr. Al-Wadi entered the office, exclaiming, "Welcome, Mr. Al-Wadi, it's good to have you back."

"Thanks," Mr. Al-Wadi replied. "That hospital was a real pain, but the rehab center was even worse. What a dump! I couldn't wait to get out of there. Nothing but a bunch of old people waiting to die, if you ask me."

"It must have been difficult for you, sir," Wassim replied. "I hated just visiting!"

Al-Wadi grabbed a scotch and water and, collapsing on the sofa, he inquired pointedly, "Are there any developments regarding our escapee?"

"Cold trail, sir. Our agents have been searching everywhere, but so far they've uncovered nothing of significance."

"I want that bitch found, damn it! She's going to pay for what she did to me. You tell them they'd better find her soon, or I shall not be happy with them. And tell them that I want her alive. We shall see how she likes losing an eye. An eye for an eye will be quite appropriate for that bitch, and then we're going to ever so slowly slice and dice her into pieces so tiny that she'll fit between a lizard's lips. Before I've finished with her, she'll beg me to put her out of her misery."

"Understood, sir. How is your eye?"

"What do you mean, how's my eye, Wassim! The damn thing looks in whatever direction it wants to, and it still hurts like hell when I go to bed at night. I won't ever quit until I capture that bitch, if it's the last thing I ever do!"

Regretting having brought it up, Wassim murmured, "Yes, sir."

Mr. Al-Wadi sucked in an enormous gulp of scotch and, displaying a sinister expression, he asked, "So what's the scoop on Navid. Did you take care of him like I instructed?"

"Yes, sir. We dumped him out in the desert. He screamed like a newborn baby at the end."

"Excellent. After all the training he had, he should have known better than to do that. Never mind how he managed to take it, I still can't believe he was so stupid as to sell that picture of that bitch to that paper in Lincoln. He should have known that we'd find out it was him. Anyway, he got what he deserved."

"Yes, sir," Wassim replied. "We have a new agent to replace him, and he is aware what happened to Navid, so he won't give us any problems."

"Good," Al-Wadi replied and, apparently still adjusting to the foreign object planted within his face, he fingered his eye socket gingerly.
Chapter 3

The Road Forward

Pasadena – Fall 1997

**Tom surveyed the small crowd within the room,** noting that there seemed to be a few more present tonight than the normal four tables. There were fully thirty members of the campus men's bridge club, but rarely did more than half of them show up on a Friday night. Brandt had been elected president the previous year, but of late he had for some reason been playing hooky quite a bit. Interestingly, at that very moment Brandt entered the room, looking bedraggled and muted as usual.

"Hey, Brandt," Tom announced, "Come join Bill and me. All we need is a fourth to play a rubber, but in the meantime, we can play three handed."

"Thanks, Tom," Brandt responded absently.

At this, Bill put in, "Good to see you, Brandt. You've been AWOL quite a bit lately."

"Yeah, sorry about that, Bill," Brandt responded in embarrassment.

"What gives? Some big research contract?" Bill inquired in apparent curiosity.

Tom interjected, "Brandt's got himself a girlfriend, I'm afraid."

Eyes flashing ominously, Brandt cautioned, "Tom! That will do!"

"What the..." Bill interjected.

Tom replied pleasantly, "Pay no attention, Bill. Brandt has gone off the deep end."

Peering at Brandt, Bill asked pointedly, "Anything I can do to help, Brandt?"

"No, I'm just distracted a bit lately," Brandt hedged.

"That's an understatement," Tom observed and, seeing that Brandt had no intention of forthrightness, he added, "If you don't tell him, I will, Brandt."

"Oh, alright," Brandt sighed in obvious resignation, "If you must."

Accepting Brandt's surrender, Tom announced, "Brandt is searching for that woman that bombed the Lido Hotel in Las Vegas last spring."

"What! Why on earth for?" Bill queried dubiously.

"It gives him an excuse to develop his sleuthing software," Tom put in, "Not only that, he also gets his jollies making believe that she's somehow real."

"Oh, cut it out!" Brandt murmured, "That's about enough of that, Tom!"

"See!" Tom crowed victoriously.

Seeing that Brandt was deadly serious about this search, Bill volunteered, "This sounds like something that could be quite important. Perhaps it's even something you could use some help with, Brandt."

Tom now interjected, "It's a matter of Patience, Bill."

"I've got plenty of patience. Try me!" Bill suggested empathetically.

Brandt now interrupted, saying, "It's Patience with a capital P, Bill."

"What?"

"Her name is Patience – Patience Walker," Tom interjected.

"Oh, I _see_ ," Bill responded, "What do you know about her, Brandt?"

"Oh, he knows quite a lot," Tom interrupted.

"Like what?" Bill inquired with apparent interest.

"He's actually met her," Tom observed, "And he is certain that she was kidnapped and forced to do it under duress. And now she's disappeared. So he's searching for her in an attempt to restore her good name."

"Wow! That is quite a story, Brandt," Bill rejoined, "In fact, I'd like to help you with this. Actually, I should think that when the other guys in the club hear about this, they will want to help out as well."

"That's not necessary," Brandt countered wearily.

Plowing ahead, Bill suggested, "We can form a group of concerned faculty. We'll call it 'Restoring Patience'."

At this Tom agreed excitedly, "Say, that's not a bad idea, Bill," thereby inducing Brandt to glare at him in abject misery.

The cat having now escaped from the bag, so to speak, there was no turning back. By the time the evening had ended, the membership of the bridge club had voted unanimously to form the new group. What it was actually about and where they were headed with it was anyone's guess.

Pasadena – Spring, 1999

**Brandt's office desk** phone rang offensively and, yanking it groggily from the cradle, he growled with that distinct Scottish accent of his, "MacCauley here."

"Hey Brandt, it's Tom," a voice on the other end replied.

Reverting momentarily to the brogue of his upbringing, Brandt answered pleasantly, "Och aye, Tom. Whit's oop?"

Chuckling at Brandt's bizarre vernacular, Tom responded, "Bill Wilkins called me this morning."

"He did? What does that boy scout want now?"

"Aw, don't talk about him that way, Brandt. He just wants to help, you know."

"Yeah, you're right, Tom. I just get a little peeved at his relentless manic personality, I suppose."

"Right, but he means well, Brandt."

"So _what_ does he mean well about this time, Tom?"

"He thinks we should go public with this thing, Brandt."

"Oh, that. I know, he tried it out on me. I told him no way."

"But think about it, Brandt. Restoring Patience could become a world-wide organization. We could start to make a real difference. If we can't help the actual Patience, perhaps we can at least help the other downtrodden of the world, all those women who have suffered through something similar to what happened to Patience."

"I don't think I'm up to it, Tom," Brandt replied exhaustedly, "After all, it's just an idea we tossed around in the Friday night bridge game, and it somehow germinated into a monster."

"I thought you'd say that, but I'm afraid that you may not have any choice, Brandt," Tom responded.

"Oh, what makes you think that?"

"Well, it seems that Bill has pulled a fast one on you."

"Oh? What has he done now?"

"He's gone around behind your back and appealed directly to the other members."

"Oh, damn. That sounds serious indeed. What did he do, threaten to depose me as club president?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that. He simply appealed to them using the same method that you used two years ago, the very first time that you discussed it with them."

"How so?"

"He said that they had a civic responsibility as members of Restoring Patience."

At this Brandt chuckled and responded, "Why that sneaky bastard. He's outmaneuvered me at my own game!"

"I'm afraid he has, Brandt."

"Sooo, what do you suggest I do, Tom?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I agree with Bill. If you're asking me for advice, I think you ought to go along. It seems to be the will of the entire bridge club."

"What about Patience?" Brandt asked inanely.

"What about her, Brandt? The trail has grown cold, I mean, frozen, absolute zero. You may one day find her, or you may never hear from her again. In either case, in the interim you'll be living up to your sworn oath to protect the Patiences of the world."

"Alright, Tom. You've convinced me. I'll contact the membership and solicit a vote. If it passes, we'll go public. But I for one think this is just plain crazy – expanding a men's bridge club into a...a...an...I don't even know what to call it!"

"Great," Tom replied. "Listen, I know this is going to put an additional burden on you, but we'll all pitch in and help. You'll be glad you did this, I'm positive."

"Yeah, right," Brandt replied sarcastically, "I'm already beginning to be sorry."

Two months later Restoring Patience was incorporated as a 501(c)(3) non-profit. The members of the club took up a collection and used the proceeds to hire a secretary, who was assigned to Brandt. They had of course elected him to be CEO and President of the corporation, Brandt agreeing to continue in his role without recompense. In addition, they elected Bill Wilkins chairman of the board, and nine other guys were elected members of the board. Bill used his prodigious supply of energy to take on the challenge of raising money. Brandt's responsibility was to focus on both discovering and aiding women who had been exploited, especially those who had been physically and/or emotionally scarred.

Brandt subsequently hired a woman named Meriam Scott into the secretarial position, and she turned out to be extremely competent at her job. Assigned the duty of identifying potential candidates for support of any kind by Restoring Patience, she also lit into the responsibility of attracting funding from foundations that might be inclined to support their worthy cause. Within a short time Restoring Patience had begun to attract a name for itself and what with the board screening cases involving mistreated women that Meriam brought forward for consideration, it was not long before Meriam found it necessary to hire two assistants who were responsible for following up on these cases.

Brandt now had three jobs, and though he had his heart in all three, the one he remained most deeply committed to was finding the now long lost Patience. But, well aware that it would become essential for the purpose of locating Patience when it reached maturity, he concentrated for the moment on his pattern recognition algorithm.

Because leading the corporation was the least of Brandt's concerns, he very quickly handed over day-to-day operations to Meriam, who was shortly promoted by the board to Vice-President of Operations. Restoring Patience was now fully operational, the annual report for the first year listing twenty-seven women who had been measurably aided by Restoring Patience.

Brandt had no idea how long he could keep juggling all of these responsibilities. For the time being he found little time for sleep, much less leisure.

Dallas – July, 2001

**On completing the development of** **his newest algorithm, Brandt** determined that his technology was now sufficiently advanced for his long-delayed trip to Dallas. Arriving non-stop from Los Angeles on a torpid day in July, he stopped by the American Airlines office, where he managed to gain clandestine access to an employee's computer during the lunch hour. As luck would have it, he found the reservation he was searching for in short order. She had flown to New York City on February 25, 1997, four days after leaving Las Vegas. After four years, the trail was about to warm considerably.

Pasadena – Mid-Summer

**As Brandt already knew full well,** Patience had not used her own credit card since that night in Las Vegas. Instead, she had bought the plane ticket with cash. He had no idea where she had gotten it from, but he suspected that she had been aided by a friend in New York.

His attention now focused on New York City, he realized that even if she was still in hiding therein, he was dealing with a needle in a human haystack that contained twenty million inhabitants. In order to solve that problem, he was relatively certain that his pattern recognition algorithms would need to rise to new levels of intricacy.

He would now need to develop a fully three dimensional facial recognition algorithm, the holy grail of pattern recognition. This he did, at least to a first generation, subsequently putting it to the test. Over the next few months he ran his algorithm through the employment files of as many New York based companies as possible.

One day, recalling that she had worked summers at Starbuck's in Lincoln, he decided to run his algorithm through the New York Starbuck's database. His new algorithm struck pay dirt, finding a match for an employee named Christine Black. When he brought her employee I.D. photo up on the screen, his heart jumped into his throat. It was Patience, he was absolutely certain of it. Although her hair was quite different, there was no mistaking those green eyes. Unfortunately, the home address she had given her employer turned out to be bogus. Albeit begrudgingly, Brandt was forced to admit his growing admiration for her continued ability to cover her tracks.

Early September

**Because Brandt had several professional commitments** that required his full attention in August, he couldn't find time to get back to the search right away. When he finally found time, he tried hacking into banking credit card files, obtaining a hit with the name Christine Black on September 8th. It listed an address in Greenwich Village. He immediately booked a flight to New York City for the afternoon of September 10.

New York City, September 10, 2001

**Arriving late that evening, Brandt** booked into a hotel on Broadway a couple of blocks from the address given on her credit card statement. After four years, he was finally closing in on the mysterious and fleeting Patience Walker.

Standing in line in a coffee shop on Broadway near West Fourth Street the following morning, Brandt suddenly noticed a buzz running through the crowd standing in line. Glancing outside, he observed people - lots of people. There was nothing unusual about so many people on the sidewalk in New York City, but this scene was somehow different. He realized that they were all standing motionless, everyone staring towards the south, gaping at something in the sky. Literally everyone within his field of vision was standing motionless, apparently transfixed by something unseen.

The entire line within the coffee shop abruptly evaporated, the shop emptying within a matter of seconds. Having no idea what was going on, he followed the crowd out onto the sidewalk and, peering in the direction that everyone else was staring, he saw it. There, less than three miles away, the World Trade Center was trailing an enormous plume of smoke. Having no earthly idea what had caused such a bizarre scene, he glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to nine.

Everyone chattered and gestured, staring in confusion at the scene unfolding before them. Taking the opportunity presented by the confusion to go back inside the coffee shop, he bought a large coffee and a scone from the lone worker who had remained doggedly behind the counter. Purchasing an orange juice just for good measure, he hurried back onto the street, learning shortly thereafter that a plane had struck the North Tower. By now, it being surmised by many that it was not an accident, talk had turned to the possibility of an act of terrorism. Standing motionless with the dumbstruck crowd, he simply munched on his meager breakfast, helplessly observing it all in utter disbelief. Little did he know it was the last food he would consume for the next twelve hours.

As he stood watching in stunned disbelief, a blur came rapidly into view in the sky, a second plane striking the South Tower. People everywhere suddenly ducked reflexively, screams and moans simultaneously bursting forth from every direction along the street. Brandt checked his watch a second time. It was now five minutes past nine.

The crowd continued growing, as more and more people poured out onto the streets from offices and apartments on either side of the street. New arrivals to the throng exclaimed that it was playing out on the television, that reports had confirmed that it was definitely a terrorist attack. There was now a growing sense of pandemonium, and like everyone else that day, Brandt had no earthly idea what to do. He simply stood rooted to his spot in a state of profound shock, watching this tragedy of unimaginable proportions unfold.

Both damaged buildings were by now spewing massive plumes of ebony smoke, a circling helicopter visible a safe distance from the towers. To Brandt's horror, the South Tower slowly began collapsing from the top down. It commenced sinking downwards and, as it did so, it spewed an enormous halo of smoke and debris in every direction. Beyond all belief, as if in slow motion, the entire South Tower disappeared before his very eyes. Virtually everyone within the crowd by now sobbing in despair, the scene unfolding before them exceeded comprehension. Sinking to their knees, a few appeared to be convinced that it was the end of the world.

Suspecting that there were worse things to come before it was all over, Brandt headed back towards his hotel a block away. Arriving within, he discovered an enormous throng of people in the lobby, many of whom were shouting and gesturing wildly. It was total chaos.

Unable to think of anything useful to do, he decided to go up to his room and see what he could discern from the television. Turning on the TV, he found the scene unfolding on nearly every station. As he watched, the North Tower collapsed before his eyes. A short time later, he heard that there were two additional planes in the attack, and that one had struck the Pentagon in Washington.

The local stations were instructing everyone to go to their respective homes until the crisis had passed. Under the circumstances, he felt it was best to stay put and wait it out. Deciding to give Tom a call, he pulled out his cellphone and, glancing down at the screen, he realized that he had forgotten to disengage the silent mode earlier that morning. There were nineteen phone messages, eight alone from Tom. Attempting to return the call, he found that his phone had no service, realizing with little surprise that the system was overloaded. He tried the hotel land line, finding it busy as well. This was developing into a catastrophe of truly global proportions.

Continuing to watch the TV for lack of anything else to do, he attempted to make a phone call every few minutes. Finally, around one o'clock in the afternoon he got through to Tom.

"Are you alright?" Tom boomed into his ear.

"Yes, Yes, I'm okay. I'm in the hotel," he replied.

"Where are you?" Tom responded.

"I'm about two and a half miles from the World Trade Center, or what used to be the World Trade Center," he responded lamely.

"What's it like? Is it bad?"

"Yeah, it's a real mess here, Tom. Nothing's working. The subway's shut down. Everyone is being forced to get home on foot. Ten million people have suddenly become pedestrians. It's bad. I have no idea what to do. I'm just sitting in my hotel room watching TV, trying to stay out of the way."

"That sounds like the smart thing to do, Brandt. I'm afraid you may be stuck there for quite a while. They've shut down airline service nationwide, you know."

"Yeah, I heard."

"Brandt, did you find her? Did you find Patience?"

"No, not yet. I was down on the street, not two blocks from her apartment when it happened. She was probably at work by then. I'll walk over as soon as possible and see if I can locate her."

"Best of luck, guy," Tom replied. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to be calling you often for the next few days, just to see how you're doing, okay?'

"Yeah, that's fine. I think I'll probably need some communication with the outside world. I feel like I'm in the middle of a war zone."

"Okay, hang in there buddy. I'm glad you're safe," and at this he hung up.

Brandt attempted to take a nap, but it was absolutely no use. He simply sat around watching the news on the TV for the rest of the afternoon. Finally, unable to contain himself longer, he decided to see if he could locate Patience. He went down on the street, where he encountered the strangest thing he'd ever seen in New York City. There was virtually no one on the street anywhere. It was as if everyone had taken the day off and, in a strange sort of way, it was true. Off in the distance he could hear the continual wail of sirens coming from the direction of the now destroyed World Trade Center.

He walked three blocks south and, turning left, he realized that he would be at Patience's apartment in one more block. He was almost there when a policeman stopped him and, informing him that there was a curfew, he instructed him to go back home. Under the circumstances, he had no choice but to turn around and go back to the hotel. Once again fate had intervened and kept him from finding Patience.

By the time he arrived back at the hotel, very little was functioning within. Although the crowd in the lobby had by now dissipated, there were hastily scribbled signs asking for everyone to be patient, promising that full services would be restored as soon as possible. He decided to return to his room, hoping to get some much-needed sleep.

Once back in his room, he suddenly realized that he had not eaten since morning. Feeling quite fortunate to have a mini-bar, he raided it for any sort of sustenance that he could find. Within an hour he had consumed a sufficient collection of food and alcoholic beverages that he was able to get some sleep. The following morning he arose early and, heading back downstairs to reconnoiter, he found much the same scene. Little traffic was moving on the street, many of the hotel services remaining temporarily suspended.

With little else to do, he decided to attempt to make his way to Patience's apartment a second time, and this time he made it all the way there. Arriving at the building, he punched the buzzer elatedly, only to hear a feminine voice snarl threateningly over the intercom, "Go away!" There was a momentary pause, the voice then saying, "Wait, who is it?"

"Patience? Is this Patience?" Brandt queried.

"What? There is no Patience here. Go away!" the voice replied, and it was obvious that it was not the voice that he recalled from the dark recesses of his memory.

Examining the listings on the buzzers to ensure that he had pushed the correct one, and confirming that he had, he read the name above the button and immediately pressed the buzzer a second time. The voice answered again, exclaiming, "I told you – go away!"

"Wait, Miss Moreland, Barbara Moreland, my name is Brandt MacCauley. I've come a long way looking for Patience...Patience Walker. Can you tell me - does she live here?"

There was a silence on the other end. At length, the voice inquired, "Who did you say you are?"

"I'm Dr. Brandt MacCauley. I am a professor at Cal Tech in California. I'm looking for an acquaintance of mine. Her name is Patience Walker, although I believe that she is now living at this address under the name Christine Black."

The door lock disengaged, the voice responding, "Please, Mr., er, Dr. MacCauley, come up."

Brandt trudged up the four flights of stairs, eventually arriving at the door, whereupon he knocked gingerly and, awaiting a response, he heard a muffled voice say from within, "Please stand in front of the peep hole."

Following her instructions precisely, he heard her voice continue, saying. "Turn around, full circle. That's good." The door then opened abruptly, a woman glaring at him from behind a safety chain. "Hi, I'm Barbara Moreland, Christine's roommate. She's not here right now. Can I help you?"

Sensing something amiss, Brandt replied, "What? Not here! But there's nothing moving in New York City right now. Everyone is at home. What, is she on vacation or something?"

Apparently sensing that he was truly concerned, she responded, "Wait a minute," and at this the door closed, only to be reopened wide. "Please, come in," she said flatly, turning to lead him inside.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" she offered. She was wearing a housecoat, obviously draped over her nightgown. In this newfound world, there had been no need for her to get dressed this morning.

"Oh, that would be really nice," Brandt replied gratefully, "Coffee is really scarce in this part of the world this morning," and it was not meant to be a joke, all sense of humor having fled the entire city.

Pouring him a cup, she pushed it forward, saying, "Sooo...strange times, eh, Dr. MacCauley?"

"Brandt, please, Miss Moreland. I believe that you will want to call me by my first name when you know the reason that I am here."

"Okay, Brandt, what brings you to our doorstep? How is it that you know Christine's real name?"

"It's quite a long story, which I intend to tell you in full detail, but first can you tell me where she is?"

Barbara stared forlornly at him, answering, "I don't know...I don't know where she is."

Peering doubtfully at her for a moment, he responded, "Well, have you checked where she works, at Starbuck's?"

"How do you know where she works?" she replied suspiciously.

"I don't know where she works," he corrected her, "I only know who she works for. So exactly where does she work?"

"She works at the World Trade Center, at least she did until yesterday," she replied woefully.

"Oh, my God, no!" he blurted out reflexively and, slumping in disbelief, he blurted, "Where exactly did she work in the WTC?"

"She worked at a small stand on the ninety-fifth floor."

"Which tower?"

"The North Tower," she replied in abject misery.

"My...God..." he stammered, stumbling over his own words. He contemplated momentarily, then gaped at her, exclaiming, "My God, Oh, my God. I missed her by a single day. All these years, searching for her, and I missed her by a single day. Oh, God, I could have saved her, and now she's probably dead!"

At the sound of his final word she burst into tears and lunged into his arms, the two of them weeping in the arms of strangers over a person that he'd barely even met, in a city turned upside down by events beyond their control.

The next few days were a jumble of confusion as Brandt and Barbara attempted unsuccessfully to find out anything at all about Patience. The name Christine Black was of course released on the long list of missing people, but no one in a position of authority could give them any further information whatsoever. They were just two more people among thousands who were looking for loved ones, very few of whom were receiving any news at all, much less good news.

As the possibility of another terrorist attack receded, New Yorkers began struggling with the process of reconfiguring their lives to accommodate this new reality that not only had changed their skyline, but had altered their entire world. Within a few days the subway was running at full schedule, most restaurants had reopened, automobile traffic struggled back to normality, and people had gone back to work. Perhaps the last to regain its former level of activity was air travel. Few people felt the slightest inclination to board an airplane any time soon.

Brandt and Barbara attended a candlelight vigil for those who were dead or still missing, the name Christine Black among those listed. Barbara subsequently held a small gathering composed of Christine's closest friends, the consensus among them being unanimous that Christine had been a lovely young lady struck down unfairly in the prime of life.

After several days, the time came when Brandt realized that he had to let go and return to Los Angeles. On the last day that he was in New York, Barbara had dinner with him at an Italian restaurant in the village. "Brandt, you never really told me any details about your past history with Christine, I mean Patience. Since this may be my last chance to learn the whole story, could you fill me in?"

"Sure, I never really meant to keep it from you, but we were diverted by momentous events almost from the second we met two weeks ago, Barb."

"Yeah, tell me about it," she responded dejectedly, "I'm still in shock."

"Me, too," Brandt replied, "The truth is, I only barely met Patience. You see, I was in Lincoln two days before the bombing in Las Vegas."

"Oh, my," Barbara replied in surprise, "This is going to be interesting."

Brandt proceeded to give Barbara the details, especially those related to the development of Restoring Patience. He recounted in detail his search for Patience over the four-year period, including how he had developed software that had been essential to his discovery that she lived in New York City. He left out nothing, or so he thought he had.

Barbara, eventually unable to contain herself longer, exclaimed, "That's all very interesting, Brandt, but it doesn't really explain one thing, and that is _why_ you did it."

"Did what?" he replied, hoping that she wasn't asking what he indeed feared she was asking.

"You know what I'm talking about, Brandt. Don't become evasive with me after what we've been through together the last two weeks. Why did you spend the last four years of your life searching for Patience?"

At this, Brandt's visage blanching at the realization that he wasn't going to be able to escape from her, he mumbled evasively, "Damn, why do women have to be so perceptive," then added, "I doubt that I would be telling you anything that you don't already know, Barbara."

"Tell me anyway," she responded inquisitively and, leaning forward, she asked pointedly, "Go ahead, humor me, my new-found friend!"

Brandt grinned sheepishly and, unable to evade her penetrating stare, he confessed, "Oh, alright then, I suppose it was personal. I mean, well, I seem to have been obsessed with her. Oh, hell, the truth is, I AM obsessed with her. Even though she is dead, I can't seem to get her out of my head. There was a point a couple of months after the bombing that I realized that I would never sleep again if I didn't do something. I've been at it ever since. And I am very much afraid that her death will not lay my compulsion to rest."

"Compulsion!" she exclaimed, "No one in their right mind would call that a compulsion, Brandtie boy!"

He stared at her in confusion, forcing her to spell it out for him, "You were in love with Patience, Brandt. And sadly, I'm afraid that you still are."

He stared at her, comprehension washing over him like a wave. Then, his shoulders slumping reflexively, he blurted forlornly, "Oh, my God, Barb, you may be right. Oh, my...perhaps I've been in love with a woman whom I barely even met, and now that she's dead, I've fallen even more deeply in love with her!"

He hung his head in misery and, placing one hand on his, she responded sympathetically, "If it's any consolation, I loved her, too, my dear friend."

Glancing up once again, and eyeing her disconsolately, he offered, "Thank you, Barbara. Thank you for these last two weeks. You allowed me into your life, and in doing so, you allowed me into hers. I came to know her like I never would have had you not befriended me. At least I will have that to remember her by."

Their goodbye the following morning was touching but brief, punctuated by a fierce embrace, each vowing to keep in touch. And then he said goodbye.

Las Vegas -February 21, 2002

**The gentlemen gathered** within the ballroom for dinner were clearly in a celebratory mood, sharing a great time of it on this festive occasion. Brandt gazed out over the improbably crowded room, his emotions somehow conflicted by a sense of the profound accomplishment made by the corporation, but tempered with the sadness of loss. Solemnly pondering events of the past five years, he contemplated how time seemed to have somehow raced away into the past, the loss of Patience the previous fall having terminally dispatched his sense of direction in life.

Summarily rising and approaching the podium, he announced, "Gentlemen, welcome to the Five-Year Reunion of Restoring Patience." Continuing with apparent sadness, he exclaimed, "I hope that this will be the first of many reunions of this type. Tonight, we have all come together for the very first time to celebrate the short life of Patience, who as we all know was killed in the North Tower of the World Trade Center on 9/11. I need not tell you the terms of Restoring Patience. However, tonight I will ask you to enter into an expanded rendition of our mutual enterprise. Gentlemen, on this somber occasion, I entreat you to expand Restoring Patience to include the Patiences of the entire world." At this, the room broke into spontaneous applause.

Using his hands to silence the group, he added, "Gentlemen, I have a secret that I have held back from you, one that I believe will only serve to amplify your interest in our cause. As you all know, five years ago I asked you to join me in attempting to help Patience Walker, and with time that objective expanded into a quest to protect other women against exploitation. I have held a secret for the past five years, a secret that I found exceedingly difficult to conceal, but one that I felt necessary to withhold so long as Patience was alive. Now that she is no longer with us, I can tell you that not only was Patience the purpose behind Restoring Patience, she was also herself the instigator of her cause, rather than I." At this, a few murmurs were heard, but Brandt held his hands up once again.

"Gentlemen, on the night of February 21, 1997, exactly five years ago on this very night, Patience herself was affected far more profoundly than you have heretofore been led to believe. As you all know, she escaped her captors. What you did not know until now is that on that night Patience very nearly killed Hakeem Al-Wadi. I have been able to confirm that Mr. Al-Wadi did not fall down the stairs at his office in Las Vegas. Instead, during her escape shortly after the bombing of the Lido Hotel, Patience struck Mr. Al-Wadi so hard that she knocked out one of his eyes, thereby sending him to the hospital with a severe concussion that required brain surgery. He very nearly died." There was stunned silence in the audience. Not a man moved for what seemed an eternity.

Suddenly, Bill Wilkins rose slowly from his seat and, clapping his hands once, then twice, and then a third time, the entire room erupted in a standing ovation in honor of the now deceased true founder of Restoring Patience, the woman who had been the first to honor their commitment – Patience herself.
Chapter 4

Unexpected Aide

Las Vegas – Fall, 2002

**Wassim traipsed into** Mr. Al-Wadi's office, appearing as if something suspicious was up, but before he could even get out a word, Mr. Al-Wadi volunteered nonchalantly, "What's up, Wassim. You look as if your mother died."

"Sir, we have a problem."

Accustomed to Wassim's overreactions, Al-Wadi replied, "What else is new?"

"It's that dancer, Antonia, she is making trouble again."

Rolling his one good eye, Mr. Al-Wadi inquired in exasperation, "Damn, what does she want this time, Wassim?'

"She wants to go home. She says she's done, sir."

"Funny she should say that, because I agree with her, Wassim. She is getting old. How old is she, anyway?"

"I don't quite know, sir, maybe thirty? Let's see, it's been nine years since we dished her out of that crumby joint in Harlingen, down in South Texas. Remember?"

"Yes, of course I remember. She was a little pudgy back then, but she could sure shake her tailfeathers on that pole. I don't know why she keeps complaining, we made her quite a lot of money."

"Yes sir, but she didn't want to come here, remember?"

"Yes, you don't need to remind me. She didn't want to drop her g-string. I remember, she thought that sort of thing was immoral or something."

"That's the one, sir. And that's the problem, she's bringing up that old crap about being kidnapped. She's threatening to expose us. She says she has evidence, and she'll give it to the authorities if we don't give her 'a pension'."

"Ha! That's a good one, Wassim! A pension! What are we, a retirees' home or something? A pension...ha! Imagine that, Wassim – a lowlife stripper attempting to blackmail one of the most powerful people in the entire world!"

Gazing momentarily at Mr. Al-Wadi, Wassim asked surreptitiously, "So do you want us to do the same to her as the others?"

"Yes, please proceed, Wassim. But be careful. I've been thinking about her for some time, ever since she demanded that stupid raise two years ago. Here's how I want it handled. You give her the first payment, pay her well, say three thousand, and pay for her plane ticket, too. Get her on the plane home, and make sure she goes back to Harlingen, okay? Then give her a couple more payments, one each month. Make sure it's cash, okay? Then you and Sadiq drive down there, no plane tickets, absolutely nothing that can be traced. Drive down there and give her the final payment, and make it look like a drug thing. She'll be right there on the border with Mexico, so the authorities will think nothing of it. I can see the headline now – 'Former Las Vegas Stripper Murdered in Desperate Drug Deal'."

"Yes, sir. I've got it. We'll get right on it."

"Good! Now wipe that sullen look off your face and get outta here, Wassim. We have much bigger problems to deal with!"

Pasadena – March, 2003

**Brandt had just stepped** from the shower in his apartment when the phone rang. "Hello," he spluttered into the receiver.

"Hello, my name is Frank Hollister. Is this Dr. Brandt MacCauley?"

"Yes, what can I do for you, Mr. Hollister."

"Dr. MacCauley, I'm a federal agent with the FBI. I'm wondering if I could have a few words with you regarding your organization, Restoring Patience."

"FBI? What's this about? Am I in some sort of trouble?"

"No, no, Dr. MacCauley, it's nothing like that. If you were in trouble, I wouldn't be contacting you by phone. On the contrary, I think that you may be able to help me. It's regarding one Patience Walker."

"But she's dead!"

"Yes, Dr. MacCauley, I am aware of that. But you did know her, did you not?"

The early morning cobwebs just beginning to disappear, he mumbled, "Know her...know her...I really don't think that would be an accurate description, Mr. Hollister. I suppose that you could say that I _met_ her once."

"Close enough, sir, and I get your meaning, as I am familiar with the exact circumstances to which you are referring."

Suddenly intrigued, Brandt replied, "Oh, so you know about my visit to Lincoln in 1997?"

"Yes, we do, Dr. MacCauley. And we believe that it may be of some significance with regard to our investigation."

"What sort of investigation, Mr. Hollister."

"I'm not at liberty to say over the phone. However, if we could meet for coffee, I would be more than happy to elucidate for you."

As Brandt was still entangled in the vestiges of his long compulsion, he responded accordingly, "Of course, Mr. Hollister, I'm at your service."

"Good. How about the Starbuck's opposite campus, say nine o'clock?"

"Sure, but can you make it nine-thirty? I'm not quite functioning yet this morning."

"Done. Goodbye, Dr. MacCauley."

"Goodbye," Brandt replied, but his caller had already hung up.

Two hours later he meandered into Starbuck's. Surveying the scruffily attired array of college students, he determined instantaneously that only one person in the entire establishment came close to the physical image stored within his mind, thereby leading him in the general direction of a fiftyish looking tall man dressed in an obviously worn black business suit who was silently perusing a copy of the Los Angeles Times.

As he glanced up he announced nonchalantly, "Dr. MacCauley," and subsequently presented his hand as Brandt came within hailing distance. Brandt approached and, grasping the outstretched hand, he observed him to say, "I'm Frank Hollister, which of course you already figured out. I'm afraid I don't blend in too well with the frequenters of this particular Starbuck's."

Brandt chuckled, sensing a certain fondness for his new acquaintance from the very first glance. Also stating the obvious, he replied facetiously, "Nor do I, Mr. Hollister, nor do I."

"Please, call me Frank," Frank responded, thereby signaling his shared impression that they had gotten off on the right foot with one another.

"Frank it is. And please sir, call me Brandt."

"My pleasure, Brandt. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

Smiling pleasantly, Brandt replied tongue-in-cheek, "Depends. Are there strings attached?"

"Nope, none at all," Frank responded with palpable candor.

"In that case, I shall have a tall latte with a double shot."

"Done," Frank replied and, sauntering over to the counter, he shot back over his shoulder, "Anything else?"

"Sure, get me a slice of coffee cake if you don't mind. But I'm warning you, I doubt that anything I could tell you would be worth such an investment."

Smiling over his shoulder, Frank responded knowingly, "We'll see about that."

It was a good start. Since Brandt had never rubbed elbows with an FBI agent, he hadn't known quite what to expect. However, he had surmised that this day would come sooner or later, given the nature of Restoring Patience. When Frank returned to the table with his 'bribe', Brandt was prepared for him, volunteering, "So, Patience Walker. What's on your mind, Frank?"

"I'm not going to beat around the bush with you, Brandt. I've done my homework, and I know that you're a tremendously talented man. So I assume that you already have an inkling of why I'm here. To get right to the point, I'm trying to nail Hakeem Al-Wadi - one of the most vile and vicious vermin that every walked on the face of this planet."

"You're telling me!" Brandt replied in obvious agreement. "I'd love to nail that bastard's balls to the inside of a whale's tonsils, just for the fun of seeing him shit his pants."

Unfazed by this, Frank responded, "Colorful thought, but I'd settle for just putting him behind bars."

"Yeah, I suppose I could settle for that," Brandt deadpanned, "And you think that I can help you do that?"

"As far-fetched as it may seem, I believe so."

Brandt rounded his lips into the shape of the letter O, whistled a small note of surprise, and commented surreptitiously, "Sounds like fun!"

"I was hoping you'd say that. But let me be clear about this, I'm in this for the long haul, and believe me, it's going to be a very long haul to nail this guy."

"What makes you say that?"

"Very smart, very cagey...and he controls a vast criminal organization. He's into drug trafficking, sex, money laundering, and gambling."

"Wow! I knew that he was rich and scummy, but I had no idea just how big a crime figure he was," Brandt replied in surprise.

"Yeah, he's big, real big. And as a result, it's going to take some serious magic to bring him down. We tried nailing him on a murder charge a few years back, but he killed off the prime witness. Now we're working on income tax evasion, but I have my doubts about the effectiveness of that approach as well. Recently, I've been looking at other options, an Achilles heel, if you will."

"Like what?" Brandt asked with growing interest.

"Well, you may not know this, but the guy we were trying to nail Al-Wadi for murdering was involved in the bombing of the Lido Hotel in Las Vegas."

At this admission Brandt jerked his head back and, arching an eyebrow in surprise, he rejoined, "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, he's the guy that took the photo of Patience Walker – the one that ended up in the Lincoln Journal Star. Al-Wadi found out about it and perfunctorily blew him away. His name was Navid Al-Hasawi. That got me to thinking about what happened the day of the bombing. Patience Walker's mother filed a missing persons report on her in Lincoln on February 25th, four days after Patience disappeared. So we've known about that from the very start. Unfortunately, it went cold when her mother died six weeks later, there being no one left to push Patience's case with the authorities. Eventually, I got involved with the Al-Wadi case. I did some research, and you started popping up wherever I turned. You've got a thing for Patience, haven't you, Brandt!"

Embarrassed by this accusation, Brandt nonetheless saw no point in denying it, "Damn straight I did."

"Did? Don't give me a line of crap, Brandt. You still do. Despite the fact that she was killed on 9/11, you're still obsessed with her."

"Okay, so I am. What of it?"

"Nothing. You can get your jollies any way you please. But here's the thing, between what you've been able to put together about what Al-Wadi did to Patience, and what I've been piecing together, we just might be able to assemble enough circumstantial evidence to indict that scumbag."

"But she's dead. The primary witness is dead."

"I know, I know, but I've got nothing better to go with at this point, Brandt."

"Why don't you chase down one of the other women he kidnapped?

"Can't. He never did kidnap another woman."

"What, you've got to be kidding me! That guy is a compulsive sadist. She can't have been the only one!"

"Oh, he kidnapped plenty of other women. I'd say at _least_ fifty. But he never ever did another kidnapping _in person_."

"Wow! I didn't know that, but, come to think of it, it does make sense. She must have scared the crap out of him when she got away."

"Bingo," Frank replied. "From then on, he made sure his goons did it. That way he could never be directly tied to the crime. As I said - cagey - but he made that one mistake, and she somehow got away."

"So, you think we can put together enough evidence to nail him?" Brandt asked incredulously.

"Maybe, maybe not. But from where I sit, it looks like it might be worth a shot," Frank volunteered with a note of finality.

"Whoa. That would be the arrest of the century, wouldn't it!" Brandt responded with obvious relish.

"Damn straight it would!"

"Okay, Frank, enough said. Count me in!"

Shortly thereafter, Brandt rose to leave, the two shaking hands as a demonstration of their new-found common obsession.
Chapter 5

Covert Compassion

Harvard University – March, 2004

**From his vantage point Brandt noticed** that the auditorium was packed with more than a thousand people hurriedly filing in for the opening of the conference. The crowd having eventually made their way to their seats, a distinguished looking gentleman climbed the stairs to the podium and commenced with, "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the opening session of the 29th World Congress on Applications in Computer Science. I am Dr. Weston Jackson, president of the American Society of Computing Science. Our plenary speaker needs no introduction. Dr. Brandt MacCauley is a professor in the Computer Science Department at Cal Tech. Dr. MacCauley obtained his Ph.D. from MIT, and prior to that he studied at Cambridge University.

"It would be an understatement to say that Dr. MacCauley is the wunderkind of pattern recognition on our planet today. He has published more than one hundred articles in prestigious journals. In addition, he has to date acquired four patents, and filed two additional patent disclosures dealing with pattern recognition. The title of Dr. MacCauley's talk today is "Facial Recognition – The Last Frontier of Pattern Recognition". Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dr. Brandt MacCauley." This announcement was greeted with wild applause.

Brandt rose from his seat and, gingerly mounting the narrow staircase to the stage, he strode to the podium. The applause dying down, he commenced his speech with, "Thank you for your kind introduction, Dr. Jackson. Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to be here to speak to you on this timely and important topic. As I'm sure you are all aware, the field of pattern recognition is a rapidly expanding subject, having exploded onto the computing stage little more than two decades ago. Although the field is embryonic on a chronological timescale, it will most likely become a mature technological discipline within the next two decades.

"So, where do we stand today with pattern recognition? As I'm sure you already know, the first widely utilized pattern recognition technology was the barcode, introduced in the railroad industry in the late 1960's, and this technology essentially grew out of work in the late 1940's by Bernard Silver at Drexel University, together with his friend Norman Woodland. Their technology, which was essentially an extension of Morse code, was awarded the first patent in this field on October 7, 1952. That technology, as well as UPC barcoding, utilizes an optical scanner to determine the widths of an array of lines that we are all familiar with, by simply observing the funny little lined box on any product that comes from our neighborhood grocery store. The first UPC barcode appeared on a pack of Wrigley's chewing gum in 1974, and the use of barcoding is indeed ubiquitous today, spanning nearly every industry worldwide. The important point to understand here is that barcoding is limited technologically because it is one dimensional in nature; that is, the technology only recognizes a pattern in one dimension, and that dimension is perpendicular to the array of lines, whereby the optical device measures the width of each line.

"Today, pattern recognition has become one of the grand challenges in the world of computer science. An example of a pattern recognition tool is the algorithm that determines whether your e-mail is spam or useful mail. This, of course, is an example of pattern recognition of symbolic text.

"A still more complicated subset of pattern recognition is the field of image analysis, which deals with the automated recognition of images. This is a highly mathematically based field of computer science that has global implications. Imagine if you will a world where traffic flow patterns are imaged by satellites and computers make cognitive decisions from these images that redirect vehicles so as to mitigate traffic congestion. Imagine a world where a simple tape of a terrorist's voice can be analyzed by pattern recognition software that can detect the identity of that person. Imagine a world in which an image of your fingerprint, or perhaps even more exotic, an image of your retina, can determine your identity. Imagine a world where images of patient's organs are taken using devices based on ultrasound, X-rays, or magnetic resonance imaging, and these images are processed digitally by image analysis software that detects defects such as pre-metastasized cancer cells, providing doctors the ability to make early diagnoses and thereby save lives. Ladies and gentlemen, these are just a few of the technological breakthroughs in pattern recognition that will become a part of the world of tomorrow. And you may be surprised to know that they will all be solved within the lifetime of nearly every person in the audience today.

"Now, I may be a bit egotistical about this, but in my opinion the greatest challenge of pattern recognition for computer scientists today is facial recognition. My opinion is of course due to the fact that facial recognition is my main area of research." At this pronouncement there were scattered twitters from the audience.

Continuing, Brandt added with an impish smile, "Now, you may be thinking to yourselves – 'What's the big deal with facial recognition? All you need to do is take a photo of the person, digitize it, and shuffle it into the deck, just like searching for a specific card in a deck of playing cards.' Technically, you would be correct, except that the deck of cards has seven billion cards in it - the number of people on this planet. So it's going to take a while for your algorithm to search through all seven billion of the cards. In fact, at the current speed of computers, it would take quite a while. My facial recognition algorithm, which incidentally is still far from capable of resolving most facial images accurately at this point in time, takes about 0.01 CPU seconds to compare two facial images on a high-end laptop. That means that it can compare about one hundred photos per second. That translates to 6,000 comparisons per minute, or 360,000 comparisons per hour. Skipping over a bit of math, that equals about sixty million comparisons per week. Thus, if you want to compare a given photo to a photo of every other person on Earth, it will take you a little under four months, given the state of technology of today's laptop computers.

"Suppose for a moment that the person that you are attempting to identify is a suspected felon, perhaps even a potential murderer. In that case, you might not _have_ four months to play around on your laptop searching for a psychopath who is bent on further mayhem within a much shorter time span. Unfortunately, there are essentially only two ways to speed up this search process. You need to either find a faster computer, or alternatively, you must find a way to improve the efficiency of your algorithm.

"Let's consider the first option – improving computer speed. There are also two options within this approach. If Moore's Law continues to work in the future, then some gains can be expected by simply waiting around a bit. Moore's Law predicts that computer speed will double every eighteen months, and that law has now been essentially correct for just about a century. So if that law continues in effect, a year and a half from now your laptop will perform the same search in two months instead of four. In three years, it will perform the search in one month, and in less than five years the search will take two weeks. I think that we can all see where this avenue is going. It's going to be quite some time before we get it down to an acceptable length of time from the standpoint of society's needs for most applications. Meanwhile, the criminals continue to escape the grasp of law enforcement.

"Okay, so let's suppose that instead of using a laptop, you use a much faster computer. For this type of problem, suppose you have access to a massively parallel computer. A reasonably available massively parallel machine today has about a thousand processers, and each of these can be utilized to run the algorithm simultaneously. This sounds promising, doesn't it? The math tells us that this will decrease your run time from four months to a little under twenty hours. Meanwhile, your felon has in most cases nonetheless managed to slip through your fingers. Still, it sounds much more doable, until you realize how much a massively parallel machine costs today, which is in excess of twenty million dollars. In fact, they are so expensive that law enforcement agencies cannot afford to dedicate them solely for the purpose of running facial recognition algorithms. What that means is that even if you can find a massively parallel machine to use, your job will be placed in a queue that will likely take at least twelve hours before it even begins to run the algorithm. Thus, the speedy computer approach is still many years away, and that's assuming that we have a robust facial recognition algorithm, which we most certainly do not have at this point in time.

"Now, let's consider the alternative approach – improving the efficiency of the algorithm. For example, consider using some pattern recognition technology to reduce the size of the deck of cards somewhat. For example, knowing the gender of the suspect would reduce the iterative process by a factor of two. Suddenly, your laptop will run through the deck in two months instead of four. Knowing a priori that the person is of Asian descent will further reduce the process by a factor of three, down to about twenty days. So now you're starting to make significant progress, and these improvements are all related to the field of pattern recognition. This approach would therefore appear to be more promising than finding a faster computer.

"But hold on a minute, my opening premise was that you had a photo, and that you were going to slide it within the deck and try to match it up to an _identical_ copy of the same photo. My friends, the world is not that simple. If you were looking for Osama Bin Laden, do you think that he would _voluntarily_ give you a copy of his most recognizable photo? Certainly not! And therein lies the ultimate challenge of facial recognition: when searching for a match to a given photo, the deck of photos that is being searched is a deck of photos that _does not contain the selfsame photo!_

"The problem now becomes infinitely more complex. First of all, how many photos are extant for each of you in the audience? Any takers?" Brandt scanned the audience for volunteers. Seeing none, he continued with, "Folks, statisticians tell us that the _average_ person on Earth has been photographed at least a thousand times. Most of you in this country have been photographed more than five thousand times in your lifetime. Now think about that for a moment. That means that the size of the deck of cards has just increased from seven billion to seven trillion cards. That means that in order for the algorithm to go through all of the available photos, the required computer time will increase from four months to _four thousand months!_ For those of you who are not into math, that's nearly three hundred and fifty years!

"And unfortunately, we still have not even begun to address the most difficult part of the problem. Ladies and gentlemen, the photos are all _different_ from the one that you are attempting to match them to! The person may have aged since the last photo was taken. They may have a new hairstyle. The camera angle may be different. They may have had facial surgery. The digital resolution of the photo may be poor. The person you are searching for may have gone to the beach and acquired a sunburn just before their photo was taken, which brings us to a whole subset of this field – how to deal with the differences in wavelengths of colors that show up in the photo under different lighting conditions. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the ultimate challenge in pattern recognition – facial recognition - and that is what I have come to talk to you about today."

Brandt then moved into the technical part of his talk, showing a dizzying array of mathematical formulas, each describing a different aspect of the challenges to be surmounted in order to solve this daunting problem. At the end of his presentation he received a standing ovation and, holding up his hands in a gesture that implied that their applause was excessive, he exclaimed, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your generous, and I might add –exuberant – response, but I am afraid that your reaction is premature. While much has been done, and I count myself fortunate to be among those that have contributed to the field of pattern recognition, I feel compelled to remind you that the problem of facial recognition remains an open issue at this time. However, with continued research, I hope to be among those who contribute to the ultimate resolution of this difficult problem in the not-too-distant future. Thank you!" At this, the audience applauded yet again.

Dr. Jackson climbed back up to the stage and, approaching the podium, he said, "Please, Dr. MacCauley, don't take your seat quite yet." He then turned to the audience and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, as I'm sure you are all aware, Dr. MacCauley is not only world renowned in this vital field of research, he is also a political activist and CEO of the rapidly growing worldwide organization named Restoring Patience. Please, Dr. MacCauley, could you tell us a bit about your organization?"

Smiling sheepishly, Brandt replied, "Of course, Dr. Foster, I'd be happy to say a few words about Restoring Patience," and, turning to face the audience, he recommenced with, "Ladies and gentlemen, seven years ago a young woman named Patience was kidnapped from Lincoln, Nebraska in the middle of the night. Subsequently flown to Las Vegas, she was forced against her will to bomb the Lido Hotel. As I'm sure many of you are already aware, Patience escaped her captors that very night, and for the next four years, she found it necessary to remain in hiding and in constant fear for her life. Unfortunately, Patience perished in the North Tower of the World Trade Center on 9/11.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I was fortunate to meet Miss Walker briefly, just two days before her kidnapping. By escaping her captors immediately after the bombing, she became the very first success story for Restoring Patience. That organization has now grown to worldwide proportions. The members of Restoring Patience are committed to the principal that all women have the basic human right to be protected against exploitation. To date, this organization has helped protect the rights of more than two hundred women in the United States alone. If you are interested in this worthy cause, I invite you to visit our website. Thank you." At this, the audience gave Brandt yet another ovation.

Dr. Foster now took the microphone, exclaiming, "Ladies and gentlemen, there you have it straight from the mouth of one the world's greatest computer scientists, but more importantly, one of the truly great humanists of our time. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in giving Dr. Brandt MacCauley one more measure of our appreciation for his important accomplishments!"

Los Angeles - 2005

**Taking his seat on the small stage, Brandt** noticed that although the set was brightly lit, the surroundings were elsewhere darkened. The two figures seated opposite one another were therefore arranged so as to make the camera angles ideal. Suddenly, the red light overhead disappearing, Brandt's television interviewer commenced with, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am your host, William Blackburn, and you're watching 'The Personal Side' on CBN. Tonight's guest is the imminent computer scientist, Dr. Brandt MacCauley, perhaps the world's foremost expert on pattern recognition. Dr. MacCauley, welcome to 'The Personal Side'!"

"Thanks Bill, it's a pleasure to be here tonight," Brandt replied with obvious self-assurance.

"So, Brandt - may I call you Brandt?"

Smiling graciously, Brandt responded, "Yes, of course."

"So, you're British, right?"

"Technically, that's correct, Bill, but no self-respecting Scot would own up to that moniker. I'm a Scot, born in Edinburgh."

"My mistake, Brandt. So it says here that you were educated at Cambridge, is that right?"

"Yes, that's correct, in computer science. I followed that up with a Ph.D. at MIT. Same field, of course."

"And for the past several years I understand you've been at Cal Tech."

"That's correct, Bill, since early 1997," Brandt replied.

"And you have six of the most significant patents in the world in pattern recognition. Tell our viewers about that, if you will."

"Pattern recognition is the ability to identify an object using artificial means. To put it in perspective, when we look at the face of another human being, most of us can immediately recognize that person. On the other hand, for a computer, this is not so trivial a task. The scientific community has been attempting to sort out this problem for quite some time, and I'm happy to say that we have made great strides in recent years."

"How so?"

"Well, you are all familiar with bar codes. That was developed in the last 1960's, and as such it is old technology today. It was a very simple model that uses optical equipment to identify the width of line segments, from which a numeric code can be extracted that defines the object that is scanned. On the other hand, when we look at a human face, we are looking at a three-dimensional image rather than a one-dimensional one such as that contained within bar codes, and that extension from one to three dimensions dramatically increases the difficulty of identifying the object."

"I see. So what are some of the applications of pattern recognition, Dr. MacCauley?"

"Good question. Our viewers need only watch current TV shows, things like NCIS and CSI. They will see pattern recognition algorithms being applied to things like fingerprints, human organs, metastasized cancer cells, astronomical photos, manufacturing product identification, money identification such as that found in soft drink machines, and finally, perhaps the most difficult pattern recognition problem - facial recognition - as I mentioned earlier."

At this, William Blackburn turned and, facing the camera, he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, as I said at the beginning of our show tonight, we are talking with Dr. Brandt MacCauley, who is considered to be the world's foremost authority on pattern recognition, and don't ask me how it's done, because it's over my head, and probably yours, too!" At this, he stopped and laughed at his own weak joke, as did Brandt.

Continuing, he now added, "But that's not what we're here to discuss tonight folks. We're here to talk about Dr. MacCauley's rather unusual involvement in the rapidly growing worldwide organization called Restoring Patience.

"Dr. MacCauley, what the heck is going on here? What is a crack scientist doing leading a civic organization?"

Suppressing a chuckle, Brandt replied, "That's a very good question, Bill. It's not something that I just up and decided to do, nor did I volunteer to do it. I was called to it, in a manner of speaking."

"Please enlighten, Brandt. Go on, if you will."

"It all started on a night eight years ago. I was a young faculty member at Cal Tech, and I was invited to give a seminar at Nebraska State University. During that visit I met a young coed named Patience Walker."

"At NSU," Bill interrupted, not asking it as a question.

"Yes, and, I'm embarrassed to say, I was quite taken with her, so much so that I followed up by attending an International Festival that very night for the purpose of seeing her again," Brandt replied with a sheepish grin. "Anyway, on that night she was part of an array of students who had dressed in traditional clothing from across the world. Miss Walker wore a full berka, one that displayed only her entrancing green eyes. Had I not been completely taken with her eyes, I doubt I would have noticed when, two days later, she was caught on camera in the act of bombing the Lido Hotel in Las Vegas."

"And why on earth was she involved in such a deplorable act?" Bill queried.

"Well, the evidence all points to kidnapping. You see, Miss Walker was spirited away from Lincoln on the very night that I met her, and for reasons that are yet unknown, she was forced to participate in the bombing against her will."

"And why is that so important?"

"Because I realized shortly thereafter that she had not only been kidnapped, but she had escaped her captors on that very night. And I somehow made it my mission to locate her. So Restoring Patience was subsequently formed by the members of the Cal Tech men's bridge club, and today, as you well know, it has grown into a worldwide organization that is committed to overcoming exploitation of women."

"Dr. MacCauley, that is a truly remarkable story. Let me say that I for one am most impressed with your discoveries in pattern recognition. However, your leadership of Restoring Patience is far more significant in my view. You are to be commended, sir."

"Thank you, Bill," Brandt replied.

"Just one more question before we cut to a commercial, Brandt. Whatever happened to Patience?"

At this Brandt announced, "After her escape Patience made her way to New York City, where she lived for four years. Unfortunately, she perished in the attack on the World Trade Center on 9/11," and at this last pronouncement his voice cracked audibly.

"Thank you, Dr. MacCauley. And there you have it folks, the nitty-gritty on the worldwide phenomenon that is Restoring Patience. I'm William Blackburn, and this is 'The Personal Side' on CBN. We'll be right back after these messages."
Chapter 6

Surviving

Pasadena – May, 2010

**Brandt found it difficult** to comprehend - Almost nine years had passed since 9/11, and it had now been a mind-boggling thirteen years since that fateful night in Las Vegas. He was beginning to come to the realization that his obsession with Patience was waning. He had long since accepted her death, but lately he had even begun to believe that he and Frank might never assemble enough evidence to indict Hakeem Al-Wadi. The obsession that had been the driving force for most of his adult life was finally drawing to a close. Before long he would have to let go of Patience altogether.

Sipping a resuscitative cup of coffee on a Saturday morning, he was surprised by the sound of his phone ringing, the ringtone slicing like a knife through his reverie. Yanking the phone irritably from its cradle, he heard a feminine voice on the line inquire, "Dr. MacCauley?"

"Yes, this is he, to whom am I speaking?" he replied.

"Dr. MacCauley, this is Jennifer Pettigrew. I'm from New York City. We met a few years back. Perhaps you remember me?"

"Yes, I do indeed remember you. You have short blonde hair, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Well, at least I did then. I've grown it out since then."

"What can I do for you, Jennifer?"

"Dr. MacCauley, Brandt if I may, I have bad news for you. Our mutual friend Barbara Moreland was found dead three days ago."

"Oh, my God! That's terrible news. What happened?"

"We're not sure yet. The coroner's report has not come back, but it appears that she died of a drug overdose. She was found in her apartment. She had been dead for two days."

Shocked by this revelation, Brandt queried, "Drugs? She didn't do drugs! At least she never did when I was around her."

"Me either," Jennifer replied. "In fact, none of her friends ever saw her do drugs. We're all in shock. She didn't seem upset or depressed, and she was recently engaged to be married. It's all rather strange and disconcerting."

Suddenly developing an ominous feeling, Brandt nonetheless held back, querying politely, "When is the funeral?"

"I'm afraid you've missed it, Brandt. It's in a couple of hours. Listen, I called about something else, something specific."

"Yes," he responded inquisitively, "What is it?"

"Well, it was several years ago. In fact, it was shortly after the last time I saw you, right after 9/11. You remember, when her friend Christine, who as we now know was Patience, was killed in the terrorist attack at the World Trade Center."

Now experiencing a positively queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he replied, "Yes, go on."

"Well, Barbara gave me something. It's a letter for you. She told me if anything ever happened to her, that I should give it to you. So, I have this letter for you from Barbara."

Lurching forward in his chair at this revelation, Brandt blurted apprehensively, "Have you opened it?"

"No, I assumed it was private," she responded.

"Good, don't open it!" he exclaimed with obvious urgency, "Whatever you do, do _not_ open it, Jennifer. It is vital to your own safety that you do NOT open it!"

"Okay," she responded in obvious concern, "What would you like for me to do with it?"

"Could you send it to me? Can you Fed Ex it today? I believe that it might be something important."

"Yes, of course. What's your address?"

Brandt gave her his address and subsequently hung up, wondering what in the world was going on. He would have liked to have had Jennifer scan and send it to him right away, but he was afraid that it might have something in it related to Barbara's death, thus also endangering Jennifer if she were to read it. He was thus forced to wait another day.

As it turned out, it took two days, during which Brandt paced endlessly about in agitated anticipation. Camped out by his door, he was awaiting impatiently when the package arrived on Monday morning. The moment he closed and locked the door, he tore it open. Inside was an envelope with his name on it, and the envelope contained a single sheet of paper. It read as follows:

Dear Brandt:

I hope that you never have to read this message, because if you do it means that I am dead. Unfortunately, since you are, it means the worst for me. Perhaps I should have told you this sooner, for I would not now be deceased, but I felt it was worth taking the risk for the sake of both you and Patience. I reasoned that the less said the better, but since you are reading this, I was obviously incorrect in that assumption.

Patience was acting strangely the last few weeks before her death. In fact, she was behaving somewhat distantly towards me. Then, a couple of days before 9/11 she came home from work in a terribly agitated state of mind. She wouldn't tell me what it was, but she was clearly terrified of something. I probably should have told you this, but on the morning of 9/11 she left for work quite early. It was 2:30 in the morning. I remember, because I checked my clock when I heard her close the apartment door. She normally left for work early, usually about 6 A.M. But I don't recall her ever leaving for work that early in the morning.

There is one additional thing that I need to tell you. Patience had a barrette. I remember the day she arrived at La Guardia Airport from Dallas back in 1997. She was a wreck that day, but she was clutching that barrette as if her life depended on it. Aside from it, she had nothing personal with her of any value whatsoever. She might as well have been penniless when she came to me. I asked her several times about that barrette during the four years that she lived with me, but she would never open up about it. Somehow, I knew that it held some special dark secret for her.

_Patience never took that barrette out with her, but it was always in the same place on her nightstand by her bed. After she disappeared on 9/11, I looked for it on her nightstand. I looked all over for that barrette._ _I never found it_ _._

Brandt, I think that she's alive. I've always thought that she didn't die that day. Something spooked her, and she left the City that morning. I'm sorry that I never told you, but please believe me when I tell you that I was thinking of her. I thought that she would be safer if nobody knew about the barrette.

And now you will have to find her, because the fact that you are reading this means that I may well have been murdered by whomever it is that is searching for her. I hope that you find her, my friend, I really do, because my death quite likely means that she, too, is in mortal danger.

Farewell-

Barb

By the time Brandt had completed reading the letter, his mind was racing forward in frenzied anticipation. The possibilities were simply mind-boggling. _Patience had survived 9/11!_ He was absolutely certain of it. He had never completely given up hope, but here was indeed more than hope. Here was evidence, however circumstantial, that she had survived, and if so, she might yet be alive. The fact that she had disappeared the same day that he had come looking for her had always appeared to him to be more than coincidence. And now Barb's suspicious death seemed to indicate that Al-Wadi was closing in on Patience as well.

He reasoned that if Al-Wadi's associates had tortured Barb into telling them what she had divulged to him in her letter, they would be searching relentlessly for Patience at this very moment. He therefore set frantically to the task of searching for her himself.

Given that she had left the apartment at 2:30 in the morning on 9/11, where would she have gone? There seemed to be only three possibilities for her mode of escape. First, she might have rented a car. Second, she could have taken a train or a bus. Third, she might have taken a plane. In all three cases, it was unlikely that she would have used either her real name or her fictitious New York name. Accordingly, it appeared more than likely that she had assumed yet another fictitious name, and if she had left the country, she would have found it necessary to obtain a passport under that name. This distinct possibility seemed to be a perfect opportunity to deploy his latest and most advanced pattern recognition algorithm.

Accordingly, he encamped within the solitude of his apartment that very afternoon and, constructing a simple algorithm for the purpose of searching buses, trains, and flights from New York City on the morning of 9/11, he commenced this new search. He reasoned that her departure time would necessarily had to have been between 3:30 and 8 A.M.

He wrote this new algorithm to perform the search in such a way as to pick out any potential passengers that fit certain general parametric indicators that matched Patience's profile, such as age and sex. By the following day he had a list of several hundred women who fit the generic profile. He then hacked into the TSA system and, checking photos of these women using his most advanced pattern recognition algorithm, he had a match by mid-afternoon.

The photo, sufficiently similar to the way that he remembered her, was accompanied on the passport by the name Margaret Smith. The record showed that she had caught an Amtrak train at 4 A.M. on September 11, 2001 for Boston south station, arriving at 7:43 A.M., almost exactly an hour before the 9/11 attacks had commenced.

She had been heading north and, there being not much further north that one could go in the U.S., he reasoned that she had therefore been headed either for Canada or somewhere in Europe. Assuming that it was the latter, he immediately began checking flights on the major airlines for dates directly after 9/11.

Before long he found the name Margaret Smith in the American Airlines files. She had flown to Heathrow Airport in London on September 22. He searched back in his own memory to that time, realizing that he had still been in New York when she had made the transatlantic crossing. Suddenly, the trail was warm again. After nearly nine years, Brandt's obsession had been reignited.

Las Vegas – The Same Day

**Wassim came into** Mr. Al-Wadi's office, looking worn and frustrated from the trip to New York. Mr. Al-Wadi rose immediately and, coming forward, he proclaimed, "My, you look like holy shit, Wassim!"

"Yeah, we drove straight back, sir. We assumed that we needed to get out of New York quickly. It was quite a long haul back to Vegas from New York."

"Well, did she spill anything to you? Did you finally find out where that bitch is?" Mr. Al-Wadi inquired.

"No, sir, we couldn't get anything at all out of her. The only thing she said was that she thought Patience might be alive. We tried everything, but she wouldn't give. Since we couldn't leave any signs of torture, it was really difficult. It might have been useful to pop her once or twice, but we just couldn't risk the possibility of an autopsy, so in the end, we had to just execute her with a drug overdose."

"What! You didn't find out anything at all?" Mr. Al-Wadi expounded furiously. "What did you do to scare her?"

"We did absolutely everything we could, under the circumstances! We couldn't risk leaving any marks on her, so we stripped her and scared the crap out of her. We hung her upside down off her balcony on the fifth floor. But we couldn't risk leaving her up there too long because somebody might have seen us. Believe me, if she'd had something to say, she would have done so."

"Okay, I get the picture, Wassim," Mr. Al-Wadi replied, his disappointment nonetheless apparent. "Well, after all these years, it seems that bitch Patience just might still be alive. Damn, we need to restart from 9/11 in New York City. Get our contacts to work on it right away."

"Yes, sir. Will do."
Chapter 7

Lost and Found and Lost

London – September 23, 2001

**Patience waited impatiently** , the queue at passport control inching forward at a snail's pace. When her turn finally came, she stepped gingerly up to the control counter.

"Passport, please," the agent instructed.

Handing over her passport, Patience responded good-naturedly, "Good morning, sir."

Examining her passport carefully, he inquired, "How long are you in London for, Miss Smith?"

"Just long enough to catch the Chunnel to Paris," she responded cheerfully.

"Do you have a Chunnel ticket that I could see?" the agent queried.

"No, I plan to buy it today," she answered naively.

"In that case, I will need some proof that you are able to do so," the agent responded.

"I'm not sure I understand," Patience replied. "Like what exactly?"

"Well, sufficient cash or travellers cheques would do."

"Oh, of course," Patience responded. "I have five hundred dollars in cash," hoping that was enough.

"May I see it, please?" the agent asked insistently.

Fumbling in her purse, she drew out the cash for the agent, who in turn counted it and quickly returned it to her. The agent then picked up his stamper and pounded Patience's passport and, handing it back to Patience, he said, "Have a pleasant stay in London."

"Thank you," Patience responded and, heading for customs, she thought to herself, "This is a different world over here. I'm going to have to learn the ropes quickly."

Possessing no checked bags, she bypassed the luggage return belt and headed straight for customs. After clearing customs she went directly to information, where she was informed that the Chunnel departed from Waterloo Station in downtown London. Two hours later, she had arrived at Waterloo Station, where she summarily purchased a ticket for the Chunnel.

She then foraged for food in the vast station, finding the exercise somewhat liberating. London was like nowhere she had ever been in her life. For the first time in her recent memory no one here knew her, and furthermore, no one on Earth knew where she was. "This is real progress," she thought to herself with newfound optimism.

The Chunnel ride was simply grand. From the suburbs of London, to the channel tunnel itself, to the rolling French countryside, within a span of three hours Patience felt as if she had entered into a completely new and perhaps even unfettered chapter in her life.

Upon her arrival in Paris, Patience realized rather abruptly that it was not going to be as easy as she had surmised in London, the French language presenting a nearly insurmountable barrier. Even when she managed to find someone who spoke English, she could understand very little of their heavy accents. Furthermore, in Paris few signs were written in English.

She became so distraught that she seriously considered turning around and going back to London. But then she reminded herself that she was still on the run, and London was far too close to home both culturally and geographically for comfort's sake.

Rallying her persistence, she managed to eventually make her way out of the train station with a plan of action, a woman in the tourist information office at the train station having helped her to reserve a room in a cheap hotel nearby. Although she had managed to save more than three thousand dollars, she had no idea how long that would last her. She therefore decided to do everything on the cheap that she possibly could, thereby permitting her cash to last as long as possible.

She found the hotel with little difficulty, and as soon as she arrived, she went straight to bed and, sleeping for eighteen hours, she awakened at five in the morning the following day. Realizing that she was jet lagged when she was unable to go back to sleep, she hopped excitedly from bed, deciding to go for a walk and see something of Paris. She showered for the first time in three days, and by six A.M. she was out on the street, imagining herself to be a well-to-do American tourist on holiday.

Having forgotten the rather early hour, Patience was surprised to find once she was out on the street that, since it was not quite sunrise, it was rather grey and sullen on the streets of Paris. At first everything appeared to be deserted, but within minutes she saw a woman coming up the street towards her who was, by her appearance and mannerisms, quite obviously a lady of the night.

As the apparition before her came closer, she suddenly tugged her pants down, urinating nonchalantly in plain view. A drunk, stopping to observe the unanticipated show on the opposite side of the street, patiently partook of the scene until the lady of the night had completed her business. Tugging up her pants, the woman turned towards the man across the street, announcing loudly in perfect guttural English, "Yeah, you'd like some of that, wouldn't you!" The man stared silently at the incongruously offended woman and, seeing that he was disinclined to pursue the matter further, the woman turned and strutted indignantly away.

Patience was horrified. She had seen many strange things in New York, but this was beyond depraved to her. She felt as if she had been somehow transported to some bizarre alternate universe. Paris was certainly a beautiful city, but this absurd event, more than anything else that she had experienced since leaving the United States, made her realize just how much her life had been altered. Now in exile, she thought to herself, "Yes, things are certainly going to be different here, but I am going to survive." She then giggled to herself, still unable to come to grips with the incomprehensible performance to which she had just been witness.

She strolled for quite some time, and as she did so, it gradually grew lighter. Paris began to yawn, stretch and awaken from her nocturnal bliss. Within two hours, the streets had lumbered into full awakening. Now that shops were beginning to open their doors, Patience managed to find a light breakfast composed of a baguette and coffee. Munching contentedly on her bourgeois meal, she surmised that perhaps she would be able to survive in Paris after all.

Thereafter she found a metro station and, eventually figuring out how to purchase a _billet_ , she used it to ride to the Eiffel Tower, the only place in Paris that she could think of to visit. Once there she joined the already lengthy line and purchased a ticket for the top level. The view from the pinnacle two hours later was the most amazing thing she'd ever seen in her life. She was for the first time in her memory on top of the world.

It had already been a day to remember, but after descending back to street level she began to feel the reality of her circumstances pressing back in on her. Her first challenge was to locate and purchase some articles of necessity for, in order to cover her tracks, she had been obliged to leave virtually all of her personal possessions behind in New York City.

Locating some tourists who spoke English, she was informed that there was an enormous underground shopping mall at Les Halles Metro stop, right in the heart of the city. They explained to her that although it was pronounced 'lay all', it was spelled quite differently. Thus, armed with the correct spelling, she took the metro there and within two hours she had purchased everything that she considered essential to her survival for the moment.

Next she returned to the _Gare du Nord_ for the purpose of purchasing a train ticket to Italy, but she discovered that the TGV trains required the passengers to show their passports. Because she was relatively confident that her movements could be tracked all the way to Paris by anyone that was persistent and capable, she decided against this course of action. She needed her movements from there to be absolutely untraceable, so she decided on another approach – local trains.

Having been informed that most trains to central France departed from the _Gare de Lyon_ , she subsequently purchased a ticket to Lyon for the following morning. She then returned to the hotel and prepared for the continuation of her journey the following day.

Three days later she arrived in Florence, having managed to travel on trains that did not require her to do anything more than briefly show her passport to a ticket agent onboard the train. She was thus confident that her tracks from Paris could not be traced by any means known to man.

Within minutes of her arrival in Florence, she realized that, despite having had two semesters of Italian in college, she was unable to understand anyone at all. Italians, it seemed, spoke rapid fire, and they employed a depressingly excessive amount of vernacular that she had not been taught. On the other hand, she herself could speak enough Italian to make herself understood. Thus, she was able to establish a sort of one-way communication when necessary.

She booked into a hostel and, deciding to reconnoiter, she learned as much as she could about the city. Within a week she had learned her way around quite well, thereby allowing her to focus on soaking up the local Italian language as quickly as possible. Having determined by that time that since she did not possess a work visa a formal job was quite impossible, she continued to explore the city, searching for opportunities to make some money.

By the end of her second week in Florence, she had observed that a great number of Africans were attempting to make a living by selling items on the street in areas surrounding the _Piazza della Signoria_ and the _Santa Maria del Fiori._ Although she did not think that this sort of thing was a reasonable means of support for her, she nevertheless considered the possibility that she might be able to try something somewhat comparable.

Having visited the Science Museum, she had been intrigued by the story of Galileo, about how he had been incarcerated for the last nine years of his life. She therefore went back to the museum and inquired where the house was that he had lived in. Unfortunately, no one at the museum seemed to know where it was. She therefore went to the library, therein discovering that not only had he lived the last eight years of his life in a house in the hillside village of Arcetri, but that there were also several other places that he had lived locally. She spent the next two days scouting out all of these locations, then set herself up in the _Piazza della Signoria_ with a small handwritten sign that said, "Galileo Walking Tours in English." The effect was miraculous. She scored two tours on the very first day, and within the first week she had made two hundred euros.

Aware that this would not serve as a long-term job for the simple reason that she had no tour guide license, she reasoned that this would keep her going for a while, at least until she could find something more stable. Meanwhile, she kept a close eye out for _polizia_ and, following the lead of the African street vendors, whenever the authorities passed through the piazza she simply put the sign away. Meanwhile, at night she studied the Italian language furiously.

Unfortunately, by the end of October the tourist season had already begun to wane, especially for English speaking tourists. Her proceeds off by thirty percent by the first week of November, the weather was by then also beginning to turn alarmingly colder.

One day while she was sitting in the piazza, a middle aged American man came up to her and asked how much she would charge to give a two-hour tour of Galileo's residences. Surveying the group of students accompanying him, she quoted a price of fifty euros, at which he immediately produced the requisite amount. Thus, off the pair went, trailed by twenty disinterested American students who appeared to be not too much younger than Patience herself.

At the end of the tour, the man complimented her, saying, "That was a lovely tour, Miss, er...?"

Taking his outstretched hand, she replied, "Margaret, Margaret Smith."

"I am Professor James Wilson," he replied pleasantly. "We're here from Carnegie-Mellon University in the U.S. We are living this semester at a study center in Castiglion Fiorentino. Do you know Castiglion, Miss Smith?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't," she responded.

"Look here, Miss Smith," he continued, "It appears that you are not gainfully employed, at least not permanently."

Eyeing him doubtfully for a moment, she replied, "And what is your point, Professor Wilson?"

"Well, er, forgive me for prying, but perhaps I could suggest gainful employment for you - that is, if you are at all interested?"

Suddenly rivetted, she queried, "What exactly did you have in mind, sir?"

"Look, I am in desperate need of an assistant at the study center, Miss Smith. I need someone who speaks Italian and knows Italy as you do, someone who is older and more mature than my students, someone who could act as my second in command. Frankly, I have my hands full keeping them out of trouble. I could provide room and board, and a salary of five hundred euros per month."

"Sounds intriguing," Patience replied. "Could I think it over, perhaps get back to you?"

"Of course. Here is my business card. And I'll write the address for the study center on the back, together with the phone number. How soon might I hear from you, Miss Smith?"

"Oh, before the weekend I expect," she responded.

"Excellent!" he replied. "I'll look forward to hearing from you," and at this he pressed a twenty-euro tip into her hand.

Patience raced breathlessly back to the hostel. She was so excited she didn't know what to do first. On thinking it through, she decided to go to the internet café down the street and do some checking. Sure enough, there was a Professor James Wilson listed on the faculty register within the College of Arts at Carnegie-Mellon. In addition, there was a study center in Castiglion by the name listed on his card. She therefore went immediately to a tourist store and bought every English guidebook that she could find on Italy. She spent the entire following day beefing up on her knowledge of Italy. She was certain that it wasn't enough, but she felt that she could not pass up this opportunity to bury herself even further into the landscape of Italy via gainful employment in an obscure village.

The following day she boarded a train for the hour-long ride to Castiglion Fiorentino.

Florence, Italy - June, 2010

**Awaiting his turn at passport control, Brandt** had an almost hallucinogenic feeling that he might not be able to restrain himself from jumping the line in a desperate attempt to speed the process along. Such was the state of his anticipation. In the end, however, he managed to act like any other passenger arriving at Florence's airport - jubilant but patient.

Having eventually cleared customs, he hurried outside and hailed a cab, having no notion and caring even less as to the amount of the cab fare. He was ushered into the first vehicle in line and was unsurprised to find that he had hooked up with one of those notorious Italian would-be race car drivers. On any other occasion he would have deplored such a lack of driving etiquette, but on this occasion he was overjoyed when he arrived at the train station in less than half an hour.

Awarding the driver an extraordinarily large tip, he thanked him for the hair-raising adventure and rushed inside to buy a one-way ticket from Florence to Arezzo. Given the fact that Al-Wadi was on the trail of Patience once again, that was as close to Castiglion Fiorentino as he had felt comfortable with living during his sabbatical. After all, Castiglion Fiorentino was only a twenty minute train ride away from Arezzo. Brandt therefore reasoned that if Al-Wadi's buddies traced Brandt's whereabouts, he might indeed lead them to their prey if he took the risk of actually living in Castiglion. Accordingly, Arezzo it had to be.

Surreptitiously, a small college in Arezzo gave him an excuse to visit for the summer. Hopefully, his precautions would ensure that no one would suspect his true reason for being in Italy. An hour later he was in Arezzo and, restraining himself from the nearly overwhelming desire to go straight from there to Castiglion, he made for Professore Pizzato's office at the _collegio_. There he was welcomed and shown to his tiny office for the summer. The level of anonymity here in small town Tuscany was just what he needed for the challenge that lay before him – to find Patience – if indeed she was alive. He dared not even consider the alternative.

That night he found it quite impossible to sleep. Would his carefully died hair, together with his full beard, be sufficient disguise? After all, it had been nearly thirteen years since their one and only meeting. Whether it was stark panic, anticipation of what was to come, or jet lag mattered not. In any case, he was rather out of sorts by the time he boarded the train for the short trip to Castiglion the following morning.

The Following Morning

**On arriving in Castiglion Fiorentino, Brandt** discovered that the train station was in the valley, whereas the city was quite a trek uphill from there. Having no alternative, off he trudged, the morning sunshine already sufficient to cause him to break into a shirt-clinging sweat.

As he hiked along, he was surprised by the paucity of movement of any kind. Except for a single undernourished dog, he saw not one living being on the street in the first fifteen minutes of his upward trek. However, approaching the walled portion of the old medieval city, he began to notice a bit of traffic, all seemingly headed in the same direction. Following this string of both decrepit and tiny cars and motorcycles, he strolled completely around the ancient city walls. Arriving at the edge of the old fortress, he observed a church, the apparent source of the ringing bell he had heard earlier. Suddenly aware that it was Sunday, he realized that he had of course lost a day in the transatlantic crossing.

"No wonder there's nothing moving here. It's Sunday – everyone is attending Sunday service," he commented to himself. Strolling gingerly down the hillside road adjacent to the city wall, he came to a city gate, through which he observed the entrance to the church, in front of which he was surprised to see a huge throng of middle aged diminutive Italian males. Incongruously, there wasn't a single female to be seen anywhere.

Only later he would discover that this was normal custom in much of Italy. The _familia_ went off to service, the family patriarch never so much as setting foot within during Sunday service. Instead, the entire mob of elderly men stood outside chattering like a flock of geese, oblivious to the pious proceedings within. Having no earthly idea what they were discussing, Brandt was nonetheless fairly certain that they were not debating today's liturgy.

Recalling his primary mission, Brandt trudged down the hill and through the gate and, approaching an elderly gentleman who was not speaking to anyone at the moment, he inquired, " _Scusi Signore. Ah lei uno momento questa mattina_?"

The man stared doubtfully at him momentarily, then replied sternly, " _Si, certo, signore. Que cosa vuoi_?"

Brandt, already approaching the limit of his somewhat rusty Italian, brightened at this positive response and, thrusting a photo towards him, he continued with, " _Questa è una photo. Penso questa donna vive qui in Castiglion Fiorentino, è vero_?"

The man studied the photo pensively, responding after a few moments, " _Non so, signore, ma conosco questo uomo qui_ ," thereby pointing to a man in the photo. So he knew someone in the photo!

Before Brandt could ask another question, the man called out to a friend, " _Paulo, vieni qui. Quest'oumo qui vuole trovare questa donna_ ," at which he pointed to the woman in the photo. " _Sapete dove si trova_?"

Yet another man now approached the pair, immediately followed by four additional men, all of whom were clearly curious as to the purpose of this unexpected intrusion on their monotonous lives. Before the man whom Brandt thought was Paulo could reach the growing gathering, another man grabbed the photo from Brandt and exclaimed, " _Voglio guardare. Credo que_ ..." and he paused a moment, contemplating. Suddenly, he exclaimed, " _Ah, si! È Martina! Ah, guardate, è Martina_!" at which point he surreptitiously passed the photo around to his friends, each and every one of whom scrutinized the photo and then broke into a sunny smile, saying, " _Si, certamente, è Martina_!"

Suddenly, Brandt was overwhelmed. After nearly a decade, he was back on the trail. Now he had a name – Martina. From the reactions of the men in the group it was obvious that Martina was well known in the community, and perhaps even more importantly, she was clearly regarded fondly by one and all.

Paulo now peered at Brandt doubtfully, offering in perfect English, "I am Paulo Ribusti, member of the city council of Castiglion. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, signore?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Brandt replied. "I should have introduced myself. I am James MacAllister. I'm here in Italy working at the _collegio_ in Arezzo for the summer. I'm looking for a person whom I met many years ago," he lied. "You know how it is, with time childhood friends drift apart. I saw this picture in your local newspaper, and it looks like my friend. Might you know where I can find her?"

At this Paulo raised one finger to signal that Brandt should wait a minute, then turned and translated the entire exchange to his friends. There was much smiling, accompanied by surreptitious oohing and aahing, as each man understood the purpose of Brandt's visit. Brandt wasn't certain of it, but he thought he heard the word ' _amore_ ' uttered more than once as the gentlemen chattered among themselves, eyeing him jovially. Thinking better of dissuading them from their misconception, he decided to stick to his quest, which of course was to find Patience.

After a few further moments, Paulo turned back to Brandt, saying, "But of course, Signore MacAllister, everyone in Castiglion knows Martina! Such a lovely young lady."

"Really!" Brandt replied excitedly. "Do you know where I can find her, Signore Ribusti?"

" _Certamente_ , Capri!" he replied.

"Capri?" Brandt replied with disappointment, but that's three hundred miles from here!"

At this, Paulo guffawed loudly and, translating for his friends, he elicited much the same reaction from them. Whatever the joke was, Brandt didn't get it.

Paulo turned back to him, speaking now with an enormous grin, "Signore MacAllister, I am not speaking of the island of Capri. I am speaking of the _Gelato_ Capri!"

Totally confused by this, Brandt replied, " _Non capisco, signore_ ," at which the entire entourage hooted yet again.

" _Signore_ ," Paulo replied, "I'm sorry, I do not intend to mislead you. Gelato Capri is an ice cream parlor."

Stroking his chin in exasperation, Brandt responded, "Oh, I see...do you know where it is located, signore?"

"Of course! It is on the main street, right in the center of Castiglion," he replied.

"Ah, now I see! _Capisco!_ " Brandt replied with obvious delight, grinning perceptively to the men who had by now surrounded him. They in turn smiled back at him, nodding knowingly in perfect unison.

"Unfortunately, it is _chiuso_ on Sunday, so you will have to wait until tomorrow, signore."

Disappointed by this revelation, Brandt concluded - what was one more day after so many years of searching? "Oh, that's quite alright. I shall just take the opportunity to see the city, and I shall come back tomorrow."

" _Perfetto_!" Paulo replied, turning to translate for his friends. There ensued some sort of disorganized ceremony, as each and every man gave Brandt a jovial and hearty slap on the back, as if they anticipated some sort of fireworks on the following day. For his part, Brandt concluded that the inhabitants of Castiglion were desperately in need of some sort of diversionary entertainment, and he had somehow been delegated this responsibility.

The Following Evening

**Brandt returned to Castiglion.** Having put in his requisite full workday in his cubby hole at the _collegio_ , he once again trudged up the hill from the train station, on this occasion entering into the central part of the city via the _Porta Firenze_. The timeless beauty of this ancient city was not lost on him. Decrepit though it was, it was nevertheless possessed of a certain romantic charm. From the _Porta Firenze_ he sauntered up the street and, coming to a curve, there, not fifty yards distant, he saw a blue neon sign that read 'Gelato Capri'.

His heart thumping furiously as he approached the tiny shop, he noticed that there was a small crowd within. The clamorous patronage within composed mostly of children screaming for gelato, he nonetheless recognized her immediately, standing behind the counter cheerfully serving up ice cream cones. His heart clambering instantly into his throat, thirteen years fell away in a single breathless heartbeat, amplified by a profound emotional jolt that he had experienced only one other time in his life – the last time he had seen Patience Walker.

Patience glanced up and, catching his eye, she scrutinized him momentarily. Suddenly fearing that she might have recognized him from their only previous meeting, he glanced furtively away. But it seemed that she did not remember him, thereby affording him a sigh of relief as he awaited his turn in line.

When at length his turn arrived, she asked politely, "May I help you, sir?" and it was in perfect English.

"Yes, please, _signora_. Could I please have a double dip stracciatela cone?"

"Of course, Mr. James MacAllister," she replied, displaying the tiniest hint of a triumphant smile.

Double-taking at her, he arched an eyebrow, saying, "It seems my reputation precedes me, _signora_. How is it that you know my name?"

"Ha," she blurted out mirthfully, "Everyone in town knows your name. Surely you must know that a man who is clearly not from Italy cannot waltz into a small Italian village and announce that he is looking for a local woman, a single one at that, without rumors spreading like wildfire."

Embarrassed by his rank amateur skill at sleuthing, Brandt chuckled, responding, "Ah, I see. I should have known what half the men in this town were doing on a Sunday morning outside the church. They were gossiping!"

" _Certamente_!" she replied ingenuously, but the remainder of her body language remained nonetheless distant.

"Miss, er...I'm afraid you have the better of me," he replied, uncertain as to what he should say next.

"Margaret Smith, Mr. MacAllister," she replied supplying him with her hand over the counter.

"James, please call me James," he responded, but suddenly he blurted in confusion, "Wait a minute, I thought your name was Martina. That's what everyone said was your name yesterday morning in front of the church."

"You know how it is. Italians have to change everyone's name to an Italianized version. So here in Castiglion I'm Martina."

"Ah, I see," he responded, one more tiny piece of the labyrinthine puzzle falling into place.

"What brings you to Castiglion looking for me, if I may be so bold?"

"Well, it's a long story, so let me give you the short one if I may. I'm a professor in the U.S., in Cleveland. I have a friend in New York City. Her name is Barbara, Barbara Moreland. Perhaps you know her?"

At this Margaret slowly tilted her head sideways and, narrowing one eye at him in recognition, she responded quizzically, "You know that I know her. She's my cousin, sir."

"Right, I knew that," he replied, slightly surprised by her lightning-quick perception.

"And?" she queried, now appearing distant at best.

Suddenly put on the defensive, he responded, "And what?" and, rushing onwards to cover his confusion, he added, "Oh, well, it seems that Barbara had a notion that you might still be alive. A few months ago a friend of hers of Italian descent in New York City showed her a photograph taken in Italy of a wedding that involved a distant relation of hers. It seems that her friend had met you once years ago. She thought that the person in the photo bore an amazing resemblance to the person she had met, which was made more amazing by the fact that this acquaintance was known to have perished on 9/11."

He halted for a moment in order to allow her to take this in, but seeing that she made no response, he continued with his elaborately planned lie, adding, "Well, my friend Barbara was also struck by the resemblance to her former friend Christine, in fact so much so that she could not get the possibility out of her mind that her cousin might be alive. So when Barbara heard that I, her friend, was going on sabbatical in Tuscany this summer, she asked me to check out the person in this photo."

"Go on," she replied.

Not knowing what else to say at this point, he responded, "It seems that she was right," his planned falsehood having run its course. He could nonetheless tell by her minimal reaction that she was worried about something, prompting him to prevaricate, "Is she?"

"Yes, yes, of course she is," Patience, ergo Christina, ergo Margaret, ergo Martina, responded without so much as a hint of evasiveness.

Momentarily taken aback by such a direct admission on her part, Brandt paused, replying, "Sooo, where do we go from here?" her candor having made him clearly uncertain what to say or do next.

"Let me ask you a question, Mr. MacAllister," she said.

"James," he offered once again.

"James. Have we ever met before?"

"No, not to my knowledge," he lied.

"Are you sure? You seem familiar to me somehow."

"Margaret, Christine, or Martina, whoever you are, I feel certain that I would remember meeting someone so lovely as you."

"Oh, that's good," she responded sarcastically, "Let's try flattery - utterly a waste of time with me, Mr. MacAllister."

"Point taken. Flattery not to be repeated," he replied grimly.

At his directness it was her turn to be surprised. Uttering a small victory laugh, she continued, "Okay, cut the crap out, James, or whoever you are. Cut to the chase. Why in hell have you come six thousand miles to find me?"

"What! I don't know what you're talking about," he responded, doing his best job of acting. "I told you, since I'm here on sabbatical, Barbara asked me to look you up."

"Alright, I will accept that extremely lame answer for the time being. Look, I'm closing up shop. Perhaps you'd like to go for a stroll with me, Mr. MacAllister, er, James?"

"It would be a pleasure. Chris-, er...I guess you're incognito, so I'd better stick with Martina, right?"

"Yes, please. I will explain a bit more to you if you will walk with me." They started down the street, she immediately inquiring, "First of all, who the hell are you, James MacAllister?"

"What do you mean?" he responded, completely put off guard.

"Come clean, tell me about yourself," she replied.

"Oh, that'" he answered, regaining his composure. I'm a Scot. You gathered that much already. I was born and raised in Edinburgh, where I went to university. I am now on faculty in the mathematics department at Case Western University, in Cleveland.

"What about your family?" she responded.

"I have no living family, except for my Aunt Winnie, Winnie Sutherland, who lives in Stirling."

"Stirling, where's that?" she asked.

"In Scotland, north of Edinburgh," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, you seem to know a bit about me, so I felt I needed to even the score, as they say," she replied.

And that is how it started. They strolled aimlessly, conversing amiably as they did so. Martina asked him to refrain from divulging anything to Barbara for the time being. Well aware that she was in a very complicated situation that could only be helped if he somehow could gain her trust, he of course acquiesced. He would have to tell her about Barbara eventually, but all in good time, or at least so he hoped.

Two Nights Later

**Unable to bring himself to stay away any longer, Brandt** returned, and once again she allowed him to walk with her after she closed up shop for the evening. Things progressed ever so slowly, but over the course of the next few weeks, Patience gradually allowed Brandt into her world. Eventually daring to pry a bit, Brandt inquired one evening, "So, how did you come to own an ice cream parlor here in Castiglion?"

Eyeing him suspiciously, and perceiving no ulterior motive, she replied, "It's pretty simple, really. I needed an excuse to have a work visa in Italy. I moved here in 2001, but I had no way of obtaining a work permit. I was sort of hanging out in Florence, where I eventually started giving tours to Galileo's homes. As a result, I met this American professor who was running a study abroad program out of the study center here in Castiglion. He invited me to come here and help him out, including offering to pay me cash under the table. I didn't make much, but they provided room and board as well, and that was sufficient to keep me going until I could figure out the way things work here in Italy."

"How long did you do that?"

"A year and a half," she responded. "But eventually, I felt a need to have something more permanent. Somewhat serendipitously, the city council of this little town embarked on a ludicrous urban renewal program. Apprised of this, I approached the director of the study center and asked for his help in finding permanent employment here in Castiglion. He in turn approached the mayor of Castiglion, and it developed that they were searching proactively for 'business entrepreneurs'. I use that term loosely of course, because by that time I only had about a thousand dollars saved up. Miraculously, that is exactly the amount that they required on trust from me in order to support the financing for the Gelato Capri.

To make matters even more enticing, the mayor volunteered to support my application for a work visa. It was really quite simple when I finally decided to try it, but of course, I had to live here for a year and a half in near poverty before I developed sufficient connections with the locals to pull it off. Frankly, it took me nearly that long to become completely fluent in Italian, but now I've been here so long that it has become my home."

"I say, what a fabulous story," Brandt replied. "You've done well, Martina. I am quite impressed."

"Thank you," she responded succinctly.

Midsummer

**By now Brandt suspected** they had become somewhat more than friends, but not quite anything approaching what could be termed entangled. Still, one evening he managed to convince her to come to Arezzo for dinner. They ate at a small restaurant just off the main square. It was a lovely evening, and sometime after the main course their hands touched quite by accident. She immediately drew hers back, exclaiming, "Don't touch me!"

"Sorry. I assure you, it wasn't on purpose, Martina," he replied defensively.

Obviously conflicted, she murmured, "Oh, damn it. I'm sorry, James. I like you, I really do. You must know that."

"Yes, of course I do," he responded, "But we're just friends. That's what you meant, right?"

"No, no, that's not it at all, you idiot," she rejoined, and it was clear that she was contemplating her next move. "It's just that, well, I'm afraid. That's all."

Feigning confusion, he asked, "Afraid of what?"

"Damn you, James MacAllister, I'm afraid of you! I'm afraid of commitment. Hell, the truth is, I'm probably afraid of everything!"

Realizing that they were on the verge of a possible breakthrough, he probed, "I understand that something is holding you back, Martina. I've known that all along, but what is it? Is there anything that I can do to help?"

At this she emitted a decided, "Hummphh," and, accompanied with a self-deprecating laugh, she followed it with, "Well, yeah, right. There is one obvious thing that you could help me with. I'm a virgin, you see."

Accidentally knocking his wine glass over at this entirely unanticipated revelation, Brandt exclaimed in shock, "What? What the hell! What am I, just some token vessel?"

"No! No..." she responded and, suppressing laughter for fear of insulting him further, she defended, "That's not what I meant at all. That was definitely NOT a proposition. And I'm actually not a virgin, at least not technically, but I haven't been in a relationship since high school. And to tell you the truth, that wasn't much of one. So what I'm trying to tell you is – I'm not very good at this. I mean, oh for God's sake, I confess that I'm basically an amateur at relationships."

This was it, the breakthrough that he had been hoping for and awaiting for two months. Suddenly unable to restrain himself, he reached impulsively for her hand and responded, "If you think that admission is going to change how I feel about you, you are dead wrong."

"Well, that's a relief," she replied with obviously contrived humor.

The tension of the moment having been momentarily abated, they allowed themselves a shared giggle. There followed a momentary silence, each fearful of damaging the magic of the moment.

Brandt took the plunge first and, attempting the direct approach, he volunteered, "I want you, Martina. No, I'm sorry, that's not quite right. What I mean to say is - I need you!"

Smiling daringly at this, she hazarded, "That is precisely what I needed to hear from you, you idiot." Summarily grabbing her purse, she blurted, "Come on, let's go to your place. It's time for me to grow up."

The Following Weekend

**Brandt was elated.** Their relationship having reached a new plateau, Patience agreed to take the weekend off from work. Arriving in Assisi on a gloriously sunny day, they shared the sites in one of Italy's most timeless settings, ending their evening with a romantic dinner. The following morning at breakfast she blurted, "There's something I need to tell you, James."

Anticipating this moment, he carefully placed his coffee on the table and responded with contrived naiveté, "Yes? What is it?"

She now offered, "I'm running away, you see."

"Yes, of course, you're running away from your youth, I expect. Aren't we all?"

Frowning at his rather foolish sounding response, she contradicted, "It's not that. It's something bigger."

"Oh, like what?"

"I'm running away from an event that occurred many years ago, when I was quite young."

"I see..." he answered patiently.

"You see, I got into trouble," she said in apparent misery.

"Trouble, what sort of trouble?" he probed.

"I did something terrible, and then my mother died as a result of my actions."

"Ah, so you have a skeleton in your closet," he observed.

"Yes. Yes, I guess I do. It's been tucked away inside me for so long that I can't seem to live without it. I mean, it's like I actually revel in my own misery. Like I'm punishing myself for what I did, and all the while, I'm enjoying my own punishment."

"That sounds serious," Brandt responded. "But now that you've admitted it, why don't you deal with it. Once you know the problem, the solution isn't far behind."

"That's just it, James. In this case it is still not possible to move on."

"What? Why? Why can't you begin to move on?"

"Because I'm being pursued by someone that I injured," she responded.

"Injured? I don't understand," he lied.

"I was forced to do something against my will, and I escaped from my captors, but not before I hurt one of them. So they are after me," she responded.

Aware that he was now a single admission away from full disclosure, he inquired pointedly, "Captors? Exactly who is after you, Patience?"

Eyes flashing abruptly, she bellowed, "What!"

Shocked by her immediate change of tenor, he jerked back in his seat, blurting, "What? What did I say?"

Eyeing him menacingly, she exclaimed, "You said 'Patience'!" and it was obvious that she was furious. She stared a moment longer and, realization creeping in, she cut loose at him with, "You bastard! Nobody has called me that in thirteen years! What the hell is going on here? Did Barbara spill it to you? No, no, it couldn't be that. She wouldn't divulge my real name to anyone." Suddenly, she leaned forward and slapped him ferociously across his face.

Wincing in pain, he drew his hand to his face, silence his only hope.

She now exclaimed between gritted teeth, "It's time for the truth, you son-of-a-bitch!"

Continuing to massage his by now swollen face, he managed to reply forlornly, "I'm so sorry, Patience. I assure you, I am here to help you. The truth is, I've been helping you all along."

"Damn! Do you realize what you've done? Just when I was starting to trust again, you came along and destroyed it. Oh God, how long must I keep paying for my lone transgression? Will I ever atone for it?" and, sobbing uncontrollably, she began dissolving before his very eyes.

"Please, Patience, please don't cry. It's not like you think. I can explain," and with this he reached forward to touch her arm.

Tearing her arm away from him, she exclaimed, "Don't you touch me! Don't you dare touch me. You have no right to ever speak to me again." At this she raised her chin and, glaring at him disdainfully with an expression of sheer loathing, she commanded, "Now, take me home to Castiglion, James MacAllister, or whatever your real name is. And don't you dare speak a single word to me on the way."

He followed her bidding, but when they finally arrived back in Castiglion two hours later, he could not keep himself from choking out, "Goodbye, Patience."

Turning to face him, she expelled between gritted teeth, "I don't want to ever see your face again. Goodbye." And with that she stalked off into the noonday sunshine.

A Week Later

**Unable to endure it any longer, back Brandt** went the following Saturday evening, hanging around outside the ice cream parlor until closing time. When she came out to lock up, he approached her cautiously, saying, "I know what you said to me last weekend. Believe me, Martina, I took your warning seriously, but I must speak with you. Please, it is a matter of grave importance."

"Alright," she replied. "Five minutes, no more. Walk with me, please."

He fell into stride with her, the faint waft of her perfume prompting fleeting memories. Finding it difficult to concentrate under the circumstances, he nonetheless girded himself and commenced with the lines that he had rehearsed, "I'm afraid you may be in danger Patience, er, Martina. Damn, I have no idea what to call you."

"It doesn't matter, since you won't be seeing me again after tonight," she responded distantly.

"Whatever," he shot back, but finding it difficult to match her apparent lack of concern, he reverted to script, "Look, the FBI has been in touch with me. They've been after Al-Wadi for years. I assume that is why you're hiding out here in Italy."

"What? What the...you know the entire story!"

"Yes, of course I do, Patience. I met you in Lincoln. I am Brandt MacCauley."

Turning in shock to face him directly, she studied his face carefully momentarily and murmured, "Ah, yes, I see it now...older, of course, perhaps more mature...even, shall I say...a bit harder."

" _Touché,_ " he replied morosely, "I suppose I deserved that."

"Oh, I've only just begun, _Dr._ MacCauley," she hissed, "But go on. This is going to be something!"

"Yes, well, I suppose I should start at the beginning..."

"Please do!"

Eyeing her disconsolately, he stammered, "Uh...sooo...let me see...Yes, of course – I was in Chicago when the bombing occurred. That made no impression on me, but when the press announced the very next day that Al-Wadi had been injured, also in Las Vegas, I immediately smelled a rat. I hacked into the Lido Hotel's security system, and I located the footage of you going into the hotel. Of course, I knew right away that it was you."

"How could you have known that? I was wearing a full berka."

"It was those green eyes of yours, Patience. I've never in all my life seen another pair of eyes like yours."

Ignoring his lame attempt, she interjected, "Go on."

"Yes, of course. So I started attempting to follow your trail, and I've been on it ever since."

"What, for more than a decade?"

"Yes, Patience, just so..."

"Exactly why have you been doing all of this, Dr. MacCauley?"

"I hoped to protect you, of course. You shall never be safe until Mr. Al-Wadi is neutralized. And now the FBI is attempting to bring charges against him for kidnapping you."

"Why would they do that after such a lengthy period of time?" she replied in dismay.

"Because everything else they've tried to hang on him has failed. And remember, Patience, you're dead to the world, including the FBI. They think your case is perfect because Al-Wadi can't kill the witness this time, since she's already dead," and at this he hazarded a sidelong glance at her, adding accusingly, "But you're not dead, are you?"

"Oh, my God, I just realized - you gave me a cock and bull story, didn't you!" she spat out derisively.

"About what?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Barbara didn't have a picture of me. You found me, didn't you! You're the one who has been following me all along, aren't you."

"Yes," he admitted, "Yes, I am, Patience. That is a fact, but it gets worse, much worse. I am sorry to tell you that Barbara is dead. She took a drug overdose three months ago."

Gaping in utter disbelief, all she could seem to say was, "No! Oh, Barb!"

"I think they murdered her. They caught on to your trail to New York City years ago, but they thought that you had died on 9/11, just as I had. But when the Feds started threatening to bring kidnapping charges against Al-Wadi, he set his network to work again, checking to see if perhaps the whole 9/11 thing had been a setup. So eventually his associates went after Barb, and they killed her."

"Damn! Poor Barb. God, I tried really hard to keep this from happening, but it seems that everything I do hurts someone that I love." She paused for a moment and, peering at him in newfound fear, she asked, "Do you think that she told them anything?"

"No, definitely not."

"What makes you say that?"

"For the simple reason that you'd probably be dead by now."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," she observed, "So how did you find me?"

"It was Barb's doing. She left a note addressed to me with Jennifer, to be opened only in the event of her death. It seems she always knew that she might get caught up in it. So Jennifer sent me the note."

"What did it say?" she queried.

"It was only a hunch, but she figured that you had faked your death on 9/11 because she couldn't find your barrette."

"That damned barrette!" She exclaimed, "I should have gotten rid of that thing years ago!"

"But you couldn't, could you?"

Now weeping inconsolably for her lost cousin Barbara, she moaned "No."

"It's your _Scarlet Letter_ ," he replied forlornly.

"Yes, I suppose it is," she sobbed and, pulling it from her pocket, she handed it to him. He examined it carefully for a moment, then handed it back to her. Taking it, she observed, "It's the only reminder I have of the horror of that day. So I somehow can't let it go."

"So, Al-Wadi's men have been following you, too," he said, stating the obvious. "So far, I've managed to stay ahead of them, but I can't do it forever. One of these days they're going to beat me to you."

Patience contemplated and, crossing her arms around her waist, she blurted, "So you helped the FBI to create a case against Al-Wadi using evidence that you had gathered over the years, right?"

"That's correct, Patience. I figured that I owed it to your memory."

"But now you seem to have succeeded in doing quite the reverse, Brandt. You have put me back in danger. Al-Wadi's men have started looking for me again because of the kidnapping charges. They will turn over every rock and discover that I didn't die on 9/11, and from there it will be just a matter of time before they find me."

"Yes," he replied succinctly, "And that's why I had to come – to warn you. It's my doing that the FBI has sufficient evidence, so it is my responsibility to try and protect you."

"Ha!" she spat out at him. "You're not the one who has been protecting me all these years. I am!"

"Yes, for which I have nothing but the greatest admiration. As near as I can tell, every single person who ever crossed Al-Wadi is now dead, with the exception of you."

"Yeah, it's a good thing I was so careful," she replied.

"So I've been wondering. How did you manage to get a passport?"

"Oh, that was easy. I just went down and got one for Margaret Smith."

"What? What do you mean, Patience?"

"Well, I checked birth records for New York City, and I found a person who was born the same year as me that was named Margaret Smith. I found her death certificate in another set of records. She died when she was six months old. I did all of that in 1998, before 9/11. Back then there was no Department of Homeland Security, so nobody checked to see if the person who was applying for a passport was deceased. Of course, they do now, but I got in under the wire.

"And I got out of the United States just after 9/11. At that point they didn't even have magnetic passport readers. They've been gradually ramping up the requirements since 9/11. I've been keeping track of the background checks that they do, and I realized in 2005 that my passport was going to expire in 2008. I found out that by that point they were planning to implement more stringent checks which would have caught me, so in 2005 I went to the American Consulate in Florence and filed for a replacement passport, reporting that mine had been stolen. At that time they issued replacement passports for a period of one year, at the end of which they issued another one on request that is good for ten years. So I now have three passports."

Assuming that the other two were of no use to her, Brandt volunteered, "But only one of them is current."

"I don't think you get it. It's not what's inside the passport that is hard to get, it's the passport itself. The folder is nearly impossible to counterfeit. That's why people steal them. Once they have them, they alter the inside."

"That sounds like it might be hard to do," Brandt responded naively.

"You think so?" she said, "Try this. Take your passport and open it to the page with your name and photo on it. Then run it through a high quality color printer and see what you get back. You will find that the image is quite good, and that it can be photo-shopped quite easily. You can change the picture, the name, the dates, whatever you need to do."

Staring at her in wonder, he blubbered inanely, "So you have three passports! I get it - you're good from now on, Patience."

"Well, not exactly," she replied. "Of course, now they read them with either magnetic or laser technology, and they access a data base. I can never go through a passport control with that level of technology. I'm only good so long as it is not run through an electronic reader. They use them now in the United States, so I can't ever go back there. They also use them at various places all over Europe. In fact, they use them at all ports of entry into the U.S., and they use them at airports in the U.K. But they still don't use them much in most countries on the continent as long as you're not going to the U.S. It's kind of ridiculous. In most places they just open your passport, look at the photo, and if it looks like you, they stamp it and hand it back to you. The only people that they aren't equipped to screen are the crooks, and of course, me. So I keep all three of my passports ready for quick use in case the need arises. And when I want to use one of them, I just stand in the passport line and make sure that the agent in that line is not running passports through the magnetic or laser card reader."

"That's ridiculously simple," he replied with growing admiration.

"Well, it is for one who is forced by necessity to know," she replied and, changing the subject, she inquired, "By the way, how did you find me?"

"Good question," he responded, "Well, as you know, I'm a computer scientist. I guess you could say that I'm a geek. I've been obsessed with computers since I was a kid. Of course, they weren't very powerful twenty-five years ago, but they are now.

"Anyway, I did a lot of hacking over the years looking for you. When I first started thirteen years ago, the state of computing wasn't good enough to do lots of things that needed to be done, so it took a long time to sort things out. I actually had to go physically in search of you because there were no computer records of the type that I needed at the time. So I looked around in Vegas for you. I had the Lincoln Journal Star photo, and I showed it around. One guy at the Pelican Hotel said that he had seen that hairdo that night. But other than that, it was as if you had completely disappeared off the face of the earth."

"Photo? What photo?"

"The Journal Star got ahold of a photo of you in that watusi hairdo."

"What! I had no idea, but now that you mention it, that is a good name for it."

"Right."

"Geez, how'd they do that?"

"No idea. It must have been someone working for Al-Wadi that took it."

"Hmmm..." was her only response.

"You did well, Patience. You did really well."

"Thanks. Go on."

"So it took me perhaps a month to come around to the assumption that you might have hitched your way out of Las Vegas in order to avoid having any record of where you were going. At that point I started looking at maps, thinking about where you might have hitchhiked to in the hope that you might have gone to somewhere not too far from Vegas and then taken a bus from there. I zeroed in on Phoenix, and _voila_ \- I hit pay dirt. I showed your photo in the bus station, and one of the agents recognized you. He informed me that you had bought a ticket to Dallas.

"Unfortunately, it was four long years before I could track you any further because I hadn't yet developed the necessary software. So I kept furiously writing new software all the time. Eventually, I flew to Dallas and hacked the American Airlines computer system. I found out that you had flown to New York City. That was in the summer of 2001."

"My, you were a busy boy, and a sneaky one at that," she volunteered with a slightly deprecating grin.

"Yeah, but I was worried about you. I was afraid that Al-Wadi might be on your trail. Anyway, he would have had to have had a pretty sharp bunch of associates to get as far as I did by that point in time."

"And you have a high opinion of yourself as well!" she added with a derisive smirk.

Ignoring this, he inquired, "So I've been wondering for thirteen years. How did you get away that night?"

"Oh, that," she replied, "That was a real mess, I'll tell you. So immediately after the bombing that afternoon they took me to Al-Wadi's office. They stripped me naked and laid me out on the sofa. I was quite embarrassed, so I kind of stretched out on my face and acted like I was still out of it. I could hear Al-Wadi talking to his associate, his name was Wassim as I recall. They didn't think that I could hear them, and Al-Wadi told Wassim that he was going to rape and torture me. So I knew I had to do something quick."

"Wait," he interjected, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was he planning to rape and torture you?"

"Oh, that. Well, when they took me to the Lido, they told me to deliver the bomb to Room 403. Look, I wasn't stupid – I knew exactly what it was. I figured they knew the layout of the hotel, and they wanted the bomb to be planted so that it would cause maximum destruction. So if you check, I'll bet you'll find that Room 403 is directly above the lobby."

"Whoa!" he expounded. "That would have killed a lot of people!"

"Exactly," she agreed, "So when I walked inside, I went straight for the elevator, as I'd been instructed, but instead of going up, I went down. I figured I only had seconds to get that thing planted somewhere less dangerous, because I was certain they intended to blow me up with the bomb. So I went down to the third level of the parking garage and I flung it into a stairwell. Then I yanked the berka off and ran like hell. The bomb went off seconds later, and unfortunately, when I got back out on the street, Al-Wadi's men caught up with me."

"So when we got back to the hotel, Wassim gave me a drink, setting it down on the table next to me. I was pretty sure it was drugged, so I waited till they weren't looking, and I poured it onto the floor. After Wassim left, Mr. Al-Wadi came over to check on me and, seeing the glass empty and me motionless, he assumed that I had drunk whatever it was and was passed out. The idiot probably thought that I was no problem, seeing as how I was naked and drugged. So I put my finger down my throat while he wasn't looking and threw up on him. He said something like 'Shit!' and turned around to clean himself up. Seeing my chance, I grabbed a big marble ashtray on the table and I hit him across the face as hard as I could."

She halted momentarily and, the events of that long-ago day clearly still disturbing her, she added, "I raced down the hallway and ducked into the janitor's closet, where I found a worker's smock. Once the coast was clear, I ran out onto the street and took off. I knew that silly smock wouldn't cut it, so when I saw the Equus club a block away, I crept in the backstage door. The cacophony backstage was a perfect cover, so I was able to sneak into the girls' dressing room. I stole some of the dancers' street clothes, and within a couple of minutes I was back out the door.

"I walked down the street; I have no idea where I was. That's the one and only time I've been to Vegas, and by then it was nighttime. But there's a lot going on there at night, you know, and I blended right in. My hairdo was just another expected oddity in a decidedly odd city. I walked a couple of blocks and went into one of the big casinos. Vegas is probably the easiest place in the world to get money. I didn't have a red cent, and I didn't have a credit card, but I had my card number memorized. So I went up to one of the chip windows and gave them my credit card number. I got two hundred dollars in chips, and then I went to another window and cashed them in. In retrospect, I wish I'd gotten more cash, but at the moment I didn't realize how hard it was going to be to make a clean getaway. I mean, I wasn't stupid. I knew that my trail of credit card usage was traceable, but I figured I'd be long gone from Vegas before anyone checked my record of usage. What I didn't think about was the trail it would later leave each time I used it, that is, if I was actually stupid enough to ever use it again.

"So anyway, I had cash at that point, and I knew that I had to get out of town quick - before they realized that I was gone. I decided not to try the bus station, because I figured my hairdo would be too easy to follow. So I took a taxi to the airport and I went to the parking lot and looked around for a vehicle in short term parking with Arizona plates. I found a pickup truck with one of those plastic covers over the truck bed, and I climbed in. Pretty soon a couple of guys came along and got in, and off we went. The truck drove a couple of hours and pulled in at a truck stop. I climbed out of the bed of the truck and went into the truck stop cafe. Don't ask me why, but I didn't think to do something about my hair. Suddenly everyone who saw me was staring at me. Two hours out of Vegas, and the world had returned to normal.

"By then it must have been about two in the morning, so I had breakfast and waited for the sun to come up. After daybreak I hitch-hiked to Phoenix. You know the rest, I think. Oh, and right after I got on the bus I realized that I couldn't sleep with my hair sticking out like that, so I took off the barrette that was making it stand up, and amazingly, my hair all sort of smoothed out and hung down naturally so that you could hardly tell that two thirds of my head had been shaved. So I stopped standing out so much."

"It's a good thing you didn't take the barrette off until after you bought the bus ticket. I don't think that I ever would have found you."

Comprehension sinking in, she observed, "Really? What a coincidence."

He nodded agreement, continuing, "And if you hadn't kept that barrette, I'm sure I never would have found you in Italy, because Barb never would have figured out that you were still alive after 9/11."

Pausing for a moment, he eyed her with admiration. "That is quite an amazing story, Patience. I've always thought that you were lucky to get away, but now I realize that it was more skill than luck. You probably saved your own life that night."

"Yeah, I think you're right," she replied matter-of-factly.

"What made you think to do all of that?"

"I don't know. I guess I was just brought up in difficult circumstances."

"One other question," Brandt suggested.

"What is it," she replied

"What made you leave New York?"

"Oh, that. Two days before 9/11 my credit card company called me. They said that someone had hacked into my account. I was pretty sure it was Al-Wadi's guys, so I moved up my plans to disappear."

"That was me," he replied tersely.

Startled, she blurted, "What?"

"I hacked your credit card account. By that time I knew that you were in New York City. I was following hunches and, using my latest pattern recognition algorithm, I searched quite a few different companies looking for photos that matched. Eventually, after searching at least a hundred companies, I tried Starbuck's, figuring they must have lots of employees in New York City. A photo matched up with the only one that I had of you, and since it did in fact look like you to me, I hacked your personnel file and got your address. Unfortunately, you had given them a false address, so that when I looked you up, it came up negative. So then I used the name you had on record at Starbuck's and I searched credit card companies. A name came back that was in Greenwich Village. I was on my way to your apartment that morning on 9/11."

Staring balefully at him, she observed, "My God, all these years I had thought that in some strange twisted way Al-Wadi had saved my life that day, but it was you, Brandt. You saved my life on 9/11. If you hadn't hacked my credit card account I wouldn't have left New York City that very day. Instead, I would have died instantly when the first plane hit the North Tower."

"So you took the 4 A.M. Amtrak train to Boston that morning," he put in knowingly.

Arching one eyebrow in surprise, she blurted, "How on earth did you know that?"

"I told you – pattern recognition. When Barbara's note explained to me several months ago that the barrette was missing, I began to consider ways that you could have gotten out of the City that morning. I doubted that you would have taken a flight out, so I concentrated on buses and trains. Your name wasn't on any of the passenger lists, so I reasoned that you had once again changed your name. There were only a few thousand people who got out before the attacks that morning, and I simply reduced it down to a handful of women by a process of elimination. I figured that you were trying to leave the country, so you had to have a passport under your new assumed name. I therefore hacked the TSA files and I ran my pattern recognition algorithm with the names on my list, and your passport photo came back. It was actually quite easy."

"Easy!" she replied emphatically, "Easy for you, but it was a damned mess for me."

"What happened?" he queried.

"You already know. I got stuck in Boston. Nothing was flying for a week. So the ticket that I had to fly out that afternoon from Logan Airport was cancelled. I had been saving every penny that I could, but I wasn't exactly rich at that point. So I booked into the YWCA and started calling American Airlines every day. It took two hours to get through the first few days. Finally, after five days they started getting their act together, and they honored my ticket. I flew to Heathrow eleven days after 9/11. Boy, it was weird. The airport that day was like a mausoleum. As I recall, two of the 9/11 flights originated from there. So security was like a war zone. There were more security agents than there were passengers. Anyway, I got out and made it to London, and from there I made my way to Italy as circuitously as I could. Obviously even that wasn't enough, since you found me. You must be a master spy or something."

"Actually, I'm sure you did that part well, Patience. I found you in Italy by another means," he replied.

"Okay, I'm listening. How did you do that part?"

"Well, tracking you to London was easy. I figured you were planning to fly out of the U.S., so I simply hacked the flight records for the next couple of weeks after 9/11, and the name that you used to get out of New York City on Amtrak came up for your flight on AA to Heathrow. So I knew that you had gone to Europe. The rest was simple."

"Go ahead," she responded in apparent exasperation.

"Well, I had your college transcript..."

"What? How did you get that?"

"Easy, I asked Barbara to get it years ago as your next of kin. By then you were dead, remember?"

Patience eyed him with obvious resentment, but as she said nothing, he continued, "So I knew from your transcript that you had taken two semesters of Italian at NSU. I figured that made it a very good possibility that you had gone on to Italy from London. So I started trying out my pattern recognition software on websites in Italy. Okay, that part wasn't so easy after all. Italy has been slow to adopt web-based technology, but most of the newspapers have been forced to for simple reasons of economy. So eventually, I think it took a couple of weeks, I tried some small town _giornales_ , and a picture came up that looked like you. It was a photo of you at a wedding in Castiglion Fiorentino. I had never heard of Castiglion, so I had to get out a map and find out where it was. That was three months ago. I immediately started making travel plans. And there you have it."

She stared at him for a moment and asked, "Just one more question, Brandt. Why did you do it? Why did you keep looking for me all these years?"

Aware that this was a question that demanded complete honesty, he glanced off in the distance and replied wistfully, "A long long time ago, when I was a little boy, my Aunt Winnie said to me, _'patience is the parent of compassion, and compassion is born within the heart'._ I confess that at the time I didn't quite comprehend what she meant. But now I think I do." He glanced at her briefly, and he could see that her eyes were glistening.

She stared off into the rapidly growing darkness within the valley below, and after a few moments she murmured, "I'm tired of running, Brandt. Can you help me?"

"Surely you know that I will do anything for you, Patience. You name it and I shall do it for you. What do you have in mind?"

"I suppose that I should ask you first," she replied. "What do you propose?"

"Well, I've thought about it plenty. Here is the thing. So far I am the only person who knows you are even alive, much less where you are. I doubt very seriously that they will find you here, but if you will allow me, I shall inform the FBI of your whereabouts. They in turn will keep a watch on Al-Wadi and his associates' movements. If anything untoward happens that looks like they might be onto you, they will notify you and put you in the witness protection program. But you must know that ultimately it will come out that you are alive. Then you will need FBI protection around the clock. Heck, I may even need it myself."

"Oh? Why you, Brandt?"

"Because my contact at the bureau has told me that if they ever bring charges, I shall be a witness to the events of that night, that's why."

Stroking her chin, she volunteered thoughtfully, "That makes sense." She paced to and fro for a few moments, obviously deep in thought. Then she gave her reply, "Okay, I'll do it. I really think that I have no choice in the matter. As you said, you found me, so they will, too, eventually. Tell your friend, and I will expect to hear from him at the appropriate time, okay?"

"Got it," Brandt replied morosely.

The conversation having now run its full course, neither of them could think of anything further to say. Resigned to the reality that his one and only chance with her had unfortunately slipped away, Brandt simply gazed at her, taking in his last few moments with what little relish that he could.

She glared at him and, showing not the least bit of interest, she whispered between gritted teeth, "Brandt, don't you dare darken my doorstep ever again. Do you hear me?" And she said this last with a stone-faced look of finality.

"Yes, of course," he murmured disconsolately, "I knew that you would say that, Patience. And believe me, I understand. I do have one last request, however."

"And what might that be?" she queried flatly.

"If you ever find yourself needing me, send me the barrette."

"Fat chance," she murmured and, turning on her heel, she strode briskly into the darkness.
Chapter 8

Severed Strands

Los Angeles – August, 2010

**The phone on Frank's desk rang** and, picking up the receiver, he replied curtly, "Hollister."

The voice on the other end responded, "Frank, this is Brandt, Brandt MacCauley. How're you doing?"

Recognizing the Scottish accent even before its owner had spoken his name, Frank responded, "Hey, Brandt. It's good to hear from you! How was your summer sabbatical? Has your Italian improved?"

Brandt chuckled, responding, "Better, but as yet not quite like a native. Still, all in all, it was a great summer."

"What can I do for you, Brandt?"

"Could we meet over coffee? I have something to discuss with you."

"Sure. Usual place in an hour?"

"Perfect," Brandt replied. "See you there shortly."

An hour later Frank strolled into the campus Starbuck's and, waving to Brandt, he came over and exclaimed jealously, "I must say, you're looking tanned and fit."

"Thanks," Brandt responded affably, "My turn to buy," at which the pair stepped over to the counter and ordered their usual. Their relationship, which had begun as a professional partnership of sorts, had blossomed into genuine friendship over the years. Fueled by an instinctive mutual regard, they had grown completely at ease with one another.

Once they had taken their seats, Brandt inquired, "How's the case going, Frank?"

"Not bad, not bad at all. I think we'll get an indictment, but the rest is up to the legal beagles, and you know how that can be." He halted momentarily, but not being one to bandy about, he inquired impatiently, "You said you had something for me, Brandt. What's up?"

At this Brandt eyed Frank and responded matter-of-factly, "I found her, Frank."

Bolting from his seat, Frank bellowed, "What! Tell me it isn't so!"

"I'm afraid it is, my friend. I have seen her with my own two eyes. In fact, I spent a good deal of the summer with her, if you must know."

"And you didn't let on to me at all, Brandt, you bad boy," Frank responded with an impish grin. "Why am I not surprised! More importantly, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm telling you now, that's why."

"Are you going to give her up to me?"

"Frank, Frank, Frank...my dear Frank. There is no one else on earth that I would trust to do so. Of course I'm going to give her up to you! I trust you completely, you know that."

"So why the delay, Brandt? Why not tell me immediately when you found her?"

"Time for confessions, I suppose. I wanted some time for myself first, if you must know."

Arching an eyebrow, Frank replied with apparent interest, "Oh? And how did that go, pray tell?"

"Everything went along fine at first, but I'm afraid I blew it. She doesn't ever want to see me again."

Genuinely concerned, Frank responded, "Damn! That's too bad. What happened?"

"It's really kind of ridiculous when you think about it. She's been on the run for almost half of her life, and during that span of time she's gone by four different names. So one day I called her by the one name that I shouldn't have – Patience." At this revelation, he chuckled condescendingly at his own mistake, adding, "So you see, I ratted on myself!"

Frank gazed at him empathetically for a moment and surmised, "So you hadn't revealed your true identity to her?"

"Nope. I was too afraid to, Frank. It had to do with Restoring Patience."

"That damned thing! If she only knew how much you've done for her. You two need to get beyond that thing." He contemplated momentarily and, as an afterthought, he asked, "Is there no hope, Brandt?"

"I'm afraid not. On the bright side, however, I managed to meet with her one last time before she ran me off for good, and I convinced her to come in. She's expecting to hear from you."

"Well now, that IS good news. Way to go, Brandt. With her on the stand, Al-Wadi will be toast. He'll get life." He contemplated this new development and suggested, "Heck, with Patience I can get an indictment by next week!"

"Not so fast, Frank," Brandt replied. "Here's the thing. She's tucked in safe and sound at the moment, somewhere really safe. As long as there is no indictment, I really think she's best off where she is."

"And that would be in Italy, right?"

"Of course," Brandt responded.

"Exactly where in Italy, my friend?"

"Well, I don't think that I want to tell you that."

At this Frank frowned, expounding, "You just got through telling me that you trusted me completely. What gives, Brandt?"

"Look, it's nothing against you, Frank, and if I didn't trust you, you must know that I wouldn't have told you this much. Since I am the only person who knows where she is, I think that it is best that it stays that way for the moment. For all intents and purposes, she is now in the witness protection program, except that it is me doing the protecting instead of you."

"Whatever for?"

"If so much as a tiny notion surfaces that she is alive, do you realize what will happen worldwide, Frank? She has no idea how iconic she has become. People will be searching everywhere, and it won't take long for 'tourists' to start sniffing their way across Tuscany with little more to go on than the fact that the CEO of Restoring Patience spent the summer there."

Frank stroked his chin thoughtfully and responded, "Yes, I see what you mean. This is going to be messy, I can see. Look, why don't you let me nose around a bit. I'll talk to the federal prosecutor and see what the preferred course of action is. But if there is so much as a hint of a notion publically that she is alive, we're going to have to pull her into the safety net."

"Right," Brandt replied. "I already told her that. I said that she'd have to go into the witness protection program as soon as it is announced that she will be a witness for the prosecution. She understood completely. Actually, I think she said that she had no choice, which under the circumstances is correct in my view as well."

"Ditto," Frank added but, suddenly narrowing his eyes, he inquired, "How does she look, Brandt?"

"What? How does she look - she looks fantastic, Frank. If anything she is more glowing than she was the last time I saw her thirteen year ago. She's just so lovely!"

"Man, you are way far gone, guy. That's not what I meant at all. What I meant was – is she in a good mental state. Is she stable? Will she do well on the witness stand?"

"Oh, that," Brandt replied with obvious embarrassment. "Of course she is, Frank. She is an extremely strong woman. She's dealt with quite a lot, and she seems to be holding up quite well, given what she has been through. And she is known and respected in the community that she lives in. I would even go so far as to say that she is _loved_ by the locals in her current surroundings."

"That's great, Brandt. So you think she'll do well on the stand, I take it."

"Absolutely! No question in my mind."

Frank nodded his concurrence and posited, "You realize that we're going to have to provide protection for you, too."

"Of course, I'm resigned to it. Actually, that's not quite right. To put it more accurately, I'd do anything within my power to get that son-of-a-bitch. However, I'd just as soon endanger my life as little as possible in the process."

"Well said," Frank responded. "Okay then, I'll be off. I should know more within a few days. I'll give you a call." At this Frank got up to leave, but Brandt grabbed his sleeve, silently placing his index finger over his own mouth.

"Right, my lips are sealed," Frank replied.

A Week Later

**Brandt finally heard from** Frank again, the pair meeting at Starbuck's as usual.

Frank explained dejectedly, "Well, the prosecutor likes it, but he's not inclined to indict Al-Wadi just yet. So I think it's best to keep Patience where she is for the time being. Of course, I had to lie and tell the prosecutor that I knew where she was. Otherwise, he wouldn't have gone along. So I'm putting my ass on the line, my friend. You will have to excuse me for asking one more time – are you sure she's safe where she is?"

Brandt glanced up and explained, "Look, I have the most advanced facial recognition software on the planet, and without it I could not have located her. So I think that I'm the only person on earth who could have found her. She's as safe as a bug in a rug, Frank."

Reassured by his response, Frank replied, "Sounds good."

"There's just one thing, Frank."

"What's that?"

"Well, several of my pattern recognition algorithms went online this summer. I just sold the license to my facial recognition patent, and it's also going online before too long. When it does, she will no longer be safe. It will only be a matter of time before somebody, perhaps somebody with unsavory objectives, gets the idea to use it to search for her."

"How soon is it going online, Brandt?"

"Most likely within the year. I'll keep you informed as to when."

"Okay, and I'll let you know when the indictment is set for. We may have to pull you in then as well."

"Got it. Thanks, Frank. See you soon."

Castiglion Fiorentino – Early March, 2011

**Paulo Ribusti rubbed his arms briskly** in an attempt to keep the blood flowing. It was another Sunday morning of time-honored tradition for the patriarchs of Castiglion, but on a cold morning such as this he almost desired that the tradition could on occasion be deferred. He wished that the men could even go inside for service but, traditions in Tuscany tracing back more than two millennia, that was most likely impossible.

Glancing idly about, he noticed two men trudging their way down the hill toward the cathedral. From that distance they appeared to be Italian, a big guy leading the way. The man had on a black leather coat and a black sweater, and although he was bald on top, he had long black hair that was oiled and pulled back in a ponytail. The net effect was rather sinister.

The pair passed through the city gate and strode towards the assembled group. One of them commenced talking to a couple of the men, close enough for Paulo to overhear what they were discussing. Paulo could make out enough of the conversation that he could tell that they were not from Italy. As they came closer, he realized that they were middle-Eastern. He thought to himself, "I wonder what they want."

At this point the big guy pulled out a photo, and grabbing it, Stefano replied, "Ah, si! E Martina!" and, sporting an enormous grin, he showed it to the other men standing nearby, each one affirming his assertion.

As it was too late to intercede, Paulo determined it best to hang back. Eventually, he overheard the group of men informing the pair that they could find Martina at the Gelato Capri. Paulo resolved to stop by Martina's apartment and let her know that when she reopened on Monday she could expect visitors. As these two appeared to be not nearly so pleasant as the Scottish fellow who had visited her for much of the previous summer, he was somewhat worried.

The Following Evening

**Patience glanced toward** the street and, seeing that the last customer had departed, she began closing up shop for the night. She turned off all of the equipment, washed the dishes and, stepping out onto the street, she shut the front door and placed her key into the lock. It was a cold clear night and, most of the shops closed by now, the main thoroughfare in Castiglion was dark and deserted.

Patience turned and strode up the narrow medieval street towards her apartment. She walked perhaps a hundred meters and, suddenly ducking into an alleyway, she halted and waited. Within seconds she heard footsteps, a voice emitting something in Arabic.

The pair arriving at the alleyway, they continued to pass by her hiding place. She stepped stealthily out behind them and yelped, "Hey!" at which the pair turned in evident surprise.

Approaching the smaller guy nearer to her, she immediately sprayed him with pepper spray. She then tasered the big guy with her stun gun. Seeing him go down, she turned back to the little guy, who was by now screaming and clutching his eyes in pain. Subsequently tasering him as well, she strolled over and pepper sprayed the big guy, who was by now lying on the ground shaking uncontrollably. Taking one last look to ensure that they were both out of commission for the moment, she turned and strode silently away.

Within minutes she was at the train station, where she caught the lone taxi and rode to Cortona, ten miles distant. There she caught the night train for Rome, arriving just before midnight. In Rome she took a second train to Naples, arriving at four in the morning. From the Naples train station she took a taxi to the airport, catching the 6 A.M. flight to Milan Malpensa Airport. By noon she was on a flight to Sydney, with a stopover in Singapore.

Pasadena – The Following Day

**Brandt picked up the phone** and frantically dialed the number. After two rings a voice said, "Hollister here."

"Frank, it's Brandt," but before Frank had a chance to respond, Brandt exclaimed, "Frank, I think they found her! They may have gotten to her already!"

"What happened? What makes you think they got her, Brandt?" Frank replied.

"I put a check on my computer at the office, the one that has the website on it. But I got careless. I didn't check it over the weekend. Somebody used the facial recognition software, and it matched their photo to the photo of Patience that was in the newspaper in Castiglion Fiorentino, the same one that I used to find her last summer."

"Where did they get a photo to use as a match?"

"Not sure, but anything is possible. Maybe they got a sketch artist to improve the quality of the old photo in the Journal Star."

"How long ago did the software indicate that they checked, Brandt?"

"It was Friday night, so it's been more than forty-eight hours," Brandt replied with an obvious sense of urgency.

"Call her, Brandt. You have her number, don't you?"

"Yes, I tried it. There's no answer. It's too late now anyway. If it was them, they already have her. Damn, I shouldn't have left her there. Damn!"

"Okay, listen, Brandt. Pack a bag. We're going to Italy. Come straight to the office. Get here as fast as you can. While you're on your way I'll call the authorities in Italy and get them to go find her and protect her if she's still there. I'll get the plane tickets, too, so don't worry about that. Oh, what's your passport number?"

But before Brandt could give him his number, Frank interjected with, "Wait a minute. I'm going to call the prosecutor and see if they'll spring for a private jet. Meet me at the airport, at the private plane terminal, in an hour and a half, okay?"

"Got it," Brandt replied.

Florence – Fifteen Hours Later

**Brandt and Frank clambered** from the private jet. Two Italians in business suits awaited them as they hustled from the plane and, grasping the first man's hand, Frank announced brusquely, "Hollister, Frank Hollister."

" _Buongiorno_ , Mr. Hollister, I am inspector Pinelli," the man replied with a grim smile. Although he was rather short and bald, he was also massively stout. Something about his demeanor caused Brandt to be immediately impressed with him.

Frank turned toward Brandt and announced, "This is my colleague, Brandt MacCauley. I told you about him," at which point Brandt also shook the inspector's hand.

Striding toward the awaiting vehicle, Frank inquired, "What's the latest?"

Inspector Pinelli responded officiously, "We have searched in all of the places that we have been able to determine that Miss Smith might have been lately, and so far we have been unable to locate her, Mr. Hollister."

"Please, call me Frank," Frank replied. "Anything else, Inspector?"

"Yes, I'm afraid that it is not good," the inspector replied. "Her apartment has been - how do you Americans say - ramshackled."

Frank corrected, "Ransacked," adding tersely, "And?"

"Too early to tell, but it appears that they have indeed gotten to her already. Our forensics experts are going over everything, and we have picked up a few prints. We are analyzing them to see what we might come up with. Do you have information regarding exactly who they might be?"

Frank replied, "Yes, I have that information with me on my jump drive. Do you have a laptop handy, inspector?"

"Yes, of course, in the car. Let's get in. We can talk on the way."

"Where exactly are we going?" Brandt interrupted.

"We are going to Castiglion, of course," Inspector Pinelli responded, "To her apartment. I understand that you may be able to pick out evidence that we might have missed, due to your personal acquaintance with Miss Smith."

Turning to speak to Frank as the car pulled out of the airport, Brandt inquired, "Frank, are you going to tell them?"

"Yes, of course," Frank replied. He then turned back to the inspector and continued, saying, "I'm sorry that I didn't give you more information on the phone, Inspector. Here is the situation. Of course, I already told you that Miss Smith is a witness in a U.S. Federal case involving organized crime. Miss Smith is actually an alias for Patience Walker, who is the star witness in the case of Mr. Hakeem Al-Wadi, one of the richest and most infamous figures in the U.S."

"Yes, we already know all of this, Frank," Inspector Pinelli replied.

"Excellent," Frank replied. "I thought that would be the case, but I am impressed nonetheless." He now handed the jump drive to Inspector Pinelli who, inserting it in his laptop and opening the file, inquired, "What filename is it under, Frank?"

"It's under the filename 'Spider'."

"Ah, that seems appropriate," the inspector replied with a slight smile.

"That name was Brandt's idea," Frank said, peering over the inspector's shoulder, "There it is. Click on the Excel file. Okay, that file has the names of all of Al-Wadi's associates that we are aware of. If you click on the links in the third column, it will bring up fingerprints for each one of them."

"Excellent," Inspector Pinelli replied. "We have wifi in this vehicle. I am sending the entire file to the lab as we speak. We should hear back from them within a few hours."

Arriving at Patience's apartment in Castiglion, Brandt observed three cars marked 'Polizia' outside, thereby blocking all traffic on the narrow street. The four men emerged from the car and climbed the staircase to the apartment, the door to which was standing wide open.

"So, Frank, what are we looking for?" Inspector Pinelli queried.

Frank turned to Brandt and repeated the question. Brandt responded, "Not sure, Frank. I've never been in Patience's apartment."

At this Inspector Pinelli raised one eyebrow, exclaiming, "I thought you were a friend of hers."

"That might be stretching it a bit. Let's just say, we were 'acquaintances'."

"When was this?" Inspector Pinelli asked.

"Last summer," Brandt replied.

Frank now interjected with, "Inspector, I assume that you know who we are speaking of. Patience Walker is the selfsame person that the worldwide organization Restoring Patience is named after."

"Yes, of course," Inspector Pinelli replied, "We know that."

"Did you also know that Dr. MacCauley is the CEO of Restoring Patience?"

"Oh! No, we did not know that. Now I understand! Your relationship with Miss Smith, er, Miss Walker, goes back a long way, am I correct, Dr. MacCauley?"

"Yes," Brandt replied.

" _Ecco_!" Pinelli blurted and, turning back toward the apartment, he announced, "So it appears that our specialists have completed their work. It is now your turn to have a look through the apartment. I trust that you will avoid disturbing any of the evidence."

"Of course," Frank said, thenceforth leading Brandt within.

Though quaint, the apartment was small, having a raised landing for the bed that was separated from the small kitchen and living area by a railing. There was a tiny bathroom, but aside from that, the apartment was a single room of perhaps five hundred square feet in size. And everywhere Brandt looked, there were books - hundreds and hundreds of books. It was like a library, with volumes of every conceivable nature, each carefully deposited in its proper section. There was history, philosophy, sociology, world politics, science, psychology, and most of all –novels - lots and lots of novels. There were historical novels, science fiction novels, mystery novels, and yes, even romance novels.

Brandt was completely overcome by it all. Here was a woman who had been exiled for most of her adult life, surviving via the fantasy world of reading about others. He was profoundly moved by the realization that though Patience had not been able to complete her college studies formally, she had nonetheless clearly graduated.

Brandt took his time, studying absolutely everything that he could lay his eyes on within the apartment. After a lengthy examination, his investigation was completed.

Stepping back out onto the street, Frank asked, "Find anything useful?"

"No, no, I didn't," Brandt replied, a perplexed look creasing his features, "Actually, that could be good, Frank."

"In what way?" Frank replied.

"Well, it's just possible that she got away. She may have anticipated their arrival, or she might have just seen them on the street before they saw her," but, having said this last, his head jerked abruptly and, his eyes lighting up, he exclaimed, "Wait a minute! I need to go back inside for a minute."

Irked by this sudden reversal, Frank simply crossed his arms and waited patiently for his rather eccentric friend to reveal what the heck he was about.

Brandt reappeared momentarily, at which Frank suggested, "Well?"

Staring absently at the ground, Brandt responded distantly, "Well, what?"

"What did you find, you nutcase!" Frank exclaimed impatiently.

"Oh, that," Brandt mumbled and, suddenly returning to his senses, he posited, "The item that I was looking for is missing."

"And what might that be?" Frank queried with a blank stare.

"A barrette. It isn't there, Frank."

"A barrette," Frank responded vacantly, "And just what is the significance of this barrette, Brandt?"

"She wore it that day in Las Vegas fourteen years ago. Since then she's never let it out of her sight. It's always on her nightstand and, whenever she takes flight, she always takes it with her. Barb told me about the barrette in her message to me. That's how I figured out Patience had survived 9/11. Patience showed it to me last summer, so I know she still had it, and she couldn't part with it even then, after fourteen years."

"It's not in the apartment then," Frank observed. "Are you certain, Brandt?"

"Well, unless Inspector Pinelli's men removed it, she took it with her. Of course, that doesn't rule out the possibility that she took it with her if and when they grabbed her, but I rather doubt that she would do that."

"Why?" Frank asked.

"For the simple reason that she would have known that I would come looking for her, and she would have left the barrette behind as a signal to me."

"What makes you think that, Brandt?"

"Because I asked her to send it to me if she ever needed me, - that's why. If they had taken her, she would have left it as a signal to indicate to me that she was in danger. That's why, Frank."

"Got it," Frank replied pensively. "So you think she somehow got away from them."

"Yes, I think that it's likely," Brandt replied. "She's managed to stay ahead of them for fourteen years. She may well have pulled it off yet again."

"Well, good for her is all I can say," Frank mumbled with a tiny hint of a smile. "I sure as hell hope you're right, Brandt. Now, where exactly do you think she might have gone?"

"No idea," Brandt replied. "Knowing her, it's going to be a real doozy."

"Why?"

"Well, she certainly doesn't want them finding her - look what they went through to get this far. But more importantly, she may not want me to find her, ergo the missing barrette, and she knows how diligent I have been in my search for her. She knows just about everything that I have up my sleeve, and if she doesn't want me to find her, I'll bet she will pull out all the stops to make sure that I don't succeed."

"Crap," Frank replied. "So what you're telling me is this - either Al-Wadi's associates got her, in which case the case is dead, and most likely she is, too. Either that or she's escaped to someplace where we will never find her, in which case the case is dead. Either way, Al-Wadi walks."

"I'm afraid so," Brandt replied miserably.

"I thought so," Frank replied. "Okay, let's stick around here for a couple of days and see what we can find out from Inspector Pinelli. But if he can't come up with anything, then it sounds like we may as well go home."

"Agreed. In the meantime, if I can get an internet connection, I can do some checking to see if Patience took a flight somewhere using an alias. I rather doubt it, but I can at least check."

They drove to Inspector Pinelli's office in Arezzo, subsequently checking into a hotel downtown. Brandt forthwith connected his laptop to the internet and accessed his search algorithms in a desperate attempt to uncover Patience's trail.

The following morning Frank came down for breakfast at 8 A.M., appearing a bit jet lagged. "Morning," he said to Brandt who, working at his laptop, was already well into his third cup of coffee.

"Morning," Brandt replied distantly, and glancing up, he volunteered, "You look like hell, Frank."

"Tell me about it. This jet lag is the real thing, isn't it!"

"Is this your first time in Europe, Frank?"

"Second, but the first was quite a long time ago. And I did come to Italy, but things don't look any different after thirty years."

At this Brandt responded, "Yeah, I know what you mean," but, changing the subject, he announced, "I have some news, Frank."

"What's up?" Frank responded vacantly.

"Someone using a passport with Patience's picture on it went through passport control at Malpensa Airport Tuesday morning."

"Malpensa? Where's that?" Frank queried.

"Milan."

"Oh, where did she go, Brandt?"

"The ticket was for Sydney, via Singapore."

"What, you mean she's gone to Australia?"

"I didn't say that, Frank."

"Okay, let's start over, Brandt. Maybe it's the jet lag, but I thought that you just said she caught a plane to Australia on Tuesday. That was two days ago, so she's already in Australia, and God knows where she is in a country that size."

"I'm not sure that we can jump to that conclusion, Frank," Brandt replied.

"What? Why?"

"Frank, Frank, you haven't been listening to me. She's sharper than a barbed bullwhip. If she is on the run, and it appears from this information that she is, she'll be covering her tracks like never before. She knows my modus operandi, and because it was far too easy for me to track her to Sydney, I suspect that she laid a trap to mislead anyone who is attempting to follow her - especially me. You seem to forget that Al-Wadi's men very nearly succeeded in capturing her this time, ergo she will be plotting on a completely new scale in order to throw them off the track. She will most certainly be aware that her photo was logged at Malpensa, making her traceable with facial recognition software."

"So, what are you saying, that she might have sent a friend to Sydney instead?"

"Not necessarily, but that is a definite possibility," Brandt replied thoughtfully.

"Ok-kay," Frank mused and, pondering momentarily, he suggested, "So this most likely means that they didn't get her. That's good, but it still means that we have no idea where she is. That's bad."

"That's about it, Frank. And if she did indeed put a friend up to this deception, she will now be covering her tracks in a way that makes it impossible to ever locate her."

"I get it, I get it," Frank said in disgust. "Hell, we may as well go home, Brandt."

They flew home that afternoon. Over the course of the succeeding two weeks, Brandt checked all of the flights out of Italy, but there was no record of Patience, Christine, Margaret, or Martina, and there were no matching photos in any of the data bases that he could think of to search with his facial recognition software.

He next turned his attention to Sydney, checking flights out of there up to the present. There was nothing. The trail had grown stone cold again, just as he had anticipated it would. The last time this had happened, it had taken him eight and a half years to locate her, but for some reason he actually relished the challenge. His obsession had apparently sprouted anew.
Chapter 9

Borne Within the Heart

Pasadena - Three Weeks Later

**Wondering what his friend had up his sleeve, Frank rushed headlong into** Starbuck's. Brandt had certainly sounded animated on the phone, prompting Frank to hurry over as quickly as possible.

Holding out his hand to Brandt, Frank inquired breathlessly, "Hey, what's up?"

Shaking Frank's hand, Brandt responded, "Hi, how's the jet lag?"

"Funniest thing, I didn't have it when we got home," Frank replied.

"Right. The only time you don't get jet lag when you get back home is when you turn right around and come back within a couple of days," Brandt replied, and without so much as another word, he carefully lowered his clinched fist ceremoniously onto the table and opened it wide, saying, "What do you think of this, Frank!" Within his hand he held a large barrette.

Frank stared at it blankly for a few moments, realization dawning on him, then replied with what could only be described as pure joy, "Why am I not surprised? I assume that this is the genuine article, right?"

"Yep, it's the real thing, Frank. It arrived yesterday by snail mail at my apartment. I would have called you sooner, but I didn't get home from work until late last night, and I didn't check my mail until this morning." The two of them stared in awe at the object before them, Brandt observing, "So she's definitely alive. Patience has escaped yet again."

"It does seem so," Frank replied with a smile, and he could tell that Brandt was every bit as overjoyed as he himself felt.

"Even better, your case is back in good shape, Frank," Brandt exclaimed manically.

"What makes you think that?" Frank asked in confusion.

"Frank! She sent me the barrette! Don't you remember what that means?"

"Refresh my memory," Frank replied with an exhausted look.

"I asked her to send me the barrette if she ever needed me." At this, Frank perked up, scrutinizing the barrette with newfound interest.

"So, she's finally figured out she needs you. Kudos, Brandt. You're the man! But I still don't get it. You can have no idea where she is just from this."

"On the contrary, Frank, I know _exactly_ where she is!" Brandt crowed proudly.

"Why? What makes you say that, Brandt?"

"Because by sending it to me, she implied that she needs me, but she gave no clue in the package, or at least I thought at first that she didn't. That means that she trusts me, and only me. She couldn't risk including a note of any kind for fear that it might fall into the wrong hands."

"Okay, so where is she, Brandt?"

Chuckling at this, Brandt responded, "I'm not going to tell you, Frank."

Rolling his eyes and gazing skyward, Frank murmured, "Aw, for God's sake, we're not going through that again are we, Brandt?"

An enormous grin spreading across his face, Brandt posited triumphantly, "Nope, not this time. This time we're going to _go get her_ , Frank!"

"What, you and me?" Frank responded doubtfully.

"Yep, just you and me, Frank, ol' buddy. Call up the Federal prosecutor's office and get that jet ready because, after searching for fourteen years, you and I are finally going to go get Patience."

Still uncertain, Frank queried, "Where are we going, Brandt?"

"Europe, that is all I shall say at the moment," Brandt responded enigmatically.

"Listen, you are probably my best friend in the world, Brandt, but this manic behavior is trying my patience. Could you come down to earth and talk some sense?"

Brandt simply grinned, replying, "Just meet me at the airport, Frank."

"Okay, sounds good to me," Frank responded. "When do you want to leave?"

"The sooner the better," Brandt replied euphorically. "How about in three hours, same place as last time?"

"Okay, see you there," Frank replied and, rising to leave, he suddenly halted, turned and exclaimed, "I know I've said this before, my friend, but I can't help saying once again – You are way gone, guy!"

Three Hours Later

**Brandt arrived at the airport counter and,** on seeing him, Frank blurted equably, "Brandt, you SOB, I got approval to go on this wild goose chase, so you'd better know what you're doing."

Glancing at him with a feigned expression of hurt, Brandt replied, "Since when did I steer you wrong, Frank? Trust me, you're going to finally meet the elusive Patience, and within the next twenty-four hours!"

Frank eyed him doubtfully, replying, "Soooo, where are we going, Brandt? Come clean now, I have to tell the pilot so he can file a flight plan."

"Okay, but promise not to call your office after I tell you, agreed?"

"Yes, yes, I agree. Where to?"

"We're going to Scotland, to Edinburgh Airport."

"You've got to be kidding. Surely she's not in Scotland, the land of the leprechauns."

"That's Ireland," Brandt replied matter-of-factly.

"What's Ireland?" Frank asked, "I thought we were going to Scotland."

Brandt eyed him a moment but, thinking better of belaboring the point, he said, "Never mind, just get the pilot to file a flight plan to Edinburgh, Scotland. Okay?"

"Right," Frank responded, and so saying, he wandered off to complete his assigned task. Returning shortly thereafter, he had decided by this time that he wanted to know more, thereby prompting him to ask, "So what makes you think she's in Scotland, Brandt?"

Pulling an object from his pocket, Brandt responded, "This."

"Right, it's the prodigal barrette," Frank replied, nonplussed. Examining it for a few moments, he then said with a blank look, "I don't get it. How does this tell you she's in Scotland, Brandt?"

"Look very carefully, Frank," Brandt replied, "What do you see?"

Frank studied it again, then replied, "I see a barrette."

"Anything else? Look again, Frank."

Frank stared at it, uttering, "It's just a barrette, with a small chain attached to it. I see nothing else."

"Right, you've got it, Frank! That's it!" Brandt exclaimed.

"What's it?" Frank queried. "I still don't get it."

"The _chain,_ Frank. Look at the chain!"

Frank studied the chain and, scratching one wrist, he mumbled vacantly, "Looks like any other chain, probably sterling silver if my guess is correct."

"Bingo!" Brandt replied with a huge grin, "Stirling!"

"Aw, heck," Brandt, "Could you just cut to the chase? What the hell is the significance of sterling?"

"It's not sterling, Frank. It's Stirling, with two i's. Stirling is a city in Scotland. She's gone to Stirling, Frank."

"That's ridiculous, Brandt. Are you telling me you think she's in Stirling, Scotland because of a silver chain hanging from the barrette?"

"Right," Brandt replied triumphantly.

At this, Frank turned around and, striding away, he announced over his shoulder, "This is ridiculous! I've got to go stop the pilot from filing that flight plan."

"I knew you'd say that, Frank. Why do you think I refused to tell you before now? But hear me out. Here's the thing. First of all, I've seen the barrette before. There was no chain of any sort on it. Secondly, there was nothing else whatsoever in the package that I received, so the chain is definitely the clue. Thirdly, I told Patience that my closest living relative lives in Stirling."

Staring at him doubtfully, Frank inquired, "Do you really have a relative living in Stirling?"

"Yes, Frank. My closest living relative, Aunt Winnie, lives in Stirling!"

Glaring inquisitively at him a few moments longer, Frankly finally blurted, "Alright, Brandt. It's thin, but it's the only lead we've got. I must be out of my mind, but I'm beginning to believe that you may just be right. Let's go. With luck we can be there in fourteen hours."

Stirling, Scotland – The Same Day

**Patience was sitting** quietly within the parlor when Aunt Winnie came down for afternoon tea. Patience had grown quite attached to Aunt Winnie in the three weeks that she had been with her. Aunt Winnie had queried her as to the events that led up to her arrival at her doorstep in Stirling, Patience having been quite forthright in her description of the deplorable events that had resulted in her demise and current state of concealment. It seemed that it was quite impossible to practice evasiveness with any success when one was in the presence of Aunt Winnie.

"Patience, my dear," Aunt Winnie commenced, "I think that I should perhaps tell you a story. Please, sit down."

Patience politely complied, aware that something important must be coming, as Aunt Winnie had thus far refrained from exposition during her visit.

Aunt Winnie now added, "I am going to tell you the story of a young woman who went off to college in the hope that she might be liberated from her mother's somewhat antiquated, perhaps even Victorian views. The young lady was named Rebecca. She went to a lovely university in the United States of America. Things went along fairly well for a while, until she met a fellow at the beginning of her sophomore year who turned out to be a despicable man indeed. I shall not dwell on the details too much. In fact I think that I shall just jump to the deplorable part straightaway. It seems that the young lady became somehow intertwined with this man in such a way that she performed in a rather questionable dance contest at a fraternity house, against her better instincts, I might add. She somehow won the contest. Then, to make matters worse, the man induced her to perform her act a second time, and this time she was involved in a heinous crime that forced her to go into hiding for several years."

"Oh, that's terrible!" Patience replied with evident concern.

"Yes, I'm afraid it was, my dear. But now we fast forward several years, and the young lady has moved on. All thoughts of this despicable man had now slipped from her mind, or so she thought they had, until he came back into her life once again. This young lady despised this man for good reason, but it developed that he had changed in the intervening years. In fact, he had changed so much so that the young lady discovered by exercising compassion that the man was now worthy of her affections. She subsequently married the man, and he gave her the affectionate nickname "Winnie", because it had all started when she had won the dance contest so many years before."

At this Patience peered thoughtfully at Aunt Winnie and, realization sweeping over her, she exclaimed, "My goodness, Aunt Winnie, you were once forced to go into hiding?"

"Yes, my dear, I was, and for quite a lengthy period of time, I might add. I am telling you this story so that you will understand - I have been in your place. And I must therefore caution you to exercise compassion, sometimes even to those that you perceive deserve it the least. And most importantly, my dear, temper your compassion with patience. Patience is the parent of compassion, and compassion is borne within the heart."

"I understand your statement," Patience replied, "But I'm not sure exactly what you are referring to, Aunt Winnie."

"My dear, I am referring to my nephew, Brandt."

Edinburgh Airport – The Following Day

**Having slept soundly on the private jet, Brandt** and Frank landed quite refreshed. Clearing passport control and customs, they grabbed a quick breakfast, thereafter renting a car. From there it was little more than a pleasant two-hour drive to Stirling.

By midafternoon, they had arrived at a sumptuous home on the edge of the city. Brandt rang the doorbell, calling out presumptuously, "Aunt Winnie, it's me, Brandt, your long-lost nephew. I've come for a visit!"

The door opening shortly, an elegant looking woman peered at the pair of interlopers and exclaimed with little apparent surprise, "Why, Brandt MacCauley, it's been quite too long. How on earth are you, my boy?"

Wading into her arms, Brandt replied, "I'm doing just fine, Aunt Winnie, just fine. And how have you been?"

"I've been well, Brandtie. I had a feeling you might be coming to visit."

"Oh," Brandt replied. "Why is that?"

"You know, Brandt – that woman! You sent her here, so you should know!"

"Is she here? Is Margaret here, Aunt Winnie?"

"Margaret? Who on earth is Margaret? I only know Patience," she replied in obvious confusion.

"Patience! Right, Patience," Brandt responded with an enormous grin.

"So which one is it, Margaret, or Patience, my boy? You don't seem to be too picky."

"Patience, definitely Patience," he replied. "Where is she?"

"Oh, she's not here, Brandtie boy."

At this, Brandt paled and, turning to Frank, the pair exchanged a look of total deflation. "Oh, no! We've missed her again! Do you by any chance know where she has gone to, Aunt Winnie?"

"Oh, she's up the hill at the castle. I made her get out and do some sightseeing. She's been cooped up indoors here for three weeks, so I made her go for a walk. I told her it would do her good."

Brandt embraced his aunt and mentor yet again, exclaiming breathlessly, "Wonderful! Listen, this is my friend Frank, from America. We're going to go find Patience, and we shall be right back with her in just a few minutes."

"Ha!" she replied enigmatically, "There's more here than meets the eye, if you ask your old Auntie, eh, Brandtie boy!"

Brandt, smiling sheepishly, responded, "We shall see about that, Aunt Winnie. Be right back." And off went Brandt and Frank in search of Patience, a mission that had been underway for too many years to count.

They huffed their way up the hill, finally passing the King's Arms Pub, and thenceforth the parking lot. Arriving at the gate to the castle, Brandt bought two tickets for entry within. It was a gorgeous day, perfect weather for a visit to the castle and, as Frank had never seen anything like it, he was a bit overwhelmed by it all.

"I'd love to give you the tour," Brandt called over his shoulder as he rushed ahead in anticipation, "But at the moment we are on an even grander mission. So please - follow me, Frank."

Brandt raced headlong up the hill into the northern courtyard of the castle. There, standing at the north rampart gazing down into the valley, exactly where he had pictured her in his mind, was Patience. He hurried stealthily in her direction, hoping desperately to discern an unguarded moment of delight in her eyes when he surprised her with his presence, but it was not to be.

Upon his arrival at her side, without so much as turning to speak, she announced, "What took you so long? I've been waiting and waiting."

Obviously deflated by her lack of surprise, he responded breathlessly, "I'm so sorry, Patience, the package only arrived two days ago. I came as fast as I possibly could." He paused, incapable of doing more than simply staring at her standing there glaring sidelong at him, but then, realizing how foolish he must appear to her, he blurted anticlimactically, "Patience, are you okay?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, turning now to face him squarely. Crossing her arms imperiously, she announced, "So you had no trouble figuring out where I was, I presume."

"No, not at all, once the package arrived. That was easy, but the plane ticket to Sydney, that had me perplexed. That was a really smart move on your part. I'll bet Al-Wadi's goons are pouring over the whole of Australia as we speak."

"Let's hope so, let's certainly hope so," she replied matter-of-factly.

At that moment, Frank trudging up breathlessly, Brandt took the occasion to introduce him to her. Shaking his hand, she said pleasantly, "I've heard about you from Brandt, Mr. Hollister. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," he responded, clearly impressed to the point of near speechlessness at finally meeting her after so many years.

"So," Brandt continued, "How did you pull off the plane ticket to Australia, Patience?"

"What do you mean, _pull off_?" she responded condescendingly.

"Where did you find a look-alike to go in your place?" he queried.

"I didn't. I went myself," she responded.

"What!" Frank blurted, "How did you do that?"

"Easy," she replied, "I just got on the plane and went. When I arrived in Australia, I immediately flew back. I figured nobody would think to check return flights on the same day."

"Damn!" was the only reply Frank could conjure up to such simple brilliance.

"I told you, Frank – sharper than a barbed bullwhip. Al-Wadi's network may never catch up with that one. I checked myself, but even I didn't think to check return flights on the same day."

Patience's singular reply was a wordless smile of superiority.

"So how did you get to Stirling?" Brandt queried.

"I simply avoided all forms of transportation that required disclosure of personal information," she responded.

"Such as," Frank queried.

"I took local trains in Italy. You can get your ticket with cash. Same thing across France – local trains. I went to Cherbourg. From there I took a ferry to Portsmouth. It took three days to get that far from Milan. Once I arrived in England, it was a simple matter to go by train to Stirling. I never had to use my name, and I only had to show my passport a couple of times. Each time they were only doing visuals, so I used one of my fake passports just to make sure that my name was not recorded. I'm confident that nobody except the two of you and your Aunt Winnie know where I am at the moment."

At this point Frank interjected surreptitiously, "Patience, the time has come, as I'm sure you know..."

"Yes, I know, Frank. That's why I sent the barrette to Brandt. May I please have it back now, Brandt?"

At this Brandt pulled it from his pocket and, examining it momentarily, he surrendered it to her. She then continued with, "What's the plan?"

"We really shouldn't dally around here at all, Patience," Frank replied.

Glancing back over the valley below, she answered, "I understand. It's been a bit boring here in Stirling, but actually, I think I'll kind of miss it. I will miss Aunt Winnie especially. She's a treat!"

Gazing at the surrounding scenery, Frank replied, "I can understand that."

Thinking of Aunt Winnie rather than the scenery, Brandt responded, "So can I."

"So when do we have to leave?" she asked.

"As soon as you're ready, Patience."

"Is Brandt coming into the witness program, too?" she asked.

"Not right now," Frank responded. "We'll add him if it becomes necessary, depending on how soon we can get Al-Wadi to trial."

"So Brandt won't be around? You mean - I'll be all alone?" she queried with a look of dismay.

"I'm afraid so," Frank responded.

"For how long?" she queried miserably.

"Oh, God, Patience. That's anyone's guess," Frank replied empathetically. "Could be up to a year, but it will surely be nothing as compared to what you've already suffered through."

At this Patience winced, but said nothing in reply to Frank. She then turned to Brandt and said, "Thanks Brandt. It seems that once again I owe you."

"I can't take credit, Patience. Had I checked my facial recognition software like I should have over the weekend, they never would have found you. That reminds me, what exactly happened in Castiglion? Obviously, they caught up with you, or you wouldn't have fled."

"Oh, nothing much happened, Brandt," she replied nonchalantly. "Paulo Ribusti told me that two guys came snooping around at church on Sunday. So I laid a trap for them."

"A trap? What sort of trap?" Frank queried doubtfully.

"Oh, I just led them up the street at night, as if I didn't know that they were following me, and as I rounded a curve in the street I ducked into an alley. When they walked by I tasered both of them and gave them a shot of pepper spray for good measure."

"Damn, girl!" Frank expostulated in profound admiration. "God forbid that I should ever tangle with you! I'll bet Al-Wadi was none too happy with those two when they got home!"

At this, Brandt chimed in, "If I were either of them, I don't think I would have gone home!" At this, all three of them laughed convivially, causing the nearby tourists to wonder what they'd been drinking in the King's Arms. The three of them remained for a few moments longer, gazing silently towards the Battle of Stirling Monument down in the valley, all three aware that this was one of those moments that come along only rarely in a lifetime.

They stayed for dinner with Aunt Winnie, who was apprised of the situation in sufficient detail to satisfy her insatiable curiosity. When the time came to depart, Brandt gave her a loving embrace and, promising to return as soon as time permitted, he hoped against hope that he actually would do so sooner rather than later.

For her part, Aunt Winnie returned his embrace, responding astutely, "Now look here, Brandtie boy, you never could put one over on me. I see how it is between the two of you. So you must promise me, the next time that you come to visit, you must bring that lovely drop of sunshine with you, my dear."

Brandt, commencing to deny her accusation, was cut off by her rejoinder, "Ah- Ah-, no excuses, my boy. Just do as I say, as you always have before."

The plane flew out that night. After fourteen years in hiding, Patience was now under the protection of the FBI.
Chapter 10

Eye of the Arachnid

Lincoln - April 2, 2012

**Brandt had finally been placed** under FBI protection a month before the trial was set to open. Patience having been swept away by the FBI immediately upon their arrival back in the United States a year earlier, he had no idea where she was. At the moment he was ensconced in his federally protected hotel room at the Lincoln Embassy Suites, awaiting his turn to testify. The case centered around the fact that Al-Wadi's plane was known to have landed in Lincoln the night before the bombing. Having subpoenaed the pilot and co-pilot, the FBI had been informed that the plane had found it necessary to land in Lincoln due to an engine problem. Had it not been for that, there might have been no case at all, for it could not have been established that Al-Wadi had kidnapped Patience. As it stood, Frank had informed Brandt that the Federal Prosecutor was confident of their case.

Seeking something to do to mitigate the rather strange simultaneous sensations of boredom and jitters, he turned on the television just in time to watch the news. The television screen focused in on a reporter in a studio who announced, "I'm Jim Sanders, and you're watching CBN News. And now let's go live to Stephanie Miller, who is on site in Lincoln, Nebraska covering the sensational kidnapping trial of billionaire Hakeem Al-Wadi. Over to you, Stephanie."

"Thanks, Jim," Stephanie replied as the television image switched to her, "We're here on the steps of the Federal Courthouse in downtown Lincoln, where the trial of Hakeem Al-Wadi is in its eighth day. Almost all of last week was spent in the jury selection portion of the trial, with the jury finally seated late Thursday afternoon. At that point the judge gave the jury their charge and recessed for the day. On Friday both sides gave opening statements, and on Friday afternoon the prosecution began to present its case. Not too much of significance happened immediately, with the federal prosecutors essentially doing nothing more than laying out the timeline of events covering the alleged kidnapping of the now world-famous icon Patience Walker."

"So, Stephanie," Jim cut in.

Holding one hand up to her earphone, Stephanie replied, "Yes, Jim?"

"What is the general mood there up to now?"

"Good question, Jim. It's been a real circus here. Of course, you can see the enormous crowd behind us here in downtown Lincoln. One local told me just a few minutes ago that the only time he'd ever seen crowds this big in Lincoln was during a football game on a Saturday afternoon. This trial is certainly the biggest thing to happen in Nebraska in a long time."

"Can you describe the setting in the courtroom for us, Stephanie?"

"Sure. The crowds here have grown visibly with each passing day of the trial thus far. I'd say there were more than a thousand people standing in line this morning just for the chance to sit in the gallery on the second floor of the courtroom. Most of those people are going to be disappointed, since the courtroom will only hold perhaps a hundred visitors. Inside the courtroom things have been somewhat more subdued, but there have already been several occasions when the gallery has erupted in unrestrained applause. I'd say the judge has her hands full."

"Tell us, Stephanie - paint a picture for us of Mr. Al-Wadi, if you can."

"Tough question, Jim. Up to now he hasn't said a word, except to occasionally lean over and whisper something to one of his lawyers. Frankly, he looks almost disinterested, perhaps even a bit sullen, sort of like it's all an enormous waste of his time. But that's just a guess on my part."

"What's on the docket for today, Stephanie?"

"Today is the big one, Jim. The prosecution will call Patience herself to the witness stand. This is of course the moment we have all been waiting for. After fifteen years in hiding, the public will finally get to see and hear Patience Walker, the worldwide iconic image for Restoring Patience, in person. This is certainly going to be an eventful day in Lincoln, Jim."

The camera switching back to him, Jim replied, "Thank you, Stephanie. And there you have the latest from Lincoln, Nebraska on this breaking story of truly global proportions. Stay tuned for more news regarding the trial of Hakeem Al-Wadi."

That Same Morning

**Frank and Patience were encamped** in a suite in the Cornhusker Hotel, less than a mile from the Federal Courthouse. Frank picked up Patience's coat, saying, "Okay, it's time to go, Patience. I know you're terrified, but think of it this way. This is it. After fifteen years, it's finally coming to an end. We're going to get that son-of-a-bitch, and then you can start living a normal life."

"Yeah, I know, Frank, but somehow it doesn't make today any easier," she replied.

"I understand," he responded and, helping her into her coat, he was careful to avoid mussing her rather bizarre hairstyle. "Thanks for agreeing to the watusi, by the way."

Glancing at it one last time in the mirror, she replied, "Frankly, it feels really strange. The last time I looked like this I felt like someone who deserved to have this sort of hairdo. It reminds me of what I did that afternoon."

"Don't think about it," he replied. "Think of what that hairdo is going to do to Al-Wadi when you arrive in the courtroom."

"Yeah, I know, but to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I could have gone through with cutting it just for that reason alone. I really want to just disappear and blend in, like I did before. And with this monstrosity removed from the top of my head after the trial is over, I just might pull it off."

"I hope so. I surely hope so," Frank replied. Passing through the doorway, he spoke into his wireless microphone, "Okay, we're on the move. Initiate the plan of action."

That Same Morning

**Brandt was in his kitchenette** at the Embassy Suites pouring himself a cup of coffee, when he suddenly overheard unusually loud chatter coming over the TV in the living room. Racing back to the television, he arrived just as Jim Sanders came onscreen once again.

"My God," Sanders blurted out, obviously listening into his earpiece. "Oh, my God, this news just in - it appears that the FBI convoy carrying Patience Walker to the courthouse in Lincoln, Nebraska has just been attacked by as-yet-unknown armed assailants several blocks from the courthouse. We're going live to Lincoln. Stephanie, are you there?"

"Yes, Jim, I'm here," Stephanie Miller replied, the camera now switching to her. She was still standing on the courthouse steps, her agitation readily apparent. Behind her was a scene of sheer pandemonium, with people scampering randomly in every direction. She blurted, "Jim, we don't know much yet, but as you can see behind me, Lincoln, Nebraska is now in a state of total confusion. The FBI convoy carrying Patience Walker was attacked about eight blocks from the courthouse just a couple of minutes ago. There has been sporadic gunfire, much of it appearing to be semi-automatic weapons. There goes another burst of gunfire! Did you hear that, Jim?"

"Yes," Jim replied. "Sounds like a war zone, Stephanie."

"Yes, Jim, and moments ago, just before we came on the air, we heard a tremendous explosion coming from the same direction as the gunfire. Wait a minute..." and at this she glanced off-camera, clearly listening to someone. Then she said to the person off-camera, "What did you say?" Then she turned back to the camera, exclaiming, "Oh, my God. Jim, it appears that the vehicle that was carrying world famous icon Patience Walker has been blown up in a vicious attack by unknown assailants here in downtown Lincoln. I have no other information at this time, but I will find out more as this shocking story unfolds. Back to you, Jim."

Brandt slumped down in his seat and, unable to take in the enormity of it all, he remained glued to the television in a vain attempt to ascertain more.

That Same Morning

**Frank spoke into his microphone** from the hotel room, saying, "What's going on? We hear gunfire, Joe." He listened for a moment and, leaning towards Patience, he said, "You and Brandt were right, Patience. They laid a trap for us. Good thing we sent out a decoy from the hotel."

"Anybody hurt?" Patience asked with concern.

"I'm not sure yet. We should know shortly."

Frank dialed a number and waited for a voice on the other end. "Hello," the person said.

"Hey, it's Frank. I'm sure you know what's going on here. I just wanted you to know, she's okay. They attacked the decoy convoy. We're still in the hotel."

Brandt replied, "Oh, God! Thanks, Frank. Oh, that's great news. I know you must be busy, but please tell her we're all pulling for her. Thanks again, Frank," and at this he hung up.

"Who was that?" Patience queried.

"The federal prosecutor," Frank lied. "I figured he'd want to know."

"Oh, right," Patience responded with feigned interest.

It was all over in a half hour, as federal officers rapidly contained and arrested the attackers who were not killed. Two federal agents were killed and three were injured. Five attackers were killed, four injured, and six others were taken into custody.

Lincoln - The Following Day

**Sitting in his hotel room, Brandt** was again glued to the television as the latest newscast unfolded.

Onscreen, Jim Sanders announced, "For those of you who have just tuned in, we are going back to Lincoln, Nebraska, where a vicious attack by fifteen assailants reported to be associates of Hakeem Al-Wadi attacked an FBI convoy yesterday. Seven persons were killed and seven more were injured in the attack. It was at first reported that the entourage was transporting Patience Walker, the star witness for the prosecution, and that she had been killed in the attack. As a result, the trial was delayed indefinitely.

"However, it was revealed a short time later that the FBI convoy was a decoy, and that Miss Walker was not in harm's way. The trial is therefore set to move forward at nine A.M. this morning."

A Short Time Later

**Patience peered from the** black sedan as it pulled up in front of the courthouse and, the enormous crowd surging forward, she sensed that this was the long-awaited moment.

Patience now posited, "Tell me your men swept all the surrounding buildings for snipers, Frank."

"Yes, all clear. Let's get into the courthouse while we know it's safe. Come on, Patience." At this Frank stepped out of the vehicle, signaling the agents to draw as near as possible. Suddenly, an enormous black fountain of hair could be seen to rise above the heads of the crowd as a second person emerged from the vehicle.

Somewhere in the crowd, a single voice yelled out, "There she is!" Immediately, a thousand people surged forward, each one attempting to get a close-up view of the world-famous Patience Walker. Camera's clicked, reporters held up microphones, people reached out, all attempting to capture this uniquely historic moment in some small way. For the first time in this long and sad saga, a live image of Patience was beamed across the world.

The throng continued to surge, pressing forward as the agents transported Patience within their protective grasp up the steps and into the courthouse. Once inside, Frank yelled into Patience's ear above the crowd noise, "Okay, Patience, the worst is over. It'll get easier from here." She was immediately escorted down a hallway and into a room normally used for sequestering juries. There they settled in to await Patience's call to testify.

The Courtroom - A Short Time Later

" **All rise," the bailiff announced** to everyone within the courtroom. All rose, a door opened, and the judge strode to her dais, whereupon she picked up her gavel and, banging it upon the podium, she announced, "Court is in session. You may be seated. I believe that the prosecution has the floor."

"Your honor, the prosecution calls Patience Walker as our next witness," the lead prosecutor announced. A loud buzz immediately breaking out within the courtroom, the judge slammed her gavel down yet again, commanding, "Quiet in the courtroom, please." At this the noise died down somewhat, the judge further announcing, "Bailiff, please bring the witness forward."

The bailiff replied, "Yes, your honor," thenceforth departing the courtroom. Returning moments later, he led Patience into the courtroom. A collective gasp arose from the audience and, at the sight of her, Hakeem Al-Wadi snarled maliciously and rose halfway out of his seat. His lawyer immediately pushed him back down within his seat, obviously hoping that this transgression had gone unnoticed.

The bailiff ushered Patience to the witness box, motioning for her to stand within the box. The judge frowned at Patience's coiffure, but said nothing. Once again, she pounded her gavel, repeating, "Quiet, please!"

The bailiff asked Patience to raise her right hand, subsequently querying, "Do you solemnly promise that the testimony that you are about to give is the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," Patience said.

"Be seated," the bailiff replied, subsequently withdrawing to his appointed seat.

The judge now turned to Patience and instructed, "Miss Walker, you are a witness for the prosecution in the kidnapping trial of Mr. Hakeem Al-Wadi. Do you understand, and are you here to testify of your own free will?"

"Yes and yes, your honor," Patience replied concisely, a slight tremor lacing her voice. Thus far she had avoided looking in the direction of the defense table.

Glancing in the direction of the prosecution table, the judge announced, "Mr. Dalton, you may proceed with the witness."

A towering man rose from his seat and approached Patience. Appearing to be a bit young for such an important assignment, he nonetheless displayed ample self-confidence, announcing, "Now, Miss Walker, I am going to ask you a few simple questions to begin with, just to establish a timeline. Okay?"

"Yes," Patience replied.

"Where were you on the morning of February 20, 1997?"

"I was here in Lincoln," she replied.

"And what were you doing that day, Miss Walker?"

"Well, first I went to see my mother, who was in the hospital. Then I went to campus at NSU for classes, and around six P.M. I went to the International Festival in the campus auditorium."

"What is the International Festival, Miss Walker?"

"It is an annual event put on by students to celebrate international activities on the NSU campus."

"And what did you do at that event, Miss Walker?"

"I was a performer."

"What sort of performer, Miss Walker?"

"I was supposed to represent a woman from the Middle East in traditional dress."

"And exactly what were you dressed in?"

"I wore a full black berka, including a headdress, so that only my eyes were visible."

"Thank you, Miss Walker. Now, could you tell us in your own words what happened that night?"

"Well, the festival was quite a success, lasting well past ten P.M. I was with a friend, and eventually a man came up and talked to the two of us."

"And what did this man look like?"

"He was about six feet tall, and he was clearly Middle Eastern."

"And what happened then, Miss Walker?"

"He offered me a glass of punch."

"And what did you do?"

"I drank a little bit of it."

"Is it possible that he drugged you, Miss Walker?"

At this the lead defense lawyer jumped up, exclaiming, "Objection, your honor, that question requires a subjective conclusion by the witness."

"Objection sustained. Move on please, Mr. Dalton."

Dalton turned to the judge, saying, "Question withdrawn, your honor." He then turned back to Patience, inquiring, "What happened next, Miss Walker?"

"I don't know, because I don't remember anything else," she replied.

"Please explain."

"I must have passed out, because when I awoke, I was on an airplane."

"You say you passed out. Had you been drinking, Miss Walker."

"No, not at all," she replied.

"I see," he observed, "Now, tell us what you observed when you came to within the aircraft."

"It was a private plane, a jet, I am quite certain. And there were three men in the cabin. All three were Middle Eastern, and one of them was the gentleman I met at the International Festival. One of them was dressed in all-white middle eastern clothing, including a white headdress with a sash."

"Would you mind looking around the courtroom for me? Do you see any of those three men within this courtroom?"

At this Patience peered in the direction of the defense table for the first time. Hakeem Al-Wadi was sitting there, slouched back nonchalantly in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, just staring at the fingernails on one hand. "Yes, that's one of them right there, Mr. Dalton."

"Your honor, let the record show that Miss Walker is pointing to the defendant, Hakeem Al-Wadi. Now, Miss Walker, what else transpired that night?"

Patience continued with her well-rehearsed description, saying, "Mr. Al-Wadi asked me to sign a piece of paper. He said it was the document authorizing an operation for my mother. The other guy gave me something to drink, and I lost consciousness right after that."

"And where were you when you woke up, Miss Walker?"

"I was lying on a big table, trussed up like an animal in Las Vegas."

"How do you know all of this?"

"I know because I escaped a couple of hours later!"

"Thank you, Miss Walker. Now what happened next, when you woke up on the table?"

"Well, there was a woman there. Her name was Bernice, and she showed me my hair in a mirror. She explained that she had done it up for me, but she didn't explain why. Then Mr. Al-Wadi came in, and he talked to me for a few minutes. He told me that I had signed a contract, and that I had agreed to deliver some package. I tried to tell him that I had been kidnapped, but he said that I was just confused. Then he left, and a few minutes later I was taken to the Lido Hotel. Oh, and they gave me a double shot of whiskey just before we departed."

"And what happened next, Miss Walker?"

"Well, I was told to put on the berka, and then they gave me a package to deliver, to Room 403 in the Lido Hotel. The lead guy's name was Wassim, I remember. We waited for a few minutes outside the hotel, and then he instructed me to go inside and deliver the package. He told me to come straight back to the van when I had completed the delivery."

"And what happened then?"

"I went inside the hotel and I went down the elevator to the third basement. From there I threw the package in a stairwell, and then I ran like hell."

"Was that what you were instructed to do?"

"No, sir!"

"Then why did you do that, Miss Walker?"

"Because I could tell that there was a bomb inside."

"Objection, your honor," the defense lawyer submitted, "Calls for a subjective conclusion."

At this, Mr. Dalton countered, "Your honor, I believe that my client can contribute more than an opinion on this issue."

"I will allow it," the judge ruled, adding, "Please proceed, Miss Walker."

"I could feel the package vibrating intermittently. So I knew there was something electronic inside, thereby obviating my initial assumption that it was drugs."

"Thank you, Miss Walker. Now, did you perhaps leave something out of your testimony? Perhaps when you first entered the hotel?"

"Sorry, yes, as a matter of fact, I did. On entering the hotel lobby, I glanced about and, seeing a security camera, I used Morse code to blink the letters S.O.S. with my eyes."

At this, Mr. Dalton inquired, "And why did you do that?"

"I was hoping someone in security would understand my message."

"So I take it you did not enter the hotel voluntarily, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, just a few more questions, Miss Walker. What happened after you left the hotel?"

"I raced down the street to escape what I thought would be an explosion and, unfortunately for me, Wassim was waiting curbside. I was captured and transported back to the office."

"Okay, thank you, Miss Walker. Now, what happened next?"

"Well, Wassim and the other guy, I think his name was Navid, the two of them dragged me back into the office, at which point they stripped me and tossed me on the sofa. Mr. Al-Wadi and Bernice came in, and I heard him say to Wassim, that he was going to rape me and then torture me. Mr. Al-Wadi then told Wassim to give me something to keep me sedated, and Wassim brought a glass over to me.

"While he wasn't looking I dumped it on the floor behind the sofa. They thought I was out cold. So Wassim, Navid and Bernice left, and I was left alone with Mr. Al-Wadi. He came over to the sofa, and while he wasn't looking I stuck my finger down my throat and threw up on him. He turned to clean himself off, at which point I struck him across the face with a marble ashtray that was on the table."

At this, Mr. Al-Wadi leapt from his seat, screaming in a rage, "That bitch knocked my eye out!" and so saying, he grabbed his right eye and jerked the glass eye out of the socket. He then hurled it at her as hard as he possibly could. The projectile flew across the courtroom, narrowly missing Patience and, striking the wall behind her, it shattered into pieces.

He screamed vehemently, "How do you like that, you bitch!" and he glared at her in disgust. He then slowly turned toward the jury and, staring at them with his lone remaining eye, he announced implacably, "Oh, don't worry about that. I have another glass eye. I can afford it, you know."

Absolutely frozen in silence, the entire courtroom now awaited his next utterance. Waving his hand dismissively at Patience, he exclaimed, "That bitch, she drove me crazy! Fifteen goddamned years I've been looking for her! Nobody crosses Hakeem Al-Wadi and gets away with it. But that ugly bitch, she's been the bane of my existence for fifteen years! And yesterday we damned near got her!"

Staring defiantly at Patience with his single remaining eye, he sneered at her as if looks could kill, then spat out derisively to the judge, "How do you like that, your honor!" Finally reseating himself, he waved his hand dismissively at the entire proceeding. The silence in the courtroom now stretched out momentarily, not a single person capable of so much as blinking an eye.

Having for some reason refrained from attempting to halt Al-Wadi's outburst, the judge finally broke the silence, announcing calmly, "Mr. Simmons, please restrain your client from further such outbursts," and turning toward the jury, she announced, "I believe that, under the circumstances, we shall have a short recess. Bailiff, please return Miss Walker to the witness waiting room. Guard, please return the defendant to the prisoner's waiting room. I will see counselors for the prosecution and the defense in my quarters in five minutes, please." She then struck her podium with her gavel, rose, and exited the room.

An immediate uproar exploded within, one and all rushing for exits, everyone intent on being the first to inform anyone and everyone what had just transpired within the courtroom.

Frank, who was waiting for Patience when she returned to the witness waiting room, inquired nervously, "What happened?"

"I'm not sure," she responded, but at that very moment Mr. Dalton rushed in and, grasping Patience in a resolute embrace, he commenced jumping up and down gleefully.

"Yeeha!" he exclaimed manically, "You nailed that asshole, Miss Walker! He's going down for sure! He's never going to see another free day for the rest of his life! He's done!"

A Short Time Later

**Still glued to the television, Brandt** was scrutinizing CBN. Suddenly, he heard Jim Walker announce, "And now this breaking news from Lincoln. Yesterday, it appeared that Patience Walker might have been assassinated in an attack in downtown Lincoln, but Miss Walker somehow managed to escape danger. This morning Miss Walker took the stand for the prosecution in the kidnapping trial of billionaire Hakeem Al-Wadi.

"Now, in a bizarre turn of events, we are told that Al-Wadi, one of the richest persons in the world, has just plea bargained, pleading guilty to kidnapping in the fifteen-year-old case of the now world-famous Patience. Sources tell us that Al-Wadi has agreed to serve a twenty-year prison term. These same sources tell us that with time off for good behavior he could be released in as little as nine years.

"Readers will recall that Al-Wadi was previously indicted for murder in 2002, but the charge was subsequently dropped when the prime witness disappeared. Al-Wadi was indicted a second time in 2006, this time for tax evasion. That charge was also dropped when federal prosecutors were unable to produce verifiable evidence of Al-Wadi's wealth. Sources that wish to remain unnamed have indicated that the bulk of Al-Wadi's wealth is off shore in the Cayman Islands, where he had been known to vacation frequently. Stay tuned for further word on this rapidly developing story."

San Quentin Federal Prison - April 5

**The cell door opened** and, Hakeem Al-Wadi sauntering within, he took little notice of the recumbent figure on the upper bunk. He surveyed the small chamber that was to be his home for the next nine years, give or take, then strolled over to the bunk. Surreptitiously punching the man on the upper bunk in the back, and noticing that his target did not move, he exclaimed, "Hey! Hey, you. Wake up!"

At this, the man in the upper bunk moved just a tiny bit. After a few seconds, he rolled over and, facing Hakeem, he mumbled sullenly, "What do you want?"

"I am Hakeem Al-Wadi," he said. "I think I like your bunk. You can have the lower one."

"Pleased to meet you," the man replied without interest and, rolling over, he ignored the veiled threat.

"Perhaps you've heard of me," Hakeem said menacingly.

"Perhaps you've heard of me, too," the man answered nonchalantly, still facing the wall.

"What's your name?"

"Mamoud, Mamoud Al-Hasawi," the man responded.

"No, no, I can't say as I do know you. I knew an Al-Hasawi once, a long time ago. Navid. Yeah, Navid Al-Hasawi, he used to work for me."

Still facing the wall as if he couldn't care less, the man inquired, "Yeah? What happened to him?"

"Nothing. He died. Son-of-a-bitch crossed me. Seems to happen to lots of people that cross Hakeem Al-Wadi. They found him in the desert a couple of years later. He was pretty chewed up by wild animals by then," and Al-Wadi pronounced this last with discernible malice.

At this, the man rolled over and, stepping down from the bunk, he rose to his full six-and-a-half-foot height and murmured, "Navid, Navid Al-Hasawi...let me see...seems like I knew a Navid Al-Hasawi once. Oh yeah, he was my brother."

Pasadena - April 7

**Brandt had been released** from federal protection immediately after the trial, there being no further perceived threat to his life. Of course, Patience had been another matter. She had remained in protective custody. Federal authorities continued to assume her life was in danger. As long as Al-Wadi was alive, his associates might well come after her. Thus, she would necessarily have to remain in protective custody indefinitely.

Under the circumstances, Brandt had returned to Pasadena the following day without having seen Patience. In keeping with policy, he had no idea where she was, and furthermore, he had no idea whether he would ever see her again.

Thus, it was that he was sitting on his sofa watching the news and drinking a cup of coffee when a special report came on CBN. The television screen focused on Jim Walker, who announced, "Word has just come to us that Hakeem Al-Wadi, the billionaire crime boss who pled guilty to the kidnapping of the iconic Patience Walker earlier this week, has suffered a massive heart attack and died in prison only two days after his arrival at San Quentin Federal Prison.

"Al-Wadi had been set to serve a twenty-year sentence for the now infamous kidnapping of Miss Walker in 1997. For those who are not aware, Miss Walker is the namesake of the world-wide women's protection organization Restoring Patience, and the source of the iconic image known as 'The Watusi'. For obvious reasons, Miss Walker has been forced to remain in hiding ever since the kidnapping fifteen years ago. Perhaps now Miss Walker will be able to come forth from her long-imposed exile, so that the world may see and hear her remarkable story firsthand.

"Stay tuned as this, the most remarkable story of our time, continues to unfold. I'm Jim Walker, and you're watching CBN."
Chapter 11

Deliverance

Las Vegas - April 15, 2012

**Patience stared idly from** the window, the view from the thirty-fourth floor of the hotel undeniably impressive. The glitter and excess that was so emblematic of Las Vegas shining before them in the fading evening sunlight, the pair stood taking it in for a final few moments. Frank then turned to Patience, advising, "We had better get going. The show will be starting very shortly."

"Do I have to go?" Patience queried. "I've been in a different part of the world for so long. This grand showcase sort of thing kind of scares me."

"Yes, I fear that you must. If you were to duck this affair, I'm afraid that people would come seeking you out in every corner of the world."

"What on earth for?" Patience replied.

"Patience, there is no way that I can explain it to you. The truth is, you've become an international celebrity. Everyone wants to see the woman who single-handedly brought down one of the most potent criminals in the entire world. You must appear tonight in order to ever have a moment's privacy for the remainder of your life."

"Yeah, okay, I guess you're right, but I don't feel like a celebrity, and I sure don't want to be in the limelight."

"The thought never crossed my mind that you would," Frank responded. "I can tell from the time that we have spent together that you are a very private person. Starting tomorrow you can begin the process of restoring your privacy, but tonight you must be on display for the world to see one last time. Now, let's get going."

At this she pouted a moment, murmuring, "Oh, alright," and, tugging her overcoat on, she started obediently for the door.

"By the way, that is a gorgeous evening gown, Patience. You look absolutely stunning tonight."

"Thank you, but I don't feel that way at all," she replied.

"Why? You're quite lovely, you know," he responded matter-of-factly.

"Well, I just don't feel that way, especially with this damned watusi hairdo. I can't believe that you talked me into having it done this way. I've had this revulsion for it in my memory for all these years, and here I am decked out in it once again. Now I know why I kept the barrette all these years. Damn it, Frank, I've felt like a whore ever since I got it cut two weeks ago!"

Gently grasping her by the shoulders, Frank posited, "I know, I know, but we went over this, Patience. It was necessary. Without the watusi, I doubt that we could have gotten Al-Wadi to blow up in the courtroom like that. Besides, the watusi hairdo is the symbol of the worldwide appeal of Restoring Patience, and you are the iconic image of the organization. You just won't carry the impact without it."

"Yeah, I know all of that, but that's not the reason that you talked me into it."

"Oh? Why DID you agree to do it, then?" he asked.

"I already told you, Frank. Nobody will ever realize back in Italy that Patience is the same person as Martina, the owner of an ice cream shop in Castiglion Fiorentino."

"You're NOT going back there! Surely not, Patience. You don't have to now. Your self-imposed exile is over. Al-Wadi is dead!"

"I know, but it's the only place that I feel at home. I'm going back, Frank. And when I say 'back', I mean - back to my quiet existence, and I don't want to be recognized."

At this admission, they walked in silence for a few moments. They had just reached the door when she asked, "Will Brandt MacCauley be there tonight?"

"Yes, of course," Frank replied, "He is the master of ceremonies."

"Really," she responded, nonplussed. "Well, I suppose that it can't be avoided."

"Is there bad blood between the two of you?" Frank queried with obvious concern.

"No, no, there's no bad blood. I just can't stand to be around him, that's all."

Obviously perplexed by her continuing revulsion for Brandt, Frank asked, "Might I ask what the reason is? He's really done wonderful things on your behalf, Patience."

"You wouldn't understand. Let's just say – it goes back to a long time ago."

"I see," he replied, although he really could only surmise. As they moved down the sidewalk, he added, "Well, it's none of my business anyway. Here's the car. Shall we?"

"Yes," she responded, "It's show time, as they say."

Their arrival at the Las Vegas Conference Center was much like a Hollywood gala. As the car drove down the last block to the center, they were encircled within a mad crush of spectators. The driver found it necessary to inch along, awaiting their turn to halt at the red carpet. Cameras were flashing everywhere, reporters lined up along the red carpet awaiting their turn at the story of a lifetime.

Patience was visibly disconcerted. Attempting to soothe her fears, Frank offered, "Don't worry Patience, our agents will be there. You will be protected. I absolutely guarantee it."

At this she looked a bit relieved, but suddenly emitting a look of shock, she blurted, "What the...what is that?"

"What is what?" Frank replied, concern showing on his face.

She pointed towards a group of spectators, exclaiming, "That!"

Frank peered in the direction that she was pointing, and there, not fifty feet away, was a group of perhaps twenty youngsters dressed in black, each and every one of them sporting an exact duplicate of her watusi hairdo. "Oh, that. Think nothing of it, Patience. It's simply a show of admiration. As I told you, you are now an international celebrity."

Patience scowled at the group, mumbling, "I can't wait to get back home." She frowned, adding, "That Brandt MacCauley, he's the one who used it to market Restoring Patience, isn't he!"

"Yes, he is, but you shouldn't jump to conclusions, dear friend. There was a general public clamor to learn more about the mysterious Patience. And remember, the world was under the impression that you were dead. Brandt provided just the right bit of information to enlist the masses. He cropped the infamous photo taken that night to a head shot, photo-shopping it into a silhouette. The only distinguishing feature that remained was the watusi, but it was just enough to give the public what it wanted – an idol to worship."

"This is ridiculous. I'm not some sort of idol. I'm going to need all the help I can get just to make it through this night, Frank. Please, can I count on you?"

"My dear Patience, indeed you can. You must know that I admire you greatly, and I would do anything in my power to ensure your happiness and safety," he replied, "Just stay focused on the reality that, beginning tomorrow, you will have your life back."

"Thank you," she answered, and at that moment the car pulled up to the red carpet.

An agent opened the car door, Frank finding just enough time to say, "Stay with Bill and his colleagues. They will get you to your assigned seating. I will join you shortly."

"Okay," she replied, stepping forthwith into the pulsating throng.

"There she is!" someone in the crowd shouted, "It's Patience!" And just like that the melee commenced. Fortunately, the agents were true to Frank's word, safely conducting Patience inside the center, whereupon they pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, successfully maneuvering her to the backstage area. Once there, she saw Brandt who, on spotting her in return, came towards her through the backstage crowd.

"Hello. Are you quite alright, Patience?" he queried upon reaching her side.

"Yes, I'm fine," she responded, though it was clear from her look of misery that she was not.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"You, too," she responded miserably, displaying not so much as a tiny smile of joy at seeing him for the first time in more than a year.

"I am sorry you have to go through this, Patience, but it is quite necessary," he volunteered.

"Yes, I know. Frank explained it to me," she replied and, glancing up to discover that he was completely transfixed by the sight of her hair, she blurted belligerently, "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" he murmured softly, taken off guard by her tone.

"Stop looking at it!" she snarled at him. "Damn you, Brandt MacCauley. Damn you to hell!" and she screamed these last words so vehemently that virtually everyone backstage turned in dismay.

The encroaching silence now deafening, he stared at her with a look of utter horror and blurted in obvious confusion, "Please forgive me, Patience."

Slowly softening her visage at this abject apology, she unclenched her fists after a few moments. She now made a desperate attempt at a smile, and though she failed miserably, it was clear that she was trying.

Touching her hand gently with his, Brandt speculated compassionately, "I can't know what it must be like for you tonight Patience, but if there is anything, anything at all that I can do to make this easier for you, please know that I will do it."

A hundred pairs of eyes viewed this exchange tensely, every person fearful to so much as breathe. After a seemingly endless stretch, Patience squeezed his hand in return and responded apologetically, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I blew up at you, Brandt. Of all people for me to treat that way on this night, I had to pick you. I'm truly sorry. Now let's get on with it. Okay?"

"Right," he replied, "Are you ready?"

"No...yes...," she nodded, causing her watusi to bob ludicrously. And at this, the crowd twittered, the tension having apparently abated.

Turning towards the interlopers, he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin. If you would, please take your seats on the stage. Not you, Patience. Please remain here with me."

The remainder of the group now meandering onto the stage, she inquired "What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing," Brandt replied empathetically. "Just remain here backstage, and wait for me to call you onstage. I shall then ask you to say a few words. The rest of the program will take care of itself."

The auditorium suddenly grew hushed and, turning to her, Brandt winked and whispered briskly, "It's show time!" and with that he stepped out onto the stage.

Approaching the podium, he commenced with, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am Brandt MacCauley, your master of ceremonies for the evening. It is my great honor to emcee the show tonight. For your information, the ceremony is at this very moment being beamed to more than six hundred television stations worldwide. As you are doubtless aware, I have been the President and CEO of Restoring Patience since its inception nearly fifteen years ago," at which the audience applauded enthusiastically.

After the applause had died down, Brandt continued with, "For those of you who are not aware, Restoring Patience is a worldwide organization whose goal is to eradicate exploitation of women. Seated on the stage before you are the original forty members of Restoring Patience. If you will, please give them a hand."

After the applause had died down, he suggested, "Without my wonderful colleagues and friends on this stage, I doubt that Restoring Patience would have ever come to fruition. And now, will all the members of Restoring Patience in the audience please rise," at which much of the crowd arose to accept their accolade.

Continuing, Brandt announced, "In recent years the membership of Restoring Patience has grown to more than three million people worldwide. To date, Restoring Patience has successfully helped more than five thousand female victims of exploitation worldwide," and at this revelation there was still further applause.

Now halting momentarily, he subsequently continued with, "Ladies and gentlemen, I know, I know – I'm already beginning to bore you. You didn't come here tonight to hear some stuffed shirt drone on about Restoring Patience. You came here tonight to see Patience!" and at this statement the auditorium erupted in deafening applause.

As the applause began to die down Brandt announced resoundingly, "Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you Patience!" at which the entire crowd jumped to their feet as one, the eruption of applause absolutely all-consuming.

Taking a deep breath, Patience stepped reticently onto the stage, at which the roar grew impossibly louder. Having no idea what to do, she lunged directly toward Brandt, who grasped her tenderly and barked above the uproar, "Stay calm, Patience. It will all be over soon. Now, if you would, please be seated in the chair next to the podium."

Brandt now stood back from the podium, allowing the crowd to express their full gratitude to Patience. Finally, pushing his hands downwards in an attempt to silence the crowd, he cajoled, "Please, if you will, please be seated." Hesitating a moment, he abruptly entreated, "What do you think folks, shouldn't we hear from Patience herself?"

As one, the entire audience stood, applauding thunderously yet again. Brandt turned and, approaching Patience, he held his hand out to her, willing her to stand and take the podium.

Accepting his hand, she stood but refused to budge, instead whispering in his ear, "What do I say?"

Smiling supportively, he suggested, "Why, whatever you want to say, Patience. I know that you will have something special to say on this, your night," and at this he stepped back.

Gathering herself momentarily, she commenced with trembling voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, please bear with me as I tell you a story. Fifteen years ago, there was a young lady who was a sophomore at Nebraska State University. One day her father died of cancer and three months later her mother was diagnosed with heart failure. She was in need of a serious and costly operation, which her family was unable to afford.

"On that very same day the young lady was drugged and kidnapped. She was subsequently flown to Las Vegas, whereupon her head was shaved and she was forced to do something against her will. She never saw her mother again," and by now her voice was trembling so forcefully that she found it necessary to halt for a moment.

Regaining her composure, she continued with, "What happened to that young lady has become the defining event of her life, and since that night fifteen years ago she has been continuously in hiding. What I'm trying to say is – I've never been up on a stage like this in my entire life. I find myself standing before you tonight in circumstances that are as much beyond my own comprehension as they are yours.

"What I can say is this – fifteen years ago a young woman was kidnapped and forced against her will to commit a heinous act. There is no way that she could have known that her demise could have led to the extraordinary events that have recently transpired. And here is the most incredible part of all - that young woman could never have known that she would be me, the person standing before you tonight.

"Ladies and gentlemen, were it possible, I would wish that none of this had ever happened. Believe me when I say this – I do not revel in being up on this stage at this moment. However, having said that, I am honored to stand before you tonight and say that like you, I too am committed to the cause of Restoring Patience."

She paused for a moment, and then she added, "A long time ago, when I was very young, a man who was very dear to me said to me, ' _the true meaning of life is love.'_ Ladies and Gentlemen, for the past fifteen years, my love has been tested \- my love for humanity, my love for life, my love for the spirit of the human race. Tonight I am proud to say to you – my love has been reaffirmed, and endures deep within my heart!"

It did not seem possible, but the auditorium erupted this time with the most thunderous applause of the entire evening. Patience then added with finality, "Thank you all," thenceforth returning to her seat.

Brandt now arose and continued with, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure that you all saw the cover article in Time this week describing the life of Patience." At this there was wild applause from the audience, signaling the reality that one and all had read the carefully documented complete story of Patience. Continuing, Brandt said, "And on the cover, you all saw the silhouette of Patience with the famous watusi cut, as reproduced on the stage behind me."

At this, Patience turned in her seat and opened her mouth wide in shock. Pulling her hand demurely to her face to hide her shock at the enormous silhouette of her head, she rose slowly from her seat and, facing the image, her back to the audience, her own hair a miniature in motion of the giant watusi silhouette, she gazed in utter disbelief at the now iconic image of herself. The audience was suddenly enshrouded in complete silence, the realization striking home of the enormous impact of the woman before them.

After it was over, Patience lingered back stage with Brandt, the last to depart except for Frank. Studiously avoiding eye contact, she posited distantly, "You've done a wonderful thing, Brandt."

"Thank you, Patience," Brandt responded, "Surely you know that it was all for you. Without you, Restoring Patience would never have even been conceived."

Taking him in one last time, she murmured, "Thank you, Brandt. Thank you for all of this," and without saying another word, she turned and strode toward the exit, Frank trailing in her wake.

As they drove away, there was thoughtful silence. At length they arrived back at the hotel and as he left her at her room, Frank proffered, "Patience, I'm not sure which of you that I admire more, Brandt or you. But I can tell you this, knowing the two of you has been the most remarkable event of my entire life. Good night and good luck."

"Thank you, Frank," she responded, "It has been an honor knowing you as well."

The following morning Patience flew home to Italy.

Pasadena - May, 2012

**The phone rang, awakening Brandt** from a deep sleep. Grabbing the receiver, he croaked woozily, "Hello?"

"Brandt, it's Frank," the voice on the other end said.

"Hey, Frank!" Brandt replied.

"Hey, can I see you for a few minutes? It's kind of important."

"Sure, where and when?"

"The usual place, if you don't mind," Frank replied.

"Right," Brandt responded and, glancing at his clock, he suggested, "How about in an hour?"

"Perfect," Frank responded, "See you there."

Stumbling from bed, Brandt thought to himself, "I wonder what that's about."

Settling into his spot within Starbuck's a short time later, the memories flooding over him, he sipped his coffee in contemplation. Suddenly perceiving Frank trudging toward him from the parking lot, he waved gregariously, Frank returning his gesture.

Abruptly, he noticed that there was a woman trailing along with Frank. Perplexed by this development, he studied the pair pensively as they came inside. Having first stopped by the counter to snatch his requisite cup of black coffee, Frank subsequently meandered over, imparting, "Welcome home, Brandt. It's good to see you," the woman still trailing silently behind.

"You, too, Frank," Brandt uttered pleasantly, "Who's your friend?"

The woman now came up beside Frank and, standing briefly motionless, she gazed expectantly at Brandt. Then she uttered, "Hello, Brandt. It's been a long time."

She was older to be sure, but the voice was unmistakable, prompting Brandt to exclaim, "Why, hello, Bernice. How are you? My God, it's been what, fifteen years!"

"Yep," she responded, "Fifteen years and three months, to be exact. And by the way, it's Betty, not Bernice."

"Oh?" he responded doubtfully.

"Yeah, I'm in the witness protection program now," she beamed, "Frank's taking care of me."

Scrutinizing her blankly, Brandt glanced toward Frank, who for his part added, "She's our star witness, Brandt. We're going to get them all, you know."

"Ah, I see," Brandt responded perceptively, "Good for you, Betty. My God, I'm proud of you. That's great!"

"And that's not all, Brandt," she continued, "I'm a member....of Restoring Patience."

Beaming first at Betty, then at Brandt, Frank exclaimed proudly, "How about that, Brandt!"

Brandt held out his hand to her, offering, "Congratulations, Betty. Please, please sit down so we can talk over old times!"

At this, Betty responded, "Thanks," and at this she slid into the booth, followed by Frank.

Brandt now inquired innocently, "Could I ask you a question, Betty? I've been wanting to ask you something ever since that first time we met."

"Sure, what is it?' Betty responded politely.

"Why did you give Patience the watusi hairdo?"

Eyeing him shrewdly, she volunteered, "Boy, did I get in trouble for that!"

"Oh?"

"You see, I thought Mr. Al-Wadi had brung her to Vegas to star in his strip club. After all, she was quite the looker. So I pulled out all the stops, prettying her up so's he'd be proud of me. Unfortunately, when he came in and saw my handiwork, he blew a gasket. I don't mind telling ya, he gave me a pretty good whack up side my face for that mistake. So then he told me she wasn't there for the club, so I figured I had to think fast. I told him I done it so's she couldn't escape without bein' noticed. Fortunately for me, he agreed with me. Otherwise, I might've ended up like Navid."

"Well, that might have been bad for you," Brandt rejoined, "But it was a stroke of luck for Patience."

Arching one eyebrow, she blurted, "Oh?"

"I'd never have been able to trace her escape route from Las Vegas if she hadn't had that watusi. And If I hadn't succeeded, she would most certainly be dead by now. So it paid off in the end, Betty."

"Good!" she giggled, "I'm glad to hear there was an upside to it, 'cause Mr. Al-Wadi nearly broke my jaw!"

"Second question," Brandt continued, "How did you get those two pilots to land in Lincoln?"

"Oh that," she answered with a sudden grin, "Frank told me to do it. It was easy. The co-pilot is my son. I got him the job flyin' for Mr. Al-Wadi. All I had to do was threaten to get him fired if he didn't divert the plane from that cornfield of an airstrip to Lincoln."

"Helluva job, Betty. I doubt we could've even gotten an indictment had it not been for that. Had they not landed at an airport that keeps records, we would never have been able to connect Al-Wadi to Patience's kidnapping."

"Thanks," she responded grimly.

Brandt now narrowed his eyes at her and accused, "So you've been undercover with Frank all these years, right?"

"Yep," she admitted matter-of-factly.

Turning toward Frank, Brandt said, "So, you knew about the Al-Qaeda cell even then, I take it. Otherwise, why divert the plane."

Nodding in acceptance, Frank murmured, "Right, smartass. When did you figure it out?"

"Oh, I knew even then, Frank. After all, I met them all in Lincoln that very day."

"Well, I'll be," he responded, "And why didn't you inform me of such?"

"Because by the time you and I met I was convinced that you already knew," Brandt observed.

"And just how, pray tell did you know that?"

"Betty, here," Brandt confessed self-assuredly.

Nodding his head again, but this time dismissively, Frank countered, "Why am I not surprised. Okay, I'll bite - how did you know she was FBI?"

"That was obvious," Brandt responded and, winking through Betty's piercing glare, he volunteered directly to her, "No rough-talking backwoods woman is as brilliant as you, Betty, and even if there was another one like you lurking about, she certainly wouldn't be reading The New York Times at three in the morning in some derelict diner in downtown Las Vegas."

"Damn," Betty murmured, "I never even considered the possibility you were onto me that night. Frank told me later you were sharp as a tack, but you're even better than I thought."

"Thanks, Betty," Brandt replied, "But if you must know – that cuts both ways."

"Thanks, Brandt," she nodded proudly.

"One more question, Betty," Brandt added, "You took the photo, right, the one of Patience that ended up in the Journal Star?"

"Yep," she responded matter-of-factly.

"What I'd like to know is why did you give it to Navid?"

"Oh, that," she replied, "Frank and I worked that one out together. We wanted to see what Navid would do with it. Sure enough, he made a big mistake, and Al-Wadi had him executed. Unfortunately, our plan to use it against Al-Wadi fell through when he had the lone witness to Navid's murder killed as well. Otherwise, we might have gotten Al-Wadi years ago."

"As I suspected," Brandt put in, adding, "Well, all's well that ends well. I can tell you this, without that photo, I'd never have found Patience, not in a million years. So thanks again, Betty."

A tiny smile invading her otherwise implacable visage, Betty responded, "I was just doin' my job."

Frank now interjected stoically, "Any other questions, Brandt?"

"No, that about covers it."

"About time," Frank responded jadedly and, turning to Betty, he cajoled, "Okay, Betty, the show is yours."

"Thanks," she replied and, turning to face Brandt head-on, she announced, "Actually, I have something for you, Brandt. Wait, that's not quite right. I actually have something for Patience. I assume you will be seeing her, right?"

"I certainly hope so," Brandt responded.

"Me, too," Betty replied and, tossing him a wink, she posited, "So I have a present for Patience, as I said. Wassim gave it to me before he was indicted. He wanted her to have it, and I agreed to make sure she got it."

Perplexed by this development, Brandt inquired, "What is it?"

"Not so fast," she said. "First, I have a story to tell you. You see, Wassim has friends in the right places, and he told me this story. So here's the thing, his buddies on the inside tell him that the inmates at San Quentin have their own set of strict ethical standards. In fact, they take pride in having a code of conduct on the inside. It's unwritten, but it's there nonetheless, and everybody on the inside knows what the rules are. So every-once-in-a-while somebody breaks the code on the inside, and they have a system of justice that is meted out by the internal leadership team."

Seeing that he was about to say something, she put up a hand, saying, "Let me finish, Brandt, just let me finish. Believe it or not, several of the members of the leadership team in San Quentin are also members of Restoring Patience. So, as it sometimes happens, some characters on the inside are so despicable that they are just too disgusting to be tolerated by the other prisoners. A few months back, something like that happened at San Quentin. There was a guy in there that was so evil that the leadership decided they had to mete out a fair and just punishment for this guy's despicable actions. They decided on a course of action and, as it turned out, quite a few of the guards are also members of Restoring Patience, so they agreed to turn their backs for an hour while justice was served. So the inmate leaders got ahold of this guy in the shower and dispensed justice for his past crimes."

Brandt paled at this, nonetheless inquiring, "And what was that, Betty?"

"Well, forgive me if I leave out some of the juicy details, 'cause Wassim was a little too graphic for me. Anyway, they got this guy in the shower when he was naked, and they strung him up spread-eagled. Then they heated up a broomstick not so hot as to kill him, but hot enough to make him scream like a stuck pig, and they stuck it up his ass. Then they cut his balls off and stuck them in his mouth, and they taped it shut with duct tape. He slowly bled to death." She halted for a moment and, gauging Brandt's reaction, she added, "I don't mind telling you, I would have been revolted by that story if I hadn't known who the guy was."

"I can make a wild guess who might deserve that," Brandt replied, "But I doubt that it could be proven who they did it to, if indeed they did, so I guess we'll never really know for sure."

"Well, here's the thing," Betty replied, "When somebody dies of natural causes on the inside there's no opportunity to grab anything personal. The authorities get everything that the person in question had on them. But when on the rare occasion that the leadership team pulls off an execution such as that, they make sure that they get proof."

At this, Betty reached into her pocket and, pulling something from within, she reached across the table and, grasping Brandt's hand, she tugged it towards her. Turning his hand over so that his palm was face up, she placed her hand over his. She dropped the object into it and, slowly withdrawing her hand, she awaited his reaction.

Peering down at his now cupped hand, Brandt opened it guardedly. There, staring back at him, was a glass eye. His own eyes now bulging, he found himself unable to tear himself away from the offensive orb.

Seeing his eyes welling up uncontrollably, Betty grasped his free hand and whispered poignantly, "For Patience, from Restoring Patience."
Chapter 12

Compassion

Castiglion Fiorentino - June, 2012

**Brandt gazed out** over the countryside stretching away from Castiglion Fiorentino. As he watched, the setting sun performed its daily duty, carefully painting the landscape in hues of blended pink, orange and purple. Though the time had finally arrived, he nonetheless hesitated, painfully aware that the next few minutes would decide his fate.

Girding himself for the inevitable, he turned and slowly trudged up the hill toward the city gate. Entering the old city, he noticed two children playing in the street, busily practicing their soccer. Further along, an elderly couple strolled hand in hand, oblivious to the hastened pace of life beyond the ancient walls.

A few paces further, the street curved slightly, the familiar neon sign coming into view - Gelato Capri - emblazoned in bold blue neon letters. There were tables placed outside the shop, one of them appropriated by a woman and two children busily devouring gelato cones of various flavors.

Arriving at the parlor door, he discerned a line, several people patiently awaiting their turn. Behind the counter stood Patience, ergo Martina, smiling and conversing with the locals as she prepared their respective _dolci_.

He stepped inside and, crouching as unobtrusively as possible, he secreted himself at the trailing end of the line. But to no avail - Patience spotted him immediately, her eyes flashing enigmatically. Aside from that, she betrayed no reaction whatsoever as, continuing her nightly duties, she patiently practiced her trade.

The line inched forward interminably, constant patter emanating from the locals as they debated the all-important decision as to what flavor would satisfy their palettes. For her part, Patience took all of this in with practiced empathy, assisting as best she could with the challenging decision facing each and every patron.

It being apparent that Patience had long since been accorded full membership within the community, Brandt found himself overwhelmed with compassion for the woman behind the counter in this, a modest gelato parlor. Indeed, in this small out-of-the-way locale, time seemed to stand still, the worries of the world pushed aside. He marveled to himself how this must have been the perfect place for Patience during all those years of exile.

At length, he found himself at the head of the line and, glancing about, he was surprised to see that he was the last in line.

"May I take your order?" Patience inquired unemotionally, her voice guardedly professional.

Brandt replied sheepishly, "A few moments of your time?" but at her reproving frown, he relented, somehow understanding that the time-honored ritual must be observed to its completion. Accordingly, he conceded, "Oh, all right, a single dip stracciatela cone, _per piaccere."_

Patience glanced away, intent on the task of preparing his cone and, as she did so, she announced absently, "I've been wondering when you would come. I've been waiting for you."

"Waiting for me? Why?" he replied in confusion, "The last time I saw you right out there on the street, you commanded me to never darken your doorstep again."

A frown abruptly creasing her features, she added perfunctorily, "You idiot. You should know that a woman never means what she says, especially in matters of the heart. And surely you know that you ripped my heart out, Brandt MacCauley."

Embarrassed at her clairvoyance, he murmured, "Yes."

"And?" she shot back.

His heart suddenly pounding uncontrollably within his chest, he asked, "And what?"

"And what are you doing here!" she reproached, a determined look setting in.

For his part, he rejoined evasively, "You know why I'm here."

Staring impassively at him, she handed him his cone.

Suddenly withering beneath her silent stare, he became completely disoriented, his breath short and labored. His confusion now approaching abject terror, he reverted protectively to his carefully laid plan, "It's closing time, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, clearly aware of and nonetheless ignoring his obvious discomfort.

"Could we go for a walk, perhaps talk for a few moments...after you've closed up, of course?"

"Okay," she replied and, removing her apron, she added, "I can go right now."

Following him out of the front door, she closed and locked it. As she did so, he could see that the sun had set, the rosy light now beginning to fade. Pointing toward the city gate, he suggested hopefully, "Could we walk this way?" and at her taciturn nod, they strolled silently down the narrow street, each maintaining a respectable distance in accordance with the local custom for two people who are clearly not _insieme_.

At length, he could contain himself no longer. Summoning up the courage to enact his carefully prepared plan, he announced softly, "I brought you something, Patience."

"Oh, and what might that be?" she responded diffidently.

"Well, it's a long and complicated story, but I shall try to make it short, seeing as how you appear to be in a hurry."

Flashing her eyes at him in frustration, she responded, "There's no hurry, Brandt. I have all the time in the world."

Taking her cue, he commenced with, "I assume you remember Bernice, right?"

"Who could forget her! She was the author of the watusi."

"Right, so Bernice came to see me a couple of weeks ago, and she gave me something to give to you."

"Really, and what might that be?" she asked quizzically.

Reaching forward, he placed an object within her hand. Glancing down and realizing immediately what it was, she abruptly glared at him, inquiring, "What the hell is this supposed to mean, Brandt?"

"It means that the prior owner has no further need of it."

Glancing back downward, she pondered a moment, thenceforth muttering, "All I can say is, good riddance!" and so saying, she flung the offending orb as far as she possibly could.

Momentarily buoyed by this action, he continued, "So you know that I found you by using pattern recognition."

"Yeeees," she said, drawing out the single word, as if to say, "we've been over this before."

Undeterred, he continued, "As I am sure you are also aware, I wrote the algorithm."

"Yeeees," she repeated, once again drawing out her reply.

At this, his desperation becoming apparent, he nonetheless continued on his carefully planned course, intimating, "Well, I patented the algorithm. Actually, I have seven patents."

"Oh, that's nice. Good for you," she replied with little discernible interest.

"It's quite complex, you know – the algorithm," he responded proudly.

"I'm sure it is," she replied distantly. "How many years did you work on it - ten?"

"More than that," he responded, not wanting to admit that he had worked on it almost continuously since that night fifteen years ago.

"And your point is?" she replied indifferently.

He stopped and turned to face her, and at his cue she did the same. Recognizing that there still remained a huge chasm between them, he stammered, "Patience...you are a co-holder of the patents."

"I'm what?" she blurted in obvious denial.

He replied contritely, "There are two co-holders of the patents – you and me – and we share the royalties equally."

"What the...why?"

"Surely you know that without you I never would have been able to write the algorithms. All those days and nights, year after year, searching and searching, I knew that there was only one way that I would ever find you. I simply had to write the algorithms. It was my destiny to do so, and without you, I couldn't have done it."

She stared at him inscrutably for several moments, eventually responding, "What does co-holder mean, Brandt?"

He scrutinized her and, searching for any sign of interest on her part, he disclosed, "It means that we are partners, Patience."

"Ha! Partners!" she exploded with indignation. "Partners!" she repeated, and so saying, she turned and continued down the street.

Baffled and hurt by her response, he hurried to keep up with her, adding, "There is some money, Patience. The patents have been licensed, and we are equally entitled to the proceeds."

"Money! I don't care about money, damn you!" she responded with growing outrage.

"I was sure that you would say that, but it is your money, after all. So I have it for you."

"How much do I get?" she replied with little apparent curiosity.

"Well, I thought you might ask that. There are ten million hits on the website, and each hit brings in a nickel, of which we split twenty percent."

Turning to face him yet again, she responded, "That doesn't sound like much."

"It's about fifty thousand dollars each," he responded.

"Fifty thousand! _Fifty thousand dollars_?" she exclaimed, her eyes suddenly growing wide in surprise.

"Yes, that is correct."

"Fifty thousand dollars! Wow! I can fix up the ice cream parlor." She replied with sudden excitement. "Wow!" she repeated, a tiny smile growing at the edges of her mouth. And by this point they had reached the park, the view of the valley having turned to a rosy grey hue.

Proceeding cautiously, Brandt now added, "Yes, and perhaps you will want to buy a second one, or maybe even a third."

"Don't be absurd," she countered, "Fifty thousand won't go that far."

"Yes, I am quite certain that it will, Patience," he rejoined.

She turned and, staring piercingly at him, she inquired, "Am I missing something?"

He moved a daring step closer to her and, seeing that she did not react negatively, he placed one hand on each of her arms, explaining, "Patience, it's ten million hits _a day_! The algorithms are being used by law enforcement, medical professionals, scientists, educators, and business concerns worldwide."

"So, what does that mean?" she responded in confusion.

"My dear Patience, it means that we are each earning fifty thousand dollars _a day_!"

At this impossible revelation Patience jerked away from his grasp and, stumbling a few steps, she promptly slumped onto a nearby park bench. She paled visibly, unable to completely absorb the significance of his admission. At a complete loss as to how he should proceed, he simply seated himself quietly beside her.

At length, she drew her hand through her hair, babbling, "Fifty thousand dollars a day. Just how much is that? I can't even count that high, Brandt."

"It's eighteen million dollars and change a year." Halting momentarily to allow her to take in the enormity of his disclosure, he explained, "The website has been up for nearly two years, so we've made a fair amount already. I have a cashier's check here for you in the amount of thirty million dollars. It's just a first payment, of course..." and at this he drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

Staring at it in revulsion, she flatly refused to accept it. The offensive item before her refusing to disappear, she sneered at it and exclaimed, "Eighteen million dollars _and change_ per year...ha! This is going to _change_ _my life_ , isn't it!"

"Yes, perhaps so, Patience, perhaps so."

"But will it change it for the better?" she muttered, "What if I refuse to accept it?"

Having anticipated this reaction, he posited, "I thought that you might say that. Patience, as you now know, you have touched the lives of thousands, if not millions of people. You, my dear, are a miracle. Everyone that you have touched in your life has benefitted positively from the miracle that is you. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that there is no better place on earth for this money to be than in your hands."

During this small but touching speech, Patience slowly turned to face him, and now, as he completed his monologue, he could see that her eyes were glistening. "What's the matter?" he asked, restraining himself mightily from the compulsion to brush away her tears.

"I'm so embarrassed! I treated you unfairly. I'm so sorry, Brandt."

At this he reached forward and, touching her face with his hand, he whispered, "Patience, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for."

There was a moment of silence during which both pondered. Finally, Patience looked up at Brandt and asked point blank, eyes glistening, "So, you didn't think of me in a bad way when I set off that awful bomb?"

"No, never! Even on the day we first met, when I knew something was amiss, I knew you were the lone beam of light shining within the room."

"What? What on earth are you talking about, Brandt?"

"Surely you recall the day we met, Patience."

"Yes, on the campus at NSU. I was attempting to hide in the corner, hoping the famous professor from Cal Tech wouldn't notice me."

"Oh, but I did. I assure you - I most certainly did."

"But what's this about something amiss?" she blubbered.

"My dear Patience, you were in the midst of the very first Al-Qaeda cell within the United States."

"What!" she cried, eyes bulging. "How do you know that?"

"I know because we caught them, all of them."

"You mean, all five of the students were in Al-Qaeda?"

"Yes, but there were actually six within the cell. Professor Rohani was the leader."

"You're kidding!" she countered.

"No, I assure you, I am not."

"But how did you know?"

"Oh, I was suspicious when they introduced themselves."

"How so?"

"Well, for one thing, they were all from the Middle East, except for Richard Goldman. That, in and of itself is nothing unusual for a group of graduate students in the United States. But when you turned up missing, it all began to fall into place. I couldn't figure out why Al-Wadi would fly to Lincoln to kidnap you, when all he had to do was kidnap someone in Las Vegas, or anywhere else, for that matter. So I began doing some checking on each of them, and I was eventually able to link each one of them back to Al-Qaeda."

"What about Richard Goldman? He wasn't Middle Eastern."

"Actually, he was. I checked up on him within a month of your disappearance. His father was Jewish, from Israel, but his mother was a Palestinian, and other members of her family were known extremists in the Gaza Strip. So you see, they were all in it together, and you were their pet dupe. And as it turned out, you had been recruited by Al-Qaeda from the very start."

"What! I did no such thing!"

"Oh, _you_ didn't, Patience. Professor Rohani did it. He found out your father had died, and when he checked further, he discovered that your mother was your only living close relative. So he had her poisoned so that no one would miss you when you disappeared. But instead of killing her, the drug they used on her caused her heart to fail."

"Oh...my...God..." she stammered in absolute denial.

"Anyway," he continued, "They recruited you for the purpose of using you as a mule to deliver the bomb. But you outwitted them. First, you put the bomb in the wrong place within the hotel, and then you escaped."

"What else? Surely there must be something else. This is already beyond belief," she posited.

"Yes, of course. The students who were in the room that day have long since completed their studies, and all five moved on to positions at universities within the U.S. They then became the seeds for the germination of a host of subsequent Al-Qaeda cells within the United States."

"Oh, my, there must be twenty by now," she contemplated.

"More like a hundred," he countered, "But here is the good news – as a result of Al-Wadi's conviction, we now have sufficient evidence to arrest nearly all of them. We've already picked up Professor Rohani and the other students who were in the room that day. And with Al-Wadi's death the flow of money has been cut off to Al-Qaeda. It is estimated by the FBI that Al-Wadi transferred nearly two billion dollars to Osama Bin Laden's operatives in the Middle East."

Shaking her head in denial, she murmured, "Boy, was I stupid..."

"On the contrary, Patience, young and naïve though you were, your own brilliant actions saved you from detection by perhaps the most horrific terrorist organization on Earth for the better part of fifteen years. You may just be the single most successful deterrent to Al-Qaeda in the history of our country."

"This is all too much..." she stammered.

"Yes, but give it time, Patience. It will all come right in the end. And now, there is one last item to impart," and so saying, he opened his coat and pulled out a second envelope, which he handed to her.

"What's this?" she asked meekly.

"That is the final installment of Restoring Patience."

Patience stared impassively at the envelope, then back towards Brandt, "How so?"

"It's two items. One is a photo. It's THE photo. Actually, it's the original negative. The other item is the original of the security film taken in the Lido Hotel. These are the only hard evidence that you were ever involved in the Lido Hotel bombing."

"Wow! How did you get them, Brandt?"

Shrugging his shoulders dismissively, he admitted, "I bought them from the FBI."

"Why? Why would you do that?"

"Pattern recognition. I eventually realized that Al-Wadi and his agents might figure out that you hadn't died on 9/11. At that point my pattern recognition technology was getting close to going public, and I knew that if there was an extant high-quality photo of you, they could use my technology to search for you worldwide, which is of course exactly how I found you. The pictures in the paper were far too grainy to be used for that purpose, so I knew that they would try to obtain the negatives. So you see, I had to buy them in order to insure your safety."

"So how did you manage to get them to sell them to you?"

Glancing downward in apparent guilt, he murmured, "Frank put in a good word for me."

Eyeing him dubiously, she exclaimed, "That's a cock and bull story if I ever heard one, Brandt MacCauley! The FBI doesn't _sell_ evidence," at which he could only shrug sheepishly.

Twisting her head to one side in apparent accusation, she probed, "So, why didn't you destroy the negative?"

"Because I wanted it to be disposed of in the proper way," he replied.

"And what way is that?" she queried.

"Why, by you, of course. They're images of you, so it's your right to do with them as you please."

"And so it is, and so it is," she responded. "Do you perchance have a match?"

At this Brandt grinned slyly and replied, "It just so happens that I do," thereby producing the requested item.

Patience lit the envelope and dropped it to the ground. The two watched it slowly catch aflame, quickly burning to ashes. She stared at the ground momentarily and, glancing upward to catch his eyes, she whispered, "I think you saved my life. In fact, I think you saved my life maybe more than once, Brandt MacCauley."

The story now having run its sinuous course, the pair sat pondering silently a further few moments. But then Brandt stood abruptly and announced, "And so, dear Patience, my mission is at an end, and I must bid you farewell," at which he turned to depart.

"Not so fast, Brandt," she replied, rising to confront him. "There is one more tiny bit of business still to be conducted."

Confused, he replied, "Oh, to what are you referring?"

"You know what I'm referring to – Restoring Patience," at which he turned around to face her, whereas she drifted slowly closer to him, halting within arm's reach.

"What about it?" he asked.

"You tell me," she responded decisively, circling in for check mate. "You're the only one who spent fifteen years of his life searching for me. You're the only one who came after me. Why, Brandt?"

His head dipping in apparent admission, he prevaricated, "I just wanted to protect you. I was afraid that Al-Wadi would find you."

" _Stronzo_!" she hissed vehemently. "That's a boldfaced lie! I deserve better than that. You could have let the FBI or the CIA protect me."

Taken aback at this, Brandt shot back candidly, "Damn it, woman, what do I have to do, get down on my knees? I am in love with you! I am desperately, totally, eternally – yours. I can hardly breathe when I'm in your presence. You are the first thing that I think of in the morning, and the last thing at night. In between, you are the source that makes me breathe. Without you I am nothing. You, dear Patience, are not only the love of my life, you are the meaning of my life _._ "

Placing her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes in superiority, she responded, "It's not easy exposing oneself completely to another human, is it Brandt MacCauley?"

Brandt swallowed and, raising his eyes to gaze at her one last time, he whispered, "It's the hardest thing I've ever done my life, but as long as I live, I shall be glad that I did! Goodbye, Patience," and at this he turned to leave yet a second time.

But catching his arm, she wheeled him roughly around to face her, proposing, "Do I get to say anything in reply?"

Slumping in exhaustion, he could only shrug his acquiescence.

She now posited, "Okay, here is my side of it. I would like to think that I have been true to myself in my life, that I practice what I preach, so what you have just said deserves an equally honest response. You are the single most amazing man that I have ever met in my entire life. You have saved my life, and you have made me wealthy..."

"But you're not in love with me," he cut in forlornly.

"Oh, shut up, you idiot! Just shut up! Now, I am only going to say this _ONE_ time, so listen up, and if you understand what I'm telling you, not a word – I don't want to hear a single word out of you! Just nod. Got it?" at which he simply nodded, wide eyed with terror.

She pondered for a moment and, running her hand through her hair to help gather her thoughts, she continued sternly, "There is no point in making this more complicated than it needs to be, so here goes - from the first moment that you walked into my gelato shop, you began to get under my skin, Brandt MacCauley. It wasn't long before I knew that my heart was meant to be yours. We are in this together, you and I. As deeply as your professed love is for me, I believe I have you beat. I am from this moment - and for the rest of my life - completely yours. I am not the Patience that the world adores. I am _YOUR_ Patience."

Fifteen years of searching and doubt suddenly and unexpectedly crystallizing into certainty, Brandt uttered confoundedly, "Uhh..."

But, placing a finger over his lips, Patience grasped his hand, crushing an object within it. Glancing down, he was astonished to find that he was holding the barrette. Wading into his arms, she whispered softly, "You idiot."
Chapter 13

The Light at the End

Wharton Manor – August, 2012

**Brandt pulled into the** gate at Wharton Manor and, passing slowly along the long tree-lined driveway, he took in the rolling countryside comprising the grounds of the manor.

Patience turned to Brandt, naively understating, "Wow! This place is gorgeous, dear! Why did you say that Aunt Winnie is here?"

"According to her, she's visiting. Anyway, she made me promise that we would visit as soon as we were married. And here we are. I realize it's not exactly the honeymoon you had in mind, but we shall drive north from here to Scotland, and when we get to the Northwest Highlands, you will understand why I begged you to honeymoon with me in my native land."

"It was an easy choice, Brandt. I had no particular desire to honeymoon in my native land of Nebraska!" At this they both giggled, Patience touching his hand affectionately as he drove onward.

The Porsche came to a measured stop directly in front of the manor entry, Brandt and Patience taking in the scenery as they emerged from the vehicle.

Continuing to gush, Patience exclaimed, "This place is ridiculous! What I wouldn't give to live somewhere like this. What sort of people must live in such a place?"

"I've no idea, I assure you, but I suspect we're about to find out. We shall make our visit as brief as possible, and then we shall get on with our honeymoon," Brandt replied serenely.

The entryway door opening at that moment, an aged man in a formal black suit stepped out, announcing, "Welcome to Wharton Manor, Doctor and Madame MacCauley! I am Smithers, the house master. May I help you with your luggage?"

At this Brandt turned, and winking at Patience, he covertly conveyed his joint complicity with her at the snootiness of their welcome. He then stepped forward and held out his hand to Smithers, responding, "Good to meet you, Mr. Smithers. I am Brandt, and this is my wife, Patience."

Smithers shook both their hands ceremonially and, subsequently waving one hand towards the manor, he commanded, "Please follow me if you will. The Earl is awaiting your arrival."

By now more than sufficiently intimidated, Patience whispered to Brandt, "Earl? You didn't tell me, dear!"

"It must have slipped my mind," Brandt replied with a well-timed second wink. The pair followed Smithers into the manor, whereupon they were treated to an expansive and magnificent entryway. "Wow!" Patience exclaimed for the second time within minutes.

At that precise moment Aunt Winnie strode into the room, exclaiming excitedly, "Ah, Brandtie boy! Welcome! Welcome to Wharton Manor!" She embraced Brandt heartily, as if he were still a child, thenceforth advancing to Patience and exclaiming joyously, "And Patience! My dear child, tis so lovely to see you again. I had hoped that the spark that I sensed between you and my Brandtie was not my own imagination when you visited me in Stirling, and it seems that my intuition was spot-on, for look at the pair of you now, joined as husband and wife! My, my, it is all simply too grand for words!"

At this extemporaneous outflow, both Brandt and Patience were totally speechless, neither having managed to retain the train of thought they had entertained on their arrival. Simply gawking at the surreal surroundings, they nodded their complicit agreement with Aunt Winnie. Observing their astonishment, Aunt Winnie took charge, announcing imperiously, "My dears, I see that the long drive from Italy has worn you out. Please, follow me. The others are waiting in the sitting room for your much-anticipated arrival."

"Others?" Brandt queried as he and Patience followed her forward.

"Yes, of course, my dear. You don't think that I could possibly live here all by myself, do you?"

"Live here? You live here?" Patience blurted out.

"But I thought that you lived in Stirling," Brandt interrupted.

"No, my dear. I've actually never lived in Stirling. We own a cottage there. I use it only on occasion, to get away, as it were."

"Cottage!" Brandt exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. "All these years, I thought that it was palatial. And now you inform me that it is just a _cottage_!"

"Well, it is rather cozy, isn't it," Aunt Winnie responded haughtily. "Here we are," she continued, gliding elegantly into the sitting room. "Brandt MacCauley, I would like you to meet Lord Trevor Sutherland, the Earl of Winston."

Hazarding a brief glance towards Patience, Brandt nevertheless managed to advance and shake hands with the Earl.

Lord Sutherland proffered, "So good to finally meet you after all these years, Brandt, my boy. Winnie has told me so much about you. Here, you simply must give me a hug," and at this he accorded Brandt a patronly embrace. He then turned to Patience, exclaiming genially, "And you must be Patience, the newest member of the family. Come to me, my dear. I must say, you are quite lovely indeed. I am delighted to meet you both at long last!" and he punctuated this last with a fatherly embrace for her as well. He then stepped back and, glancing toward Aunt Winnie, he apparently awaited her bidding.

"And now," Aunt Winnie announced ceremoniously, "I am most honored to introduce to the both of you the matriarch of the Sutherland family, Lady Felicité Sutherland," at which a quite elderly but nevertheless spry woman arose and came forward. She was tall for her age, and her noble and elegant bearing imparted the impression of good health and strong intellect. Her hair, though snowy white, was elegantly coiffured, the perfect complement to her gorgeous blue floor-length gown.

Halting before Brandt, she extended her hand to him, volunteering ingenuously, "It is indeed a great pleasure to meet you, young man. We have been awaiting your arrival with enormous anticipation." She then turned to Patience, offering, "And you, my child, you must one day tell me all about Castiglion Fiorentino!"

"It would be my pleasure," Patience responded, rendered nearly speechless by her impressive aura.

Felicité now commanded imperiously, "Right, we must all be seated and 'catch up' on old times, as you Americans say." After everyone had seated themselves, she continued, saying, "You must forgive me if I digress from time to time, my captive audience, but, as I am ninety-two years old, there is much to tell!" At this everyone smiled convivially in anticipation of her soliloquy, it being by now apparent to both Brandt and Patience that there was a well-planned script to be followed among their hosts.

Now commencing in earnest, Felicité imparted, "Brandt and Patience, we three have deceitfully plotted together for the purpose of attracting you here today, and for that we beg your pardon in advance, but we are indeed quite hopeful that when you are apprised of the reasons behind our deception, you shall magnanimously accept our apology."

Completing her preamble, she then plunged forth with her obviously carefully planned speech, "My dears, I was born in Castiglion Fiorentino in 1919, the daughter of a French academic and an Italian Jewess," and at this pronouncement Patience gasped in surprise. "Yes, my dear, you now live where I was born nearly a century ago, and I shall want to hear all about it shortly, as I have not returned there since I was little more than a year old. But I digress.

"To make a lengthy story short, I met my future husband Trant right out there in the entryway to Wharton Manor in the summer of 1940, shortly before the Battle of Britain. I shall not delve into the details of our courtship, but let me say that I behaved in a decidedly unladylike manner toward my future husband on that weekend long ago.

"As you doubtless know, World War II subsequently intervened, and at the end of the war, Trant and I somehow managed to patch up our differences, thereby leading to our marriage. I digress yet again, but let me say that it was indeed quite a fabulous marriage. Trant was and is the love of my life, but I shall leave the details of that part to my daughter-in-law to supply for you at a later time."

At this last revelation Brandt, unable to contain himself, interrupted her to inquire, "Your daughter-in-law? Who might your daughter-in-law be?"

Shooting a withering glance at him, Felicité responded haughtily, "Why, Lady Sutherland, of course!"

Brandt, by now totally confused, exclaimed, "But I thought that you were Lady Sutherland!"

"Yes, but in point of fact the pejorative term in this case is 'was', my dear Brandt. I _was_ Lady Sutherland until my own Lord Sutherland passed away in 1986. My son Trevor became the Earl of Winston on the death of my husband Trant, and his wife became Lady Sutherland, as she remains today."

Brandt, nonetheless still confused, reiterated, "But who is the current Lady Sutherland?"

Surprised by his continued confusion, Felicité surreptitiously pointed to Aunt Winnie, announcing, "Why, she is, of course! My daughter-in-law Rebecca is the wife of Lord Sutherland, the current Earl of Winston."

At this completely unanticipated revelation Brandt's jaw dropped and, rising slowly from his chair, he peered with wide-eyed surprise toward Patience, subsequently glanced at the Earl, and, finally settling his gaze on Aunt Winnie, he uttered, "Aunt Winnie! This is all too much! Why did you never tell me?"

"My child," she offered mirthfully, "It never seemed important when you were young."

"But I thought that you were a spinster living in Stirling. All those years..." and his voice slowly tapered off in confusion.

"Yes, my dear," she said, taking up his sentence, "All those years, I was simply visiting our cottage in Scotland for the purpose of caring for you."

"But why?"

Aunt Winnie stared at him for a moment, confessing, "Brandt, surely you know that I am childless. I loved you as if you were my own son. I still do..." and now her voice tapered off as well.

At this Brandt surged forward and, lowering himself on one knee before her, he embraced her, responding, "As do I, Aunt Winnie, as do I."

Brandt now retook his seat, Felicité recommencing her tale, "I believe that this completes my portion of the telling of the family history. Thus, I must now give over to Rebecca. And by the way, she is still Rebecca to me, despite Trevor's attempts to change her name!" At this, the group twittered pleasantly and forthwith turned to Aunt Winnie, ergo Lady Sutherland, nee Rebecca.

Aunt Winnie now took up the story, explaining, "I was born in Danville, Virginia. So you see, despite my acquired English accent, I am American, as are you," and at this she gestured to Patience. "I met my husband Trevor while I was in college at The University of Virginia. While he is fond of calling me Winnie, I have relegated for him the much more distinctive title of 'Jerk', as he was a particularly unsavory character at that point time. Brandt, I'm sure that Patience has already imparted to you the story of my poorly conceived striptease act of yore, has she not?"

"Yes, she told me, Aunt Winnie," Brandt responded with embarrassment.

"Yes, well, that is certainly handy. I can therefore skip over the details and simply say that 'Trevor the Jerk' here played a seminal part in my wayward behavior, but the pair of us somehow righted our respective ships of passage, eventually crossing paths a second time, whereupon our mutual attraction demonstrated itself, thus leading to our subsequent marriage. So there in a nutshell is how I came to be Lady Sutherland, the wife of both an Earl and a Jerk. And I might add, this lovely man on my right is indeed the love of my life!" at which everyone snickered yet again.

At this point Lord Sutherland, ergo 'Jerk', spoke up, saying, "And now we come to my part of the tail." He rose from his chair and, as if there were something profound to be said, he announced, "Right, you are doubtless aware that Rebecca is your aunt, my boy."

"Yes, sir," Brandt replied. "Aunt Winnie, er, Rebecca, had an older half-brother who was born in Scotland and remained there when her mother divorced and moved to America. Her half-brother was my father. He died when I was seventeen, and my mother passed away while I was at Cambridge."

"Precisely," Lord Sutherland responded. "Now, this is a bit complicated, but let me cut to the chase, my boy. You doubtless understand by this point that we are all in this room related, and in most cases by blood."

"Yes, sir," Brandt responded blankly.

"Yes, well, we want you to know that we intend to exercise our rights as family members to encroach upon your lives as often as we see fit!" Lord Sutherland posited genially.

"What!" Brandt responded, turning to Patience, who was herself rendered speechless by this revelation. Regaining his lost composure, Brandt rejoined with a grin, "Why, sir, that is most kind of you. Patience and I are wayward mutts. With the exception of Aunt Winnie, we have lamented the lack of family, and here we find that we are not alone after all. This is certainly a most welcome revelation to us both, I am sure," at which Patience nodded her complicity. "And may I say, we would be most honored to be 'encroached' upon by family, and furthermore, it is our most earnest desire to provide additional members to this family just as soon as is humanly possible."

"Excellent!" Lord Sutherland responded, the two women joining in with nods of approval. "Now, as members of your family, we feel obliged to contribute to your well-being in any way that we can. Therefore, I must ask you a prying question – are you in fact well set?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"We of course know that you are CEO of Restoring Patience. Does that supply you with a viable income?"

"No, sir," Brandt replied. "It is a ceremonial position, and as such, it provides no income whatsoever to us."

"Dear me! Well then, are you perhaps otherwise employed?"

"No, sir, I am not. I resigned from my position at Cal Tech recently," Brandt responded.

"Oh, dear me," Lord Sutherland responded dejectedly, but suddenly brightening, he volunteered, "Not to worry, we shall provide financial support to the extent that we are able. I assume that you have some sort of starting point."

"Yes, sir, we own an ice cream parlor in Castiglion," Brandt offered noncommittally.

"Dear me, is there nothing else?" Lord Sutherland queried in apparent distress.

Now grinning slyly, Brandt volunteered, "Well, there is one thing..."

"Excellent!" Lord Sutherland proffered, "And what might that be?"

"Well, sir, I own a few patents," Brandt replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh, I say, jolly good show!" Lord Sutherland responded. "And, if I may be presumptuous, how much do they return per annum?"

"Oh, about forty million dollars," Brandt supplied implacably.

His eyes abruptly widening at this and, glancing round the room, Lord Sutherland understated with mock solemnity, "Right, then. Perhaps that will do..."

Allowing a momentary silence for this revelation to sink in, Lord Sutherland then recommenced with, "And now, my nephew and new-found niece, there remains but one small piece of information to impart - one that I must say we in this room are most delighted to inform you of today. We three have performed an exhaustive study of the Sutherland family tree going back two centuries, and we find that, according to English law, there is only one remaining heir to the Earldom of Winston upon my passing. It is my distinct honor to inform you, Brandt MacCauley, that you are indeed that person."
Epilogue

**When I was a boy** I spent parts of each winter with my Aunt Winnie in Stirling. Aunt Winnie taught me many lessons in life. One day she taught me that patience is the parent of compassion, and compassion is borne within the heart. And although I found her tale of a lady bug and a spider to be a highly unlikely example of such, I determined to remember her lesson, because my aunt seemed to me to be very wise indeed.

Many years passed during which I sought meaning to my life. And I suppose inevitably, one day I encountered a lady bug that was pursued by a vicious spider. Recalling the lesson taught to me by my aunt, I determined to patiently bestow the lady bug with unwavering compassion. And though the lady bug was forced to endure enormous hardship for many years, she survived and, quite inexplicably, she eventually produced countless extraordinary offspring. And then one day, against all odds, the offspring of the lady bug dispatched the vicious spider. However improbable, the story that my aunt had imparted to me so long ago had somehow come to pass.

Only then did I understand that compassion is initially _born_ within the heart, but when dire circumstances arise, it must also be _borne_ within the heart. And very rarely, when compassion is both born and borne within the heart, it can in fact lead to the most precious gift of all – love. And so it was that the very object of my patience and compassion - the lady bug - disclosed to me the meaning of my life.

***~~~***

### About the Author

**D. Allen Henry** is a freelance writer who is also the author of _Hawk Banks_ , _Those Who Fought for Us_ , _Of War and Women, Enlisting Redemption, My Father the God, Merging Destiny_ and _Galileo's Lost Message_. The author welcomes comments regarding any of his novels. His website is located at http://dayhahaha.wix.com/dallenhenry, and his Facebook address is https://www.facebook.com/dallen.henry . Should you so desire, you may provide feedback to the following e-mail address: dallenhenry@hotmail.com. If you enjoyed _Finding Patience_ , please be so kind as to provide a review of it on the website from which you acquired this book.
Novels by

D. Allen Henry

**Hawk Banks** **– Founding Texas** (revised edition) – © 2014

Pairing up with Texas frontiersman Hank MacElrae, the inimitable Bostonian Hawk Banks sets off in quest of adventure on the Plains of Texas. A distinctly incompatible pair, the two manage to make their unlikely friendship work and, enduring all manner of unlikely events, they succeed in finding their way into the heart of Texas, becoming founding fathers of a new nation.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/448831

The Sutherland Saga

**Part I: Those Who Fought for Us** – © 2015

On the eve of World War I, Elizabeth Turnberry and her friend Margaret MacCreedy meet fellow students Robert Sutherland and Alastair Stewart in a pub in Edinburgh. And, although the future seems bright, the outbreak of war in the summer of 1914 will destroy all their hopes and dreams. Is there hope at all for those who fought for us?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/535009

**Part II: Of War and Women** – © 2015

On the eve of the Battle of Britain a farewell party is held for the 93rd Squadron at Wharton Manor, and though World War II will subsequently intervene, events of that night will echo down through history, changing the lives of those present forever. Unfairly maligned, one woman will persevere, but for all her accomplishments, will Felicité succeed?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/536530

**Part III: Enlisting Redemption** – © 2015

When twenty-one year old college student Trevor Sutherland enlists Rebecca Carey in a birthday party performance, it leads to a heinous crime. Her subsequent disappearance will ultimately send Trevor on a decade long quest for redemption, one fraught with intrigue, deception, and ultimately murder.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/540538

**Part IV: Finding Patience** – © 2015

When Patience Walker is kidnapped on a cold winter's night, her life is changed forever. Having met her on that very day, Brandt MacCauley takes on the challenge of finding her. Spanning fifteen years, his quest will not only change both of their lives, it will ultimately alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/543390

**Part V: My Father the God** – © 2015 (sequel to Those Who Fought for Us)

Having completed his first year at Hanford University, Scotsman Sloan Stewart begins the summer of 1941 working at The Orchard Inn with his friends James, Isolde and Sabrina. But entanglements inevitably lead to a shocking event, one that will transform each of them irrevocably through war, peace, and ultimately, the remainder of their lives. Can they ever surmount the errors of their youth?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/538259

**Part VI: Merging Destiny** \- © 2016

When Elspeth Moorehead's parents are killed in the Lockerbie bombing, Elspeth vows that she will someday avenge their horrendous murder. Her promise evolves into the quest of a lifetime, carrying her across continents and cultures, in the process subjecting her to numerous perilous obstacles. But, being a woman borne of exceptional intelligence and willpower, Elspeth may just be up to the challenge. Spanning a quarter of a century, her exploits will not only subject her to hurdles she could never have dreamed of, they will change the world.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/685934

**Galileo's Lost Message -** © 2016

An intricate mystery for those interested in the history of science. When Contessa Antonietta Floridiana telephones Professor Paul Woodbridge, she asks, "Suppose Galileo wrote a secret encoded message at the end of his life. Would the professor perhaps be able to decode it?" The quest for the solution to Galileo's Lost Message will lead the pair on a search that will alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/624146
Sneak Peek

My Father the God

By

D. Allen Henry

Prologue

**I was born in Cambridge, England** in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.

It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert and Elise.

You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accurate, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.

So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.

My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.

That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.

I don't mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan's son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.

My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto sixty years.

As memory serves me, my father's assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father's side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, "Father, you sent for me?"

"Aye, son, indeed Ah did," and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some thirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, "Ye simply _main_ see thes!"

Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, "Uhm, Ah dorn't see anythin' a'tall, father."

"Reit, boot bide a moment," he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.

"Ye mean that wee hole there?" I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.

"Precisely," he responded, "Noow, simply observe," and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. "Ah, thaur he be, son!"

I stared doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, "Dad, Ah'm a bit auld fur bugs."

"Aye," he replied jovially, "But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body."

"Reit," I responded doubtfully, "Whit's it all aboot?"

Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, "That, mah son, be a god!"

I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, "Ye cannae be serioos."

"Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god."

"Why ever on earth fur?" I replied in confusion.

"The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung."

"Och," I sneered in revulsion, "Dinnae sound godly tae me!"

"Aye, but bide an' watch. Haur he comes, an' examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin' alang with heem."

"Looks loch some sort ay wee ball," I responded.

"Reit. It be a dung ball. An' watch, he'll be draggin' it intae his den."

"Ugh! That be indeed nasty," I recall remarking in disgust.

"Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an' at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin' hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an' suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot."

"Och, I say, noow that _do_ soond interesting," and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, "An' quite strange as well." Then, on further contemplation, I added, "Hoo does he dae it, father?"

"Simple – he be a god!"

"Reit," I murmured cynically.

"Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity."

"Interestin'," I said, still pondering, "But whit be the significance ay it all?"

"Guid question," he replied. "Let's jist say, the warld be mysterious, an' sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin', in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny."

I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.

And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.
Chapter 1

God Willing

Near Boston, Massachusetts - June, 1939

**James Moorehead lounged within** the first class section of the train, a look of supreme confidence pervading his every action. Tall, handsome, pale blue-eyed and well-bred, he was the picture of every young lady's fancy. He had just completed his freshman year at Harvard University, the finest institution of higher education in the United States. Not only that, having finished first in his class within the Department of Chemistry, he was now on his triumphant way home to Concord for the summer.

Although his first year at university had gone better than even he had anticipated, he was quite relieved to be away from the frenetic pace of academia, not to mention the competitive atmosphere of Harvard. The slower pace of family life being a welcome relief, however short, he looked forward to it with relish.

His first year in college had seemed to him the very epitome of the Darwinian ideal – survival of the fittest – a competition at which he of all people excelled. His adversaries, his own fellow students, were by all accounts the fittest of the fit in the entirety of North America, perhaps even the world. Nonetheless, he had thus far not only survived, he had managed to leave a fair portion of the competition in his wake. The future for him therefore seemed bright indeed and, intent on continuing his torrid pace, he resolved to carry through his studies to completion at the pinnacle of his class.

Cardiff, Wales – Early August, 1939

**Isolde Channing observed intently** as the train pulled out of the station. Having never undertaken a journey such as this, the sheer distance of it was quite daunting, she fearing that her destination was indeed a world apart from Wales. Had her mother not passed on, she might have eventually matriculated to Cambridge, but as it stood, she would now be forced to live in the far-off United States of America with her aunt Fiona.

As the train rolled along, she pondered idly what Philadelphia must be like. Would she eventually have the opportunity to go to college, and if so, what might she study? Indeed, what were the colleges like in the United States? And for that matter, would the young men in her new homeland be attractive and cultivated, or were they a bunch of uncultured ruffians? She so desperately wanted to meet the perfect lad and settle down to marriage and children, but now it was painfully evident that, though still possible, it would most likely not be with someone from Great Britain.

As for her educational ambitions, she was enamored of all things scientific, but would the complexity of it exceed her abilities? If so, she supposed that a literary career was possible, although in truth she could not bring herself to find excitement in such a future. Still, she supposed that the proper course would present itself, all in good time, if only she could manage to be patient.

The train pressed onwards, the green hills of Wales, and thenceforth Western England, drifting silently past her window, like time itself, slipping into her past. Hopefully she would be back this way before long, but only time would tell.

Arriving several hours later in London, she subsequently caught another train for Portsmouth, from whence she would board ship three days hence, the trans-Atlantic passage thereby transporting her to the United States.

Cambridge, England – Two Days Later

**Sloan Stewart waved farewell to** his father, still wondering at the sanity of this sojourn. He was, somewhat incongruously, departing the home of arguably the most prestigious university in the world in quest of higher education. His father, an august member of the faculty of Trinity College, had hammered away relentlessly at him these two years, never deviating from his steeled decision that Sloan should attend Harvard University, in the distant United States.

Having fought his valiant best, he had nonetheless succumbed to his father's iron will, thereby leading to his departure for Portsmouth, from whence he would commence the Atlantic crossing the following day. "What will it be like?" he contemplated to himself, "Will the United States be wild, as northern Scotland is, or will it be more like the civilized nature of England, Cambridge in particular?" He supposed to himself as the train rocked along that his best course of action was to accept this unfolding chapter of his life as an adventure, no matter what lay in store for him.

Aboard Ship – Two Days Later

**Sloan came forward to the** dining table and, ogling the stunning blonde-haired young lady seated before him, he inquired politely, "Pardon me, miss, is this seat taken?"

Having observed his flagrant scrutiny of her, she responded suspiciously, "No, sir."

"Then, perhaps you would allow me to join you for dinner this evening, as it seems that you, as am I, are traveling quite alone."

She glanced at him and, her irritation at his effrontery obvious, she responded condescendingly, "I suppose so, if you must."

Undeterred, he pulled back the chair, promptly seated himself and, offering his hand to her, he announced genially, "My name is Sloan - Sloan Stewart - from Cambridge."

"Hullo," she responded shyly, "I am Isolde Channing, from Wales."

"Ah, Wales, is it? Tis indeed a pleasure to meet a shipmate who is also traveling alone," he responded courteously, "And where might you be traveling to, if I may ask?"

"I'm off to Philadelphia," she responded distantly, "And where might you be headed?"

"I'm for Boston," adding boastfully, "I shall be attending Harvard University beginning in the fall."

"Harvard," she responded and, ignoring his immature bluster, she added, "Yes, I've heard of it – quite an excellent school, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, or so they say. I should have preferred to attend Cambridge, but my father wouldn't hear of it."

"Oh! Why ever on earth for? It's such a fabulous university!"

"Yes, just so, but he says that war is coming, and best for me to be out of harm's way."

"War? What sort of war?"

"He says the Germans shall rise up again, and indeed, in many ways, it could be said that they have already commenced doing so."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," she replied absently, apparently displaying little interest in the subject.

"And why are you for Philadelphia, if I may be so bold?" he inquired, deftly diverting the topic so as to maintain her attention.

"Actually, my mother passed away. I am going to live with my aunt Fiona."

"Oh, I say, I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well, thank you, but there it is nonetheless," she responded disconsolately.

"And shall you attend university at some point?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question. I had hoped to attend Cambridge, from whence you have so recently departed, but my mother's death has quashed that hope, I fear."

"I say, why don't you come to Harvard? It would be ever so nice to have a friend from the home country there."

Eyeing him apprehensively, she inquired, "A friend?"

"Well, er, I see your point. That is perhaps a bit presumptuous of me, but if you will allow me, Miss Channing, I shall endeavor to gain that distinction by the time we make landfall in Boston."

Sneering at his forwardness, she responded derisively, "My, we are a bit cheeky, aren't we, Mr. Stewart!"

"My dear Miss Channing, if you will consent to indulge me for a moment, let me put it to you this way – I have nothing but the utmost of intentions and, it seems to me, we two are on a similar course, thrown together by the chances of fate. For the next two weeks we shall be confined nearby to one another and, should we two discover mutual friendship by the time we disembark from this ship, I for one ask you – what better way to arrive in a foreign land than on the arm of a new-found friend?"

"I see," she responded hesitantly.

"Right, then, what say you?" he responded, his face embellished with his most attractive smile.

"Sounds altogether quite intriguing," she replied and, breaking into a quite breathtaking smile herself, she finally succumbed to his charisma, responding, "I shall take it under advice," and at this, the pair giggled convivially.

A Week Later

**Sloan glanced toward her** from the corner of his eye and, gauging her mood, he queried, "Did you enjoy dinner tonight, Isolde?"

"Yes, quite so. We never ate like that at home in Wales. It was indeed quite scrumptious!"

"I agree," he responded ingenuously, "Thanks for agreeing to a stroll on deck with me this evening. I realize it's quite cold out, but I confess – just the site of you warms me quite nicely."

"My, thank you, at least I _think_ ," she responded serenely.

"Twas meant as a compliment, I assure you. And I for one am much too contented to consider the thought of turning in for the night. What say, might I convince you to share a drink with me in the bar?"

"Ha!" she replied jovially, "You've asked me that each and every night since we boarded ship, you brazen lothario!"

"Right, thereby demonstrating my amazing penchant for persistence. For your part, I'd say you've amply demonstrated your virtue via your uniform rejections up to now, so what say we turn a corner and move on to geniality."

"Oh? How so?"

"Just say yes!" he responded confidently.

At this she giggled, responding, "Alright then, yes. But don't you be getting any ideas, Mr. Sloan Stewart. Just because I've agreed to have a drink with you, it doesn't mean I'm a friend of any sort!"

"Perish the thought," he responded flirtatiously, "I've still more'n a week to accomplish that objective."

Three Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde sat** convivially devouring a scrumptious breakfast, Sloan grinning impishly at her between bites. "This just might be the best meal of the entire passage," he suggested off-handedly. "What do you think, Isolde?"

"Delectable, absolutely to die for!" she replied, subsequently flashing him her most winning smile.

The air audibly rushing from his lungs, he responded directly, "Don't _do_ that!"

"Don't do what?" she inquired vacuously.

"Don't smile that way, you adorable thing. When you do so, you absolutely take my breath away."

"Oh, you naughty boy, you're just making fun of me!"

"Tell you what, Isolde, why don't you come back to my cabin with me, and we'll see who makes fun of whom!"

"Sorry, not possible," she responded impishly.

"Why ever not?"

"I've a rule. I only consort with friends. And you, sir, are definitely _not_ a friend of mine!" and this last she laced with yet another vivacious grin.

Breaking into a smile of his own, he responded, "Say the word, and we can move on!"

"What word?"

"Why, that I am your friend, of course, and then we may go in search of my cabin together."

"My, but we are in a feisty mood today, aren't we! What's got into you, Sloan?"

"Only you, Isolde, only you," he responded pleasantly.

"You shall be the first to know when we are friends," she responded light-heartedly, "And when we are, I shall be more than happy to accompany you to your cabin. Now, if you please, take my arm and promenade me round the deck, my dear _potential_ friend."

Boston, Massachusetts – Four Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde stood** patiently at the ship's railing, awaiting the lowering of the gangplank. Sensing that their journey was finally at an end, Isolde turned to him and spoke mournfully, "It's been ever so lovely traveling with you, Sloan."

Smiling graciously, he responded, "I say, it has, hasn't it!"

"As I recall, that first night aboard you predicted our mutual friendship by this very point in time, rather pugnaciously I might add," she offered and, taking his hand in hers, she murmured, "I confess that I doubted both your prediction and your intentions at the time, dear Sloan."

"Yes, I was a bit forward, I confess," he replied in embarrassment.

"That you were, but all's well that ends well and, I must admit, you have succeeded, against all odds. You have been quite the perfect shipmate these two weeks. Accordingly, I for one hope that we shall be friends."

"My dear Isolde, we already _are_ friends. I expect, indeed, I _hope_ that we shall remain so for the remainder of our lives."

"As do I, dear Sloan, as do I," and, so saying, she tugged him to her and kissed him brazenly on the lips.

At this, he probed pleasantly, "What's this for?"

"Sorry, just creating a memory," she responded diffidently.

"I say, don't you think it's a bit late for that?" he cajoled, "Had you done so a day or two ago, we might have created a far more penetrating memory," and this last he said with a wink.

"You naughty boy," she responded, "I for one have just the right memories," and so saying, she leaned forward yet again, planting a friendly peck on his cheek.

Noticing a wayward tear as she pulled back, he reached forward and, caressing it askance, he suggested, "My, we are melancholy today. Let us not drown ourselves in self-pity over our parting, dear Isolde. Let us instead pledge to one another to write, and if our newfound friendship is sustained, let us also undertake to reunite when the opportunity arises. What say you, does that strike a chord of agreement?"

"Yes, ever so much so, dear Sloan. And may I say this – let us resolve, we two, that we shall live life to the fullest. And whenever and wherever we meet again, we shall always be true to one another."

"Well said, dear Isolde. I so promise."

"As do I," she responded, "I shall write, I promise and, God willing, we shall meet again before too long. Now, as the ship has now docked, suppose we get on with the inevitable." And with that the pair disembarked arm in arm.
Chapter 2

Boyle's Law

Boston – Two Days Later

**James, eyeing the half dozen young men** arrayed before him within the study room, commenced with, "Gentlemen, My name is James Moorehead. I am your tutor for freshman chemistry. I believe that we shall go round the room first so that you may introduce yourselves. Suppose we start with you, sir," he said, pointing to one rather striking lad.

The first of them offered rather self-assuredly, "Sir, I am Sloan Stewart, from Cambridge, England."

"Ah, an Englishman, I take it," James put in effusively.

"Actually, I am of Scottish descent, sir," Sloan corrected.

"Ah, a proud Scot! I see! And I take it you are fresh off the boat, sir?" James inquired with apparent interest.

"Yes, indeed I am, sir." Sloan responded proudly.

"Excellent!" James replied, his affirmative nod expressing his pleasure at having one so worldly within his own study group, "Welcome to America, and to Boston, to be more precise. I wish you the best here at Harvard."

"Thank you, sir, I look forward to it," Sloan responded genially.

Once the remaining five students had introduced themselves, James commenced his monologue, announcing, "Now, we shall meet every Thursday at this same time, except during exam weeks, whence we shall meet on Tuesdays as well. It is not my style to lecture, as I am quite certain you shall all be rather inundated with lectures from your illustrious professors. Rather, my responsibility is to provide any aid that I may toward your enlightenment on the subject of chemistry. As you are all well aware, I am but a year ahead of you at Harvard, but I hope that you shall find me nonetheless helpful to you, as I indeed completed my first year here ranked number one in my class. My goal shall be to pass on my experiences to all of you in such a way as to place each of you as highly as possible at the completion of the coming year.

"Now, I do not wish to daunt you overly so, but I should forewarn you, you are all about to embark on a career in one of the most challenging of all academic disciplines and, although I'm quite certain I need not remind you - at one of the most prestigious universities in the entire world. As such, should you not be fully committed from the get go, you shall fail miserably in pursuit of your objectives, and by Thanksgiving you shall disappear quite ignominiously from this study group, and most likely from the institution as well. And when I say the phrase 'get go', I am referring to this very moment in time, indeed, the moment of your initiation into the all-consuming world of higher education. Any questions?"

Apparently undaunted by this ominous preamble, Sloan responded with a presumptuous grin, "Yes, sir, I do indeed have a question."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Stewart, what is on your mind?"

"Sir, as you so correctly point out, I am fresh off the boat," Sloan proffered rather superciliously, "Indeed, I arrived in Boston just two days since. I have therefore not had the opportunity to settle in just yet and, daunted by your comments, as I'm quite certain my fellow colleagues are as well, I feel quite the need for refreshment of a certain dubious sort, if you get my meaning."

"Ah, yes, I do indeed follow, Mr. Stewart," was James' amiable response.

"Well, as it develops," Sloan quipped in reply, "I am told that in America it is quite illegal for a young man yet below the age of twenty to purchase chemical concoctions containing alcohol. This, I take it, is correct?"

James eyed him a moment, subsequently announcing in mock solemnity, "Mr. Stewart, we are to confine our discussion within this gathering to chemistry and, as I see you have so aptly managed to make chemistry the focus of your inquiry, I find that I am quite obliged to answer your question." At this, the entire group breaking into restrained snickers, James continued sagaciously with, "You are indeed quite right – it is illegal to purchase liquids containing alcohol by those under the age of twenty. However, one may nonetheless _consume_ alcoholic liquids within the confines of one's own premises, no matter what the age, strictly for medicinal purposes, of course."

At this, gazing pensively toward James, Sloan commented tactfully, "I see. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to the proper method of acquiring the appropriate _medicinal elixirs_ without entailing the risk of incarceration, sir."

"Excellent question, sir!" James responded cheerfully, "You are clearly focused quite properly on the complex subject of chemistry. As to your question, might I ask whereabouts you live?"

"Why, I live on campus, in Hightower Hall, sir."

"Ah, I myself inhabit the selfsame dorm, Mr. Stewart. Accordingly, I shall endeavor to introduce you to an upperclassman who lives within our dormitory, one who will, I'm quite certain, be more than happy to acquire a supply of whatever potions you may require, for a small finder's fee of course," and so saying, he smiled congenially at Sloan and, forthwith turning to address his uniformly rapt audience, he inquired, "Any other questions tonight?"

Hearing none, he added, "None? Excellent! Then, we shall meet next week at this same time, and I trust by then you shall all be equipped with a veritable cornucopia of questions related to chemistry."

Turning back toward Sloan, he now offered courteously, "If you will accompany me back to the dormitory, Mr. Stewart, I shall introduce you to my colleague who engages in the acquisition of all manner of potable chemicals." At this, the entire group rose as one and fell into step with their new-found mentor.

October, 1939

**Sloan rushed into the** study room and announced, "So sorry I'm late, Mr. Moorehead."

"Apology accepted, but see that it is not repeated, Mr. Stewart," James responded officiously.

Now properly reprimanded, Sloan replied respectfully, "Yes, of course, sir."

"We were considering Boyle's Law, Mr. Stewart. Perhaps you've heard of it?" James now queried condescendingly, intent on finding a means to chastise Sloan yet further for his tardiness.

"Actually, yes sir, I believe I have," Sloan responded diffidently.

"For those of you don't know," James interrupted, "Boyle's Law is named for Robert Boyle, the English professor from Cambridge who invented it in the early eighteenth century. For that achievement, he is considered by many to be the father of modern chemistry."

At this, Sloan raised his hand, inciting James to respond somewhat tiresomely, "Yes, Mr. Stewart, what is it?"

"Sir, I don't mean to disagree, but I believe that Mr. Boyle was in fact Irish, having been born in Lismore Castle, County Waterford, Ireland."

"Ah, my mistake. Thank you, Mr. Stewart," James replied dismissively.

At this admission, Sloan raised his hand yet again, interjecting pugnaciously, "Sir, I believe that the record will show that Robert Boyle was at Oxford rather than Cambridge, and that his law was discovered in the mid-seventeenth century rather than the eighteenth century."

"Oh well, we shall see about that, Mr. Stewart," James responded indignantly, "Anything else?"

"Well, er, yes sir, there is one other thing," Sloan added doubtfully.

"And what might that be?" James bellowed in obvious exasperation.

"Uhm," Sloan responded tentatively, "I believe that it is well known that Robert Boyle did not invent Boyle's Law. It was actually discovered conjointly by Richard Towneley and Henry Power. Boyle mistakenly believed that Richard Towneley discovered it, thereby terming it 'Towneley's Conjecture' in his 1662 paper on the subject. Later documentation established that Henry Power, a professor at Christ's College, Cambridge, co-invented the law with Richard Towneley."

Paling with palpable fury at this further disclosure, James now inquired arrogantly, "Is that so? What else might you add to the discussion on this subject, Mr. Stewart?"

"Not much, sir, just that Robert Boyle was enamored with the work of Galileo, even going so far as to travel to Italy in 1641, shortly before Galileo's death. Galileo is, of course, the first person to postulate the existence of material laws, sometimes termed constitutive laws and, as it turns out, Boyle's Law is the first experimentally verified constitutive law in history. It postulates that the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to the applied pressure. Boyle performed experiments demonstrating the veracity of this law, and it is for this reason that the law bears his name today. Nowadays we term materials that behave this way 'Hookean' after Robert Hooke, or 'elastic' after Isaac Newton, and the underlying physical reasons for this effect were elucidated by James Clerk Maxwell and Ludwig Boltzmann in the latter part of the nineteenth century."

At this the wide-eyed young man on Sloan's right volunteered wistfully, "Egads, you know way too much!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Sloan responded in genuine horror at the realization of his own forwardness, "I had no intention of overtaking the conversation!"

"You managed to do so nonetheless," the young man responded gleefully, adding with fortuitous clairvoyance, "I for one am really glad I'm in this study group. It appears we have a true genius among us!"

Himself turning rubicund with embarrassment at this submission, James finally interjected, "Excellent discussion, gentlemen. Now, suppose that we move on to more challenging topics?"

A Month Later

**Sloan knocked on the door and,** given the boisterous din emanating from within, he was certain that he had chosen the correct one. The door momentarily opening, a young man poked his head without, inquiring over the now-blaring cacophony, "Password?"

"What?" Sloan exclaimed vacuously.

"What's the password, you imbecile!" he heard from behind the rapidly closing door.

"Oh, sorry," Sloan responded sheepishly, "It's uh...Newton!"

"Wrong!" and at this the door slammed close.

"Isaac Newton!" James roared at the offending door, at which the door magically reopened.

"You may enter," the young man announced superciliously, and so saying, he drew the door wide, accenting it with inane genuflection.

Peering within, Sloan could see no less than thirty young men strewn about within the tiny dorm room. Grinning appreciatively, Sloan stepped within, inquiring pointedly of the erstwhile guard, "Where's the booze?"

"Over there, on Bobby's desk," the young man pointed, as if expecting Sloan to be capable of seeing directly through a half dozen inebriated students.

Inching his way through the throng, Sloan eventually arrived at the proffered spot, pouring himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon. Completing his intended task, he turned about with the intention of seeking out someone with whom he might be acquainted.

"Hey," a voice on his right cheerfully exclaimed, "Sloan. Glad you could make it!"

"Oh, I say, hello Mr. Moorehead!" Sloan responded, projecting his voice above the noise, "Some party!"

"Yes, just the thing to mitigate the pressure from the first round of exams, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more," Sloan replied pleasantly.

Sipping from a glass of his own, James inquired off-handedly, "So, how did you score on your first chemistry exam?"

"I scored well, thanks to your expert tutoring," Sloan exclaimed.

His eyes narrowing, James queried, "Just how well?"

"Well, since you asked directly, I'm afraid I must admit to you – I made a perfect score."

"Oh, that is excellent!" James responded admiringly, and applying a congenial slap on Sloan's back, he exclaimed with satisfaction, "That confirms my suspicion. I was already quite assured that you were the best within the study group, but now I am certain that you shall be the best in class this year."

"You think so?" Sloan inquired.

"Absolutely!" James responded affably, "You are quite talented, Sloan. You shall make a fine chemist one day."

"Thank you, sir," Sloan replied proudly, somehow at a loss for further words.

"Although we are separated by a year in school, I hope that we shall become friends. We, the two of us, seem to have similar interests. And by all means, please call me James, as I shall henceforth address you as Sloan."

Glancing at James, Sloan responded ingenuously, "Why, thank you, James. I look forward to a growing friendship!" and so saying, he held out his glass. For his part, James raised his glass as well, the pair clinking their drinks together in honor of their newfound friendship.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – Early April, 1940

**Isolde sat before** her mirror, intent on scrutinizing the image before her. Her long blonde tresses were perhaps a bit too frizzy for her taste, but she supposed there was little she could do about such a distressing shortcoming. Rising from her seat, she strutted to the full length mirror opposite and, standing before it, she examined her figure. Clad in her nightgown, she was unable to make out her shape quite clearly. Accordingly, she shrugged her way out of the left sleeve, then the right and, her nightgown slipping silently to the floor, she was afforded an unadulterated opportunity to assess her own attributes. Were her hips too big, her breasts too small? She had not the slightest idea, having been cloistered nearly her entire life within a small village in Wales. But now, having reached a certain age, she pondered incessantly whether she was indeed attractive to the opposite sex.

At that moment, Aunt Fiona poking her head within the room, Isolde blushed with embarrassment at having been caught out in her own self-examination. Discerning Isolde's purpose immediately, her aunt exclaimed wisely, "My dear, there is no need to concern yourself regarding your appearance. I assure you, there is little one can do about it. You shall be who you are for the entirety of your life."

"I know, I know, Aunt Fiona, but please, oh please, tell me truthfully – am I attractive?"

"My goodness, Isolde, you are the absolute picture of femininity. You are tall, quite well proportioned, especially your hips, thighs and breasts, and, last of all, you have a face to die for!"

"You think so? But what about my frizzy hair?"

"My dear, what with your face, no one shall even take notice of your hair. Besides, your hair is quite lovely. Though I perhaps shouldn't say as much, you are altogether the loveliest young lady I've ever laid eyes on."

"That's kind of you to say," Isolde responded doubtfully, continuing to eye herself in the mirror as if she nonetheless doubted her aunt's assessment.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Aunt Fiona put in, "There's a letter for you," and so saying, she held out an envelope for Isolde.

Grasping the proffered item, Isolde ripped open the envelope fretfully, fear of failure coursing through her every fiber and, hastily scanning the writing therein, she abruptly screamed with delight, "I'm in! Aunt Fiona, I've been accepted! I shall be enrolled at Harvard University in the fall!"

Boston - September, 1940

**Isolde extended her head** from the window as the train pulled into the station and, spotting a familiar face, she screamed excitedly, "Sloan! Sloan! Over here! It's me – Isolde!"

Reacting to the sound of his name, Sloan jerked about and, meeting her animated gaze, he waved wildly while screaming gleefully, "Isolde! Welcome! Welcome to Boston!"

Her visage momentarily disappearing from view, he waited impatiently for her to appear at the door and, seeing her emerge shortly thereafter, he rushed forward. Enfolding her in an affectionate hug, he shouted excitedly, "Isolde! It's so wonderful to finally see you again!"

Embracing him tightly in return, she responded with her brightest smile, exclaiming, "Oh, God, I've missed you, Sloan! My dear friend, it's been the longest year of my life! And I'm so looking forward to Harvard. How is it? Is it difficult?"

"Hard...very hard, dear Isolde, but together, we shall somehow muddle through. You can do it, I know you can. And now that you're here, so can I!"

November, 1940

**Isolde waded into** the tightly packed bar and, spying her intended target within the crowded space, she pushed her way through the convulsing throng. Arriving at her destination, she interrupted the two young men locked in deep conversation before her, cooing hesitantly, "Hullo, Sloan, who's you friend?"

Surprised by her unexpected appearance before him, Sloan leapt up from his chair. Summarily knocking over his drink and, belatedly grabbing it up, he blurted, "Oh, hi, Isolde. Er, sorry for my clumsiness," and, clearly flustered by the unexpected sight of her, he added in apparent embarrassment, "Oh, uhm, yes, of course. This is my good friend James, James Moorehead. James, meet my dear friend Isolde Channing. She's new to Harvard."

"Ah, yes," James volunteered and, rising elegantly from his seat, he offered her his hand and added, "And here you are at last, Isolde, all the way from Wales!"

Surprised by the handsome and obviously charming man before her, Isolde took his hand shyly in hers, inquiring breathlessly, "And, pray tell, How did you come to know that, sir?"

Seeing he had made a positive impression, James responded with self-assurance, "Oh, I know all about you, Miss Channing, er, Isolde. May I call you Isolde? It seems we already know one another. After all, Sloan talks about you incessantly! He claims you are the best of friends."

Brightening at this observation, Isolde awarded Sloan a cutting glance and, returning her attention to James, she responded pleasantly, "Is that so, James? You wouldn't know by his behavior of late."

Sloan, himself obviously embarrassed by the scene unfolding before him, attempted a diffusing retort, "I'm so sorry, Isolde. But school has been terribly challenging of late. Surely you know how it is."

Softening visibly at his half-hearted apology, Isolde responded, "Yes, I quite agree," and, having thus far failed to receive the invitation she had anticipated, she added, "Well, I can see the pair of you are busy..." and so saying, she turned to depart.

Reaching for her arm, Sloan tugged her back toward them, querying, "Isolde, yet again, I must apologize. Please, sit with us. When we all get to know one another, I'm sure we shall become the best of friends."

Having now achieved her immediate objective, Isolde responded diffidently, "Well, I don't know...I'm quite busy, you know..."

Still a bit young to fully comprehend the complexity of the weaker sex, Sloan begged in earnest, "Oh, please, Isolde! I've missed you so," thereby prompting James to arch one eyebrow in surprise, a subsequent wink passing unobserved by Sloan between himself and Isolde.

"Well, I suppose I can spare a few minutes," she replied hesitantly, and so saying, she dropped her books and took a seat adjacent to her two admirers.

Having discerned how the wind blew, James offered a placating diversion, "So, Sloan tells me you are studying American Literature this semester. How are you finding it?

Brightening yet again at James' powers of deduction, Isolde responded pleasantly, "Bizarre, absolutely bizarre. Although you Americans share a common language with the English, your deployment of the English language bears no resemblance whatsoever!"

"Oh? How so?" James inquired with growing interest.

"Well, for example, one has these firebrands such as Herman Melville and O. Henry. One could say they are obsessed with the macabre. Then there are Henry David Thoreau and Emily Dickinson, both rising to the height of both the sublime and the subliminal. And finally, there is Mark Twain, who seems to have discarded the English language altogether."

"Ha! I told you so!" Sloan exclaimed much too loudly, "She is the picture of perfection, is she not? All those gorgeous golden tresses strewn about, enveloping matchless brilliance, not to mention beauty, if I do say so myself!"

At this, Isolde blushed and, gazing about in embarrassment, she murmured, "Shush, Sloan! You go too far, sir, and in public!"

At this Sloan guffawed, grabbed her in a friendly embrace, and blubbered, "Ah, my dear Isolde, I do so adore you!"

Pushing him away, she rejoined, "Stop it! Sir, if I did not know you better, I should say that you are drunk!"

"What if I am," Sloan exclaimed defensively, "It's still the truth. And you know me, Isolde, I'm always good for the truth!"

"Yes, of that I'm quite certain, and at times most annoyingly," she responded indignantly and, observing that her objective was in danger of being spoiled, she announced surreptitiously, "Well, I believe that I shall make my departure. You, sir, are in a state of inebriation that is entirely inappropriate for a lady's company," and so saying, she arose to leave.

"Aw, don't go rushing off, Isolde," Sloan replied and, seeing that she was not swayed, he called after her, "When can I see you again?"

Over her shoulder, she responded indignantly, "When you are sober, you may call on me!"

But to her dejection, for some reason he didn't.

March, 1941

**Sloan supplied the required** password, the door to the dorm room subsequently opening wide. As expected, there was quite a crowd within, the majority of them well on their way to drunken oblivion. Inching his way to the bar, he thought to himself, "Exams this week must have been tougher than usual."

As he did so, he noticed a couple of rather dodgy looking young ladies, a site he had never before seen within the men's dorms at Harvard. Wondering to himself what that was about, he poured himself a drink and, turning to locate a friend to chat with, he was surprised to see Isolde ensconced in companionable discourse with a young man. Pressing forward, he reached her side momentarily and announced, "Isolde, what a pleasure!"

"Oh, hullo, Sloan. Fancy meeting you here!" she responded coyly.

Mystified by her distant attitude, he inquired, "What brings you here tonight?"

"You will see soon enough," she responded, "This is my new friend, Anson. Anson, meet Sloan." The pair shook hands, Sloan for his part perplexed that Isolde was with someone.

Leaning forward, he muttered in her ear, "I can see you're with someone tonight, Isolde, so I shall catch up with you later."

Sipping on her drink nonchalantly, she replied, "Sure...later."

At this Sloan drifted away, in search of other companionship. Almost immediately, he bumped into James, who exclaimed fretfully, "Sloan! I thought you'd never get here. You nearly missed the start of the show!"

"What show?"

"They have something special planned for tonight," James volunteered with a telling wink.

"What might that be?" Sloan queried blankly.

"It seems someone has arranged for a contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied sarcastically.

"No, not at all. We seem to have a benefactor in our midst, although who the culprit is, no one seems to know. At any rate, three young ladies have volunteered to participate in a dance contest, the winner to be awarded a crisp new one hundred dollar bill."

Momentarily distracted from the topic at hand, Sloan responded, "Wow! I've never even _seen_ a hundred dollar bill."

"Ha!" James prattled boisterously, "Well, tonight you shall see one, among other things, I'm quite certain of it."

Still mystified, Sloan inquired, "Other things? What sort of other things?"

Surreptitiously taking a sip from his drink, James replied matter-of-factly, "Perhaps we shall see a mystery or two revealed, of the female type, of course."

"You're not serious!" Sloan responded doubtfully.

"Actually, there is no way of telling what will transpire. It all depends on what lengths these young ladies are willing to go to in order to win the prize."

Suddenly fearing something untoward, Sloan turned, heading directly toward Isolde and, interrupting her conversation with her friend, he blurted, "Tell me you're not entered in this insane dance contest!"

"Oh, but I most certainly am, Sloan," she replied demurely.

"Why ever on earth for? This could well get out of hand, Isolde."

"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about. It's just good clean fun," she responded naively.

Seeing that she had no intention of taking his advice, he exclaimed, "We shall see about that!" and so saying, he turned on his heel, seeking a neutral vantage point from which to observe the contest.

A young man now clapped his hands loudly, announcing, "Alright, guys, you all know why we're here tonight. We have three young ladies, each of whom has volunteered to dance for us. Afterwards, the winner, being selected by popular vote, shall be awarded a prize of one hundred dollars!"

At this, the crowd erupted in applause and, shortly thereafter the first young lady commenced her dance. She was attractive in an earthy sort of way and, dancing to 'Pennsylvania 6-5000', she brought the crowd to a fevered pitch. The alcohol having clearly affected the males within the room, the crowd grew boisterous, in response to which she doffed her blouse at the end of the piece. The room erupted in applause, awarding her an approving ovation.

Sloan, now certain that this was headed in an indecent direction, glanced toward Isolde, only to find her avoiding him for some unknown reason.

The second young lady now took to the floor, dancing to the more sedate 'Moonlight Serenade' but, sure enough, near the end of the number she too began removing her blouse. Goaded on by the pulsating throng, she removed her skirt as well, at which the crowd went wild.

It was now time for the final entrant's performance, and of course it was Isolde. Stepping to the center of the room, she, now appearing quite bewildered, locked her eyes on Sloan and began dancing salaciously to the upbeat tune 'Chattanooga Choo Choo'. Sure enough, toward the middle of the tune, she slowly removed her blouse. By this time visibly distressed, Sloan gazed pleadingly towards her, but she continued dancing, all the while staring directly at him.

Sloan was by now beside himself with agony, fearing the worst as she, reaching down, began fumbling with her skirt. Suddenly lunging forward, he screamed forcefully, "Stop! Stop it, Isolde! I can't let you do this!" and grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her within his arms and lunged hurriedly from the room. Sensing the crowd's disapproval at his intrusion, he managed to hold them at bay by slamming the door shut and wedging his shoe beneath it.

Still wrapped within his arms, she cried woefully, "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm saving you from yourself, you fool!" he bellowed.

Writhing in an attempt to escape his grasp, she screamed, "I don't need saving!"

"Dear Isolde, I adore you. I can't let you do this to yourself. Now shut up. I'm taking you back to your dorm."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she suddenly exclaimed, "But why, Sloan? I finally got your attention, and you had to go and stop me!"

"Dear Isolde, you are much too good for this sort of thing. I'm taking you back to your dorm, and there's an end to it!"

Charging down the stairs with her in his arms, he hurried out onto the snow-covered lawn. Racing for fear that they might be followed by the outraged crowd, he carried her as quickly as he could to her dorm, she for her part sobbing uncontrollably all the way.

Once within the dorm, he handed her over to the dorm supervisor, saying, "Please, take her upstairs to her room. She's drunk and out of control."

"Where is your shoe, young man, and where is her blouse?" the elderly woman asked accusingly.

Turning to depart, he called over his shoulder, "Long story."

"Sloan, what did I do wrong? Please, tell me what I did wrong! Come back!" she wailed as he stalked from the dorm.

The Following Day

" **Come in!" Sloan exclaimed** in response to the knock on his door.

The door opening, James poked his head in, announcing, "Hey, Sloan, I just thought I'd check in to see how things turned out last night with you and Isolde."

"I don't know," Sloan responded noncommittally, "She was mad as hell!"

"Yeah, everyone could tell, but despite that, you did her a big favor. She was headed for deep trouble, if you ask me."

"That's what I thought, too, but she wasn't very pleased when I grabbed her."

"What happened after that?"

"Oh, I just carted her back to her dorm and handed her over to the dorm supervisor," Sloan responded, "I didn't know what else to do."

"Did she calm down by then?"

"No, by then she was absolutely furious. I don't know what's gotten into her, to tell you the truth."

"You're really taken with her, aren't you." James posited.

"Yeah, I guess I must be," Sloan replied thoughtfully, "Otherwise, I would have just stood there along with everyone else and watched her strip down to God knows what."

"Yes, and God knows, it would have been her birthday suit, if you ask me," James offered candidly."

"What makes you say that?" Sloan groaned in surprise.

"Man, you should have been there!" James volunteered. "After Isolde left, the guys decided that it was a tie between Mindy and Charlotte. So they decided the two girls should have a dance-off, sort of a sudden-death contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied.

"Honest to God," James said, "So these two girls, seems like both of them wanted that hundred dollar bill really badly, they got up there on the table and started dancing together, and when Mindy took off her blouse, Charlotte did her one better. Within minutes both those girls were naked as jaybirds. I tell you, it was a thing of beauty – two girls dancing naked in a boy's dorm room on Harvard University campus."

"Oh, my God," Sloan murmured. "That could have been Isolde!"

"She would have, too, Sloan. She was really drunk."

"I know," Sloan muttered, "I hope I did the right thing. I'm pretty sure I did, but who can tell with a woman, especially that woman! Man, she drives me nuts!""

"Yeah, I'd say you're pretty far gone on her," James observed.

A Week Later

**Sloan stepped up to** the counter in the girls' dorm, inquiring, "Could I see Isolde Channing, please?"

"Your name?" the supervisor responded, but suddenly recognizing him, she exclaimed, "Wait a minute! I remember you! You're the young man who brought Isolde home that night. Say, what was that all about, anyway?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her," he responded noncommittally, "Name's Stewart – Sloan Stewart."

"I see," she replied, "Well, please wait a moment while I see if she is in."

Sloan stepped away from the counter, politely awaiting Isolde's arrival. After a few moments, the supervisor motioned to him and, stepping back to the counter, he queried, "Yes?"

"She's in, Mr. Stewart, but she's not seeing anyone just now."

At this, he stared at her incredulously, inquiring somewhat rudely, "Look here, could I speak to her on the phone?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," the supervisor responded and, by now clearly ruffled, she posited, "She made it quite clear that she doesn't want to speak to you."

"Can't you see I'm trying to help her?" Sloan begged.

Her eyes flashing in fury, she grumbled, "Sir, I see nothing of the sort. A shoeless young man who shall remain unnamed staggers into the women's dorm on a Friday night, conveying a partially clad and clearly unsympathetic young lady in his arms and gruffly demands that the supervisor 'take care of her', all the while refusing to respond to questions regarding his part in this unseemly affair."

At this, Sloan staggered backward and, his hand raised to his throat in denial, he gasped, "No! No, madam, you have it all wrong. I was trying to help!"

"Sir, I doubt that very seriously. Otherwise, the young lady in question would not be so vehemently opposed to seeing you. Now, if I were you, I would make haste to disappear from my sight before I change my mind and find it necessary to file a complaint recommending your dismissal from the university for lewd and inappropriate behavior!"

"I see," Sloan replied in fear, "I assure you that I did nothing wrong, madam. However, I can see how it must have appeared to you. I am truly sorry to have alarmed you so."

"Well said," she replied and, visibly calming, she suggested, "Now please leave, and never ever come to this dorm again, sir!"

"Yes, madam," Sloan responded, and so saying he made a hasty retreat.

Thusly unnerved, he wandered aimlessly across campus, at length planting himself on a park bench adjacent to the library. By then completely demoralized, he stared blankly into space and, unable to find solace, he mumbled to himself, "What's gotten into her? I save her from herself, and this is the thanks I get! After all, did we not promise aboard ship to always be true to one another?"

