

# THE GOOD DEED

##

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Image: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/the-wanderers-eye/6002844744/">"The Wanderer's Eye"</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>

CHAPTER ONE

After retiring from my job, for several years I had taken group tours to various parts of the world. During my working years I had enjoyed vacations in the U.S., hiking, camping, exploring, general sight seeing. That all ended with the death of my wife a few years back. Natural causes, I assure you.

Group tours are OK. The guides know what they're doing. You see what you're supposed to see in an economy of time. The food is decent, baggage and flights are taken care of, and you're herded around like sheep, or cattle, choose one. But now and then there is an urge to go off by oneself, scratch the surface of the globe in an individual style, find a spot and sit for half a dozen days if the spirit suggests.

In my case, money is an object. I have enough to get by, but lack a dash of style. I fly coach, check out cheap hotels, sometimes splurge at McDonalds, and enjoy Wendy's chili.

Thus stated, I found myself in Dakar, the capital city of Senegal, West Africa at its best. Thrashing around for a new spot to visit, the name Timbuktu had stuck in my brain and played round and round. As a child, Timbuktu was viewed as possibly the most remote spot a person might mention. Easy to pronounce, it tripped lightly off the tongue. Timbuktu: mystery, high adventure, remoteness, culture shock. These days there are guided tours to Timbuktu, through the burning sands and wildness of Mali, Africa's seventh largest country.

But how about an unguided tour? Hop a jet to Senegal, check into a cheap hotel accompanied by a six-pack of local beer, and check out the transportation. A tourist could do very well in that line of enterprise simply by remaining in the Dakar area and eyeballing present-day life from a perspective of its history.

Consider this: Senegal's recorded history dates to the eighth century when it was part of the Ghana empire. But the Cap Vert Peninsula, jutting into the Atlantic as Africa's westernmost part, was settled no later than the 15th Century. The offshore island of Goree, was first settled by the Portuguese about 1444 and shortly thereafter used as a base for exporting slaves. The Dutch and English also held sway from time to time.

But by the end of the 19th Century, France controlled all of Senegal, and Dakar on the tip of the peninsula flourished as its administrative center – now, a West African hub with a metro population of well over two million.

CHAPTER TWO

So there I was, in a cheap hotel, drinking local Flag beer for less than a buck a throw, looking out my window over what appeared to be a Dakar slum. Fortunately, I had brought along a couple of paperback books and decided to settle in for the day. Had I mentioned that my plane arrived at 2 am? Par for the course in Dakar. Toward evening, I slipped out of the hotel and went to a nearby hash house where I had a typical Sengalese meal, a large bowl of rice topped with various items stewed together, quite tasty and rather spicy.

Following that episode, I retreated to an African version of a 7-Eleven, spent a pittance in local currency, the CFA franc, which was about 544 to the U.S. dollar, for more Flag beer and retired to my room for the night. There was a feeling of being well situated and poised to begin the tourist bit any day now.

The next couple of days were spent in idle wandering and sampling local fare. A popular dish, enjoyed by all, myself included, is thieboudienne, which is rice cooked in tomato sauce with chunks of fish, vegetables and garlic tossed in. A simple dish of rice and peanut sauce proved delicious and inexpensive. Then there was chicken with onion and lemon sauce, called yassa poulet, and with fish is called yassa poisson. You linguists may have guessed by now there is a heavy French influence in Dakar.

There are French restaurants, holdovers from the colonial past, and there are also Thai, Vietnamese and Mexican. Myself, I favored the holes in the wall that featured the yassa dishes and cold Flag beer. The highest end, so I was told, was the fancy Ozio restaurant on Rue Victor Hugo – that's where the elite meet to be elite with other elite and eye one another.

Dakar isn't just another dusty African town complete with spear carriers, jungle drums , wild dogs and pickpockets. But there are pickpockets and scam artists with an eye out for the awe-struck tourist.

Then one day I wandered into a large restaurant that advertised moderate prices on its curbside menu, including chicken fried steak and kale. My home is in North Carolina and this item struck like a post card from home. Taking a seat near a window, the menu was a jumble from hamburgers to Creole dishes to pure African. Settling in, I decided on the chicken fried steak and kale laced with vinegar and sliced onions.

Near the bar, a well-dressed man who seemed to be the manager was giving me the once over. As I dug in with nimble knife and fork he approached my table and announced, "You're an American."

I agreed and inquired how he knew.

"Your eating style."

"Of course," was my quick reply. Europeans and others do not cut their meat then change hands. The knife and fork remain in place. "You too are an American," I suggested.

"Oh, the accent," he grinned. "I'm Barry Howell and I run this fancy eatery."

Shaking hands, I disclosed my name, Andy Blake, of the North Carolina Blakes.

"Barry, late of St. Louis," said he, taking chair.

CHAPTER THREE

Barry revealed the odd fact that he was an electrical engineer.

"You change the light bulbs in here?" I questioned.

"Nothing that difficult. I was in graduate school when I met this young African lass, Verona. She was an undergraduate, an art major no less. Useless degree, although Dakar prides itself on its art, some of it quite bizarre. Anyway, one thing led to another and we took the unusual step by today's standards of getting married."

"She swept you off your feet and carried you to her castle in Senegal," I filled in.

"It ended up something like that. After getting my master's I taught for almost two years waiting for her to graduate. Then we came over here to visit her folks. They had been running this restaurant for many years, running it into the ground. It was in need of repair and rehabilitation and they were on the brink of retiring."

I signaled the waiter for another Flag and went to work on a side dish, fried sweet potato chips, or some sort of yam. "You found a home in Dakar."

"They asked me to stay and run the restaurant. Of course they wanted us to have children and watch them grow up, but I refused. The USA was my oyster and I was ready to crack the shell. But then something weird happened."

Barry called the waiter and asked for tea. "I suppose I had a black psychosis and didn't know it. I had lived with discrimination all my life in the States. After a few weeks here, I found there was none. Maybe a little rivalry between ethnic groups, Senegal isn't pure by any means, but nothing like living in a predominantly white society."

The tea arrived. Barry took a sip and continued. "I had a good life in the States. Lots of friends, black and white. Parties, vacations, the whole nine yards. But there was always that cloud of racial discrimination hanging just out of sight.

"You might be a bank president or a member of Congress, but if you dressed casually and went to certain places, you were made to feel uncomfortable and occasionally overheard a racist remark. Then there was DWB, driving while black, which might get you stopped on the highway and hassled by some redneck deputy. The longer I stayed in Dakar, the more I liked it."

Barry was called away to the kitchen to make some sort of command decision. I nursed my beer like an English drinker, eager to hear the rest of his story.

When he returned he said that he eventually decided to stay and agreed to take over the restaurant. Verona's Dad worked with him for six months, then ducked into retirement.

"I made changes. Kitchen equipment, floors, tables, chairs, painting, decorating, and gradually I brought it up to snuff. Then I added the American menu." Barry grinned at this point. "Verona disagreed. She said I was going to jump the shark. But thank God I was right. Natives and tourists alike fell for the Yank food. My Mom's a widow and I brought her over to train the staff. She loved it, they loved her."

"Isn't this a Muslim nation?"

"Ninety percent," Barry responded. "My wife was reared Muslim, and I converted. They're good people, but they're not big on covering the women up, locking them away, or banning alcohol. It's more like Turkey, a casual style. They pride themselves over here on being the nation of "teranga," or hospitality. Sports teams, hotels and restaurants use the name. So, that's my story, what's yours?"

"A widower who enjoys traveling is the size of it. I'm meandering toward Timbuktu because I've always heard of it as a remote sort of place."

Barry laughed. "A lot of people think that. You'll find quite a city, although it reached its peak several hundred years ago and has never quite recovered. There's a big festival around New Year's not far from there. Draws quite an international crowd."

"You've been there?"

"Not me. We once took the train as far as Bamako. We'll travel more once the kids grow a little."

Once more Barry was wanted in the kitchen and we said our goodbyes. I promised to return for a Creole dinner.

CHAPTER FOUR

Not having anything particular in mind except a vague idea of a final destination and an open ticket back to the States, I found I could live on the cheap in Dakar. So why not tarry?

Money was no problem. The ATMs would deliver up to CFA 250,000 at a whack. Heeding warnings, my passport and wallet were carried in a pouch around my neck. For future reference, I scoped out the train station and found the elegant Hotel de Ville nearby. There was also the impressive Grand Mosque and, much more interesting, the Medina and its bustling colorful market where everything's for sale.

One day I spent riding around on a series of "Car Rapides," colorfully decorated mini-buses. The natives know whither they are bound, but I didn't, so hopping on and off for a pittance was sheer adventurous sightseeing. From wherever I ended up, I ordered something called a Shwarma, a fast food favorite, and a steaming glass of "café Touba," a spicy coffee drink, from a sidewalk stand, then grabbed a cab back to my fleabag hotel, careful to bicker on price before boarding.

The following day, my last in Dakar, I took a ferry for the short trip to Ile de Goree, almost a ritual for the tourist crowd. There are no cars on the island, and a calm hangs like gloom over the island with its narrow alleyways and trailing bougainvillea, colonial brick buildings and wrought iron balconies. It is a place to think deeply and grimly of the island's role in the Atlantic slave trade.

The following day, with small bag packed, it was off to the train station for the twice-weekly passage to Bamako, and a goodbye to Senegal. Bamako is the capitol of Mali, the country of my intended destination, Timbuktu. The train is theoretical. In theory the trip takes 35 hours and the train is a favorite with pickpockets. In fact, the train often derails and the trip always takes at least 40 hours. Sheer adventure. Let the good times roll!

CHAPTER FIVE

Shabby by any standards, the train was crowded with natives, likely a mix of Senegal and Mali along with the occasional European. My seatmate was an attractive young woman. We rode in silence except for the clatter of the tracks and sound of the engine for the better part of an hour, I thumbing a tourist guide that informed me that Bamako was approaching a million and a half souls, was a bustling, energetic, thriving place with nightclubs and music venues operating at a frantic pace.

Thinking that silence, golden as it is, might prove a crashing bore on this extended rail ride, I ventured a conversation with the young lady. She proved quite friendly, in fact eager to talk with a foreigner. She said her name was Oumou and revealed that she was fleeing her home and family to join a boyfriend in Bamako.

"My parents were arranging a marriage for me. I didn't know what to do," she said, obviously still confused.

"So you ran away."

"Yes. Why stay and marry an old man who I haven't even met. My girlfriends and I have talked about this, and most want a love marriage. Although some are old fashioned and prefer the arranged marriage."

It was a bit of a surprise that any of them would favor an arranged marriage, judging solely by the situation in the States. Although there is a growing Muslim community stateside that might lean toward such an arrangement.

Oumou explained that an arranged marriage is approached with care. The partners are chosen from the same social strata, possibly the same education level, often confined to the two families being members of the same circle of friends. Quite a few built-in benefits and safeguards.

So what does a love marriage have to offer? As the miles clattered by and we purchased snack food and fruit drinks from passing vendors, she mentioned mutual interests, same age bracket, physical attraction, appearances and that indescribable chemistry.

Inquiring if she knew what not to look for in a love marriage, Oumou smiled sweetly and asked me to explain, as if an old white man would know anything about love and marriage. What she didn't know was that I had recently read a long report on the topic written by a counselor with long experience and was poised to hold forth on the topic for many African miles.

"Checkout your potential mate's friends," I began. "Do you like them? If he has none, or few friends, be warned. Marriage requires intimacy and he might not be capable of it."

"We have kissed," she said smugly, glancing out the window. Very likely she would be more honest with me than she would with her parents.

"Many marriages fail because of money. When poverty comes in the door, love goes out the window. Is he stingy? Can he manage money? Is he deeply in debt? You'd best find out these things."

"In the Muslim world," she replied, "the man is the boss. He doesn't like to answer such questions."

"Then we see the advantage of the arranged marriage in such a world. Your parents, the matchmaker, whoever, would get answers to all of these questions. Surely you can reject a suitor if the arrangement doesn't suit you."

"It's possible," she agreed. "But it would take a strong woman to stand up to her parents."

"And stronger yet to meet her potential husband on common ground in a love marriage. I am beginning to see that the arrangements are there for a purpose in the Muslim world."

"Many work. Others, it's like the woman is sold into slavery. I do have some education. I am a worldly person. I read books and watch TV."

"So I will go on. A sense of humor is vital on both sides of a marriage. You don't want a person who never smiles or laughs, a silent person, or a person who is too closely tied to his mother. There should only be one woman in a marriage."

"Tell me about it. Muslim men are permitted to have more than one wife. It's an immense woman's issue in Dakar. We had a very popular singer, Youssou N'Dour, who had a wonderful wife, the two of them were favorites with women, then he took a second wife. That ruined that." She stuck out her lower lip and a frown creased her forehead. "Of course all those men who favor polygamy rejoiced. A Muslim man is allowed four wives if he can provide for them and love them equally. What nonsense."

"So there are complications, but no more than in America, which has dismal statistics on marriage and the endurance of marriages. But I'll go on. Don't under any circumstances marry a man with problems. They will get worse after marriage, not better. If you take a hard look at the man's family you might get some hints about his future behavior."

Oumou shrugged. "Your rules are too much for me. I'd have to make a list."

"Not so," I countered. "It's mostly common sense. Is he a good person? Courteous? Does he tell lies? Is he quick to anger? Is he forgiving? Might he try to control your life?"

"Once again. In the Muslim world it is the man who is in control. The Holy Qur'an tells us that."

"And who wrote the book?" I questioned.

"Men, of course."

CHAPTER SIX

The train rumbled on through the Senegal countryside with stops at Diourbel and other cities, past villages, past farmer's huts, baobabs and low scrub.

From a look at a guidebook map, I figured the long ride would be half in Senegal, half in Mali – if we were lucky.

Oumou and I talked and talked as the rails clicked and the miles clattered away. I remarked on her excellent English.

"Since starting school we were pushed toward English by our parents," she said. "Then in middle school we were wild to learn the language. French, of course, is a Senegal heritage. After all, Dakar is divided into arrondissements."

"A word I can neither pronounce or spell," I commented. "In the States we use wards to break the city down into easy to handle political divisions. Wards are then divided into precincts."

Oumou was keenly interested in the system and asked a series of intelligent questions. She was a pretty girl, but I was beginning to admire her intellect.

Despite the French influence, she said it was agreed that English had become the international language, and native speakers from Britain and America were prized as instructors.

"And we love idioms," she added. "I learned to say, 'It's raining cats and dogs and I was soaked to the skin.'"

I commended her on her linguistic skill, and the train rocked over an uneven rail bed. The occasional vendor plied the aisles, and trash was beginning to pile up here and there. Trips to the toilet at the end of the hall were frequent. But unlike aircraft where waste matter is stored on board, a flush on the train emptied directly onto the tracks.

The day progressed into night and still we were far from the Mali border. Windows were open, then closed, a night chill settled over our piece of Africa. A huckster stalked the car selling a type of blanket and after some haggling parted with one for the equivalent of four dollars.

Oumou and I leaned against one another, pulled the blanket around our bodies and slept fitfully during the night. Probably about midnight we passed into Mali, pausing at the frontier for sleepy-eyed immigration officers to pass through the cars, looking for nothing in particular, but eager to be rewarded with a choice morsel and perhaps the customary tip from the conductor.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Another new day and we rolled on deeper into Mali, a country with at least seven languages: French, Bambara, Fula, Tamashek, Dogon, Bozo and Songhai, as well as English.

There was morning coffee and spicy tea. We had just left the station stop at Bafoulbe, a fair sized town. Vendors hopped on the train at one stop, hawked their wares, then hopped off at the next and waited for a return train. Not much of a life, but it beat scratching a living out of the earth, and there were the social aspects.

Tea for Oumou and coffee for me, along with what passed for pastry, was purchased for a few West African francs.

I told my seatmate that some fellow passengers had given us odd looks, probably thinking an old white man had enticed a pretty native girl into a less than desirable lifestyle.

Oumou smiled and nibbled on her pastry. Perhaps she was enjoying the situation, but she said, "How could they think such a thing?"

"Well, you are a lovely young lady and I am a man who is not too old for certain activities. "I can dream, can't I?"

"You can dream? You mean you'd enjoy such a relationship?"

"Of course I would. That's not to say I'd encourage it. I'm escorting you on your trip to see your fiancé, shielding you from harm's way."

Oumou almost laughed. "Is the word noble?"

"Possibly."

"Since your wife died, have you seen other women?"

"I've known my share of faithless women."

"Faithless? You mean they didn't believe in God?"

"You might say that. They didn't believe that I was god."

"You think you're god, or a god?"

"We're getting deeper and deeper into a tangled situation." I took a long sip of coffee that had finally cooled, and a bite of pastry. "My meaning, obscure as it might seem, is that I simply haven't met the right one. Even at my age, there is a right and a wrong person. The wrongs seem to outnumber the rights by a vast margin."

"You are looking for someone to travel with you to Timbuktu on a moderate income?"

"Plus a good sense of humor, meticulous housekeeper, excellent cook, fancy dancer, passionate about things I like, trim figure, independently wealthy, the list goes on."

"You gave me a list of things to look out for in a mate. If these are the things you look for, you will wander the earth alone."

"That could be. How about a game of going to the grocery store?"

"How do you play?"

"A memory exercise based on the alphabet. I'll begin. I'm going to the grocery store and I'm going to buy apples."

"You're going to make an American pie."

"No. You do B."

"I see. I'm going to the grocery store and I'm going to buy bananas."

"That's part of it, but you must say apples and bananas. Then I do apples, bananas and corn."

"I got it. Would donuts be OK?"

"Sure."

And so the train shook, rattled and rolled on toward Bamoko on the banks of the Niger River. That river ran northeast, passing through an inland delta and ultimately came to the storied city of Timbuktu situated on its banks. It was a far piece, past the town of Mopti just over halfway, and I had to decide whether to continue my trip by land or be crowded aboard a native riverboat jammed with people, goats, chickens and whatever else crawls or scuttles on the face of the earth.

As the day and the rain rattled by, Oumou seemed thoughtful, pensive. I knew something was up, but I couldn't imagine what might be in her mind. Toward evening, as the train approached Bamako, or as Einstein would put it, Bamako approached the train, her thoughts came tumbling out.

"My boyfriend doesn't know I'm on this train," her eyes seemed fearful. Obviously her leaving home had been poorly planned. "Neither do my parents."

"I seem to be the only one who knows where you are, other than our fellow passengers. You've been thinking about this."

"Yes, I don't know if my boyfriend would even consider marrying me. Here I am running to him. I've seen a lot of western movies where things simply don't work out the way you've planned them."

"Westerns? Cowboys?"

"No, silly. You do have some sense of humor. Maybe we're split aparts."

I knew what she was talking about, but I feigned stupidity. "Split aparts? Is that serious? Would aspirins help?"

"I'm trying to be serious. In ancient times two beings were split apart. If you can find your split apart, it's a sure bet. Happiness a certainty."

"Age might be a factor."

"Might be. Might not. You said I was an attractive girl." I didn't reply immediately, which drew a sharp, "Didn't you?"

"Of course I did. An attractive young lady with a good mind, but going through a period of instability."

"So I'm unstable. You mean crazy?"

"No, certainly not." I had put my foot in it. "Just a bad patch. You know a good young man in Bamako and your parents are eager to arrange a marriage for you. What to do? You boarded a train for Bamako and had the bad luck to be sitting next to me, an old man who put strange ideas in your head."

"Good ideas. You've started me down another path. I've decided I'd like to travel with you. At least to Timbuktu and maybe beyond. I can see myself getting into a West African marriage that might be something akin to prison. I'd like to live a little."

"There are so many reasons why we shouldn't do that. I could write a book. It would be unseemly, an old man like me."

"You're not so old. It's the interracial thing, isn't it?"

"That's an absolute no. And I think you know that. Straw grasping. You want a nice trip on your way to the gallows. You know I too would enjoy that, but to consider taking you to Timbuktu and then calling it quits. That would be the depths of depravity. But I can help you get back to Dakar."

"I'd rather become a Bamako street walker than ride this hideous train back to Dakar, unless, of course, you go with me as my seatmate."

"I'll get you a plane ticket, I'll go to the airport with you, I'll see you off, even wave goodbye, a fond farewell."

"Let me think on that."

"You are a strong woman and you can influence who your parents pick for a bridegroom. You can refuse suitors. We talked about that."

A veil of secrecy eclipsed her face. "Soon Bamako. Then we'll talk."

How it happened is something of a mystery, but this girl who I met a few hours ago had me over a barrel. She would have little problem manipulating a husband.

CHAPTER EIGHT

We each carried a small bag as we left the station and dove into the evening hurly burly of Bamako, a vibrant, dynamic African city brimming with sights, sounds, smells and music, music, music.

"It will be dark soon," Oumou remarked.

"Truly. We should get something to eat before I find you a room."

"Good idea, and I might drink a beer, or a glass of wine."

"Have you ever done that?"

"Once, at a girlfriend's house when I was sixteen."

"Well I suppose it would be OK. This is your adventure."

"Darned right."

There seemed to be no restaurants around the station, just food stalls. We checked with a cab driver. Oumou did the haggling, and he carried us to the African Grill on Avenue de la Nation. Oumou again seemed preoccupied, but we started with foutou, a sort of plantain paste, and then had kedjenou, simmered chicken with peppers and tomatoes. We both drank beer.

Oumou brightened as the meal progressed and the beer flowed. She chattered away about a CD made by an American group I had never heard of called CocoRosie. The title was La Maison de Mon Reve, and the way she described it was indescribable.

Once she excused herself for a john break and returned with the information that Mopti was about a nine-hour bus trip away and from there it would be possible to boat on the Niger to Timbuktu. I eyed her with suspicion, feeling our deal to put her on an airplane the next day was sealed. Of course I didn't know if there was daily air service to Dakar or anywhere else.

Outside the restaurant, we set out for an acceptable hotel that the cabbie had told us about. The Hotel Yamey was three or four blocks away and located near a couple of interesting restaurant/nightspots. On the way my partner revealed her next plan.

"I want to sleep with you, then I'll go."

"No," came my instant response. "Remember my age and remember you are a virgin. Your first experience with sex should be with a younger man under ideal circumstances."

"What are ideal circumstances?" she questioned, eager for knowledge.

"It would be good if you were married."

"Ha, ha, ha. You've never had sex with someone outside of marriage?"

"Let's not drag me into this conversation. I'm talking about you and your hopes and aspirations. Life can be beautiful. Sex can be ugly."

"You paint a grim picture, but tonight I aspire to sleep with you. If you don't let me I'll become a street walker."

"You said something like that before as if it's the worst thing that could happen to you."

"Isn't it?"

"Yes." We were in sight of the hotel and I said, "I'll get you a room."

She stopped in her tracks. "I didn't lie to you, I just left something out."

"An error of omission, if you want the English term."

"Yes, omission. I told you I had kissed my boyfriend, but I omitted that I had also slept with him, several times. He had a room in Dakar."

I gave her a quizzical glance. "Are you lying to me?"

"No. I don't lie."

"In matter of love and sex, it seems proper in some circles to tell little white lies."

"Me, a little black girl, telling little white lies."

"I give up. We'll sleep together, then you are off to Dakar. That's understood."

"Of course."

I didn't like her tone of voice, but of course I was looking forward to the hours ahead.

CHAPTER NINE

It was full light when I woke the next day. We had been awake deep into the night. She was looking at me with wide, sad eyes and a pouty mouth.

"You have taken advantage of the little African girl." Confusion, was I in for it? Five full seconds passed, then she was all over me with a fury, giggling and tussling. It began again.

Later she brought coffee to the room and said that there was no plane departing that day. I assumed she had asked at the desk, but I didn't plan to crosscheck. This might not be heaven, but we could see it from here. See it looking at the cracked ceiling of our small room, in the faded draperies and cracked tiles of the bathroom.

There were two restaurants a stone's throw from the hotel. One, oddly enough, was called Appaloosa, the other Soukhothai. We had occasion to visit both during our stay. Some say Tex-Mex meets Beirut at the Appaloosa. The menu includes Lebanese meze, plus steaks and pizza, with very little Bamako. We lunched there, but avoided the seedy nightlife crowd, which was expensive and rowdy.

The Soukhothai had class plus high prices. One look at the prices on its wine list is enough to curl one's hair. We walked back to the African Grill for our evening fare and picked up a bottle of wine and a few beers for the room at what passed for a 7-Eleven.

The morning of our second day at the Yamey, Oumou cuddled close and said, "This is like our honeymoon."

Her statement struck me like a hammer. Flashing through my mind was a scrap from a poem, one of my mother's favorites, "...a feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, but resembles sorrow only as a mist resembles rain."

Holding Oumou tightly, I kissed her on the cheek. Pressing down upon both of us like a leaden cloud was the reality of our doomed relationship. Did she feel it as I did? I, a worldly man of many years, not able to deal with this situation that this young woman seemed to revel in. What were her innermost thoughts?

"We must check on the airline schedule, " I told her. She immediately changed the subject.

"I am an urban person. Dakar as you know, has a heavily European flavor. Even here in Bamako, the bar girls at the Appaloosa next door are blondes. I know very little more about African tribal life than you do. A few generations back, there was a Frenchman among my ancestors. Beyond that, on both sides of the family there are probably English and Portuguese."

Certainly I had noted that Oumou wasn't all that black; her features were almost European. Her hair, while jet black, was heavy and straight, more like a Chinese person's. I had not remarked on her appearance, or she on mine, an aging Anglo. But where was this conversation leading?

"I do know some African history and travel lore. For one thing, the place you seek, Timbuktu, is on the edge of the Sahara at the top of the Niger bend. It once was the end of a camel caravan route that linked West Africa with the Mediterranean. Now it is a shabby town with small buildings and desert sand blowing through its rotting streets. In the late 1500s the Moroccan armies sacked the city and the caravans came no more."

"You do know your history, so what are you leading up to? I can tell you have something in mind, although you will not deter me from my quest."

"Nor would I want to," she mused. "What I will tell you is what every traveler to Mali must see and that you seem to be ignoring: Dogon country."

"You've got that right. What's a Dogon?"

Oumou huffed. "World famous. What a tourist you are." She took a playful pinch at my ribs and I wondered if we were in for another romp in the sheets, but she was determined to go on with her Dogon story.

She said that some strange folks lived beneath, or near, a huge escarpment, the Falaise de Bandiagara, east of Mopti. The wheels in my head turned as they calculated that we were some distance from that place. The people could truly be called unique because of their complex culture, art and peculiar houses and granaries. And the best way to get into that culture is on foot, using trails that linked the various villages and ladders and stone stairs to higher levels.

When she had finished her pitch, I said, "You want to go?"

"Yes, the experience of a lifetime. We go together."

"Together," I repeated, wondering what sort of remote wilderness, mentally and physically, I might wander into. "Your father, is he a kind man?"

"Very kind."

"When you show up after a long unexplained absence, is he likely to do an honor killing?"

"Oh, no," she grinned. "We're not that kind of Muslim. We're down-to-earth practical people."

"I have no real agenda, as you have so obviously noted. So it might be possible to make such a trip, which would take days not hours. But I think you should inform your parents that you are OK and will return home soon. Is that possible?"

"Oh yes, Andy."

She seldom addressed me by name, but by doing so at that moment, she went a long way toward sealing her most recent bargain. How many more chapters in this topsy turvy epic?

CHAPTER TEN

Reading about Dogon country, I found it was one of the great wonders that I had somehow missed, the major attraction in Mali, and one of the ten places a person was urged to visit before being overtaken by death. Their religious beliefs, their peculiar etiquette and their villages, each different from the other, all might be called unique.

Simply meeting with a hogon, a Dogon spiritual leader, was said to be an experience in itself. And there were masks and ceremonies, some staged as many as sixty years apart.

Preparations for plunging into Dogon society were many with a wealth of details. A guide must be carefully picked, making certain to pick a Dogon native who knows the rules and the territory, the number of days on the trail, the trail itself. The best thing for my purposes would be the lower trail from village to village, avoiding the heights, which often included strenuous climbs and rock scrambling.

After reading the rules thoroughly, I turned the guidebook over to Oumou and left the complicated details to her. This was her trip, her opportunity of a lifetime, our last derry down, and we would go first cabin – if sleeping in rough village huts could embrace that term. We would do a five-day trip, which seemed just about right.

My job was to get us from Bamako to Mopti, a good daylong bus ride, then, after spending the night, on to Bandiago, a jumping-off spot to Dogon country. My mission accomplished, I had accumulated a stack of francs from various ATM machines, and I let Oumou take over.

If I set down the details of the trip, it would be simply a travelogue. We enjoyed every day; there were tough times and many high spots. The sleeping arrangements were not conducive to wild sexual activity, but we got by.

At the end of the trip, with the guide paid off and most of the francs distributed for various reasons among the Dogon natives, we repaired to Bandiagara, spent a blissful night in a hotel, then on to Mopti where there was an airport. One last night, then true to our plan, Oumou boarded a plane for Dakar.

The passion, the joy, the sadness, all caught up in a final embrace. Vows to stay in touch, which both parties sincerely meant to keep, then a last goodbye and wheels up for Dakar. This left me with a very empty feeling and not much enthusiasm for pushing off for Timbuktu, which I could do either by road or river.

I chose the river, boarding a vessel that same day, a vessel teeming with humanity and animal life. Jolly companions, but so closely crammed aboard that there was hardly room to think.

Two days later, I hopped off at a nameless village and haggled with the chief for an abandoned hut. There I swung in peace on a hammock with mosquito netting guarding against bloodsuckers and the threat of malaria.

A few paperback novels were my companions and I befriended a couple of brothers who were working to repair their dilapidated truck. I couldn't offer them any advice, but said I might be good for a few francs if they could advance me on my quest to Timbuktu. They welcomed any currency that might come their way.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There I was in the West African bush with a hammock, a few books, food purchased from nearby huts, two men piddling with a forlorn truck, peace and contentment. Life went on as it had for hundreds of years, except for the introduction of the truck. The unexpected, the life-changing event, arrived when least expected.

It came in the form of an earthshaking roar like an enraged god of the bush, a clipping of treetops and a sickening crash. An airplane was down and not far away.

I was chatting with the brothers at the time, the truck sitting there like a silent animal. "Will that thing run?" I questioned.

Both brothers were fascinated by the crash and I had trouble getting their attention, but one finally answered in the affirmative. "Get in, let's go. I'll pay you later." That was all the encouragement needed. The three of us bounced through the bush to the crash site.

The plane was a smoking mess when we arrived. The fuselage had ruptured on impact and a man's body was sprawled on the ground. Dead or alive? If alive, he was unconscious. A flame flickered near one of the smashed engines, a warning of what would come next. We stood at first transfixed. Then I shouted to the two. "Let's get that man clear of the wreck. "

Running for his body, the two natives were close behind. We half dragged and half carried him to where the truck had stopped just as the plane burst into flame and a fuel tank exploded. We were still too close. Quickly, we hoisted him into the back of the truck and moved back out of range of the holocaust. The plane and everything in it was soon consumed by fire, leaving only skeletal remains.

With that gone, we turned our attention to the man in the truck, a stout man beyond middle age. His left leg was at an odd angle and appeared to be broken.

"Is there a doctor nearby?" I questioned.

"A clinic," the older brother, the one whose name sounded like Tu, replied.

"Can we drive there?" He nodded in the affirmative, and we boarded the truck and moved through the bush, this time in a more careful manner, avoiding downed limbs and other hazards. We hit a dusty trail and soon pulled up before a clinic, a sign with a red cross by the door indicating its purpose. It looked deserted. I asked if there was an attendant.

"A nurse," Tu said. "Comes once a week, I think tomorrow."

"Is it locked?"

Tu laughed. "Nothing inside. Nothing to steal. Never locked."

Finally, I noticed that there was no door. Going inside, there were a couple of rough cots, what might pass for an operating table, several shelves and cabinets and a pair of woebegone chairs. I remarked to Tu that there were no medical supplies.

"She brings everything. Nice truck, everything in the truck."

"Well, let's get this man inside. I believe he's alive, I saw some movement."

Carrying him in, we arranged him as comfortably as possible on one of the cots. Loosening his belt, I pulled off his trousers and removed his wallet. There was a passport in his shirt pocket as well as credit cards, driver's license, other cards, and a few Euros. His name was Woodrow Wilson Harris. That somehow rang a bell, but I could not place it. His left leg seemed to be broken, and we could only wait for the nurse to arrive, perhaps tomorrow.

The small settlement was fairly compact, and the clinic was part of it. I asked Tu and his brother Toguna to go to my shack and bring back food, blankets, beer and candles. My intention was to remain in the clinic until the nurse arrived.

Later the three of us shared food and beer, and as it grew dark we lit a candle. Harris remained unconscious.

Tu spoke of the brother's delight when they got the truck from a family member and how one thing after another had gone wrong. It was running fairly well now, but the tires were bare.

"This man," I nodded toward the clinic as we sat on the ground outside, "will likely pay you well to take him wherever he wants to go. You can probably charge him enough to get a set of tires."

The two brightened and said they would also need gasoline money.

I told them that shouldn't be a problem, but asked if there was enough work nearby to keep a truck employed.

"Our dream is to go to the city," Toguna said. "We are poor people, our families have been tied to the land forever."

"But the land, the life of a farmer can be heaven, or paradise, whatever your belief, and you can have a good wife, a growing family, an extended family. The city has advantages, but there are pitfalls. The simple life is a good life."

"Things worsen each year," Tu said. "There is no rain, there is too much rain, our small crops fail, the chickens are stolen, and the women run off to the city. What can we do?"

I responded. "In my country we had a very smart man who many years ago spent months and months living in a kind of wilderness near a pool of water, watching the seasons change, studying the plants and wildlife. His message was simplify, simplify, simplify."

Tu laughed. "We are simple people and that's a fact."

"Sometimes to look at things from a different angle, a different view, that makes all the difference. Have you ever read poetry?"

"Yes," Toguna responded. "When we were young we attended mission school. An Englishman and his wife were here, not far away. No more mission.

"But she liked poetry very much and would read to us. There was a poet called Bobby Burns she favored."

"Yes, Burns." I couldn't believe I was in the Mali bush discussing Robert Burns with a pair of natives. "There is a poet in the States, his name is Billy Collins, and he wrote a poem about taking a poem and holding it up to the light or walking inside the poem's room and feeling for the light switch on the wall. He ends the poem by saying:

But all they want to do  
is tie the poem to a chair with rope  
and torture a confession out of it.  
They begin beating it with a hose  
to find out what it really means."

Tu nodded and looked at Toguna, puzzled. We were on the last beer and a moan came from inside the clinic. We took the candle and went inside. Harris was stirring on the cot. His eyes were open.

"Where am I? What happened?"

"The plane crashed. You were thrown clear. The others are dead, burned, incinerated."

"Holy shit. My leg is killing me."

"Yes, it seems to be broken," I explained.

"Where's the doctor?"

"You're in the bush in West Africa. We expect a nurse to show up tomorrow. Until then, we're stuck."

Harris moaned and moved his arms toward his leg. "Holy shit, please call an ambulance. I can pay."

"Deep bush." Then I remembered my scant medical supplies. "But I do have some aspirins. "I'll get them and some clean water. Tu and Toguna will stay with you. We have netting."

"Tu and Toguna, Where the hell am I?"

"The country is Mali, not too far from the Niger River. Somewhere between Senegal and Timbuktu."

"Timbuktu," Harris repeated. "Am I in hell?" He moaned again, a sound that would be repeated through the night and morning. Nodding to Tu to pull up a chair, I went off through the night, hoping to find my shack and return with the aspirin.

The night turned out to be long. I slept now and then on the second cot. Tu and Toguna left me alone with Harris, but promised to return in the morning. The two of us would talk occasionally through the night. There had been five other men on the plane, two pilots and two he called "security" and his lawyer. He didn't know the pilots' names, but I jotted down the three he did know in case authorities showed up. Others must have heard the plane go down.

His name, Woodrow Wilson Harris, was familiar to me. I searched my brain for a clue, but came up empty.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The time was almost noon when the nurse arrived in her truck. I had had a bad night and a bad morning, but for Woody it had been much worse. He had said, "Call me Woody." I had the idea he was hiding something, but I didn't know what. He was an unlikely drug dealer. The plane, he said, was bound from South Africa to London. He hadn't a clue about what went wrong. He was sleeping in a rear compartment and the next thing he knew he woke up in this hut.

His leg was swollen and painful, his body battered and bruised, a few cuts here and there. He was damned lucky to be alive.

The first thing he said to the nurse was, "Get me out of here. I can pay."

She looked at him with dark eyes and said, "You're not the only sick person in Africa." She had a Latino look. Later I learned she was Cuban.

"I may not be the only sick person, but I'm the richest. I'll buy your truck. I'll buy you a house, anything. Just get me to a hospital."

"This is a hospital," she told him. "Now I'll have a look at your leg." Of course it was broken. She gave him a shot of morphine, which calmed him down considerably. Then she applied a makeshift splint. She told me it was too swollen for a cast.

The morphine did its work and Woody slept. "He'll need to rest for a few days. He's banged up pretty good. I've done what I can. Cleaned his wounds and bandaged him. Maybe in three or four days Tu could drive him to Mopti. There's a good hospital there."

I told her I had aspirin, and she said that was about the best we could do. She looked around for other patients, but there were none. She had a couple of house calls to make in the area, a very sick child and a pregnant woman. Then she was gone.

Woody's statement about being the richest patient had tripped my memory. Woodrow Wilson Harris was among the top ten richest people in America. Of course it was his jet. He was into vast real estate holdings, owned major portions of several companies and not long ago had gone into publishing.

A biographical article had appeared in a magazine not long ago. Which one, I forget – Atlantic, Harper's or maybe Time or Fortune. He was not only rich, but he was a rich bigot. He disliked blacks and Jews and contributed heavily to various hate organizations including the Ku Klux Klan, neo Nazis, skinheads, right-wing militias and others of the same stripe.

Imagine him falling to earth in the heart of Africa, the heart of darkness. No wonder he had simply said, "Call me Woody" and brushed off questions about his business. He was in fact your quintessential extreme right-winger.

Woody awoke toward evening and asked for the nurse. I told him she had been gone for hours.

"Is she coming back for me?"

"No. She did what she could. You should rest for three or four days, then the boys might drive you into a city, probably Mopti, if their truck is running OK."

"Never heard of it. What about their truck? Is something wrong with it?"

I chuckled at that. "Everything seems to be wrong with it. Tires, engine, radiator, belts."

"I can pay them. I have money, a great deal of money. I'll pay you too. Get you out of here."

"I came here on my own. I'm on vacation. It's very restful. I do some reading. There's a sort of a native store not far away. It's really just a hut like this. He sells beer and rice and a few other things like toilet paper. Of course you're injured, but the nurse said you could simply rest. Nothing seriously wrong with you, except that broken leg. That will mend."

"Holy Christ, you like it here," he said almost to himself. "Where's my stuff? My pants, my wallet?"

"I've got them. I'll keep them for you until you're ready to go."

"Maybe I should keep it. What about my other stuff?"

"You're in no condition to keep anything. And there was no other stuff. The plane burned to a cinder."

"My lawyer. He was starting to make my will. Imagine a man of my age, a man of property with no will. I've got organizations I wanted to leave money to. They do good work. If I die now all my money goes directly to my wife. What does she know about the world?"

"A good woman can do good deeds with wealth."

"Good deeds. I suppose some lefty commie sympathizers might get a hold of her. Feed the poor, heal the poor. Welfare recipients, a lifestyle. God, guns and guts! Why in the hell can't the poor work like everybody else? Anyway, I will have a will. This little episode has been a lesson to me. You tell those truck boys that I'll see to it that they have a good vehicle. If they will just get me out of here, the sooner the better."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

That evening I huddled with Tu and Toguna at my hut before taking Woody his evening meal and a bottle of beer. Part of the situation I laid out, but not everything. I asked if they knew of a deserted hut up near the volcano. I knew that small peak whose local name was Alpha Konare was generally marked by a smoke plume and sometimes grumbled with excitement.

"Most people up there have abandoned their huts," Tu said. "They fear Alpha Konare."

Asked where the name came from, Tu said it was named after a former Mali president. Rather than asking Tu to explain, I decided to tell them about Woodrow Wilson Harris, that he was a racist, not just a racist, but a great white father of racists.

"He will promise to fix your truck, maybe even buy you a knew truck, but can he be trusted? I think not." The germ of a plan, an unhatched egg, was in my head and I told them what we could do, and they agreed.

We took the truck to the clinic and I informed Woody that we must move him to an unused hut where he would be more comfortable.

The news appeared to agitate him. "Why can't I stay here? The nurse will be back sooner or later."

"Others will come to this clinic for medical treatment. There might be a whole family. Perhaps some of them diseased. There are strange maladies in the bush, some of them untouched by modern medicine, deformed bodies, twisted minds."

Woody cringed and reluctantly agreed. As carefully as possible, handling his broken limb gingerly, we loaded him in the truck and set off for Alpha Konare. Riding in the truck bed with him, he remarked that the truck seemed to be doing OK. "Why not just go to a nearby city now?"

"The trail is rough and the truck uncertain. We could be stranded in the bush, far from food and water."

He was silent, pensive, for the rest of the trip.

Tu knew just the hut he was seeking, one closest to the rim of the new volcano. It had been the residence of a fairly prosperous farm by Mali standards. The farmer and his family had fled after a few burps and flurries of hot ash from Alpha Konare. Household goods were gone, but they had left the rough cots. I personally preferred a hammock that I had in my small hut, far from the volcano.

After loading Woody onto a cot and bringing what supplies we had into the hut, Woody said he smelled something burning.

Tu laughed. "That's old Alpha Konare."

"What's that?" Woody questioned, his voice grim with alarm.

"A nearby volcano. Not to worry. It rumbles now and then, but doesn't act up too badly. "

With his broken leg useless and not really set, Woody was as helpless as a newborn. He had a few choice words for the new location, but eventually calmed down enough to eat his rice and yams and drink his one bottle of beer.

"During the night there might be a few flashes of light from the volcano, but during the day they are not visible, just smoke, steam, or whatever," I told him. "Early tomorrow, I'll return."

Woody thrashed in bed, then winced with pain as he turned his leg. He moaned then shouted, "You're going to leave me here alone near the crater of a live volcano? You're sacrificing my body to some pagan god?"

"There's nothing to fear. This low level of activity has been going on for some time. The beauty part is the natives stay away and there is fruit to pick, bananas, pineapple, mangos, a virtual untouched Garden of Eden, paradise."

"Paradise, my ass," Woody grumbled.

"Tomorrow I will bring you more beer and maybe some native hooch if I can lay my hands on it." With that we left him with his own thoughts, isolated near a volcano in the heart of West Africa.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Instructing Tu and his brother to stay away, I made my way on foot up to the isolated hut the following morning, greeted Woody who was awake and attempting to read a paperback mystery.

"What did you bring?" Woody questioned.

Placing the items on the board table, I named them one by one. "Some boiled rice, a roasted yam, a pineapple I picked along the trail, a quantity of water and a jar of native alcohol. They call it cane juice."

"Is it strong?"

"I think so. I've never tried it." I shrugged. "It's distilled. They probably have little control over its potency. Taste will tell."

"And how big a hangover? Did you talk to the boys? Will they come and get me?"

"Yes and no."

"That's not an answer. Did you tell them I'd pay? I can't stand being cooped up here."

"Happiness comes from within."

"Bullshit. Are they coming or not?"

"They don't trust you."

"Trust!" He was instantly angry. "What's trust got to do with it? I've got the money. I'll pay a king's ransom, a year's salary. Just get me to a hospital, no more witchcraft."

Using my knife, I peeled the pineapple and arranged chunks and the other food in a metal pan we used as a plate. "They want to take your ATM card to town and get their truck in decent shape."

"Preposterous," Woody exclaimed. "They'd need my pin number."

"They want your pin number. They know that."

"Well I won't give it to them. They can take me with them. If we go by daylight, there'll be no problem. There are other people living around here."

"Not near Alpha Konare," I said. After helping him prop himself up in bed, he began eating. His appetite was good.

"Damned volcano. You shouldn't have brought me to this godforsaken place. There were flashes of light during the night, ominous rumblings, evil noises coming from the earth. It was like some sci-fi horror movie. I'm immobile and my nerves are shot."

"Perhaps flowers."

"What's this with flowers?" he shot back.

"There are flowers in the bush. I can pick some for your room."

"My room!" Woody started

I looked around. "Yes, your room. I'll need a vase."

"This is surreal. This isn't my room. This is a native shanty. There are bugs and foul odors. I have a candle for light and I'm menaced by an active volcano. I'm fed crap. Now you give me some sort of jungle juice. My room, my ass."

"We could have left you at the crash site, or arrived a few minutes later," I reminded. "But flowers would brighten up the place, and the boys won't move you until they get their truck fixed."

"So that's how it is," he said grimly. "Blackmail."

"Or lack of trust. Put any name to it you like, but I'll continue to feed you. Although my patience may eventually wear thin. In time, I think you'll be able to walk out of here."

"That could be. If I could get crutches, or a walker."

"Whatever. There's enough food for the day. I'll be back towards evening."

"Why not stay here with me?" He seemed anxious. "We could talk. I can help you. Whatever you want, I can make it come true."

I began to feel great sorrow for him, sympathy. After all was said and done, Woody was a human being and we are all sensitive beings at some level. His plight was desperate, akin to prison, yet he was here cheek by jowl with the freest creatures on earth, creatures of the African bush. Animals living as they had for eons, and humans plagued with poverty and disease.

"If I had a dream," I told him, "I would share it with you, but I have none."

"There are riches, women, the good life. Money can buy quite a lot. You know that."

"I'll share something with you. I met a girl on the train from Dakar, a pretty young girl. We spent several days together. It was a good time, I felt young again. When those things happen, they are gifts."

"Money can make things happen."

"I get the message. I'll be back toward evening. We'll drink jungle juice together." I departed, beginning to feel guilty.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A large quantity of soul searching was going on. Like old Alpha Konare bubbling and steaming away up there in its crater, my brain was volcanic, thoughts welling up, thoughts discarded, new thoughts rising. Telling myself again and again, I must not think about something, I must think something.

Cane juice was available in that dingy market, along with beer and snacks. So that night the two of us had a high old time. With the jungle juice taking hold of our minds and intellect we stopped worrying whether the stuff would kill us or simply make us go blind. Anyway, cares slipped away and Woody said he had decided to give the boys his ATM pin number, as if he had a choice. He was keenly aware that he was our prisoner, and no doubt he was planning some sordid revenge once he was freed.

Feeling no pain, I let the soft Mali night take over and collapsed on the second cot, waking early and inventorying the wreckage of the night before. A little jungle juice was left, a few snacks, beer and some good water. Fortunately, I had left the aspirins in Woody's care and I ate half a banana for my stomach's sake, then downed a pair of the wonder drug.

After helping Woody to the outhouse and making certain he had enough for breakfast, I set out, pin number in hand, to search for Tu and Toguna.

Lecturing the boys on how the ATM worked, I gave Tu the pin number. "Some machines have cameras to take photos of those extracting cash, in this case francs. So if a machine even looks suspicious, wear a cloth on your head and a scarf around your face, so only your eyes show. Remember, Woody may have a change of heart and try to prosecute us."

Also, I told them there was a limit of how much cash could be withdrawn in one day, perhaps as low as five thousand West African francs, that they should ask about that, make one transaction tonight and another in the morning, when few people were around.

"One more item," I said, wondering how they would take it. "Use what money you get to get the truck in fair condition, then use a few francs to buy a .38 revolver and a box of ammunition."

"A gun?" Tu questioned.

"Yes, it's part of my plan. I'll tell you more when you return. I'm hoping you'll be back by tomorrow afternoon. We'll meet at my hut." The two of them looked suspicious. The gun was a wild card. "Will there be any problem in buying the gun?"

It was Toguna who spoke. "No problem, Andy. Plenty of shops in Mopti, plenty of guns. But a pistol is no good for hunting."

"It's mainly a weapon of self-defense. When you get back with the pistol, I'll tell you the entire story. You will know my mind in full. I will empty it for you and you can pick at the pieces."

Tu chuckled. "I can hardly wait.

When they were gone, I turned a rasher of thoughts over and over, frying them in my brain. There are laws of gravity and grammar, natural laws, laws of physics cannot be defied. But what we have here is something like a tree falling in the forest. Then for no reason at all, my mind flitted off to the Dakar girl and the question of how she was received when she returned home.

Then, what was I doing in this wild and wonderful, tragic place? Was my life so boring that I had to pick a place like Timbuktu? I suppose it was and will be. Mind altering drugs might be the answer. They are manufactured now for cats and dogs. With that thought I set off for the scruffy hut that passed for a store to replenish the supply of jungle juice and other necessities.

The evening passed much as the one before, only with less hilarity. We both anticipated the return of Tu and Toguna, Woody for his freedom, myself for my on-again, off-again plan. Perhaps I would best be served by using the gun on myself. At such an age as mine, with questions and issues mounting, in this exotic land, how sweet to end it all with one pull of the trigger.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The boys returned just before noon. Tu grinned and paraded the new set of rubber on the truck. Toguna handed me a nickel-plated revolver that had seen better days. I shoved a couple of rounds into the cylinder, walked out behind my hut and fired twice into the trunk of a tree. Nodding in approval, I thanked them for their good work.

Then I brewed tea, and we sat as they told me about their exciting time in Mopti. To be young, to have money, to be in such a town, such sights and sounds, so far removed from their bush life, the wonder of it all!

After they were talked out, I told them about Woodrow Wilson Harris. But not completely.

"You are black Africans and I am a white American." There was no disagreement with that. "In Mopti, or maybe occasionally out here, you have seen white American and European tourists, and because they are tourists it means they have enough money to travel as well as have a good life at home. This might mean a fine house, a car and a television."

"We envy them," Tu said. "That is why we have our truck and that is why it is a blessing that this man Woody fell from the sky with his less lucky companions."

"I see your point. It's a good one. Hundreds of years ago on an island near Dakar black Africans were imprisoned and sold as slaves to be taken to America and several other places. These captives were gathered, sometimes by Arabs, sometimes by other blacks. They were sold like animals."

"That was long ago," Toguna said. "No more."

"Yes, no more. And no more slavery. However slavery does still exist in this world, but that's another matter. Truth to tell, those blacks sold in America, or their offspring, were freed and many have risen to wealth and honor. They might come to Dakar or other African cities as tourists just as I did."

"We have seen that," Tu said. "Some seek their ancient homes, the homes of their people. To help them is a way for us to make money. But we have never done that."

"The fact is that island off Dakar is well known as a slave market, but it was a minor slave market. The bulk of the slaves came from farther south. I suppose I'm getting off message, although my message is broad. What I'm getting at is there is discrimination in America. That is some whites do not like blacks and the reverse is also true. You two speak good English and have learned much from the missionaries, but you may lack vocabulary. If you don't understand anything I say, please ask."

"There are words we don't know," Tu said. "But we understand what you are saying." Toguna nodded in agreement.

We had finished our tea and the day was quite warm. I was looking forward to a nap in my hammock later in the afternoon. "I have some beer I bought at the small store run by that thief who robs you of what money you have. So let's have beer."

"He is a thief," Tu agreed smiling, "but a necessary thief. And his daily life is much like ours despite his small wealth."

When the beer was opened, I continued my story. "There exist actual organizations in the States that are against black people and others. Against Jews for instance and some recent immigrants. Usually these are made up of very poor rather stupid people."

"We have our problems here in Africa," Tu tossed in.

"Of course you do. In parts of East Africa, Arabs are killing blacks. They are attempting what is called genocide, to wipe out a race of people. We have nothing like that in the States, but we do have a problem. Now Woody, the man with the broken leg, is a racist and opposes black people and others."

"He has not harmed us," Toguna said. "He has helped us with his bank card."

"True," I agreed. "Because he was forced to. He knew he would be laying up there in that hut forever unless he gave you the card. Here is the problem. Woody is not a stupid man and he is a very rich man, so he can be a very dangerous man. Given his freedom he may try to get even with us for forcing him to give up his card."

"And he may not," Tu said. "He may be very happy to get out of here and further reward us."

"That's good thinking," I responded. "Good thinking in a perfect world. And our world is not perfect. The problem with Woody and his huge amounts of money is that he spends it on these hate organizations. Lumped together they are called hate groups because they hate other human beings, notably blacks. Such activity in its own way is tearing America apart. Of course we have many other problems."

Tu looked me in the eye and said, "You want to kill Woody. That is why you wanted the gun."

"Yes, that's right. It would solve part of the problem, a small part I admit. But I would be doing something good. And in a way you would be standing up for your race."

"What do we have to do with this?" Toguna questioned, slightly aroused.

"Nothing and everything."

"We would be helping black Americans," Tu said. "Why should we do such a thing?"

"Think of them as Africans. In America I am called a liberal. I think that's good. My goal would be to see all races work in harmony, for everyone to get along as best they can. Woody works to make sure blacks are downtrodden, and he would like to eliminate Jews and others. His quest is hopeless and simply serves to keep America in a state of turmoil."

"And you ask us to join in this crime, the crime of murder that the missionaries have talked and talked against. Growing up we heard 'Love thy neighbor,' and 'Love thy Enemy.' Now you preach a different gospel."

"You should run for office," I quipped. "Let's pretend you are me and I am you. You be me and tell me what you think about Woody."

Tu thought for a few moments. "You don't like him. If I am you, I don't like him."

"And if I am you, I ask, why? Why don't you like him?"

"I don't like him because he has a lot of money." Here he paused and thought some more. "It's not the money, it's the way he spends the money."

"Do you not like the man?"

"The man is OK. It's what he does that I don't like. He does bad things with his money. He uses it to hurt black Americans. He probably would not like black Africans. When his plane fell he was attempting to fly over our country. Perhaps God has delivered him into our hands. Much as Moses delivered the Hebrew children out of slavery."

"You know your Bible," I said.

"We were taught from childhood by the missionaries. I liked them, I'm sorry they're gone."

"What happened to them?"

"They grew old, too old, and returned to England. They spoke of a cottage in a small town, somewhere called the Cotswolds."

"You have my story. What do you think?"

"What can we do? You are our friend. You have the gun. We are not really involved."

"Unfortunately, you are involved. You used his bankcard and you bought a gun. Those two acts are incriminating. Even if you turned me in, you would still be at risk. So if I carry my plan forward, you are involved. Now you could grab the gun and shoot me, but then you would be shooting the wrong person."

The brothers laughed. "What is the idiom?" Tu asked, "You have us stretched over a barrel."

"Something like that. Because of the isolation, this could be the perfect crime. Woody simply disappears. And you two would vanish from this area. And here's how. I figure you would be able to use the bankcard ten more times, the maximum francs for ten days, without arousing suspicion. Then you would have to destroy it, or surely the authorities would run you down."

"A lot of money," Toguna said.

"If used wisely it would be enough to start a new life with your good truck, perhaps in a small town, miles from where you last used the bank card."

"There is another idiom the English taught us," Tu recalled. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

"Is it decided then?"

Both nodded grimly.

"I will talk to him tonight and we will take turns shooting him tomorrow. My shot will be first and fatal. Yours will be symbolic, sealing our plan. Then you can guess what we will do with the body."

Tu grinned again. "Your plan is long in the making. Of course we will tumble him into old Alpha Konare. No trace will be left behind."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Woody was dozing when I arrived at his hut. I poured us each a good measure of jungle juice and waited until he revived. His first words were, "Are they back?"

"Yes, they have returned safe and sound. City life mixed with a few francs can be quite hazardous for country boys."

"Are they here?" He attempted to look around, but his unset leg was a constant source of pain. He needed a hospital and a good doctor, a bonesetter.

"They are not here and my news is quite bad." I had decided to come right to the point. "Even though I've learned to like you, Woody, and admire some of your qualities, I've decided to kill you."

He did not respond instantly, nor did he seem shocked. A bright man, a rather sensitive man, he had known something was in the wind. Finally, he asked, "Why have you made such a drastic and damning decision?"

"I searched my soul, reviewed my past life. I've made many mistakes and never done anything particularly good. My final decision was to do one good deed, one excellent act, and, of course, do it anonymously."

Woody actually chuckled. "I believe the anonymous part. Otherwise you'd be gallows bait. But why me? Why is killing me such a splendid act?"

That he was taking it so well, calmly chatting, was a great relief. "Of course you already know. It's because you're a racist, not just a run of the mill racist, but royalty. That divisive activity is one of the things, only one, I grant you, tearing our country apart."

"There are many racists."

"Yes," I agreed. "Rednecks and so on. Dirt poor whites who blame blacks, Jews and immigrants for their plight, not overly educated. But you're not only intelligent, you're fabulously rich. Of course you saw this coming. That's why you had not one, but two, security men on that airplane."

Woody was thoughtful and nodded as if in agreement. We both sipped jungle juice. "You do have it figured out. Can we negotiate?"

"I've gone too far down the road for that. If you get out of here alive, your lawyers would hound me to my grave. A lawyer is a wonderful piece of work, something like a samurai to his master. But his master is money. And once under contract from a fee-bearing client he is totally committed to the cause. Like a pack of howling wolves, or sharks in a feeding frenzy. Morals and ethics fall by the wayside once the game is afoot and the prey in sight."

"I'm impressed by your grasp of the situation. But there must be some safeguard, some way I could stop being a racist to save my sorry ass. At the same time reward you and your colleagues for your trouble."

"I can think of none, Woody. Much as I would like to. One thing more, I'm not here to gloat. It seemed to me it was only fair, something like a judge delivering a death sentence, you know, may God have mercy on your soul, that bit, to let you prepare yourself for the hereafter."

"Should I thank you?"

"You don't have to go that far. But consider this. You've lived a good life, enjoyed your family and money. Been honored by many, gained the respect of your peers. Why not go now at the height of your powers?"

"And at the same time award you, Andy, with a good deed, an excellent deed, although few will know."

"Very few."

"Shakespeare says murder will out."

"This is more in the way of being an execution, Woody. He also said conscience makes cowards of us all. I have overcome that for the time being, but may live to regret my act, if I live."

"You might join me in death?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Consider my plight, Andy," Woody said, draining his cup of jungle juice. I hastened to refill both our cups. "And consider other words from the Immortal Bard, nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

My head was beginning to feel a bit light. I wondered if that might be his plan, to watch me pass out and then club me to death. He could then bribe the two brothers.

"Perhaps you're right, perhaps my brain is overactive and has shaped you into being something you are not. However, not long ago I read a profile of you in a popular magazine, I forget which one. It was a chilling story, the vast amount of money you have at your disposal, and will have, it keeps piling up, and your generous support of an array of what many people call hate groups."

"That profile was unauthorized," he said sharply.

"And it will be the death of you. Another reason for the dead security men. What foul tricks fate does play." I had placed food and water on the stand by his bed. Now I put the flask of jungle juice within his reach. I rose to go. "I'm deeply sorry, Woody. Tomorrow morning. Try to reconcile yourself to the fact."

"Let me talk with the boys," he pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Woody. We have crossed the Rubicon, or the Niger, or whatever. Good night."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Woody could have crawled off into the bush during the night, but he was smart enough to know he would simply die out there, or we would find him. As it was, he seemed to have imbibed most of the jungle juice and was in a deep slumber when I entered his hut the next morning. Better for him, better for me. No last minute confrontation.

So I put a .38 caliber bullet through his heart. That stopped his deep breathing and put him in a permanent slumber. Of course the thought of shooting a sleeping man, such a cowardly act, would haunt my dreams. But simply taking human life – was I playing God, or simply judge and jury? No jury would have convicted him. So I could settle for vigilante. Judge Roy Bean. The only law West of the Niger.

The boys were just outside and I invited them in. Each of them took a shot at his chest. There was little blood and it would have seemed sinful to mar his head. So my good deed was accomplished. It was all over except the consequences.

We talked about dropping him in the volcano and decided to wait until dusk to avoid all chance of detection. The night before the execution had been restless and dragon haunted. So I repaired to my hut and found deep sleep in my hammock until mid-afternoon. The tension was off, the deed accomplished. But was it over?

We drove the body to the rim of the crater that evening, carried-dragged it from the trunk and dropped it into the molten lava. A hiss and a spout of steam, the sum total of a notorious life. A puff of steam on its way to hell. I'll join you soon, thought I.

"Toguna," I said. "Is that Woody's watch you are wearing?"

"Yes, Andy. It's a handsome timepiece."

"Let me see it." He handed it over and I tossed it into the volcano. "That watch could have been your death sentence. Highly recognizable, probably worth thousands of dollars, but marked with the stench of death. Others will come. They will find the crash site and search for Woody. I gave the nurse certain information."

"I could have sold the watch," Toguna angrily insisted.

"It would have been traced to you and to all three of us. That's why it's important you use the ATM card for only ten days, then destroy it and move as far away as possible with your gains. Don't gamble with our lives."

"I agree," Tu said. "I have the card. Ten days."

There was good reason not to tarry. The boys loaded their few possessions on the truck, then dropped me off at the river landing and we said goodbye, partners in crime.

That same evening I boarded a crowded river vessel headed for Timbuktu and settled down among the natives, goats and chickens, the sights and smells of ancient Africa.

Timbuktu wasn't far away, except by riverboat. There is a world famous music and fun festival, complete with camel rides, forty-five miles northeast of Timbuktu at a place called Essakane. It's called the Festival in the Desert, for these are the southern reaches of the Sahara, a word that means desert.

Knowing I had missed that festival, I would have to put up with the small wonders of Timbuktu. One is the Dyingerey Ber Mosque that dates to the early 14th Century. On days when the electricity is out of whack, the muezzin still climbs aloft to the pyramidal minaret to call the faithful to worship.

Although the city is a far cry from its glory days hundreds of years ago when caravans from the north supplied West Africa, the explorer's story is a thing to relish. Between 1588 and 1853 as many as 43 Europeans tried to reach the storied city. Four made it, but only three made it back home.

Rene Caillie took a year to learn Arabic and study Islam before setting off disguised as a Muslim. He was the first to reach the city and return alive, but his true description as a city that had seen much better days provoked some hard feelings.

Then there was Heinrich Barth and an amazing five-year journey that began in Tripoli, reaching Timbuktu disguised as a Tuareg, spending the better part of a year there and barely escaping with his life to return home.

And on and on. As these men were drawn to the city of mystery and delight, so came I. Through the sand blown streets and in and out of shabby watering holes and food stalls I trekked, in splendid isolation, savoring the rhythmic name of that most exotic of cities.

Then home, to Asheville, North Carolina, itself often called freak city for the varied lifestyles and bizarre behavior of its inhabitants. Add to that, the Paris of the South, or Village East South and a few more clever sobriquets.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was a matter of weeks, not days, before they caught up with me. A voice on the telephone. "Bella Harris," then a substantial pause. "Married to Woodrow Wilson Harris."

My turn to hesitate. Finally, "Good day, Mrs. Harris. What can I do for you?"

"Find Woodrow."

"I didn't know he was lost."

"You are very likely the last American to have seen him in Africa."

"I left him at a clinic. There were people, a small store, natives, an occasional nurse."

"I've heard. You might know we have a great deal of money. I've sent people looking for him, also looking for you."

"I know you have gobs of money, or Woody pretended to. He offered to buy the nurse's truck."

"Why didn't he?"

"She's a nurse, helping sick people in the Mali bush. Her truck is her transportation and carries medical supplies."

"A dedicated person."

"I suppose. Incidentally, I'm not hiding. I've lived at the same address for many years."

"Andy Blake. That's all we had to go on and the fact that you are an American. No home town, no state, nothing."

"I really didn't know you cared. I gave what information I had to the nurse. I'll be happy to answer your questions."

"Good. I'm coming to Asheville. I've booked a room at the Biltmore Estate Hotel. I'll fly in tomorrow and call you from the hotel. We can get together."

"I wish you wouldn't, Mrs. Harris."

"Call me Bella. You wish I wouldn't come to Asheville?"

"No, stay at the Biltmore Estate. It's not close to my house and it's difficult to get into the estate to get to the hotel. Not totally difficult, but they don't want just anybody driving into the estate without paying."

"But it's the hotel."

"Not necessarily. The Grove Park is an internationally known resort hotel, fairly ancient by American standards, first drawer, also not all that far from my house."

"You must live in a ritzy neighborhood." Her voice sounded light and friendly. Was this a clever cat stalking a mouse, I wondered?

"I live in a lunch box section of North Asheville. But it's not a big town. Call me when you get in. We'll do lunch."

"Yes, by all means, let's do lunch and maybe even do the morning and afternoon. I have a lot of questions. Africa swallowed poor Woody." She signed off.

Poor Woody, I thought. Is he up there looking down, maybe laughing?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Her call came just before noon the following day and I drove to the Grove Park for our luncheon date. Bella Harris was an attractive woman about my age. I wondered if she had been a trophy bride, but then Woody and I were about the same age, so no prize, but a good-looking, intelligent woman.

We met in the cavernous lobby, a room that could swallow up a small hotel, with gigantic stone fireplaces at either end, a large patio restaurant with a view out over the meticulously kept golf course and the city and mountains beyond. On a clear day you could hear the angels sing.

At my suggestion we left the hotel and walked to a nearby restaurant, the Grovewood, a particular favorite of mine. Hunkered down over steaming bowls of clam chowder, the grilling began.

"Where could Woody have gone?"

"I don't know."

"Where did you last see him?"

"At the clinic, resting and waiting for transportation."

"Did he ask for your help?"

"I had already helped him. Me and two natives pulled his body out of range of the exploding airplane. He would have been incinerated if left alone."

"For that I owe you thanks."

I shrugged and started in on my chowder. It was delicious and I had heard that the chef spends two days in its preparation. Two days well spent. "You have had professionals looking for him?"

"I have. To no avail."

So the conversation went through lunch, getting nowhere. She did say someone had been using his ATM card and had dates of the last withdrawals in Mopti. She asked if I was in Mopti at that time, which seemed to make me a suspect.

"I doubt it very much," I responded. "I traveled through Mopti on the way to the place where the plane crashed. After that I did not return, I was heading east toward Timbuktu, a destination which I did finally reach."

"You have proof of that?"

"I need no proof."

"Have a care. You were the last one to see him."

"You have a care. I'll walk you back to the hotel."

At the hotel she suggested a cooling-off period and dinner. I suggested we dine on the hotel patio looking over vast expanses of expanses. She agreed. We would meet at 6:30 in the spacious lobby.

"By the by," my parting shot for the afternoon, "With all your money and influence, all of your sleuths prancing this way and that at your command, if you can hack into my American Express account you can track my movements through hotel bills."

"Well then, bring me your card number and a letter authorizing such entry."

I actually laughed. "I've set you on the path. Surely your semi-criminal cronies can do the rest. See you at dinner."

She smiled and nodded her head.

I entered the grand lobby that evening, and it was alive with beautiful people. Bella was seated in one of the crafted chairs, a hallmark of the hotel, and rose to greet me.

"I have reservations on the patio." She looked radiant in a dinner dress. "I can't thank you enough for recommending this hotel. I treated myself to a massage this afternoon. Superb."

"Asheville has many surprises. You should stick around. It's a fun town. You look beautiful."

"Thanks. So do you. Shall we dine?" She took my arm and we walked to the reservation desk.

The evening could be described as a good social time. We started with dirty martinis and lingered over them, chatting away about nothing in particular. She went for a steak crusted with truffles, while I had large grilled shrimp with a peanut and vinaigrette sauce, crisp and delicious.

A strawberry soup with lime sorbet wrapped up the meal. During the meal we knocked off a bottle of Mumm Champagne. Instead of coffee, we decided on a second bottle.

It was during the second bottle that she disclosed what was on her mind. "I'd like you to go to Mali and find Woody."

"Some trick. A job for Jungle Jim, or that Stanley fellow who ferreted out Livingston."

"Or someone who's spent time in Mali. I'll give you $10,000 plus airfare. What do you think?"

"After all this time, after you've sent experts in there, I think Woody might be dead."

"That thought had occurred to me. If he's dead, I want to find out where he's buried. It could speed up a declaration of death. You've been there. If he was murdered, or died naturally, there would be a body. Even if he perished alone in the jungle, there would be bones. You're just the one to find them."

"Oh, I'm the one. There must be a hundred natives of Mali, people who live near the Niger, who would be better qualified."

"Not to my thinking. You and the nurse saw him. The two of you plus those natives who helped pull him from the wreckage. You're a natural."

"It might take a little time and $10,000 seems a bit on the cheap."

Bella smiled. She knew she had me hooked. I refilled our champagne glasses. We made another little toast, clicking our glasses. "I thought of that," she said. "I don't want to appear to be cheap or easy." Was she flirting? "Let's make it $25,000."

"A figure I can't resist." Now I was flirting.

"I'm pleased. This is a form of due diligence, you know. I'll clear it with my accountant, set the wheels in motion. Could we have lunch tomorrow? I'll probably fly away in the afternoon."

"Of course. I'll pick you up at the hotel, take you to a delightful spot called 12 Bones and then drive you to the airport."

And so I agreed to go looking for Woody in Africa. What a job! Would I find him? Stay tuned. One more twist. On the way to the airport, Bella said she planned to go to Paris in a few days, there was a Harris condo there. After my African excursion, the route back to the States would be via Paris.

My report would be made directly to her over fine Parisian cuisine. It seemed she owned me body and soul. Who was I to play coy?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Landing in Dakar, there was an awful temptation to look up Oumou. We had kept in touch via e-mail. Temptation resisted, I managed to fly into Mopti, that swinging city located at the Inland Niger Delta. Inland deltas are rare. I had never heard of one before. It simply means that the river hits very low country, splits up into several branches and after quite a few miles rejoins into a single stream. Live and learn.

After a couple of days in Mopti, I boarded a river boat and was dropped off at the same landing that first brought me to the aircrash, Tu and Toguna and Woody. Deja vu!

After spending several days walking from place to place, chatting with those I met, drinking a little beer and a small amount of jungle juice, I headed back to civilization and eventually to Paris. After a night in a hotel, I joined Bella at her condo.

The place had an expensive look and it was in the heart of Paris, but neither on the right or left bank, but right in the middle, on the same island in the Seine that provides space for Notre Dame Cathedral.

"I was worried about you, Andy," Bella said over coffee. "You could have e-mailed me, or called."

"I had nothing to report. No trace of Woody."

She didn't seem the least surprised, but began telling me about her findings. "I did trace your American Express card and found you were in Timbuktu when Woody's ATM card was being used in Mopti."

I agreed that cleared me of minor crime and told her that I had waited at the clinic and talked to the nurse. "She was sorry Woody had vanished, but could offer no explanation. I gave her your address here in Paris and she promised to contact you if she learned anything during her travels."

"That's a good thing," Bella said. "It's like having a friend in Africa, someone who gets around." Bella sipped coffee and smiled like the cat who had breakfasted on the canary. "Speaking of getting around, during the course of the credit card tracking it seems you spent a few days sharing a room with a lovely young African girl."

There were croissants on the table and I buttered one and took a bite before responding. "That's a different story."

"I'm fascinated, June and December romantic liaisons always intrigue."

"More like March and December. There is an unreliable train from Dakar to Bamako, the capital of Mali. If one is in luck, it takes thirty-five hours. The young lady in question sat next to me on that lengthy journey. We talked of many things. She was running away from home to join a boyfriend who wasn't aware of her coming."

"I'm shocked. You caused her to give up her boyfriend. What was the inducement?"

"You could be right, but what I did was strictly unintentional. We talked about her family, her relationship with this young man, her future life. Her parents were at the time attempting to arrange a marriage for her, not unknown in the Muslim world."

"You offered wise counsel?"

I ate more of the croissant and held my head for a moment. "When we arrived she asked me for a favor. She said she wanted to sleep with me. I said that was not possible, that she was a virgin and that she should save herself for marriage. She had told me that she and the boyfriend had kissed."

"So she was the aggressor?"

"You might say so. But then she revealed that she had also slept with her boyfriend several times. She seemed lost and said her boyfriend might not even accept her. I agreed to sleep with her, as if that was an immense favor, if she would let me buy her an airline ticket back to Dakar where she could return to her family."

"So the deal was sealed?"

"Almost. After the first night she told me her dream was to tour the villages of the Dogon people, a strange tribe, actually a series of tribes, and the largest attraction in Mali. Much more interesting than Timbuktu. So I said OK again and we spent a few days in Dogon country. Then I saw her on the plane to Dakar. She seemed happy as a clam at high tide."

"The bittersweet end of a relationship."

"I suppose. We do exchange e-mails. Nothing serious."

"I can imagine at your age." Bella finished her coffee and rose to her feet. I assumed the interview was over. "I'd like to show you your room."

"My room?" This certainly was a surprise.

"Why, yes. You're retired and have no agenda. I need your help. So why not stay here?"

After a moment's confusion, I replied. "Why not."

Following Bella through a short hall, we entered a large bedroom, obviously not a guest room, but judging by the trimmings and appointments it was the sleeping quarters for the lady of the condo. She gestured to the large bed and remarked, "That's king sized. You feel like a king?"

Stifling a laugh, I said I felt like a moron in wonderland. "What's coming down?"

"Time slips away. We might as well sleep together. I've felt drawn to you. You don't seem to be dazzled by money."

"That's true," I agreed. "My needs are small and I have adequate funds. And we do seem to be compatible. I could use the old hackneyed phrase, this is so sudden."

She grinned. "Then it's decided. Enough of this mushy talk. Let's get down to brass tacks. Woody's business empire is extensive and he's known as a standout racist. A few of his friends and associates are little better than rich scoundrels. I simply can't deal with them. I need you to stand between me and the business empire. You'll have full authority."

I needed to sit down. The immensity, the staggering task she mentioned. The empire was not millions, but billions, and more than a few. Flopping into a chair in almost a daze, I finally said, "I'd like to give it a go. It sounds like fun."

Later I retrieved my sad little traveling bag from the hotel and found a drawer in the bedroom she had emptied for me.

That night over dinner I told her details of my latest African adventure. A jungle hammock had been of great value with its roof overhead to guard against the rain and its side netting to repel roving female mosquitoes thirsting for blood to nourish their young. Then there was the beer and the jungle juice. And finally I said that if anyone in the area had a means of transportation and a need to dispose of a large dead body, it could be conveniently dropped in a very active volcano where the bubbling lava was all consuming.

Then I mentioned that my Parisian dream of becoming a post-post impressionist might go up in smoke because ambition for wealth is the enemy of artistic excellence according to Len Battista Alberti. I did have a knack for odd bits of knowledge.

"Are you ambitious?" she asked.

"No."

"Do you have any artistic talent?"

"No."

"I think you're safe."

"Possibly. But we are all prisoners of hope."

"Anybody can be nobody," was her cryptic response.

Soon after that we retired and tested our compatibility. In the weeks ahead I would learn that Bella was not a racist, and leaned to the left. Together we would plot to right the wrongs of the past.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

And those weeks ahead were busy ones with much time spent with accountants and lawyers attempting to get a layman's grip on the Harris billions. Most of the time was spent in Paris, but more than once I took the train for the short trip to London. It seemed certain that I would have to spend some time in the States, although I resisted.

Things were going well, but there was a feeling like a Strauss waltz, delightfully upbeat on the surface, but always with an undertone of sadness. It was Bella, a wonderful woman, but there were times when her strength seemed drained and she did not feel fit enough to go to the theater or to dinner.

I enjoyed cooking and would putter around making meals now and then, although we had a cook who came in five days a week. Odd things were my specialty, such as Bagna Cauda, a hot anchovy porridge used as a dip for vegetables. Of course in Paris, nothing is bad. All foods are available at the height of perfection.

Also, at Bella's insistence, a French tutor would come three times a week, and I was actually learning the language.

Then another bombshell: Bella suggested that we marry. "I have no objections," said I. "We're living together. My life is filled with happiness. But it probably wouldn't be legal. Woody has never been found. He could pop up (not very likely, I said to myself) and you're still married. There must be some French law against bigamy."

"Of course, but we should do it anyway. We could have a wedding, invite a few friends, champagne toasts, honeymoon in Timbuktu."

"Ah yes, the honeymoon suite at the Jungle Jim beneath the torrid desert sands. Ok, they won't toss me into the Bastille. You'll be the culprit."

"With a score of lawyers on retainer, I'll take that chance."

So the deed was done. The honeymoon was in Lyon, the gastronomic center of France. Pleasant it is to be able to throw all those Euros around at five star eateries.

At three or four a.m., I would sometimes wake up and ponder as I lay sprawled in the king-sized bed in the heart of Paris on the Ile de la Cité: Who am I? What am I doing here? A character out of MacBeth or Hamlet, I deliberately killed Woody, total premeditation and all, and have married his wife and am handling his fortune. I should be a candidate for the guillotine. Am I missing anything? It did help to learn that Woody had inherited wealth, not earned it. It also helped to find my conscience had little interest in these events. After all, everyone has something to hide. I should have been a priest. Perhaps later I would seek the monastic life.

But at the moment, marital passion and high finance called. Woody had not been a rocket scientist and had fallen in with questionable companions. One half-baked deal had him in with two others intent on building a new casino in Las Vegas. He had poured in a hundred million greenbacks with no results thus far.

Picking up a lawyer in London, we flew to Las Vegas and chatted with the two partners. The one that resembled Moe quipped, "We need more dough." Curly seemed to agree.

"How much total has gone into the project?" I asked.

"One hundred million," Curly said.

"That's only the Harris money," said I.

"Of course," Moe said. "It's the Harris money. We're on the ground here doing the dirty work."

"What dirty work has transpired?"

"The old building's been demolished. Let's take a look."

We drove to the site, a rather large lot, and there clearly was no building, just a tangle of debris. "You want Harris money to clear the land, build and furnish a casino, perhaps hire a staff and get the project off the ground?"

"Exactly," said Moe. "You see we have plans. Part of the early millions were spent on architectural design. The theme will be Tsarist Russia."

"That's original," quipped I. "I will have to mull this over with my counsel." I jabbed a thumb toward my lawyer companion. "We do own the land, don't we?"

"Free and clear," said Curly.

"That's welcome news." We shook hands all around and I promised to get back to them soon. They were all smiles. I wondered how much payment for their time they were getting from the Harris millions.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Back in Paris the sky was falling. Bella was sick, very sick. She couldn't keep food down and she was pale. Her voice was small and shaky. Round-the-clock nurses had been added to our household.

Embracing her, I found myself trembling. "Be brave, darling," she whispered. "I should have told you. My cancer was in remission. It's a particularly malignant variety. This time I think it's back for good."

"Good God!"

"Yes, good God and dear God," she whispered. "I'm glad I met you, Andy. You've been a blessing to me at the end of my life."

"Good God," I repeated, dumbfounded.

"Cheer up and mix us a drink."

I looked around at the nurse. "Is it OK?" I managed to ask with my poor French.

"Anything goes."

I understood. No hope. I usually didn't drink martinis, but I mixed a pitcher. They were her favorites. Obviously, Bella wasn't up for stemware, so I portioned them out in teacups. "Mud in your eye," I said, hoisting my cup.

She drank, then whispered, "How about 'Lightfoot lads and rose lipped maidens'?"

"A fine old toast," I replied, again sipping while drinking in the irony of that verse. She had a second drink, then drifted off to sleep.

"I was damn lucky to get here while she's still alive," I said to the nurse.

"Yes, you were." She spoke decent English. "She said not to call you. She didn't want a death watch." Bella's frail face was pale and blended into the white sheets. She was such a splendid person. I sat with her through the night, dozing now and then. She woke with daylight, forced a faint smile and squeezed my hand. She wanted neither food nor drink.

The doctor came and checked her vital signs, then merely shook his head. He sat with me through the morning, and she expired about noon. Sobs shook my body, things were so confused. First Woody by my own hand, now Bella, the entire Harris family. Perhaps guilt will follow.

But no conscience, only grief. Bella was immune from all harm. Or was she? Can posthumous events harm us? Some say death cannot be evil because we do not think of the nonexistence before our birth as harmful, or even worth a fleeting thought. But what do we know? If we do not exist, what harm can come to us? Desire also dies with the body. These thoughts flashed through my head in my grief. My grief arrived as if a light switch had been thrown, and its depths surprised me.

Perhaps it was my age. The bloom of youth gone, confidence eroded, I was but a lonely hunter on a barren hill. An old poem came to mind: Death is the road, Life is the traveler, The soul is the guide.

Why I remembered it I knoweth not. Never had I thoroughly understood it. Perhaps now I could puzzle it out. In the days ahead I arranged the cremation, scheduled and presided over a memorial service, scattered the ashes into the Seine, just a few steps from our door. Then I sought seclusion.

But the world intruded. The bills that were normally taken from our account, or paid by our accountant, were not paid. In fact the accountant was not paid, nor anyone else to whom money was owed. The total assets had been frozen. Of course I had my own money and could get by, but in a less lavish style.

Checking our legal firm and our lead attorney, Jean Paul Lafitte, I found a probate court date had been set. It puzzle me why Lafitte hadn't called me about the matter, but oh well, I was in no shape to complain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Day arrived and we duly assembled before the bench.

Lafitte, who I assumed was representing me, made a long speech in French which did not sit well with me. My French was not good, but I believe I understood the direction he was going. I asked if anyone in the courtroom spoke English and a bailiff volunteered that he did. At that point I requested him to ask the judge if an interpreter might be brought in so I could understand the proceedings. The judge at first said that I apparently had no standing in the proceedings, but I insisted that I did and he relented, calling a recess in order to find an interpreter.

To my amazement I learned my attorney, my supposed attorney, had stated that Bella and I were not legally married and that his law firm would assume control of the estate. He called me no more than a gigolo and a fortune seeker.

In response, I said that Bella and I cared very much for one another, that she had sent detectives to Africa in search of her late husband and, as a final attempt, enlisted my help in finding him. Therefore, I felt due diligence had been accomplished and that he must certainly have somehow perished in that wild country.

"And you were once a suspect in his death," Lafitte accused.

"Me and anyone else who happened to be in Mali. It was I who helped pull him from the flames and the subsequent explosion of the crashed airplane."

"But your marriage is illegal. Harris is presumed to be alive and Bella could be charged with bigamy. My law firm has long looked after the estate and can continue to do so."

"Truth to tell," I responded, "Bella and I sometime ago laid out plans for the estate. And we were acting on that plan. It entails giving large sums of money to needy causes around the globe. Already the estate has given away between fifty and a hundred million dollars. There is a list of continuing philanthropy, plus causes that arise due to climate, catastrophe and so forth."

"Is this true?" the judge asked Lafitte.

"It is, Your Honor, but it is but a fraction of the estate."

"Yet a generous gesture," the judge said.

"But the man is an imposter," Lafitte insisted.

"There is a will," I told the court.

The judge gave me a long look, then turned to Lafitte. "You are the attorney. Is there a will?"

"No, Your Honor."

"How do you respond?" the judge questioned me.

"What do you say about a cockroach? Bella and I took the will to Lafitte's office the day it was written. He was out, but we gave it to his personal secretary and she said she would pass it on the moment he returned."

"Not true," Lafitte snapped.

"Who wrote the will?" the judge asked.

"An attorney in our condo complex. I had the feeling that Bella did not trust Lafitte totally. She was very careful about that will. In fact she had misgivings about turning it over to his personal secretary. She claimed the secretary was more than a secretary, not that that is unusual, or illegal, in this open-minded country."

"Are you accusing Lafitte of hiding, or destroying the will?" The judge was grimly serious in his questioning.

"I make no accusations. I merely recount what has happened." At that point I pulled the will from my inside suit coat pocket. "Here is the will, Your Honor. May I approach the bench and pass it on?"

As I handed it to the judge, Lafitte charged, "No doubt a fraud. Forgery is not beneath this American. We all know their reputation for criminal activity."

With a gesture, the judge silenced Lafitte as he looked over the will. "It appears to be genuine and original, not a copy."

"At least five original wills were produced, your Honor. One, of course, went to Lafitte's office. I kept the one in your hand. One was filed at City Hall. And the attorney who drew the will kept another. It might be interesting to have Lafitte's private secretary testify under oath and see if she would perjure herself."

The judge smiled for the first time. "What do you think of that idea, Lafitte?"

"It's silly talk. The jabbering of an American fool."

"For the record, Mr. Lafitte," I responded, "You and your firm are fired as of this moment. Since there is a court record of these proceedings, I'm requesting that you turn all records and papers having to do with the estate over to my accountant. Time is of the essence, so be quick about it."

"I would tend to agree with that," the judge said. "For the present, I find for Mr. Blake and order the accounts to be unfrozen so that he can proceed with disbursing money as he sees fit, including a final payment to your firm, Lafitte. And let me add that I would like to look over that final bill. I hope to see the lawyer who drew this will before the court at the next hearing."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In a few days the judge made a final ruling in my favor and I set to work to set the estate in order. The French accounting firm was top notch and I enlisted another I had used in the States. Also, most of the disbursements of money were made through an English banking firm in London.

There was no getting around the complications. But the various offices acted as checks and balances, one watching the other.

I called the London lawyer and asked him to contact Curly and Moe in Las Vegas and offer them fifty million dollars for a free and clear, cloudless, title to the property the Harris estate had invested a hundred million in.

The reply was immediate. They wanted a hundred million. After all, they had somehow acquired the dilapidated building that had been razed. The lawyer was told to stand firm with fifty million.

In the weeks after Las Vegas, an idea had been churning in my head. Another good deed? Possibly, but this one legit. Las Vegas was growing and housing was out of sight. Already there had been moves by contractors to build complicated plats across the state line in Arizona. This would involve quite a drive for those who worked in Las Vegas.

My plan, or plot, while still in the egg stage, would be totally green, conserving, conserving, conserving. The money was there, but I needed the land. Curly and Moe would give me the excuse to visit Las Vegas. To purchase enough land would be a stealthy operation without spilling the beans and thus skyrocketing the cost.

So I packed my satchel and made my getaway. Nevada and Arizona, here I come!

Curly and Moe were in a jovial mood, thinking I had come with a satchel packed with Euros. Fifty million, stated I, is lots and lots of bananas.

"But what about our sweat equity?" Moe asked.

"Yes," agreed Curly. "Our investment in this prize winning project."

"Fifty million," I countered. "Or I walk away and you can ferret out another pigeon."

"Pigeons are a rare breed," Moe said. "Show us the fifty million."

"Show me a clear title, with all rights intact. No quibbling, no fighting. A tree is known by its fruit." The tree statement seemed to stump them, no pun intended. Curly gave me the fish eye, but they agreed to come up with a clear title within the week. And I agreed to find a solid, honest law firm to handle the deal.

So with that in the works I rented a car and set off for Arizona, soon finding myself in Kingman, a city of less than 50,000 sterling souls. My first task was to find a single real estate agent. I wanted an individual because of the clandestine nature of my venture.

From a waitress at a diner, it seemed that Ruby Crystal, who had an office just down the block, would fill the bill. Entering her office, I found she was a well-preserved blonde, maybe early thirties and just over five feet in height. Blue eyes, freckles, heavy eye make-up.

Identifying myself, I said my interest was mainly rural real estate and it might run into some large bucks, but I'd like to get to know my agent first.

She looked me up and down and didn't seem pleased with what she saw. "What do you mean by get to know?" she questioned.

"Just that. Have coffee, or lunch, and talk about ourselves, our background, our goals, that sort of thing."

"I'm a professional, realtor that is. You come in my office, you want to buy something, I find it for you. That's that. I know the territory."

"I just want to establish a relationship, professional that is. There might be a need for privacy in what I'm looking for."

"Privacy? Everything I do is a matter of public record. Nothing out of the way. If you want a certain property, I'll find it for you. If you want a relationship," she shrugged and glanced toward the door, "you might find it somewhere else."

"I did want a one-person office. Might you recommend someone else?"

"Sure. Betty Morgan. She's new to the business. Works out of her house."

Ruby gave me the address and I found the house just a few blocks away. This is not a big city.

Betty Morgan, an attractive woman in her late twenties maybe, about five-seven, weighed maybe 130. Dark hair, greenish eyes. Making my same pitch, I found her more receptive, perhaps from boredom.

We adjourned to a diner for coffee and then to a city park for our heart to heart. "What I have in mind," I finally said, "might almost make you rich."

A slight smile. "Ruby called just before you arrived. She used the words 'oddball' and 'creep.'"

"I figured. My approach is strange, I'll grant that. But the money is there. And if you agree, there'll be a bonus up front."

"Agree to what?" The bonus had gotten her attention.

"Secrecy. Not to tell Ruby, or your husband, or your boyfriend, or your Mom, or best girlfriend. To tell no one what we're doing."

"If it's something dishonest, absolutely not. Can you agree? Your fortune may be at stake, But if it's honest real estate work, yes. Of course, I'm in this business to make money."

"You agree then to all those things, to tell no one?"

"I agree."

"Here's the reason for secrecy. My plan is to buy up to, and maybe beyond, 50,000 acres of land for a new, say, city, or settlement. A very modern place to live."

"In this wasteland? Who would want to?"

"There you go. I have a plan. I have the money. I don't want to share the details of my plan at this time. You don't need to know and it might even be counterproductive in some way. I simply need you to blanket the countryside and buy the land. If someone found out one individual was buying up land, prices might shoot through the roof."

"How could we keep that a secret for long?"

"I would not be the sole purchaser. There are two companies also interested. You would rotate purchases among the three of us."

Betty almost laughed. For joy? Or despair? I don't know. It was a giddy moment. "Just where is all this land located?"

The moment was right. I whipped out my map. "It's partly up to you. Where can we put together a large tract? South of Kingman, Dutch Flat, around Oatman, toward Bullhead City, the Sacramento Valley, Black Mountains. You will have work to do."

"You know you're talking some Indian reservations?"

"I understand. This project might be a pipe dream. But it's my pipe dream and you could be part of it. I don't mind trying and failing and losing money. What land we buy will go up in value eventually. I'm prepared at this moment to write you a check for five thousand dollars. Is it a deal?"

"Deal."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Pleased as punch with enlisting the good services of Betty Morgan, I headed back to Las Vegas and my fine buddies Moe and Curly. It seemed they thought I was going to use the million-dollar lot to build my own casino, and they wanted to be in charge of the flow of money that would cascade in like Niagara.

Imagining that pair as managers for my money drove me out of the desert heat and into a dry martini to paraphrase an old something or other. But the deal was closed, and not only was a clear title handed over to me, but I backed it up with title insurance.

After checking around with the Better Business Bureau and others, I met with a landscaper, Paul Greene, with an "e."

His office was a fully air-conditioned trailer on the edge of town surrounded by various mechanical devices for moving soil, plus shovels, rakes and so forth, and a variety of shrubs – a veritable Garden of Eden, which is what he called his business, The Garden of Eden.

"I have a lot in the heart of the casino area, on the so-called strip, one acre more or less according to the deed."

"And you have construction plans," Greene said. "I believe I know that lot and I believe it hasn't even been prepared for construction, at least the last time I was by. But it's never too early to coordinate landscaping. What can I do for you?"

"Hopefully, everything. As you said, the lot has not been totally cleared of debris from the last building, although the bulk has been hauled away. I'd like the lot leveled and possibly sodded."

Greene stared at me for a few seconds. Finally, he said, "Generally, you would do the building, doing a little earth moving here and there for general purposes. The landscaping might include a mound of earth here or there, a mogul, but the real work would follow construction. What sort of building do you plan?"

"None. I'm thinking of a marble, or granite bench, very heavy so vandals could not have at it. Otherwise, initially, grass."

Greene nodded. "This is a hot climate, not totally suitable simply for grass whatever your reason."

"I'm in total agreement. An underground watering system might be in order."

"If that's your wish," Greene said. "We can clear the lot, install a watering system, do the sod, everything except the stone bench. But I would need verification that you own the lot and something up front."

"You think my idea is off the wall?" I questioned.

"You're talking about a very very valuable piece of real estate, doubtless with extremely high taxes. To make it into something like the village green seems ludicrous."

"To you, it might. But I don't intend to pay taxes, oh, maybe the first year, but not after that. So that's no hardship. I think it would be a thing of beauty, an oasis of calm, quiet, serenity, in a neon jungle of glitz and fleshpots. Also, a tribute to a dead loved one."

"Now you're talking," Greene said. "I can see it as a monument to someone you loved, but unless you're going to incorporate yourself as a church, taxes must be paid. Are you some sort of religious personage?"

"Not so you'd notice. But we can cross all those bridges when we come to them. If you're on, I'm willing to lay some money down and I would expect you not to tarry."

"Of course, I'll draw up a proposal with a completion date."

Handing him my local attorney's card, I said, "Please send it to him, or hand deliver it. He will look it over and funds will be released according to mutual agreement."

Rather than stay in the Bedlam of a casino-hotel, I had found a quiet B & B on a secluded street and spent the better part of a week reading the novels of William Faulkner while Greene and The Garden of Eden got their acts together.

Things were beginning to gel. Betty Morgan had called from Kingman and we had made a successful offer, complete with ten thousand in earnest money, for a 650-acre tract near Hackberry. It wasn't the exact direction I wanted to go, but I decided to buy it anyway. A cash deal with a clear title, we could close in a week. So that was on the agenda.

Meanwhile, I had been busy with a New York law office setting up a couple of dummy companies for the next cycle of land purchases. Betty was now fully excited with the project, she had agreed to take two percent on each side of the transactions. Four percent where millions might be involved is considerable.

With the downtown landscaping underway, I met with my local attorney, Elton Badger, who headed a sizeable firm, and told him that once the landscaping was done and the marble bench in place, my intention was to give the property to either the city, or the National Park Service, whoever would agree to care for the property and keep it as a park forever, or until the planet exploded, whichever came first.

Elton showed some surprise, but civic-minded person that he was, he would do my bidding. The park service seemed the best bet because one city council cannot bind a subsequent one. So all my wheels were in motion and I was hoping for a slowdown in this flurry of activity.

The Arizona project, which I hoped would be a jewel in my crown, would rely on professional help after the ball was rolling and gaining speed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

My slow down came as an unexpected gift. It was just after the closing on the first property and I had returned to Las Vegas and my B & B home. It seems that Moe and Curly, through their network of spies, had learned first that I was having the million-dollar lot sodded and second that I intended to donate it as a park available to all and sundry for no fee.

Their frustration knew no bounds. Placing their two moronic heads together they settled on a plan – they would kidnap me for a king's ransom! In their birdbrain minds I had deceived them by not making them rich. So they would take the bull by the horns, to coin yet another cliché, or was that one already on the books?

Their first step was to invite me out for a farewell drink and slip me a mickey, a most powerful knockout drop that must have put me out for a couple of days. Awaking in a caged area of what looked like a large garage, or small warehouse, it took me some time to gather my senses.

There was a cot and I was laying on it. Also a chair and a table, plus a bucket I assumed to be used for sanitary purposes. Attempting to reconstruct my final waking moments, I became aware of a person, obviously of Latino heritage, sitting just outside my cell. He was silent.

"May I ask your name?" I inquired.

He smiled, and the angels sang. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just the drumming in my head, accompanied by a violin and a trumpet. "I am Poncho."

"And I am Andy. We seem to be the only ones here."

"Yes," Poncho grinned again. "We are alone."

"Alone together," I added.

"Yes, alone together. I have some tortillas for you and some water. Are you hungry?"

"Thirsty," I replied. "It feels like the entire Russian army marched over my tongue in their stocking feet."

"Where are these Russians now?" Poncho inquired. He passed a bottle of water and a tin cup through the makeshift bars. Very appropriate for prison fare.

Sitting on my cot, drinking slowly, I began to feel human again. There was a window at the rear of my cell, and I stared at the outer world for a time. A large digging device, self-propelled on a track, had been at work just beyond the building.

"Why am I being held here?" I asked.

"The three of us are holding you for much money. Big money. You are a rich man."

"You are saying I have been kidnapped?"

"That is true. Kidnapped. You are the victim. We get money." Poncho smiled again.

"How much money will you get, Poncho?"

"I am promised ten thousand dollars by my partners."

"But they will get much more. Is that true?"

"Yes, but ten thousand is a lot of money in old Mexico. My home is far to the south in a poor village. I will be rich."

"I have no family. Who will pay my ransom?"

"My two partners, they figure it out. Maybe you will write a check, or give them secret numbers. They figure it out. I am hired to watch you. I have a gun." He drew a .38 revolver from his belt and held it in the air.

I got to wondering where Moe and Curly might be, but Poncho told me he had a cell phone and he would call them soon. After eating a few tortillas and drinking more water, I asked what the construction was out back. Maybe workmen would arrive this morning.

"That is my shovel," Poncho said. "I borrow it from my boss. The hole I dig is fourteen feet deep. That's the deepest I can go."

"And why do you need such a deep hole?"

Poncho pondered the question at some length. He was standing into trouble. "That, amigo mío, is a great secret."

"Yes, a huge secret," I replied. "I know you and I know your two amigos. It is a very deep grave you dig. A grave the two of us will share. It would be too risky to let you live. The deep grave is a swell idea. Few would dig that deep in search of bodies. Cadaver dogs could not detect the bodies. We will rest in peace through the ages."

"I have a gun," Poncho said. "I can defend myself."

"You cannot be on your guard forever. Each of them may have a gun. They will shoot you down like a dog and tumble your body into the hole on top of mine. We are doomed, Poncho."

"But first they must get the money. And how will this be done?"

"I doubt if they know. They're not much for thinking ahead. But I could give you half a million dollars and send you off to Mexico as a super rich man. Half a million!"

"Ah, yes, Señor, if I would but free you. But then my two associates would be much angry. Perhaps they would shoot me then."

"Perhaps not, if they were in the hole under fourteen feet of dirt."

"I should shoot my friends? No, I could not. I am not a murderer."

"But you would watch them kill me, just before they kill you. How is that different?"

"It's the money, don't you see?"

"And it's half a million for you if you help me."

"How can I trust you?"

"Your two friends are criminals. I am an honest man. Trust an honest man."

"Good point. But I cannot kill."

"I will do the killing. Just release me, and give me the gun. We wait for your friends. I shoot them. We bury them. You return the digging machine, we go to the bank and I open a half-million dollar account for you, then charter you a plane for old Mexico. You are free and rich. Even if they wanted to, who could find you deep in Mexico?"

Poncho pondered the matter. I moved to the window and stared out, beyond the deep hole and digger, beyond the desert to the mountains. I did wonder how Moe and Curly planned to get the money from me before my tragic demise. If I dropped out of sight, vanished, it would be Woody all over again. Déjà vu.

"How do I know you have half a million you are willing to give me?" Poncho asked."

"For one thing, it's my life. For another, I have many millions. That's why your two friends put me in this cell. Half a million. I won't miss it. You are a good man, Poncho, caught up with a pair of scummy criminals. You can have a good life in Mexico, or you can stay here and take your chances. Mighty slim chances."

Poncho gave me a long melancholy stare and then walked over and unlocked the cell. "I'm trusting you," he said as he handed me the revolver.

"You've done the right thing. The money and freedom will be yours. Make the call."

It was an uneasy time waiting for Curly and Moe. At long last, a car pulled up outside the garage door. I stood with my back to the wall, next to the door, which was not locked. Fortunately, Curly and Moe came in together, stopped short when they saw the empty cell and Poncho seated in his lawn chair off to one side.

It was Moe who started to raise a hue and cry.

"Gentlemen," I interrupted. They turned and I shot them down.

Both were a bit overweight and it was a job to carry/drag them to the deep hole. I let Poncho go through their pockets and take what money they had on them. Then he fired up the digger and filled the hole. Once again, I was happy that I seemingly lacked a conscience.

Aren't people supposed to be upset over things like this? Isn't there some post-trauma something? After dismantling the cell and setting things to rights, we loaded the digger on a flatbed truck and the two of us drove off to Poncho's bosses' shop where we deposited both.

Poncho had a ten-year-old battered Ford pickup and we drove to Las Vegas, reaching the city about noon with the heat rising. After a good lunch, we did our banking. The charter company I use would respond within three hours. Just at dusk, I saw Poncho aboard the plane bound for deep into Mexico. There were tears of joy in his eyes when he shook my hand, and peso signs in his eyes as he clutched his ATM card. In Oaxaca he would be the cock of the walk.

Perhaps he was tempted to kiss me, but he held back. It's a wonderful thing when you can do a good deed for a worthy individual.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

After a good dinner and a little wine, I slept the sleep of the pure of heart. The world was my oyster and the large marble park bench would soon be in place embellished with the single word: Bella.

In the morning at breakfast, I thought about what might be going on in the world: Moe and Curly were deep in sleep; Poncho was in his beloved Mexico; an old man at the general hospital was offering the floor nurse five hundred dollars to crawl into bed with him; Betty Morgan was combing western Arizona for land for sale; the owner of a nearby casino was skimming profits; an old Black Labrador was dying and his ten-year-old mistress was sobbing in grief; a hooker was talking money with a businessman from Great Falls; a fry cook had just caused a grease fire at a suburban diner; on a quiet residential street, an old woman was making an apple pie for her grandson; somewhere in Wisconsin a young woman was milking a cow, while her husband looked on, drinking a pint of beer; a 16-year-old boy was struggling to swim across the Mississippi river and would drown in a matter of minutes; in Venice a Gondolier was sweet talking a sweet young eager Japanese tourist.

Then my thoughts turned to Kingman, maybe 80 miles away, and the notion that I should motor down that way and pay Betty Morgan a visit. But first I checked my e-mail.

They say after a certain age there are few surprises in the world, but I found joy and wonder that morning in Las Vegas. Oumou and I had, if infrequently, regularly kept in touch by e-mail. Finally, it seemed, that Dakar girl was ready to come clean. I had a son.

That she was pregnant by me had been a great secret and a great advantage in her way of thinking. It had kept her parents from carrying forward with an arranged marriage. So she was a single woman with a small child, whom she had named Andy Blake, but minus the junior. I was honored. Why was I honored, at my age?

Her parents were upper middle class, and caring for the child was no burden. They even had servants. That we should wed was not in the cards because of the age difference. She knew that. Why had she waited so long? From her message, I gathered she was in high good spirits and thought we might get together sometime.

Immediately I thought of a rendezvous in Paris at my condo, but not a sexual liaison. She deserved better. She should have a husband. Could I play matchmaker? Was it my responsibility to tell anyone what to do? I wasn't her Dad, nor even an elder mentor. Briefly, we had been lovers.

What to do? The condo was likely too small for her and the child, a nanny, the housekeeper and me. What did Oumou desire? She was the mother, we had been mates, her wishes should be paramount. So there. I could forget all cares, simply reply expressing my delight and let her make the next move. And, if she didn't, I could suggest options.

With that out of the way, I headed for the road and to touch bases with Betty Morgan. But my thoughts soared as I thought of fatherhood while driving over Hoover dam and then full tilt southeast to Kingman.

Betty was in seventh heaven. She had chalked up two more properties to my dummy firms and now had lined up a third under my name. With this closing, scheduled in less than a week, I would have amassed almost 30,000 acres of seemingly worthless land, dry and rocky.

"You've done good," I complimented.

"I dug up some large landholders and I've done well and I mean bucks in the bank. And I've only just begun."

"Don't go overboard and try to fill in the gaps." Looking at a large colored map she had assembled, the property looked more like an octopus than a great circle. I pointed to the gaps.

"Some can be bought, some not. I'll have to almost double the per acreage cost on some of the critical plots."

"Leave that until last. Let's not start a panic." I took a closer look at the map and considered the good job Betty had done. She was sharp and dedicated. "I'd like to give you power of attorney, like the bogus company lawyers have. Then you can close deals yourself. I'll be within cell phone reach, but I may do a little traveling."

She looked up from the map with a trace of a frown. A lovely woman in white slacks and a blue and white printed top. "When are you going to clue me in on the master plan?"

"Very soon. As soon as this land starts to take something of a homogeneous shape, that is lumped together in a usable form. Frankly. Betty, I'd like you to stay on as overseer. This project is costly, a billion-dollar crapshoot and close to my heart. But I can't be the day-to-day hands-on manager."

"Whatever it is, Andy. I'm your girl. So far, you've done right by me."

"And you by me." I was tempted to carry the relationship to a more personal level, but I resisted. Perhaps I did have a conscience after all.

Using her computer, I checked e-mail. I had already sent a long message to Oumou from my hotel room suggesting we might get together with the child. Her reply was waiting: "just send the tickets."

Replying, I suggested that the three of us might meet for a vacation in Nambia. My little joke for the day.

Her reply awaited me at my Las Vegas hotel. "You jerk, I thought you were in Paris. Are you talking about that south African country on the Skeleton Coast, with its sand dunes, bad food, corruption and poverty?"

"Please excuse me for having a little fun. I am in the States, but returning to Paris. I will hire a nanny and send you tickets at the earliest time possible. Can't wait to see you and small Andy, no doubt genius material!"

After hitting the send button I ordered myself a bottle of good Chablis and a roast chicken and set about packing my small bag. Later I would arrange transportation. I must say I was whistling and a little giddy. The joys of fatherhood, and mixed thoughts about finding my lover a husband. OK, things will take care of themselves. And so they did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Half way through the Chablis, my hands greasy with chicken, there was a knock on the door. A pair of dark-suited men flashing badges asked if they could come in. My thoughts turned to Curly and Moe, resting 14-feet under. Surely they couldn't have been dug up this soon.

The two seated themselves and the older of the two, a trim man with slightly graying hair, slightly balding on top, said four words: "Matt Tripp, Homeland Security."

"We need to talk," Tripp said.

"About our relationship?" questioned I.

If he was amused, he showed no sign. "You are a rich man, rich, retired and single."

"Three out of three," I said.

"You can help your country."

"You are tax collectors?"

"No. Homeland Security. I'm FBI, Chet's CIA. You can travel the world with impunity. You have a history of travel. We need someone like that."

"You seek a travel writer?"

"Don't be difficult. There's a money laundering operation in that small nation of Monaco, in league with Pakistani terrorists. Your country cries out. You could enter that world and feed us information."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Many others serve their country, just as Chet and I do."

"Why don't you two go over there and unmask that illicit venture?"

"They would spot us in a New York minute," Tripp said. "Then bingo."

"They would shoot you?"

"Probably."

"So you'd rather they shot me."

"You'd be protected."

"Would I have a gun?"

Chet, who had said nothing, spoke up. "Have you ever owned a gun?"

"No."

"Well, you see police and soldiers with guns. Pistols, automatics, revolvers. But they have all had extensive training. Matt and I have been trained. When to draw, when to fire, when not to draw and fire. It would take weeks to train you. No one would suspect a person like you."

"An older retired man, a rich man?"

"Yes," Chet agreed. "Also, if you did learn the basics. Shooting another human being is a daunting task. Even though you might think you could do it, when it comes down to it, very likely you wouldn't be up to the task. It would be an awful experience, a horrific thing. I know it sounds easy."

"Have you and Matt shot many people?" I asked Chet.

"None. Neither of us. We're ready, but hope the opportunity never comes."

"It would not be considered a good deed, would it?"

Matt actually chuckled. "A good deed? Far from it. It would be a profoundly devastating experience. You should thank the good Lord you are a civilian and won't face such a decision."

"I thank God for many things. And here is one that I've just learned about. Some time back I traveled to Senegal and met a young lady on the train in route to Mali. I didn't mean to tell anyone about this, but because you are here with such a bizarre proposition, I'll tell you. We had a brief affair, a few days together. Now she tells me through e- mail a child has come out of the union."

Chet frowned. "This is an African girl?"

"Yes, her family lives in Dakar, where she is now."

"Can you be certain the child is yours? Time has gone by."

The question did not offend me, quite the opposite. "I feel she is honest. So I am just packing to go to Paris to meet her and the child, a boy named Andy Blake, just like me. So those are my plans."

Chet smiled this time. "Perfect. A family outing to Monaco. Can you think of a better cover, Matt?"

Matt was on cloud nine. "Absolutely fabulous."

"Just minute. Oumou is young, I am old. We are not the perfect couple. My intention is to help her find a suitable husband."

"But you are the father of her son, Andy. She would seem to be your standard trophy wife. A dream come true. Youth to cheer your declining years."

"What you say is not entirely without merit," I agreed. "And you mention a family outing, or vacation. This is not out of the question. Monaco isn't that far from Paris and the accommodations are without equal. A short vacation might be possible. But you are obviously referring to money laundering in casinos, and I am not a gambler."

"But you can play blackjack," Chet said.

"No problem."

"We can only offer you so much financing," Chet explained. "But if you cover all other vacation expenses, we can make one hundred dollars a day available for gambling. It might take some time to lose that at blackjack."

"A hundred dollars or a hundred Euros?" I asked.

"I suppose we can make it Euros. This is a very big deal for us. Are we on?"

"Yes, I guess." We shook hands all around and they asked me to stop by Washington on my way to Paris. There would be a briefing and certain equipment passed out. They left, and I tried to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The night was wretched, witches and black cats. What had I gotten myself into? First off, the relationship with Oumou was forced to continue, something I had been ambiguous about, but had never firmly rejected. A man of my age with a beautiful young woman.

Next, there was so much to tell Betty Morgan, unpeeling more of my plan, building a headquarters. Now an imminent deadline. No time to shilly-shally. Morning found me a mess, not bothering with breakfast in the hotel, I headed for Kingman, stopping at a McDonald's drive-through for a cup of decaf.

My brain was still unraveled when I reached Betty's door. No response to the bell, so I knocked on an adjacent window. The street was deserted, morning newspapers lay in the driveways. Betty cracked the door open, took a look, closed it again and unhooked the security chain.

"My, aren't you the early bird."

"Something's come up," I gestured hopelessly. "I've been called away on short notice." I caught my breath. What must she think? "Nothing illegal, mind you. Just a lot of things coming together at one time."

"Might as well come into the kitchen. We can have coffee." She led the way, a small hall, a neat dining room and then the kitchen. She had slipped into a thin cotton robe that barely covered her body, caught up with a belt knotted at the waist. Obviously, it was her only garment and displayed a trim figure with ample breasts, although not overly large.

My brains were bouncing off the walls, ceiling, and any other obstacle. "There's so much I have to tell you. I've made a mental list, but I've had a bad night. Unsettled. I don't know why I'm so disorganized. I suppose it was because I expected to spend quite some time here going over plans with you."

She stood listening, her arms akimbo, which worked to better display her body. "I think I can settle you down. Come with me."

Taking my hand, she led me through a short hall and into the bedroom. Turning, she undid her belt and let the robe drop to the floor. She was nude. "I'm getting into that bed. You undress and follow me."

I obeyed. We must have squirmed and writhed for two full hours, then I fell into a deep sleep, not waking until just past noon. For a long time I lay there, studying the ceiling. She had pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, no bra. Standing in the doorway, she said, "Time for lunch, partner. I'll give you time to dress."

We ate tuna fish sandwiches on white bread and drank iced tea. She took notes on a legal pad while I talked.

I briefed my ideas. Near the center of the properties there would be a headquarters, something like a large motel or hotel with a meeting room in the center, twenty to twenty-five rooms. A well had to be dug, probably a water tank installed, septic tank, generator for electricity initially. There would be at least five wind turbines, largely symbolic. Then solar panels, plenty of them on the roof. It would be a totally green project.

"Who will design this monster?" Betty asked.

"A good architect. I'm going, but I'll be in constant touch by e-mail and maybe phone. We can talk things over, work things out. You'll have access to millions through my accountant in London."

Finishing my sandwich, I got a refill of tea. I was hungry as a horse, a hungry horse.

"So we have not hundreds, but thousands of acres with some sort of self-sufficient hotel in the middle."

"Right. As soon as construction begins, you must hire a watchman to live out there. If necessary, in a tent at first."

"And when it's finished, do we invite the class of something or other in for a reunion? What's it for, Andy?"

"Headquarters, the center of a well-planned new town. Once construction begins we start to recruit city planners, the organic sort, your garden-variety moonbeams. A new civilization rises in the wasteland."

"My God. Who would live in such a God-forsaken place?"

"Throngs. It will be partially self-supporting. There will be a theater, supermarket, arts center, schools, civic clubs, all planned to the last dotted I."

"But someone has to work somewhere."

"Aha," I responded. "That's the ticket. They work in Las Vegas."

"Miles away in another state?"

"Yes, miles away in another state. I've got to work on that."

"You bet your booty."

"It's simply a matter of transportation. Moving a large number of people from one place to another swiftly and at a low cost."

"You make it sound so simple," she purred.

"And speaking of booty, shouldn't we take a post-lunch nap."

She nodded in the affirmative and led the way back into the bedroom.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Washington D.C. and the J. Edgar Hoover building. What secrets did it hold? Whatever they were, or are, they didn't want to let me in. After a long wait Chet showed up and escorted me into the inner sanctum. Or the sanctum that wasn't sacrosanct, that is where nothing was going on.

The remainder of that day, plus another full one, was spent in that building. Evenings and nights were at the Mayflower. If it could happen that I was snatched by the enemy, whoever that might be, and perhaps waterboarded, there were no secrets that I could reveal to save my skin.

Basically, I was told to keep my eyes open, check into a certain hotel-casino, play blackjack on a daily basis, think up some good cover story and keep in touch with Chet, my handler. I was given a couple of gadgets to assist me to that end. Was I a field agent, or what? The "or what" seemed to cover the situation.

First class ticket in hand, I boarded a Paris-bound jet at Dulles and flew away from that chaotic scene that is our nation's capitol. Before leaving, I had sent electronic tickets to Oumou and small Andy. They should be landing in Paris just after me. Hopefully at the same airport. In my haste, I had forgotten there were two.

However we did get together, Oumou and me and the small Andy, and a handsome young man he seemed to be. We repaired to the condo, and thoughts of finding a splendid spouse for my mate and a dad for my son were soon forgotten. The reunion was joyful. Oumou may have matured a bit, but was otherwise unchanged, cheerful, loving, once again the world was my oyster.

A day or two later when the excitement had fallen to a reasonable level and we had a nanny on board, I felt compelled to tell Oumou of our mission and went through the steps that brought me to such a task.

When I mentioned Homeland Security, I detected a small shudder. She was a student of history and said it brought to mind the Fatherland, shades of Nazi Germany uber alles. It was difficult to dismiss this line of reasoning, but I attempted to gloss it over with the thrill of Monaco.

That tiny (less than one square mile) country nestled into the Maritime Alps on the Mediterranean Sea, presided over by a genuine prince, seemed to cast all doubts aside. Then there was the Monte Carlo Casino, a superb Opera House, a cathedral, a palace and even a Japanese Garden, plus festivals and music around the calendar and around the clock.

The four of us, the nanny was an essential, would fly into Nice and grab transportation for the casino named by dear old Chet. And thus we settled into sheer luxury with the Harris fortune and gambling Euros supplied by Uncle Sugar.

I was far from off the hook from the Nevada-Arizona project. E-mails and phone calls were a daily routine until Oumou began to suspect there was more than a business relationship between yours truly and Betty Morgan.

Thus accused, something came over me and I decided to resort to the truth. "Yes, Oumou, Betty and I did share a bed once or twice." I explained the circumstances, then went on to say I had originally decided to end the intimate relationship between the two of us and earnestly seek an appropriate husband for her.

"And how would you accomplish that? And why would I have been cast aside and what caused you to change that noble mind of yours? I can just bet what it was." She was a bit huffy, verging on unbridled fury.

"You know as well as I." Always nice to start an argument with that phrase, as if the person your words are directed to already knows they're in the wrong. "Anyway, you know as well as I that our age difference precludes a partnership of most sorts with the exception of grandfather and granddaughter, which we are not."

"You enjoy sex with the little African girl, don't you?"

"Yes, but a relationship can't be based simply on sex. There are probably many other people each of us would enjoy sex with."

"Aha. You enjoyed sex with Betty Morgan, didn't you."

"Hard to deny. It wasn't hateful. But here we are together. Why not make the most of it? And you are a daughter of the Prophet, a child of Islam. If you were married, how many other wives would your spouse be allowed?"

"Three, but that's beside the point. You are not Muslim, so monogamy is our game plan."

In a flash, I responded, "If you live with a lame man you will learn to limp."

"What in hell does that mean?"

"Maybe if you think it over it might have some application. It just came to me, so it must focus on our conversation."

She became pouty and suggested we give up sex.

I suggested we put the little one, small Andy, back in the womb.

That's silly talk, she said. "Babies are like toothpaste. Once they're out of the tube, there's no going back."

"And they say there's nothing new under the sun. What pish tosh. Likening children to toothpaste is certainly innovative. For one thing, there were no tubes of toothpaste in Cleopatra's Egypt, or ancient Greece or Rome for that matter."

"You, Andy Blake, a scholar of antiquity. Well, I never."

The afternoon was wearing on. I suggested we go for a dip in the pool then go out for dinner, possibly a restaurant overlooking the wine dark waters of the Med.

"The water isn't wine dark."

"Someone wrote that some years ago. It sounds wildly romantic, don't you think?" Women are so pragmatic!

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Well into my second week of gambling at the blackjack tables, with very little to show for it, I became aware of a well-attired gentleman seated next to me who wasn't playing.

"Could I have a word with you?" he began.

"What would we talk about?"

"I'm the manager here, Larry Abraham, and this is a dicey business, pardon the pun, and when we see unusual behavior, we have questions."

"Do you see unusual behavior?"

"You've been playing here for more than a week and you don't seem to win or lose much money. I'd say you're a net loser. In a word, you don't gamble."

"Isn't gambling recreation?" asked I.

"Of course."

"You've answered your own question. Now I must get on with my recreation." I turned back to the game after missing a few hands.

He was silent through two hands, me winning one and losing one. I doubled down on the next. "If you would come to my office, I'd like to get to know you."

Continuing to play, I suggested if he would come to my office, we could get to know each other.

Larry asked where might that be.

"I'm often in the coffee shop about ten o'clock."

"I could have you banned from this casino and send the word to other establishments."

"And I could move out of my eight hundred Euro a day suite, move to another casino and then have you fired."

Larry laughed. "You, have me fired. Ridiculous."

"Try me."

Holding at eighteen and seventeen, I won the next two hands. My daily stint at the table was done. Gathering my chips and turning to go, good old Larry said, "I might see you in the coffee shop."

"Good career move," I suggested, then made my way to our suite. Gathering up Oumou, and taking a quick look at small Andy and his nanny, we made our way to a nearby park.

First I called a detective agency in London where I had a standing account and asked for a quick rundown on Larry Abraham, Monaco casino manager. An in-depth profile, plus local activities, would follow. The agency was overjoyed to network with Monaco associates, of which there were many. What goes on in Monaco is often carefully watched.

Then Oumou and I chitchatted about her progress. She had joined the Islamic Center, a few blocks away. It was a Mecca for the wealthy Muslim set and often a hotbed of gossip. With her language skills, Oumou was like a vacuum cleaner, buzzing up the latest dirt.

We took no chances on our room and our landline being bugged. Business was conducted by cell phone in the wide-open spaces. Even then we were careful. It didn't sit well with me to place my three-member family, plus domestic help, in harm's way. But the cover was excellent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Strolling into the coffee shop just after ten, Larry Abraham (although I had read a brief rundown and knew his real name) was already at a table for two, a pot of coffee and plate of croissants at the ready.

We shook hands and I poured coffee for myself. The room was almost full, but our table was off to one side where we couldn't be overheard – unless of course it was bugged.

The man wanted information, so I stepped right in. "You know I'm rich, or I wouldn't be in a high roller suite. You likely know I'm here with a young woman, her child and a nanny."

"And the young woman, what relationship to you?" Larry questioned.

"That's personal. You wonder why I play blackjack for an hour or so a day and usually never win or lose. Well, I have different projects going at present, including a very complicated one in the States. I'm on the phone, e-mailing, trying to make the poem rhyme. Blackjack is my relaxation. I get lost in it, no other thoughts crowd my head. So it's that simple."

"Sounds reasonable enough. You've always had money?"

"No. I didn't earn it. I inherited it. Now tell me about yourself. What's your nationality?"

"French."

"Single?"

"Confirmed bachelor, a bon vivant to the core."

Interesting, that Larry was lying to me. Why? "I'd guess you're German."

"Why in the world?"

"Your English is excellent. I've heard you speak a few words of French. I'm sure you're fluent. But for some reason German sticks in my mind."

"You think Larry's a German name?"

"It sounds more American. I'm guessing you could pass. Konrad is German."

A slight twitch and a blink of the eyes at the mention of his true given name. I continued. "For a man your age, mid-thirties I'd say, you should have been married once, possibly twice, unless you're gay. I don't think you're gay."

"You astound me," Larry said, a frozen smile.

The croissant was warm, the butter soft and delicious, an excellent combination. "I wasn't born yesterday." A drop-dead hot woman entered the coffee shop wearing a totally transparent throw over a bikini bottom and no top. The hush in conversation was devastating, her slight smile indicated that she approved of the attention, basked in it. "Would you like to ban her from the hotel casino?" I asked Larry.

There were almost stars in his eyes. "That's what makes the world go round. If this didn't happen on a regular basis, I'd have to hire a few."

"I assume there are hookers?"

Larry nodded in the affirmative, his eyes glued to the erotic woman. "Where would we be without hookers? Wine, women, song, gambling. The good life." He came back to reality and sipped his coffee. "I seem to have underestimated you, Andy. Please forgive me. If you have any, say, desires, we have recreation directors who can arrange matters in a discreet manner."

"I'm happy as a clam at high tide, Larry."

"I've always believed sincerely," he said, "that a man who has money is wise and handsome and can also sing well."

"And will live forever and never lose his wit and ability to attract hot chicks."

"Why not. It's back to the grind for me. I'll stop on my way out to greet the topless one. Perhaps there's something I can do to make her feel welcome." He rose, saluted me and moved off, weaving between tables like a shark through a sleepy lagoon.

Soon he was bending over her table with a primitive leer. He was a bon vivant, but why the act? Why the lies? He was German, his given name was Konrad, he had been married twice, he had chalked up a DWI conviction in London, had been a person of interest in a Nice homicide and was rumored to be a blackmailer, possibly through photos taken in the hotel casino complex.

But usually discreet, always using others to collect for his dirty deeds. Greedy where the rubber hits the road in money matters. But how did he land this plummy job? Perhaps blackmail was the key. But such a devious, unscrupulous character certainly deserved a high place on my list in the field of money laundering. Quite a lot of info was gathered in his dossier quickly. So what might be revealed when my private dicks had a few days? I was on the edge of my chair!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

During her hours spent at the Islamic Center, Oumou had zeroed in on a wealthy Muslim by the name of Hanif Kurtha. He also seemed to be hanging around Monaco too long for a simple vacation. Kurtha was not shy about his anti-semitism. And he moved around the center striking up conversations with anyone he could.

Andy had faith in Oumou's hunches and added Kurtha to his list of people to investigate while alerting his private detectives to compile a dossier on the man. In a very real way, Andy had his private forces and never tipped Homeland Security off to their existence. However, he regularly filled Chet in on his progress.

Oumou had really taken to this cloak-and-dagger routine. Andy had warned her more than once not to tip her hand. "Remember, we are tourists. To ask the wrong questions, or the right questions at the wrong time, might not sit well with certain individuals."

Oumou laughed off the warnings. "Who would harm a little African girl? Do I appear threatening?"

"That's the very reason you might be suspect. You seem too innocuous. Remember, the path to hell is the same from every place."

"I swear, Andy, sometimes you say the damnedest things. I'm a good Muslim girl, bound for paradise. And Hanif Kurtha is my friend. We talk all the time. He's the only one who pays any attention to me. Otherwise I'm just like a hunk of the furniture."

"Just don't get in too deep. I wouldn't want to lose you." For that I got a hug and a few kisses.

Then one day she was gone. She didn't show up for dinner. After waiting an hour or two beyond the time when she should have showed, I called the police and also alerted Larry. A search was mounted. There was nothing I could do, so I called my detectives in London and had them put their men into the field.

I suspected the worst and, unfortunately, the worst came true. Her body was found floating just off shore. Grimly I sent the nanny and small Andy back to our home in Paris. It was my duty to call her parents, which I did. Larry and others attempted to comfort me.

I felt grief stricken and angry, a torrent of emotions. The loss was horrific. Anger at myself for letting her do it, anger at Homeland Security for getting me into this sordid situation, anger at the foul murderer.

The police speculated that possibly she had been drinking and fallen either from the jetty or from a boat. They called it an accident, and I didn't dispute their ruling even though I knew it to be false. Why muddy the waters and get everyone on edge? I was returning to reason.

Phoning my detective headquarters in London, I asked that one of their agents visit me in my hotel room. Oddly enough, a woman, who identified herself as only Sylvia, showed up in less than two hours.

As we walked together toward a nearby municipal park, I said, "I was expecting a man."

"So do the people I report on."

"Touché. Do you carry a gun?"

"A small one."

"What caliber?"

"A .32 revolver."

Pulling an envelope from my pocket, I told her, "Here are a hundred Euros in exchange for your weapon."

She gave me a long look. "That's stupid. That's not my job. I'm not a gun dealer. Anyway, it's illegal."

"A hundred Euros and you'd be serving your client. I pay your agency big bucks and I don't ask about legality."

She was silent as we sat on a park bench. "You do have a point," she finally said. "It's not like you accosted me on the street. In a very real way you are my employer. But what if you use it outside the law and it's traced back to me?"

"In the worst scenario, you could deny the allegations and defy the alligators. But I assure you that I'll do my best to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Anyway, is it traceable?"

She smiled. "No."

"There you have it." She opened her purse and passed it to me. Discreetly, I removed the gun and shoved it into my pants pocket. "Is there extra ammunition?"

Nodding toward her purse, she said, "It's in there." Rummaging around in the woman's purse, I found several rounds and added them to my pocket. Then I dropped in the envelope of money.

"There is a certain person, a Hanif Kurtha, I've asked your agency for round-the-clock surveillance. Are you in on it?"

"I've drawn the nightshift. It should be plenty deadly."

"If you could report to me directly there'd be a bonus in it for you. A big bonus."

Sylvia stood as if to leave. "You mean instead of my agency?"

"No, no. Report to them as usual, but then to me without their knowledge. I'd get the report anyway. I simply want to be au courant, particularly on the nightshift."

She shrugged. "No harm in that." After exchanging cell phone numbers, she walked off and I hit a nearby bistro for a corned beef sandwich and a bottle of beer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

For the next few days, I continued my blackjack routine, which was a respite from thinking of Oumou, and I stepped up my chitchat with Betty Morgan as the Arizona project progressed.

Everyone thought I was counting on the new four-lane bridge across the Colorado River, replacing the Hoover Dam crossing, as my route to getting Arizona residents to and from Las Vegas. They were wrong.

Plans for my headquarters-residential building were complete and construction was well underway. A well had been drilled successfully and it seemed plenty of water was available for the foreseeable future. A pair of crack city planners had been hired to take up residence in the HQ and begin laying out the city, which would include all services, plus affordable houses.

Soon I would reveal the crown jewel of the project along with a prayer that it might be feasible – with a little help from government.

It was a simple concept. Visitors to Las Vegas already know that there is a four-mile monorail running from the Sahara Hotel to the MGM Grand, with a total of seven stations. It is driverless, privately owned and boasts the smallest footprint of any elevated transit system.

My grand plan was to build a high-speed monorail from Bullhead City, Arizona, to Las Vegas, Nevada. The cost would be staggering. It would require two tracks to continually move folks to and fro. And it would require government help. But eventually it would be doable. My chips were on it. If it came to fruition it would be my ultimate good deed. God bless me and God bless the American dream, providing staff for the gambler's holy land!

Sylvia was calling me each morning. It seemed that Hanif Kurtha was seeing a prostitute, or his mistress, about every other night, very late. She gave me the address and I scoped it out. He had to park at the rear of an apartment building, leave his car and walk around to the front door.

The flap over Oumou's death had died down, if there had been any flap at all. So the next night Kurtha was due to show up, I was waiting. And waiting. He never came. Poor girl! Denied her Islamic idol.

Patience is a virtue that I possess little of, but still, I was Johnny-on-the-spot the following night when Kurtha pulled up in his large black town car. Out he hopped, and out I popped, pistol in hand.

"Sir, this is a stick up." I brandished the weapon.

He eyed me sullenly, probably thinking he could kick me over the moon. I wondered if Sylvia was watching from a discreet distance. I also wondered if a stray Monaco patrol car might amble by. Kurtha took note of the gun and finally said, "You can have my money, but leave my wallet."

"Open the trunk of your car," I ordered.

He shook his head no.

"I can shoot you here and take your money and your car, or you can cooperate, but there's no time to debate." The revolver in my hand moved in a menacing fashion. He handled his keys and clicked the trunk open. I ordered him to climb inside. Again he refused.

"You will be shot and very quickly if you refuse. And I will shoot to kill. A shot, even from this small gun might attract attention. I will shoot you, rob you and be off before anyone arrives. So get in the damn trunk."

He climbed in the trunk. I took his keys and slammed the lid. Then we were off for a ride, carefully negotiating the hilly, twisty, narrow roads of Monaco.

As I maneuvered the large car, I thought of the Monaco Grand Prix and Monte Carlo Rally that doubtless took place on this very road, in this tiny principality that has been ruled by the Grimaldi family since 1297 –an unbroken string of royalty including America's own Grace Kelly.

Also, Monaco is the world's most densely populated sovereign nation, and incidentally, the smallest French-speaking country. Because of the crush of humanity, it's difficult to find a secluded spot suitable for browbeating a man in the trunk. But I had checked out the area beforehand, my plan was in motion.

Pulling into a tree-shrouded spot far from the nearest building, weapon in hand, I popped the trunk. "How do you feel, Mr. Kurtha?"

"Cramped. Let me out of here. You can have my money and my car. Just let me go."

"Nice try. I'm a crook as you might guess, but I'm out for bigger game. I want to know how the money laundering scheme operates."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to rise, but I pushed him down. He was as helpless as a baby kitten.

"I want in on the action. So you might as well talk."

"I have nothing to say."

"I'll wait. And consider this. If I don't get the information I'm after, I'll shoot you and they'll find your body in the trunk in a couple of weeks, a bit gamy by that time." Slamming the trunk closed, I turned and took a short walk around the car. This would be the time for a cigarette if I smoked, or maybe even a hip flask and a quick shot for courage. But no flask.

Reopening the trunk, I asked, "Are you ready to begin your story?"

"You've got the wrong guy."

Slam went the trunk door. Second thoughts. The noise of that door slamming might attract attention. Gentle, gentle, is the way. After a time, I reopened the lid. "I'm losing patience. Your demise is close at hand. Will you talk?"

"OK. So I do know something." Hanif, bunched up in the trunk, gave his version of the truth, which I thought might be heavily laced with fiction.

"I do know something about the matter and I can check other facts with my cell phone. If you do not give me the truth and the whole truth, including the true name of your contacts with other terrorists in Pakistan, you are one dead man before the sun appears." With that I closed the trunk gently.

A longer wait this time, then reopening that chamber. "No more lying. My patience has run out. I promise I won't shoot you if you come clean."

He talked and talked. I questioned him, even made a few notes. Names, places. Finally, I told him I was satisfied and would take him to a spot where he would finally be released, a glorious spot indeed. So, down with the trunk lid, slowly, silently.

Off we went to a lovely place overlooking the city, twinkling lights below. Backing onto the lookout, I cut the engine and popped the trunk. "Out you come."

"I'm stiff. I'm not a young man." Finally, he was standing on the low wall at the front of the lookout, wondering where he was. "This is a strange place. Am I on some kind of wall? What are those lights? They seem far off." He was disoriented.

"One thing I failed to mention, Hanif, you are responsible for the death of the Senegalese girl, Oumou. For that you will have to be punished."

"I'm not a killer," he cried.

"Of course not. You would have had someone else take care of that. She talked, asked questions and you became suspicious. That poor innocent child. Goodbye, Hanif." A gentle nudge was enough to plunge him forward into the overlook. He didn't make a sound and I couldn't hear the impact of his body striking the rocky slope below, such was the distance.

My promise was honored. I did not shoot him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

After parking the car across from the overlook, dropping the keys on the floor, wiping away fingerprints, I walked back to the city center, found my room and got a few hours sleep. All cares had fled, silently stolen away. Calling Sylvia, I made arrangements to meet her for lunch.

Then I had coffee and croissants, my usual satisfying breakfast, took a walk and called Chet from a nearby park. The time difference was such that he railed at me for waking him up.

"OK," said I. "I've solved the money laundering mystery. I have names and places. I'll call you later in the day." He began to sputter, but I turned off the cell phone, knowing he would try to call me back. The hell with him and the rest of the CIA. I had my own gumshoes and I am a free American from the land of the free.

I did call my detectives in London and tell them the fun was over, to stop crying chaos and call off the dogs of war. My accountant would see that their excessive bill was paid.

Sylvia was a grinning imp at lunch. She had seen me usher Kurtha into the trunk. "I didn't follow. At that time of night, you might have noticed. And you seemed to have the situation well in hand. Whatever happened to that Islamic gentleman?"

"I'm sure I don't know. But your vigil is through."

"My office told me."

"Out of a job?"

"Temporarily."

"This might help. I passed her the sack I had been carrying. Your weapon, Madam, unfired, with extra rounds. Plus five thousand Euros."

Clutching the sack to her breast, she crooned, "Dear, Sir. You are a generous one."

"Generous to a fault, and only because I can afford to be. Shall we have wine?"

We had a grand lunch, hitting it off well with one another. So good, in fact, that we decided to do it again for dinner. After lunch, I sacked out for an hour in my hotel room before taking a walk and calling Chet. In the States the day was well advanced.

"Sorry I was so gruff this morning, Andy. But there's a huge time factor."

"Sorry I called so early. This money-laundering trick is so simple, I'm surprised they got by with it so long. It could be going on at other casinos. Here's how it works. The casino takes in quite a bit of money each day. That money is bundled up, usually about midnight, placed in a truck with two or three security men, including the driver, and taken to a bank's night depository."

"So far I'm with you," Chet said, letting me know that he was listening.

"When they find out the amount to be deposited, an employee of the casino calls the bad guys and tells them the amount. The bad guys make a similar bundle of funds to be laundered. This is Pakistani-Afghani dirty drug money, I assume. The truck simply makes a stop, picks up the dirty money, then deposits it as the casino earnings. The clean casino money is deposited into a terrorist account somewhere in the world, or maybe split up. But that's it."

"Too simple," Chet said.

"Yes, simplicity is the key. These double-domed schemes often fail from the get-go. I've got a few names for you."

Chet was given what I had, names and how the money reached Monaco. My threats had paid off big time. He then asked who the Monaco kingpin might be.

"An Islamic man named Hanif Kurtha." I spelled it out for him. "I don't believe he's with us any longer. I heard on the grapevine that there was an accident."

A short pause on the other end, then a question: "An accident?"

"So I've heard. He was thought to be the person responsible for the death of Oumou, the mother of my son. So I'm not overly distressed over his demise."

"Might you give me the details of this demise?"

"Might not your glorious CIA be able to do that little thing? I think I've done entirely enough, sacrificed enough. I'm history as far as Homeland Security is concerned."

"We've got a lot of mopping up to do, our boys, the FBI and the Monaco police. We can take it from here. As far as I'm concerned, Andy. You've done a great job. You know how badly I feel about Oumou, but it seems that justice may have been done."

Sitting on the park bench, wool gathering, after the phone call. Apparently the news had not yet gotten out about Kurtha's death. At least it wasn't on the brief segment of local TV news that I had watched. But he couldn't have survived that fall. As it turned out, the Monaco police where withholding the information in hopes of fitting pieces of the puzzle together.

It was a delicious joke. I had mentioned Kurtha's death before anyone, and no one, with the exception of myself, knew he was dead. What the hell, he was dead. That's all I cared about. Never could I forget Oumou, but there was small measure of satisfaction in the end to the villain who had caused that death.

So I showered, changed and made myself ready to dine with Sylvia. Could she replace Oumou? No. But she was a warm, lifelike body, with a pixy sense of humor. What fatal attraction did I have for the girls? I believe I had heard that it's just as easy to love a rich man as one burdened with poverty.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A more complete report on Larry Abraham had come to my hands via the London office. I wondered if he was simply addicted to lying, weaving falsehoods when the truth would serve him better, or had something to hide.

Seeking him out for a quiet cup of coffee a couple of days after the excitement, I asked if he had been aware that the casino was used for money laundering. He seemed sincerely shocked at the question.

"The authorities haven't contacted you yet?"

"No! What authorities?"

I attempted to shrug the whole thing off, but he pressed the point. "I just happen to be privy to information that Islamic terrorist groups have been using local casinos to launder their ill-gotten gains, then funneling the money to those nasty-minded suicide bombers and so forth."

"And where might I ask have you obtained this startling revelation," he asked haughtily.

"Listen, Konrad, I know many things. I know about the murder in Nice. I know about your DUI record. I know you were married twice, and I know enough not to tell all I know. Now believe me about the laundering. A word to the wise."

"OK, Andy. I know you've hinted at some things. So how does this laundering shit affect me?"

"It shouldn't if you're unaware of it. If you do know about it, then you're off to Devil's Island. Just keep your cool and pretend you've never heard about it. By the way, I've wondered why you've developed this web of lies. I like you, Larry, Konrad, or whatever. I suspect it's a family matter."

"Your instincts are valid. My grandfather was an officer in the Nazi SS. Very likely he sent quite a few people to their death in prison camps."

"Jews."

"Jews and others. We hear of six million Jews, but many non-Jews were executed. Cripples, gypsies, dwarfs, Protestants, people suspected of disloyalty. You name it."

"I'm sorry, Larry. He was not you, though. You've done well for yourself."

"I'm a damned liar, a damned fraud. My marriages failed, I've failed. Working in a hellhole like this. It's OK for the rich, but poor people lose so much money looking for a big killing. There have been suicides, broken marriages.

"Look, I do know what you mean by money laundering, and it happens all the time. A guy comes in, pays a thousand Euros cash for chips, makes a few bets, has a drink, maybe a sandwich, then cashes in his chips, maybe a thousand Euros. Presto, his money is laundered. What can we do?

"Then we have to deal with counterfeiters. Fortunately the Euro is hard to fake. It's like money wells up out of the ground around here, mostly cash. For anyone handling it there is a temptation to skim. We watch one another. We watch the clients for all manner of scams. There's a new one almost every week.

"And for all the money involved here, the operation is almost marginal because of the immense overhead. The casino must sparkle and be constantly updated or the client class will go elsewhere. The payroll is gigantic, everything from busboys to croupiers. That's why we have to send a daily flow of money to the bank so we can write those payroll checks.

"Then we have to try to keep the hookers under control. They're part of the equation, but we don't need them to run riot in the casino. Then there's sexually transmitted diseases to think of. Why should that be on our shoulders? Well it is, partially at least. It's a madhouse, a crisis every hour on the hour."

How to respond to his long rant? Finally, I said, "What can I say. Life is unfair. So it is. Get out. Become a fisherman, a car salesman, a schoolteacher. Hell, I'm not a counselor." I finished my coffee and said goodbye, probably for good.

Sylvia had moved in with me and the two of us planned a trip to Milan. I was packing to leave when Chet called. I told him I'd call him back in a few, still suspecting the rooms might be bugged.

Reaching him from my park office, he said I had mentioned Hanif Kurtha's death before his agents found out about it.

"I told you, I heard it on the grapevine. Apparently your boys aren't wired in. Have they given you any of the information I supplied about the laundering method and the Pakistani connection?"

"Frankly, no."

"Did my information check out?"

"In a word, yes. We've made a clean sweep of the operation, quietly taken out a few guilty parties, sent agents to Pakistan for follow up."

"So what kind of a dog and pony show are you running, Chet?"

"Apparently not a very good one. I'd like to talk with you about that."

"I've no time to chat, Chet. I've hooked up with a lady over here and we're off to Milan to chill out. So it looks like goodbye."

"I've heard about that lady. Sylvia, isn't it?"

"Your guys can't find their ass with two hands, so they blow smoke up your ass about what I'm doing. Who might I ask put them on to me?"

"You've got a good point, Andy. They wonder where and how you got your information. But I don't care about that. You did crack this operation, but I'd like to discuss other things."

"World peace, maybe? After Milan I'll be going back to the States for some hands-on work on my continuing western project. Say, if you can help me with that, we might talk turkey."

"Fine, Andy. In government one hand washes the other."

"And neither hand gets clean. See you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Sylvia was a fun girl. As a detective in Monaco she had spent most of her time chasing errant high living husbands with camera and tape recorder. She was ready to do some of the high living for her own enjoyment.

Milan, where the four-hour happy hour was developed and coffee as a delicious pasta sauce was created, is known as Europe's creative capital. It's not all that much for looks, but the sanctity of shopping is viewed as a religious experience.

The city lies on the Plains of Lombardy and is the world capital for design and fashion. Then there's the great food and endless joy at the clubs. It does boast a claim to the world's oldest shopping mall – Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in the Piazza D'Uomo.

To say Sylvia and I had a good time during our two week stint would be the mildest understatement. But all good things must end and I saw Sylvia off on a train bound for Monaco. I grabbed a first class flight to the States and eventually Las Vegas.

My thoughts often strayed to Oumou and Bella, but I knew at my age it wouldn't be long until I joined them, which gave me great comfort. It also crossed my mind that my business partner Betty Morgan might be thinking of picking up where we left off on our carnal liaison when I returned to Kingman. And why not?

With this in my dirty little mind, I asked the detective agency to keep an eye on her and keep me up to speed on the comings and goings of male companions. It seemed there was one. A creature of habit, he always spent Sunday night with her, departing at 7:30 a.m. Monday, no doubt for his job, whatever that might be.

Therefore, I arrived at her dwelling, and our office, at 7:00 a.m. one Monday morning and banged loudly on the door, to have it opened by an irate Betty with her male companion staring out just behind her.

"I'm back," I cheerfully announced. Her expression changed three times in three seconds, finally settling down to a placid Mona Lisa smile.

"You should have called," she said softly, a glance behind her told her of his presence.

"I thought you'd like a surprise. Anyway, I'll have breakfast then be back in a couple of hours." Off I went, having established what I wanted to establish, a stable business relationship.

When I returned she was dressed in a sensible pantsuit and we got down to business, her filling me in on progress and, most of all, public acceptance now that the cat was out of the bag.

"The headquarters are up and running, smack in the middle of the land," she explained. "Our city planners are out there brainstorming. The monorail idea has received mixed reviews. The incredible cost is the biggest drawback, plus the footprint on public land. But there's a new wrinkle."

I was happy I had stayed out of the fray. Betty seemed to be doing a good job, hiring the right people. Rubbing my head, I felt tired and a little stressed from all the travel, from all the woes of the world. The poets were right, money can't buy everything, although it helps.

"Can we have coffee, then go on with this?"

"Certainly," Betty responded.

I remembered too late that female workers feel abused when asked to make coffee for their boss. But she made the coffee and produced toast and marmalade. This was her home.

"What new twist?" I asked, slathering marmalade on buttered toast.

"Joint venture. A Japanese firm has offered to go halfsies on a tower, a really tall one, something like they're building in Dubai or Saudi Arabia. You know those rich Arabs with their big ideas."

This was a surprise. I pulled on my left earlobe, trying to straighten my thoughts. Finally, I spoke. "My vision is of a self-contained, horizontal bedroom community serving Las Vegas by means of a super-swift monorail. Who would inhabit this tower?"

"Businesses. Swift elevators carrying passengers from floor to floor. The hustle and bustle of commerce, alive, vibrant, electric, charging the air."

"Sounds off the wall."

"Au contraire. Your new city, what will you call it? Andyville? Andyburg? Whatever. It would be self-contained to a certain extent. No immediate need for a monorail. Everything would be there. Hearth and home. Shopping of all kinds, local transit of the green variety, and then offices to carry forth commerce."

"It does make some sense," I agreed. "So get the lawyers in on it and carry on exploratory consultations. Costs, locations, architectects and guarantees that our partners will come up with their share. Generally, you can trust the Japanese. Unlike the Chinese."

She nodded, sipped her coffee, and finally asked, "Are you angry with me?"

"Of course not. You're doing good work."

"I mean personally."

"Personally I think you're great. But you have your life. I'm still a seeker."

She smiled. "I'll call the Japanese. Would you like to go to Osaka? That's where they are."

"I've been there and their post-modern architecture is ghastly. You might check out that monster building in Kuala Lumpur as well as the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea. And I think I did read that elevators are the key to success. There's something called a sky lobby, a transfer station. You take a fast express up and then switch to a local."

"So we bull ahead?"

"Why not. The cautious seldom err – but they can be boring."

"Let's not go there. We're getting a lot of press on this project. Usually they want to speak to you. You up for a press conference?"

"In a word, no. I would like to go out to our headquarters, out here in that wasteland. Is it habitable? That is can I get a room?"

"Plenty of vacant rooms. There is a bar and kitchen and food, but generally it's self-serve. You want me to go with you? We could, you know, share."

Betty's offer was tempting, in fact overwhelming. She owed her success to me. Was I taking advantage of her? Or was she taking advantage of me? Maybe it was mutual. "My bag's in the car. How do we get there?"

She was all smiles. "It'll take me a few seconds to pack. I'll call for a chopper."

"Wonderful. We will be lifted and whisked away." As we waited for the chopper, I thought of all the Harris money we were spending, several fortunes. Then a bromide crossed my mind: A great fortune is great slavery. Not always true, not when one has someone like Betty, a trusted lieutenant.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

As if our thoughts were united, Betty mentioned Harris as we cut our bonds with Earth. "He must have been a brilliant man to accumulate all that lucre."

"Not brilliant. Inherited, just like me. Harris was born on third base and stole second."

"I love sports metaphors," she babbled. "You know I think my house might be haunted. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I believe in gravity." We were still climbing and moving off toward the wastelands she had wisely purchased. "I feel its pull now. I used to believe the world was flat and that man would never fly, but I've gone through a process of maturation that is still in play."

She patted my hand. "Never stop learning, never stop growing, never give up sex."

Now we were clipping along flat out and it was hard to hear, but I posed a question anyway, "What is abstract expressionism?"

She looked at me with that go to hell gleaming smile. "Don't you just love art?"

We both fell silent for the rest of the short trip, bid goodbye to our pilot and entered the headquarters building. The exterior was not landscaped and the interior smelled new. Betty introduced me to the cook who seemed to be the only one around. He suggested a room, or rooms, on the second floor balcony overlooking the lobby. It was Betty's idea that we bunk together.

It seemed the city planners and surveyors were out surveying and planning. We found a couple of cold beers and flopped on a low couch in the lobby. "We need to buy land in Bullhead City or Laughlin, near Davis Dam," I said.

"I know." For all her crazy talk, Betty was no dope. "I've bought three lots in Laughlin. We needed to be on that side of the river. Our main land, where we sit, gives us the Arizona connection. From Laughlin it's about sixty miles to Las Vegas. That's a long stretch for a monorail."

"Two monorails. We need cars moving swiftly in both directions. I've got a friend in Washington."

"Yeah," Betty chuckled. "They say if you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog."

"Mutual dependence. Quid pro quo. We need to recruit pols in both states, plus California. Needles isn't that far away. Anyone with the fare can ride and mighty welcome."

"Take a trip on the ghost monorail. Anyway, the Laughlin city Dads will find you're a landowner there. I've tried to put lots together so you'll have a station for your phantom train."

"You're a wonder." We clicked our beer bottles, drank up, then wandered about until we found what passed as a war room with a large table and satellite maps of the area, with lines of demarcation carefully drawn and overlays illustrating possible layouts. "Isn't it wonderful? To think you and I set this in motion." Betty just grinned and ran her fingers over the plots.

We spent the next couple of days networking with the city planners and the construction boss and driving over the land in a rugged four-wheeler. The scope of the thing was beyond me. As far as I was concerned it was on automatic pilot. My job was to keep the flow of cash coming and that was no problem.

CHAPTER FORTY

Early in the morning on the fourth day, Chet called and asked me to fly to Washington, even offering to pay my fare. So here was our mutual interest, whatever it was he wanted from me. I hoped it was advice.

The chopper carried me to Vegas, and I touched down at National Airport, the one they had attempted to name after the Great Communicator, at midmorning the following day.

One of those men in black, with the equally mysterious black cars, met me and my sad little carry-on and whisked me off to CIA headquarters. So I never really got into Washington. What lands in Northern Virginia stays in Northern Virginia, a part of the state that the remainder of Virginia wishes would go away.

Perhaps I was expecting to meet with a group, but, as it happened, a secretary ushered me into a small conference room for a one-on-one session with good old Chet. He was all smiles and had high praise for the accomplished mission in Monaco.

"We were backing you all the way," he chimed, resisting the urge to slap me on the back. What is he up to, I pondered, but soon found out. Another mission, a chance to join his group in earnest.

"You seem to have a sixth sense for this, uh, occupation," said he.

"Your guys were fairly good at watching me," I retorted. "A known target in a known location. Also, I'm really not as good as you say. I had some help, I had some luck." And I really didn't want to put on the cloak and carry a government issued dagger.

"Luck is often the name of the game, Andy. And you're that lucky person."

"Lucky, perhaps, until one turns up dead."

"No morbid thoughts, please. Let me outline the mission."

"I'll listen, but first let me outline my interest. I'm starting a new town in the wilds of Arizona and I will need government help in building a sixty-mile long rapid monorail to link it to Las Vegas where the jobs are. Can you help me?"

Chet was quiet, pondering. Finally, he spoke. "We can do a lot in the name of national security. And we have other assets, basically friends in Congress and in the Administration who owe us."

"Another big angle here is conservation. The monorail moves thousands without the aid of gasoline. The new town will be greener than green – windmills, solar panels, any energy-saving innovation in or out of the book."

Chet nodded. "I think we can do business."

"I mean that much to you?"

"Your cover is ideal. There was a girl in Monaco, Sylvia, we've thought of picking her for your partner. How does that sit?"

What could I say? Chet had just iced the cake. Adventure, danger, life on the edge and Sylvia. What red-blooded American boy could refuse?

So Chet laid down the mission.

"To begin with," Chet said, "we have a saying around these hallowed halls: To fear death is worse than death."

"Something like," I responded pertly, "a coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man dies but once."

"Very nicely put," Chet agreed, "but not totally original. To get down to cases, I'm aware of your new town concept in Arizona. You might know that Prince Charles of the United Kingdom, what's left of it, has been working on a self-sustaining, picture-perfect project for years."

"That land," I rejoined, "was inhabited before the Roman Empire. My acreage couldn't even support native Americans."

"But the Colorado River is nearby. Anyway, we're getting off topic. There is an assignment and we can get Sylvia on board. The two of you are to go to London and rent a flat, find a young couple, kidnap victims, restore them to their families. That's it."

"That simple," said I. "Why not let Scotland Yard and a Bobbie or two do the job?"

"Large secret, deep in the lodge. But the Yard has been informed and is looking around. This is not an ordinary couple."

"Aliens? Mutants? Crazed Typhoid Marys?"

"Blue bloods. Elitists. Moneyed U.S. aristocracy."

"Both of them?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

I was incredulous. "This is a CIA case?"

"Homeland Security. CIA. Somebody has to do it and the President picked us."

"But not really us, like in us. Sylvia and me, we're outsiders. If we fail, you're off the hook to some extent. If we succeed, you take credit. Is this win-win for you?"

"Not at all," Chet said grimly, a serious frown creasing his forehead. "We're talking about the lives of two young people, youngsters on the threshold of adulthood. Gifted young folks with a lifetime ahead of them."

I was not impressed. "These kidnappings. They usually play out over a very short time span. If things don't work out the victims, in this case God's gift to the young adult world, are generally killed and tossed into a ditch or a river, or cremated. Yet you first approached me some time back."

"True, Andy. I wanted you on board for another matter, but this came up.

And it was flagged 'urgent.'"

"But still, time has slipped by."

"This is not your ordinary kidnapping."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Chief Inspector Harry Cameron, New Scotland Yard, had just arrived at the American Embassy to find the Goldstein's and DuPray's staring listlessly at nothing in particular. Despair was in the air.

"You have word from the kidnappers?" he asked the group of four.

Ambassador DuPray made a hopeless motion with his right hand, then pointed to a letter on the coffee table. "It's from Mark and Eloise, as advertised."

The Inspector nodded and gingerly picked up the letter. "I suppose there'll be no fingerprints."

"Except Mark's and Eloise's," the ambassador said. "We were informed by the initial note that we would get such a letter and here it is."

"Yes, indeed," harrumphed the Inspector. "No prints on the first one either." He opened the letter and read aloud:

"Dear Mom and Dad –

"We have been treated very well, except for the journey here. We have no idea where we are. Our food is OK. We have a good place to sleep, clean clothing, access to radio and TV. Quite a few videos. Catching up on old films like Casablanca and Gone with the Wind.

"The people here want 50,000 pounds a month. They will send a messenger on the Thursday morning after you receive this letter. If you attempt to molest him in any way, if you attempt to follow him, they will punish us severely. Their options include waterboarding, deprivation of food, locking us in a closet, taking our clothing away and other innovative unpleasant things.

"If the payment, or payments, are made, we will continue to get good treatment, including medical aid if needed, and will eventually be released. So we both hope that our families comply with the instructions. No harm has come to us and we are in good spirits.

"With Love, Mark and Eloise."

"Are these the true signatures of your children?" the Inspector questioned.

All four parents responded in the affirmative. In fact the body of the letter was handwritten with each of the children doing alternate paragraphs.

The Ambassador, who seemed to be the spokesman for the four, said, "We intend to meet the conditions of the letter to the letter. We will give up the cash and not follow the messenger. We hope you will do the same."

"In a case like this," the Inspector replied, "we would tend to respect the wishes of the parents. I'm assuming there will be future letters and future evidence that the two young people are alive and well. Are they both nineteen?"

"Eloise is eighteen," Mr. Goldstein said. "Mark is nineteen."

"And good friends," the Inspector said.

"Very much so," Mrs. Goldstein allowed.

"Then I'll say good day. Please make a note of the appearance, height, weight, hair and eye color of the messenger, although I doubt he's in league with these blackguards. I'll keep the letters, and keep me informed."

When he was gone, Mrs. DuPray said, "I think the children are being well cared for."

The others nodded and the Ambassador rose to pour sherry all around.

In their place of captivity, Mark DuPray III and Eloise Goldstein had finished a full English breakfast and were watching cartoons on the telly. Books and magazines were strewn around the room. Through a barred window they could hear their housekeeper and cook singing to herself as she washed up from breakfast.

The two had been snatched as they exited a club in the Soho area in the early morning hours. Black bags were thrown over their heads and they had been lightly bound and transported far away. The bags had been replaced by sleep masks and they had been cautioned not to remove them or attempt to peek on threat of death.

Then came two or three days of transit, seemingly by truck, maybe a part of it by train, although that would be unusual. They would never be normal passengers, blinded as they were and bundled up in light blankets. They knew the final leg was via boat. Salt air, the smell of fish, the pounding engine, rocking two and fro, sometimes breasting a serious wave. Then hustled into this big old house with only the housekeeper, or better yet cook.

They called her Mama and she fixed their meals and passed them through a narrow slot. She washed up, did their laundry, furnished them with extra clothing, told them that if they kept their room tidy she would let them go for outdoor walks. Apparently, she controlled the lock on the front door with some sort of electrical device.

They puzzled over the walk business. How could this be? They could simply walk and walk and keep on going. Maybe she thought they were like cats, that in time they would consider this room where they were housed in comfort and well fed as home, returning like the swallows to Capistrano. But they would keep the room straight and find out. They would smile at one another and touch hands and say, "Soon we will be walking outside. Delicious."

The one thing they lacked, or the several things they lacked, were birth control devices. Sleeping together like they were, pregnancy seemed a given. Both sets of parents had objected to their mating. Eloise was a JAP, a Jewish American Princess, her father a mercantile mogul from Brooklyn.

Mark was the scion of an old New England family, right up there with Cabots and Lodges.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Sylvia and I had barely settled into our London flat when we were visited by the CIA agent stationed at the Embassy. He said his name was Dick and he was properly furtive.

"You been with the company long?" he questioned.

Sylvia smiled from the couch and said she'd make tea. I allowed that we are simple private citizens recruited for this task.

Dick was instantly suspicious. "You have special credentials? Special training?"

"Not really. Our handler told me I'm lucky."

"You're lucky!" Dick almost rose from his seat. "This flat costs a bundle. What the hell is the company up to? You have inside information?"

"Not a shred." Sylvia inquired if he'd like cream in his tea. "It is a nice flat though. We're between Covent Garden and Waterloo Bridge. Quite a jolly walk from here along the Strand to Trafalgar Square. Jolly, that's a British term, isn't it?"

"I suppose, but it's also used in America around Christmas time. And no cream. Filthy English habit. Do you have shortbread?"

"Of course," Sylvia said pleasantly, then added, "Can you help us crack this case? We're thinking of traveling to Malta when we're done."

Dick looked from me to Sylvia. The company has recruited a couple of lunatics. What's the real story here?"

"What you see is what you get," I replied. "We would like to have a look at the letters. Do you have them?"

"No. Chief Inspector Cameron. New Scotland Yard. I assume you do have ID of some kind?"

I nibbled shortbread and sipped tea. Sylvia drank tea, but thought the shortbread fattening. Of course she was right, a combination of butter, sugar and flour in equal parts isn't on the Weight Watcher's agenda.

Dick seemed eager to finish his snack and depart. My guess is that he would soon be on the phone to Northern Virginia. And our next stop was New Scotland Yard and the chief inspector.

We did go to the Yard and we did meet the chief inspector, a gruff old bird who brought both letters out of the property room. We both examined them carefully, made notes of the ink type, as much as we could determine, and the writing paper, and I gave them a good sniff, which puzzled the inspector.

"Remarkable nose you must have. Are they perfumed?"

"No. Just plain paper, not a lady's stationary. There is a certain odor, but I'm not certain what it might be. But it does offer a clue, I suppose."

"Bloody Sherlocks, the two of you," Cameron laughed. "We've been told to lay off, not follow the messenger. Just as well. Too much manpower involved." He looked us both over and shook his head. "Best of luck, you'll need plenty, dotty sniffer."

"Thanks, Inspector, you've been a great help."

"Glad to be of service. Drop in again sometime." He chuckled again. "Brief us on your methods. You could head a seminar for our poor benighted coppers."

On that cheery note, we departed. For starters, when we learned the agent was coming for the cash, we would attempt surveillance, not to follow, or shadow as they say in the novels, but to station people here and there to keep a watch. Sylvia's former detective firm would be enlisted for the task.

And I did know the smell from the sniff test I had given the two letters. They smelled like fish.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Mark and Eloise had straightened up their room until it could be a piece for Home & Garden. They had found mops and cleaning materials in their bathroom. It had taken two whole days, but they were certain Mama would be pleased and she was.

"You children," she said through the bars. "After lunch you've earned a walk." She had prepared potted meat sandwiches slathered with mustard, plus canned tomato soup for their noontide meal. There were also crackers and a cookie treat. It was hard to imagine Mama being in cahoots with a band of kidnappers. Perhaps they were unfortunates who fell back on this type of enterprise as a last desperate resort.

At any rate, they did not want to appear overeager to leave the house, yet they brimmed with excitement over the chance to get out and make a desperate escape. They had detected no guards lurking nearby, but their view of the outside world was seriously restricted by barred and shuttered windows.

Finishing their lunch and returning the plates, silver and napkins to the window pass-through, they carefully cleaned crumbs from the table and donned light jackets and stocking caps and told Mama they were ready to go walking.

"Now you kids don't overdo it," Mama warned. "And be back well before dinner so you can take a rest. If you wander too far and get caught after dark, well, just don't do that. The coldness creeps in at dark and a body could freeze during the night, especially when the wind rises and it usually does. Now be good and don't get lost."

They assured her they would be the best of children and she buzzed them out the front door.

Eloise couldn't suppress a muted "Whoopee" as they walked away from the house, slowly at first in case Mama was watching, then faster as they turned a corner out of sight. They saw another house down the dirt road and went into a jog to reach it quickly.

"Deserted," Mark said sadly. "And has been for years. No windows. No doors, the roof mostly gone. There's something else on down the road."

Now walking closer, Eloise finally said, "It's the foundation of an old house. This whole area seems to be deserted. Do you hear something?"

Mark listened intently. "The sea. We're near the seashore." Just beyond a line of stunted trees and brush they found the ocean, wild waves splashing on the shore, the wind cut their faces like a knife and chilled their bodies through the light jackets. Only their heads were warm under the wool hats.

"There's no swimming here," Eloise said.

Mark sighed. "I've got an idea where we are. My only year of college included British history and geography."

"What an odd thing to study," Eloise said. "Eastern Europe or the Middle East would be so much more interesting."

"Not if your forefathers are from these islands. Anyway, Mama was right. If we stay out here we freeze. This island is deserted except for the one house. If we return we each get a pint of beer and a bottle of wine to split with dinner. Which do you prefer?"

"And snuggling together in a warm bed. Ah, the joys of genteel captivity. I was born for this life."

"So we can have our walks and we can please Mama and maybe I've learned something. I'm guessing the Outer Hebrides and maybe I can zero in even closer."

Eloise laughed into the sharp wind. "And phone good old Dad in London to send the fleet." A mewing seagull came close, seeking food. "We can bring bread next time for the birds."

"It must be a devil of a job to resupply the house occasionally."

"For fifty thousand quid a month, it seems possible. You suppose this is a life sentence?"

"Let's start back, I'm chilled through and we've been gone less than half an hour. We can dress warmer next time. If we look at this sojourn as paradise, it's bound to end soon."

Smiling broadly, Eloise said, "Let's enjoy it while we can. I love Mama."

"Me too."

They joined hands and plodded back to their home.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"We'll never crack this case by watching the messenger. He could be told to slip down into the tube and switch trains for half a day, jumping on and off at the last minute. Then go to the Oak and Crown and give the package to the old man with the red hat. Walking into the pub he would find five old men sipping pints, each wearing a red hat. So what do you think?"

"We have to do something and I'm still trying to think," I replied.

"I have a grand theory," Sylvia announced. We were drinking our second cup of coffee and had just finished watching the news on the telly. More suicide bombings in the Middle East. "And it's not just a crackpot theory, either."

She seemed proud of herself, and I asked her to unveil her advanced thinking.

"Well, we know the parents are opposed to the two marrying, each for their own reasons. Right?"

"Check."

"We also know the kids have no marketable skills, would rather not work."

"Right again."

"So they kidnapped themselves. Probably sitting in some loft on the Left Bank trying to paint pictures with an income of almost fifty thousand pounds a month, minus expenses."

"That had crossed my mind."

"You say that now, but I spoke first."

"A silent fool will pass for a wise man," I retorted.

"No more of your silly, meaningless platitudes. Let's go out and get a real breakfast, the full Monty."

"Good by me," I said rising. "But if they did kidnap themselves, we still must solve the puzzle. It's just another twist of the turn."

"Or we could fail and disappoint Chet. Then with my looks and your money, the world would be ours."

"I can see my entire life unfolding before me, the little that I have left. Sadly, man is the only animal who knows he must die."

"No more philosophy, Andy. Let's eat." And off we went.

I did have a theory, which I kept to myself. To my way of thinking, the kids were not clever enough, although they were both bright, but perhaps not criminally inclined enough, to kidnap themselves. They would know that as certain as night follows day there would be consequences. Maybe not geniuses, but the certain penalties would repel them.

Another month passed and another fifty thousand pounds changed hands. As the money was packaged, according to instructions, I suggested we begin writing to the kidnappers. A note on top of the money demanding a videotape, possibly showing a recent newspaper, to prove the two were alive and well. If the video seemed authentic, the flow of cash would continue. If not, we would guess the two were dead.

Then we waited for another month. Such waiting was not intolerable for us. London had become a great food town in recent years. It had also been big on live theater. We even spent a night at the opera to the delight of Sylvia. I slyly remarked, "Anything too stupid to be spoken, can be sung."

She looked my way and smiled. Was she making fun of me, me in a rented tux, she in a two hundred quid gown. What we would do with all her shopping victories when we were ready to pull up stakes, I didn't know. But there were play-it-again charity stores.

Then the video arrived, along with the time the messenger would pop in.

We were all to get together for the first viewing. When Sylvia and I arrived the others were already there, and Goldstein was telling a humorous story: "It seems a man in Manhattan ordered a full course meal beginning with soup. After the first spoonful he summoned the waiter and said, 'This cabbage soup isn't sour enough.'

"The waiter said, 'Cabbage soup? This is noodle soup.'

"The customer was apologetic. 'For noodle soup, it's sour enough.'"

I chuckled, DuPray smiled, Inspector Cameron looked puzzled. The women comforted one another.

"Shall we begin," DuPray said, switching on the video.

Mark and Eloise were seated at the single table facing the camera. The room had a comfortable look. They each had a cup, probably tea or coffee. A plate of cookies and a fairly new issue of the Times also graced the table. Mark began:

"Hi, everyone. Eloise and I are fine. Good food, good exercise, clean clothing, we keep the large quarters in good shape. Lots to read, lots of videos to watch, we're actually improving our minds, if that's possible. Daily Scrabble games give us an edge. Your turn, Eloise."

She beamed a bright smile. "Of course we miss our parents. But what Mark says goes for me too. We are very likely the best treated, least abused kidnap victims ever. And there is hope of release. One item on my mind..." She turned to Mark. "Should I tell them?"

"They've got to know sooner or later."

"OK. I'm pregnant."

Mrs. Goldstein gasped, "Oy vey. Pregnant, and by a goy. What's to become of us? No pretty wedding. No cake. No beautiful dresses."

Goldstein shushed her as the video continued.

"I suggested they kidnap a GYO, but that was rejected. Our keeper, a very kindly woman, who is actually not a kidnapper, but merely a domestic, explained to me that women giving birth is an ancient and very natural practice. Whether it's done here, in this pleasant captivity, or in some cold, sterile, uncaring hospital.

"Of course Mark and I had no birth control possibilities and we were thrown together."

Mrs. Goldstein gasped again, talking directly to the video. "Haven't you ever heard of oral sex? What's wrong with you young people?"

Again she was shushed by her spouse, who put his arm around her and stage whispered, "Lamb Chop, we're going to be grandparents. It's a time of joy."

"Joy and a goy no grand wedding," Lamb Chop replied as the video continued.

The two of them asked that the money flow be continued, pointing out that a portion of it was used for their own wholesome standard of living. I had detected some humming throughout the video, which continued as the couple held hands and waved goodbye. I wondered if they had made this video in one sitting. There would have been serious warnings about what they could and could not say.

Goldstein seemed pleased that the daughter was pregnant and thought that might lead to early release. Mrs. Goldstein and Mrs. DuPray were not the happiest of campers. DuPray himself seemed unmoved. Inspector Cameron had muttered two words – "By Jove."

The Inspector would take the tape to the Yard for analysis. I asked if I might have an audio copy.

"Just sound?" he questioned.

"Just sound," I replied.

"Another one of your dotty clues? Like the sniff test."

"Exactly."

Then we were off with the promise of the tape that very afternoon to be delivered to our flat by special Bobby. Calling Chet, I told him I might have a break in the case and asked, because of the ambassador's involvement, whether it might be possible to get the help of a few U.S. Marines, or even Royal Marines.

He said he would do his best and I asked him to keep the information in strictest confidence. No CIA involvement, please.

That evening, eating in, playing the audio tape several times as we enjoyed cocktail hour, then hake in lemon sauce with asparagus, lingering over a trendy little Chablis, my theory was confirmed to my satisfaction.

"We meshed," I announced to the world, which consisted of me and Sylvia. "Mark and I came together in triumphant fashion and I'll bet my pink pajama I know where they are."

"Where?" asked Sylvia with a slight smirk. Skeptics!

"The walls have ears," was my retort, then I made the mistake of reciting a little verse: Men have many faults, women have but two. There's nothing good they say, there's nothing right they do."

Sylvia bristled.

"It's just a bit of verse I heard once, stuck in my mind. Nonsense of course. Shall we crack another bottle?"

"That might help, plus your groveling around on the floor for maybe half an hour. Men!"

The following morning, even before coffee, the man who called himself Dick was at the door.

Enter he did and announced grandly, "I've learned from Langley that there's a break in the case. So now the professionals will take over."

"Who are they?" I questioned.

"I'm the point man in London. I'll organize this mission. So, what do you have?"

Sylvia suggested coffee, but Dick was in no mood to tarry. I told her I'd like coffee if she'd make it, and flopped into a comfortable chair.

"I have a hunch. Nothing more. If it comes together, we will each have a role to play."

"Then tell me your hunch and I'll evaluate," Dick demanded.

"You may have heard that a rooster makes more racket than the hen that lays the egg. I am but a rooster, crowing about my hunches during this long dry spell. Until something comes to fruition, I am loath to speak of it. How about some coffee?"

"So, it's idle boasting. Well, good day, Sir. Madam." Dick quit our luxury flat in a snit and we enjoyed coffee and then out we went for breakfast. There are cooks in England, particularly the morning variety.

After breakfast, certain that the sun had risen in the States, I called Chet and indicated my displeasure of Dick learning about our conversation.

"This is a CIA matter," he replied. "Quite delicate. High-level U.S citizens involved. Dick will give you a role in the recovery."

"Chet, I'm not going to let the CIA bollocks this up. You're out of the loop."

"I can fire you, Andy. Have a care."

"Fire me? Fire Sylvia? You haven't hired us. How can you fire us?"

"You're dealing with the CIA, you know. Also Homeland Security. We have our methods."

"I've seen your methods. If you're smart, you'll stay out of it and let the two of us handle the situation."

"I can't do that. There's too much at stake. I've got the word from upstairs. Dick is taking over the case."

"OK. Please let Dick know that we're at his service. What sort of task will he set for us?"

"That's up to him. Time will tell."

Hanging up, I asked Sylvia if she got the gist of the conversation.

She laughed. "We're working for that moron Dick now?"

"No. I just hoped they wouldn't put a tail on us. You know they were watching me in Monaco."

"Just when it pleased them. Apparently they didn't accompany you and that nice Muslim gentleman on your midnight ride. Or see him reveling in the pre-dawn sunrise on that lookout pinnacle where he clumsily went over the side."

"Yes, I believe they missed that episode. So we must trek north at our best pace. If we move with alacrity, Dick and his chums will have to have a couple of organizational meetings before the thought of watching us crosses their mind. So, let us flee."

"And what is your fabulous clue?" Sylvia demanded.

"The humming," I responded. "Did it not sound melodic?"

"Indeed it did," said she. "I detected a haunting note, a very nice tune, but what of it?"

A wicked smile traced my countenance. My knowledge of obscure songs and Mark's knowledge of geography had come together. "It was the Mingulay Boat Song," I proudly announced.

"What of it," said she, a trace of scorn in her voice.

"They are being held on the island of Mingulay, uninhabited for almost a hundred years. So off we go, with proper stealth, of course."

"Of course."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

After their first outing with its frustrated goal of escaping, Mark and Eloise settled into a series of walks not far from the house with Mama's blessing. Their keeper pointed out that wholesome exercise was a key to successful childbirth; also that they were blessed in not having access to facilities that might disclose the sex of their child.

"What has happened to the mystery of childbirth?" she would ask. "Selecting names for a child of either sex, or one name for both, like Pat, and the surprised and happy parents on the date of delivery, the thrill of that first cry."

It was almost as if she were the grandmother. She cautioned Eloise to go easy on the beer and wine, though she never stopped supplying those two precious commodities.

Mark would raise his glass at dinner each night and repeat, "I wonder what the vintner buys one half as precious as the stuff he sells?" A little something from the tentmaker.

It had at first dawned on Mark, what with the wild sea, the raw climate, the taste of Scotland, that they were in the Outer Hebrides with its splendid isolation, a place where Scottish Gaelic is still spoken. He had always been a geographer, his leaning in that direction bolstered in prep school and his one year of college.

There were people on many of the islands, but others were uninhabited. So it boiled down to an island that had once been inhabited, now abandoned. In his mind that left Mingulay, a wild place once inhabited by the Vikings more than a thousand years back, then the Scots, and finally abandoned. It was the subject of a beautiful, melodious tribute song that had been performed over the years by four or five folk and semi-folk groups. The song coursed through his brain and he struck up on his plan to hum when he learned a video would be made.

Would anyone pay attention? One could hope. But anyway, he and Eloise were quite happy here with a baby on the way. Mama had promised to lay in supplies and get how-to pamphlets when the time approached.

Meanwhile, with the books, the videos, the frequent walks and the good food and drink – life was good. Both Mark and Eloise had suffered during their early years with birder fathers. The lessons, boring at the time, blossomed during their wholesome walks.

Puffins, of course, were easily identifiable. And there were many. It was Eloise who first spotted the razorbills flying in devious patterns from their nests in the sea cliffs. Both of them knew the Black-legged Kittiwakes, but only from the bird books they had been forced to pore over endlessly. Of course there were gulls of several varieties.

Huddled on the only beach on the eastern side of the island, protected from the savage wind, but in sight and sound of the boisterous sea, they drank coffee from a thermos and munched a type of French donut Mama had prepared for their outing.

Smiling at one another, they reveled in their good fortune at being kidnapped and landing in such a place. They had found many common interests, not only in birds, but also in books, videos, verse and the love of life itself.

"This is the stuff dreams are made of," Eloise remarked. And Mark agreed.

But that morning, on the way from the old village to the cove, they had seen a few sheep and speculated that, if there were sheep, could the shepherd be far behind?

When they returned they asked Mama about the sheep.

"Yes, there are sheep, but there is no shepherd. They are set free to be on their own like wild beasts. In the spring the farmers will come and shear their heavy winter coats and gather the lambs.

"It will be a long stormy winter and when they come for the sheep in the spring, if we're still here, they'll not bother us. We are just past Michaelmas now and the winter before us."

"What's Michaelmas?" Eloise inquired.

"The Feast of Michael and All Angels," Mama replied cheerily. "There was a time when it involved a special cake, and I believe I know that cake. It's called St. Michael's bannock. And we'll feast on that tomorrow."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Sometimes I wondered who was looking out from my eyes. Thoughts turned to the stars vanishing with the rising sun and other wonders. And Bella and Oumou and my first wife, the first love, cloud my thoughts. Why am I here and what have I gotten into? But on I plod with remarkable good cheer.

Bound for the Outer Hebrides, we made our way to the Inner Hebrides, the Isle of Skye to be exact and Portree, the largest settlement with its quaint harbor. Surely this is the place where one would take a vessel to confront the stormy sea on the way to Mingulay.

For two days I graced the bar at the Clan of Leod, nursing pints and chatting harmlessly to locals. At the same time, Sylvia, camera in hand, plied the docks, chatting up fishermen and others, dropping the name Mingulay here and there.

Comparing notes over dinner on the second night, a warm haggis and a dry red wine, we had struck the same mother lode. It was no secret among the locals that a Captain Donald McDiarmid of the vessel The Piper was supplying some eccentrics who inhabited the lone livable house on Mingulay.

The next morning, after coffee, we broached this McDiarmid who lived aboard The Piper with a small terrier named Rat.

"We're a couple of bird watchers, Americans, thinking about our fine feathered friends on Mingulay. We understand you're familiar with the island."

"Late in the season, my friends. Rough seas and howling winds. Bone chilling on that island. No inns, nowhere to stay. Perhaps next summer. You could camp."

"But we've heard you supply a household out there. Figured you would do it through the winter."

"Aye, that's the truth. Hermits, I suppose. But I leave the supplies at the edge of the harbor, near what is called the Village, but a ruined village, save for one snug dwelling. They have a small truck, actually not a truck, just a farm utility vehicle. I never see them. Have never seen them."

"Hermits?"

"I suppose."

"But hermits live alone, don't they."

McDiarmid patted Rat on the head. "Would you and the missus care for tea? I have little to do at this season. When the weather allows I have a crew and we fish, but it's stormy these days. And hermits they may not be, if that is an occupation, but they are an odd lot to spend their time in such a place."

Sylvia said she would like tea and I agreed. The cabin was large and cozy, an electric heater buzzed in one corner. Three stairs forward, likely to a sleeping area.

When the three of us were seated with our steaming cups, I asked if ten thousand pounds might persuade him to take us to the island.

A crackling grin traced his weathered face and his bright blue eyes fairly danced. "You must be as daft as those on the island."

"Perhaps," Sylvia agreed. "But if we are daft, we are rich daft."

"And would it be birds you're after?" the captain inquired.

"A type of bird," said I. "But legal."

"If legal, I'd be interested." He opened a sack of doggy treats and dropped one on the floor for Rat who gobbled it down and begged for more. "It's no satisfying this animal. A dog will eat itself to death. A cat knows better."

"The reason for the isolation and the supplies and so forth is that a young couple are being held there, kidnap victims, held for a continuing ransom. We hope to free them," I explained.

"That no sounds like a task for a simple fisherman," McDiarmid said grimly. "I'd best keep out of it."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I had hoped to keep the entire thing quiet. You see they recently sent a video to their parents, quite rich parents, and their keeper was described as a simple domestic and a good person. We had hoped to send her home too, Scot free if you don't mind the term. You must have ferried someone across to make that video."

The captain agreed. "An odd duck he was, said almost nothing. Carried a camera and a tripod. I waited in the cove. He was gone maybe half hour or so." Patting Rat on the head, he finished off his tea to indicate the interview was over.

"So, you won't help us."

"I'll not get involved."

"Then it's the Crown. You'll be arrested, of course. Your boat seized by the Crown. If you'd like, we'll take Rat to a shelter. Without a master, they'll put him down."

McDiarmid stared in confusion. "I'm not a criminal. I'll not be taken."

"Of course you are. You'll be rolled into custody and surely convicted. You're an important link in a criminal chain of kidnapers."

"I've no knowledge of that," he insisted, rising to his feet. He was flushed with anger.

I nodded to Sylvia. "Cover him." She pulled her revolver from her purse and aimed it at his chest. "We're American law officers. Authorized to carry weapons. If you give us trouble, you will be shot down.

"Innocent, or guilty, there's no court that would not convict you of kidnapping. Possibly your attorney can enter a plea of gross stupidity and your sentence might be reduced to say twenty years. I've no idea about Scottish law."

McDiarmid squinted at Sylvia and her weapon, but took his seat. "I'm flabbergasted. And you say they'll take my boat and Rat?"

"Of course. Boats and dogs have no place in prison. But you'll meet new people. Probably some from right here in Portree."

"But if I help you, the whole thing goes away and I'm better by ten thousand pounds. Is that the situation?"

Sylvia finally spoke and lowered the revolver. "You've summed it up very nicely."

"Count me in. When do we sail?"

"Sylvia and I are both armed. So we don't need any more guns. And there should be only one fairly pleasant keeper. But to be certain, I'd like to take four strong men at one thousand pounds a head. We go out, we get the three people, we return. We pay you off. We're gone. And nobody talks. Can you find four?"

"At a thousand a head, for a trip like that I can find twenty."

"True and trusty men. Trusted to keep their mouths shut at least for a month of two."

"Damn right," the captain rose and shook hands with us both. "Stout Scots."

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

If the Scots can survive their meals, they can survive anything. This thought crossed my mind after a breakfast of leftover haggis and kippers. We were gathered at the dock. Sylvia and me, the captain and four hardy Scots, fishermen all, smiling and joking.

The weather was, as usual, gray with low clouds scudding across the sky, a troubled sea, white caps even in protected areas, the good ship Piper rocking at its moorings. A raw wind filled the air with water, blowing from the sea. Was it rain, or simply mist carried from the crests of the angry waves. No matter, the dampness and chill was ubiquitous.

The cruel sea was never more alive than at this moment on the dock, so what might we expect when we breast the chop outside of the harbor. The jolly Scots continued their carefree banter as we clambered aboard the Piper and were cast free of the dock. The engine churning, digging into the cold sea water and then moving toward the open seas, slowly at first then with mounting speed.

Clearing the mouth of the harbor, we pitched and yawed and struggled for calmer seas, a futile hope. Sylvia was the first to lose color and flop down listlessly in a canvas chair. Within minutes, I followed. Captain McDiarmid laughed and slapped me on the back.

"Stout heart," he chortled, "there are bunks in the forward cabin. You and your lady might be wise to sack out for a time. Me and the lads will share out kippers and have a drop against the cold."

Helping Sylvia into the forward cabin, down the three steps, we each collapsed on a bunk with thoughts that death would be a welcome adventure. We were in for a long voyage with no respite from the stormy sea. How the Norsemen and other early settlers survived in vessels propelled by wind and oars remains a mystery. Two thousand years of history wrapped up in these hostile islands.

Sylvia moaned from time to time. My head, buried in a pillow, swam with sea green demons and purple snakes. If I could but make my way through the cabin and out onto the fantail I could hurl myself into the sea and find everlasting peace!

We were far up in the bow and the noise of the waves smashing against the hull in that maelstrom was enough to fill a landlubber's heart with terror. The sea was relentless, but despite the pounding and pitching, eventually I fell into a deep sleep.

Hours must have slipped by before I woke. Feeling refreshed, even though the wild sea hadn't abated, Sylvia still slept, and the four other bunks were filled with the burly Scots. Stumbling up the steps into the main cabin, I found the captain at the wheel, alert and still jocular.

"We approach Mingulay," he reported. "It's a bit of a trick to get into the cove, but never fear, man, the Piper will come through."

"And I've come through," I replied. "After the sickness, I feel like an old sailor man, or at the least, a reasonable passenger."

"Think nothing of it," McDiarmid replied over the noise of the sea and the wind, "there's fisherfolk who still have bouts with the sickness. Now we turn into the cove. You'd best roust the lads forward."

There was a chop, but the sea was much calmer inside the cove, and the four Scots had us safely tied to the jetty in no time. Then, with Sylvia also awake, everyone clad against the weather, we set out to what had been the village and the one good house. On the way up, I spotted a stout log and had the lads bring it along as a battering ram. We would assault the house and hope for the best.

The light was dull, but still good. Heavy clouds overhead pushed along by the wind. Certainly enough nasty weather to keep the wise closed up and secure. We cased the house.

Whispering hoarsely to McDiarmid, I suggested the prisoners would have the front of the house while the keeper would be in the rear with the kitchen. There would be two bathrooms and a stout wall between keeper and prisoners.

With that in mind we prepared to charge the rear door. The lads drank it all in with joy. This was a great lark for them. They grasped the log securely, let out a great shout and charged forward, hitting the door with a force that saw it flying off its hinges and banging across the kitchen.

Fortunately for Mama, her cot was off to one side. Sylvia and I were quickly in the room, weapons drawn.

"Holy Jesus, what's going on!" Mama cried out sitting up on her cot.

"Not to worry," Sylvia replied. "We've come for the prisoners. We mean you no harm."

She looked around in disbelief. Five Scots and the two of us, plus a log and a broken door, all in her well scrubbed kitchen. "Am I to be arrested?" she asked.

"No," I told her. "You will be sent home, forgiven. You're but a pawn in a felonious scheme. Now let's get the prisoners and get out of here."

Mark and Eloise had gotten up instantly with the crash of the door and were now at the barred window taking in the scene. Sylvia approached them and told them the news. "We want you in warm clothing, then we'll all get out of here. A boat is waiting in the cove."

"What about all this wine and the case of beer?" one of the Scots asked.

"Take it with you," I said. "Take anything you like."

"That's right," the captain added. "There'll be nothing but sheep on this island until after Easter. Take what you can carry boys. It'll be party time back in Portree if the potables survive the voyage home."

Back on the Piper we were a right jolly group, an even ten of us in all, with the beer and wine making the rounds. McDiarmid navigated out of the cove, then gave the wheel to one of the Scots.

Sylvia too, was feeling OK. But Mama became a bit green in countenance and retired to a bunk, while Mark and Eloise were in high spirits. "I really want to see a gynecologist," Eloise confided to Sylvia, while both balanced cups of wine to keep them from spilling in the pitching vessel.

How long the trip lasted, I lost track, with the short winter days and long nights, sometimes full daylight never showing through the gloom, probably close to thirty-six hours.

Back in Portree, I paid off the captain and the lads. I had carefully collected the stack of pounds beforehand. So we said goodbye and the five of us set off for a hotel, with Mark and Eloise comforting Mama and constantly telling her how much they loved her and would care for her in the future.

I suggested that no one make any phone calls until I called the embassy the following morning. We were all in agreement and piled into our rooms for a deep night's sleep.

Sylvia and I and Mama had breakfast together during the following days; the young couple was sleeping in, which Mama said was their usual routine.

"And where is your home?" Sylvia questioned Mama.

"Aberdeen. I have a room there in a cousin's house."

"We will find you transportation on this very day. And I'm certain the youngsters will be in touch. You've made quite an impression on them."

"They're a fine couple. And they'll have a fine wee bairn."

With that, I excused myself to call the embassy and was put through directly to Ambassador DuPray.

"Andy Blake, checking in," I said cheerily.

"Good news, Andy. The very best. Dick says he expects the children to be free by the end of the week."

To say that the news was startling would be telling it mild. Wheels spun in my head. Dick had guessed that we had learned something and were off to find the pair and he was making a preemptive strike to take credit for it. What a sinister thing to do.

"Dick must be one crack detective," I replied. "Where are the children and how is he freeing them?"

"All very secret. These CIA types. They play it close to the vest."

"Probably have good reason. Well, congratulations to Dick. Sylvia and I will bow out. We have other items on our agenda."

"Good show, old boy. I'm certain you've made a contribution. Drop around to the Embassy if you get to London."

I had registered the five of us at the hotel under my name and was very glad that I did. Mark and Eloise had just entered the breakfast room after my call and I explained the situation and my very personal vendetta.

"You two are in no hurry to return to London, are you?"

"Not really," Mark said. Eloise repeated her wish for an OB-GYN.

I told her we could easily take care of that, then added, "I thought we might fly to America for a couple of weeks holiday. I'd like to give the famous CIA man, Dick, adequate opportunity to free the two of you."

"You are a sly one," Mark said, "with an evil and devious mind."

"No more so than Dick's. I thought we might start in Charleston, South Carolina, a really neat vacation spot with at least one good seafood restaurant, plus a barbecue place called Sticky's."

"How could we beat that?" Eloise asked, squeezing Mark's hand.

"I'll charter a plane, I don't believe we'll need passports. You pick out a couple of fake names, maybe Sam and Sheila, and we'll be off. First to get Mama headed for Aberdeen."

Eloise sipped her coffee and poked at her omelet. "I think Bob and Jane, or Jack and Jill. Too obvious?"

"Heathcliff and Fiona," Mark tossed in.

"If you have anything to pack," I said, then was off to call the charter service.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

We had a high old time touring the sites and markets and restaurants of Charleston. The horse-drawn carriage ride was such fun we took it twice. Very likely our jaded bodies and minds were easily amused.

Almost a week slid by and we rented a car and moved down the coast to Savannah with stops at quaint fishing villages and high-end B&Bs. It was there that, according to plan, I called Chet on my cell phone.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Of course we laid low when the Ambassador told us Dick had cracked the case and the couple would be freed within a week. Did that happen?"

"Hell no. You knew that."

"Why no, Chet. We have heard rumors, though, disturbing rumors. But maybe Dick has kept you up to speed."

"Dick has told me nothing."

"He's a secretive so-and-so. Typical CIA. Is he your star agent?"

"Enough about Dick. What have you heard? They're frantic at the Embassy. Dick had their hopes up."

"Well, Chet. You're a smart CIA executive. So you are savvy enough to know this is an inside job."

"What do you mean? Inside job?"

"Just that. Cooked up and fully digested in the Embassy. That's where Dick works. So he put out the story that he had cracked the case and was ready to move in. Right?"

"Something like that."

"So the kidnapers panicked."

"And did what?"

"What would you do? Destroy the evidence of course."

Chet didn't seem to be following me, so I made it clear. "The two young people."

"They were killed?" He was incredulous.

"What would you do? We all must die. But you know there are different ways of dying."

"I can't believe they were killed. They were valuable."

"Of course. Until Dick's breakthrough. You know nobody wants to be eaten by a crocodile."

"For the love of God, man. The two kids were fed to crocodiles?" Chet was screaming. "Where could such a thing happen?"

"Calm down, Chet. It's just a horrible way to die. You'd have to go to maybe north Australia or some place for that to happen. What I've heard is the kidnappers may have chopped their heads off. It's quick, but unpleasant."

"You're shittin' me." Chet seemed to be breathing heavily. He and Dick would pay for their indiscretions.

"It may not be true. But if you want the two of us to follow up we can recruit some handlers with cadaver dogs, enlist a group of diggers and search for the bodies."

"Search where?"

"We have clues. That's why you hired us, isn't it? We figured the bodies and the heads will be in the same grave. After recovery, a clever mortician can stitch the heads to the bodies, use a little pancake make up, and no one will be the wiser."

"Holy Christ," Chet sighed.

"Yes, there are problems. One thing, the degree of deterioration might make restoration difficult. Then, I believe Eloise was Jewish. I believe they like to bury their dead quickly, possibly without embalming. I'm not certain of that."

"Holy Christ," Chet said again. "We have an ambassador and a prince of commerce waiting to be told their children have been beheaded. What could be worse?"

"Don't jump the gun, Chet," said I quickly. "This is only a rumor. Sylvia and I quit working on the case when DuPray said Dick was bringing the two in. I assumed that's what you would have wanted."

"Did I say that?" Chet asked grimly.

"But Dick had the case wrapped up? True?"

"It didn't work out as planned."

"Really? What was the plan?"

"We'll have to ask Dick. By the way, he's been reassigned to Washington."

"A promotion? Your right-hand man?"

"Why do I think you're putting me on?"

"I haven't a clue."

"And where in the hell are you? Dick doesn't seem to know."

"Dick doesn't seem to know dick. Why was he reassigned?"

"The Ambassador has a pipeline to the White House. He got fed up when Dick didn't produce the children, and the White House called in the CIA director, who in turn questioned Dick. Dick had to talk, but he had nothing to talk about."

"You know, Chet, we had a deal. You were supposed to get with the Commerce and Transportation secretaries to give my monorail project a boost. In turn I was to do your bidding. Have you held up your end?"

"A lot's been coming down."

"Then why should I help you?"

"I'm beginning to wonder who the true kidnappers are. But I'll start doing my part. Remember, we're dealing with human lives here."

Was this man joking? The CIA was in the business of snuffing out lives, not saving them. "When I hear from my project manager, Betty Morgan, that Washington cares, you may see some action."

"Andy, if you think you can blackmail me, you're totally correct. I'll get right on it. And please stay in touch. What should I tell the Ambassador?"

"Tell him we're back on the case after we stood aside for Dick to work his magic."

"And the beheading and crocodile stuff, I'd just as leave not mention that."

"Use your own judgment."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Days slipped by, the four of us in a beach house on St. George Island, just off Apalachicola, noted for its oyster beds. We steamed oysters, we had them raw, we had them on beds of greens, in stew and chowder.

Betty called from Kingman to say that Washington was showing a large interest in the monorail project. Bingo! Time to make our move. We took the rental car to Tallahassee and boarded a pane for Washington where a suite was waiting.

That night we dined in our rooms, roast turkey and gravy with French green beans and cranberry sauce. Nothing elaborate, something like Thanksgiving, but really a last supper for the four of us. We had gotten along famously, Eloise and Mark had traveled right along with our scheme to discredit Dick and motivate Chet to help the monorail.

The next morning I called Chet and asked him to meet me in front of the Willard at ten.

"In Washington?" Was he flabbergasted? Maybe.

"Certainly in Washington. I miss the monuments and the hall of winds up on the Hill."

"I'll be there," he said curtly. And so he was.

"Mark and Eloise are staying here," I explained as we waited for the elevator.

"I'm not surprised at anything you do," said Chet. "Did you capture the kidnappers?"

"That wasn't my job. I was supposed to locate and free the kidnappees and did so."

"But the kidnappers?"

"There was a London address, the place the letters from the kids were sent to be resent to the Embassy. I gave that address to Inspector Cameron."

Chet nodded.

In the room, it was something like a standing down ceremony. Mark and Eloise were transferred from our care to the jurisdiction of the CIA to be handled with care and judiciously returned to their respective parents.

We hugged and said good-bye as Chet led them with their few possessions out of the room.

So there we were, just Sylvia and myself with Washington at our feet, so to speak, in as much as were on the ninth floor of the Willard. Both of us were tired, and we slept most of the day, took turns soaking in the tub, watched CNN, ordered ham sandwiches, cocktails at five, dinner at six-thirty washed down with Pinot Grigio.

The following day, I had a private luncheon with Chet. He had put the kids on a plane to London the previous evening.

"Now the assignment I originally had planned for you," he began just after the soup.

"I don't know if I want to play this game anymore, Chet."

"I've done my part for the monorail. You want to take charge of your western project?" He knew I didn't.

"That's on automatic pilot. Betty's in overall charge. She knows only real estate, yet she's a sharp cookie and well qualified for an overview. Our city planners are laying things out. The Japanese joint venture is moving ahead. Betty's talking to European monorail developers and working with Washington."

"So things are under control?"

"Sure, but I should fly out there for a couple of days to show the flag."

"What I have in mind would involve both you and Sylvia. You would begin in Istanbul and maybe hang out there for some time."

Halfway through my prime rib, I mulled his suggestion and could find no good reason to refuse. Retirement can be quite the bore.

I replied, "OK. But first to Kingman for a couple of days."

"You'll want to take Sylvia with you, of course."

Of course he was playing games with my head. Did I pale? "Not necessarily. It might be best if you kept her here as a guest of the CIA. A series of briefings at Langley to get her up to speed."

Chet smiled and nodded and dug into his mashed potatoes. And so it was agreed.

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," available only in a print edition published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

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