Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2012 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved
Luckily,
Kulinahr had been listening. “Cliff is a to the captain. “A
tall man. Broad, broad of
shoulder and deep of chestathletic.
Dark hair. But his most distinctive feature is his eyes. They are quite—penetrating.”
Vickie
didn’t think Cliff’s most distinctive feature was his eyes, but
the captain had grown pale. . Well, when blazing
that pure blue, yes. But what about his size, his impressive chest, his heady
masculine scent?“That’s him. It would be best if each of you tell
me your stories… from the beginning.”
But
the captain had grown pale. “That’s him. All right. I was only expecting one
extra passenger, so why don’t each of you tell me your stories from the
beginning.”
“Why
don’t you go first?” Vickie hadsaid
to Kulinahr. She’d sighted a tray of petite sandwiches on a small
table next to the giant globe.
As
Kulinahr related the steps that had lead him to the walnut ‑paneled
room, Vickie stoodshe rose and
wandered, with deliberate nonchalance,
over to the globe. She glanced backA glance over
her shoulder, noting showed the
captain was deeply engrossed by the sheikh’s
narration. With one hand, she casually turned the globe. With
the other she reached out and…
“And
how did you get here, Ms. Johnston?” the captain boomed.
She
nearly shrieked. Momentarily defeated, she returned to her seat. As
she told her story, she kept an eye on the tray of sandwiches, hope returning. As
soon as she finished, she rose again and meandered about the room.Breathing
a couple times to get her skyrocketed heart rate under control, she turned and
smiled, and returned to her seat.
As
she told her story, she kept an eye on the tray of sandwiches. They were
winking at her. She swallowed, and finished as swiftly as possible.
When the captain thanked her she gave him a quick
smile, then stretched her back as if needing a break. Nonchalantly, she rose
and meandered toward the sandwiches.
“It
seems to me, Kulinahr,” said the captain, “that you already know a fair bit
about Cliff.” Vickie had made it to
At
the tray, and placed herselfVickie put her body
between it and the captain. Now, casually, she Casually, she reached
for one of the petite sandwiches. It would hide onenicely
in the voluminous folds of the T‑shirt. For once she was glad of that man’sman
Cliff’s size. Yes, oneOne sandwich.
would fit easily. Or two. They were small. Gradually, she
moved her hand forwardfingers wrapped around
bread.
The
captain’s voice sounded right behind her. “But you, Ms. Johnston,”
she .”
She dropped
sandwich and spun. He was standing next to the globe, bushy eyebrows
lowered in a frown. She hid her hand behind her and attempted to
grin innocently, “would while feeling for the
dropped sandwich. “Yes?”
“You’d
be better off forgetting you ever encountered himCliff.”
Vickie
abruptly halted her attempt to grab a sandwich by feel alone. “Why?”
“CliffHe
is a very…influential man, but. But
he is, by choice, unknown. He is a private man. He wouldIf
you attempt to identify him, he will deny helping you, even deny
being here in this country, if you attempted to identify him.Middle
Yemen.” The captain shook his head. “No, I would not mention his
part in your escape to the press, or anybody if I were
you. Ever. Especially not the government, or anybody.”
“The
governmentWhat? Why?” A private man who worked
behind the scenes, whom she should forget she had ever met, about whom and
never ever mention to the government might question her…
was Cliff a gangster? This was awful!? “You
make him sound like a criminal!”
Kulinahr
began
chuckling, and waschuckled, soon joined by the captain’s
hearty guffaw. Vickie took it to mean Cliff was not a criminal, and relaxed.
Not that she would ever see him again, but it was nice to know she could dream
about himfantasize in good conscience.
“Okay,
I won’t mentiontalk about
Cliff at all.” But I doubt if I’ll forget we ever met, she thought,
sobering. I doubt if I’ll ever forget him.
“And
now, my guests,” boomed the captain, “please help your self to these delicious
hors d’oeuvres!”
Vickie
hurriedly stuffed a couple of the small sandwiches in her mouth. “Mmm, these
are good,” she mumbled, licking.” She
licked her fingers. “Do you have any egg salad? Maybe some relish?
Could I have a glass of milk? And a napkin? And maybe some pants…”
Chapter 3
Upon
her arrival home, Vickie was the press’s obligatory three‑day wonder. “What was
it like to be kidnapped by overseas terrorists? (‘They spoke English.’) [MH1] “Tell us about your feelings when you realized you
were to be sold like an animal.” (Dumb question. She had never been up for
sale. Do your research next time.) She nearly
belted the overenthusiastic newshound who asked “What would you have felt like
if you actually had been killed by these terrorists?” While these guys and gals
were a few circuits short of a motherboard, they were emphatically better than the
polite yet insistent gentlemen with dark suits and official badges who
questioned her in great detail. After about twenty minutes of these “interviews”
she felt more exhausted than in the whole two days of her abduction.
But
eventually there was an earthquake to cover, and a local election, and a zoo
opening, and things settled back to situation normal.
So the
small white envelope with neat calligraphy and Canadian postmark came as a
surprise.
Vickie
fingered it. Finding life a little dull after her grand adventure, she tried
playing detective. “Hmm. Good, thick, quality paper. I can see fibers. Probably
someone with money. And this is not ordinary writing.” She held it up to the
light. “Dark India ink, indelible. Italic oblique nib, from the looks of it. No
return address. Interesting.”
She
turned the envelope over and over, but finding no more information, she tired
of the game and opened it. It was from Prince Kulinahr.
She
smiled. “He wants to do lunch after all.” But skimming the words, she realized
it wasn’t a mere “let’s catch up” invitation. She sat down and read it
thoroughly.
Kulinahr’s
instructions were quite explicit. This Friday, at the Embassy Hotel in Canada,
two of his bodyguards would escort her to see him.
She
immediately got online and booked plane and hotel. Stared at the screen. How
much? She shook her head and clicked buy.
So,
she would see Kulinahr again. A knot of anticipation settled in her stomach.
She tried to convince herself it was merely the natural reaction to visiting
with a head of a whole country. A prince, no less.
Yeah, sure. You’re not at all excited to think you might find out more about Cliff.
But
oh, to meet again the man who had kissed her into oblivion in two seconds flat.
Not since her ex-fiancé, Ron, had she reacted so strongly to any man’s kiss.
Vickie
shook her head. That was a rat hole she didn’t particularly want to go
down again. And if she had to compare Ron and Cliff…well, there was no
comparison. She remembered Cliff carrying her through the streets of Middle
Yemen, big and masculine, his scent on the night breeze…her stomach tightened
intensely.
If
only Kulinahr would tell her where to find him.
Vickie
finished work early on Friday and went directly to the airport. She hopped on a
DC‑9 which flew her, with only one stop, to Montreal. From there she went to
the Embassy Hotel and sat down in the bar Kulinahr had named to wait.
She
hadn’t even ordered a drink when two men arrived. According to their name tags,
they were with the Music Educators convention but their twin MIB suits shouted
secret service. They walked with that alert power too, and when they greeted
her it was with the pass phrase Kulinahr had written: “The ship is in the
harbor, but the dogs only smell pepper.”
“They
sneeze and run away.” She stifled a smile.
One
nodded. “Ms. Johnston? Please come with us.”
She
followed the twins outside to a black Mercedes saloon with smoked windows. It
was almost a parody but she couldn’t quite suppress a shiver as she slid into
the plush air-conditioned backseat. She half‑expected a blindfold and was
grateful when the two men got in front and ignored her through the entire
drive. She did not recognize any of the streets they traveled anyway, having
been to Montreal only in her childhood.
The
car pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript house in a quiet residential
neighborhood. One man, possibly the one who had spoken before but she couldn’t
be sure, turned to her.
“Knock
on the door three times. Tell the person answering the door your name and your
mother’s maiden name.”
Great, she thought as she got out. They’re not Middle Yemeni secret service. They’re from my bank. But
as she knocked she couldn’t dampen a thrill of anticipation. A housekeeper
admitted her and led her upstairs to a small room on the second floor.
The
deposed ruler was alone, seated at a writing table. When he saw Vickie, he rose
with a smile. “Vickie Johnston. How good of you to come.” He met her with a
warm handshake.
“Prince
Kulinahr. It was kind of you to see me.” She followed him to a small grouping with
settee, coffee table set with silver service, and chairs.
In
some ways he looked better than the last time they had met. He was neatly
barbered and his clothes were impeccable. But there was more gray at the temple
and when she got closer she saw the lines in his face, deep grooves that only
come from fatigue and worry.
He gestured
at the settee, took a chair across from her and poured them some coffee.
Vickie
sat and took her tasse gratefully; it
had been a long day and difficult flight. She sipped.
Her
eyes snapped opened like abruptly retracting window shades. The liquid was
thick and grainy, just short of chewed coffee beans in water hot enough to
scald her tongue.
“The coffee
does not agree with you? Would you care for something else?”
Blinking
fast, Vickie carefully swallowed. “No,” she began hoarsely. She cleared her
throat. “No, this is fine. It just takes some getting used to.”
Kulinahr
smiled slightly. “My English university friends also found the taste somewhat
unusual. I would understand if you did not want to finish.”
Vickie
grimaced and tried another sip. It was not much better, but now she was
determined. “No, it’s good.” She sipped again. “You went to a Western
university?”
“Yes.
Education is prized in my country, and all members of the royal family attended
Oxford University in England. Each of us was assigned their course of study. My
brothers were set to work at engineering, finance and education. My cousin
studied medicine, and is now director of the main hospital in Misr.” His pride
shone in his smile.
“And
you ran a country. Impressive family.”
Kulinahr’s
smile faded and put his cup down. “Yes. Ran. I no longer govern my people.” His
jaw clenched. “They are in the hands of that madman, Fahrrad. And I trusted
him. I believed him. I made him my guest!”
Vickie
set her own cup aside. “What happened?”
“It
began less than a year ago. As a small country trapped between many larger
ones, we always have our share of external problems. But suddenly we began to
have internal issues as well—bombings, kidnappings, and acts of horrible
violence right on the streets of Misr.”
“That’s
terrible. Did you find out who they were?”
“They
said they were freedom fighters, trying to liberate the oppressed in my
country. I was furious. Who had I oppressed? They were an affront to my pride.”
Kulinahr sighed, and looked into the small cup in his hand. “I now think their
purpose was to distract me from my true enemy.”
“Who
was…?”
“Fahrrad.”
Kulinahr’s jaw worked. “Hafez Fahrrad was well known for eliminating terrorist
threats in his own country of Kalifad. As that is just across my border, I was
particularly aware of his reputation. I sent an emissary to him, to ask for his
assistance. I should have known…I should have seen…the man was a dinosaur in
his own country. Decades past the age of perestroika, Fahrrad is a staunch
Stalinist.”
Vickie
grunted. “Did you know that then?”
“Yes.
I did not worry, however. I thought our country was far too progressive to give
him a handhold. But I did not take his desperation into account.” Kulinahr fell
silent, his eyes fixed on some point deep within.
Odd, she thought. He’s
a modern day ruler, yet he looks like some of the ancient patriarchs must have
looked. The more things change…
When
the job had first come up, Vickie had researched Middle Yemen. Driven by
Kulinahr’s ambition to eradicate poverty and ignorance among his people, the
nation had risen from a poor, squabbling country to one of peace and prosperity
in just a few decades. She considered it from Fahrrad’s point of view. The rising
prosperity of his neighboring country probably looked like a cash cow just over
the fence. “How did it happen, then?”
Kulinahr
sighed. “I’m not saying he completely took me in, but he painted a very pretty
scene of a repentant Communist. And though my citizen’s militia is very good,
they cannot be on watch all the time.” Kulinahr shook his head, as though he
still could not understand it. “All he had to do was help us keep guard while
we waited for the security system to be designed and built.”
“Security
system?” Vickie’s ears pricked. That sounded like the project that had started
all this. Fahrrad had also been looking for a security system.
Vickie
had known the new account would be trouble from the moment she was assigned to
it. Never in her wildest dreams, however, did she imagine how much trouble.
Col.
Hafez Fahrrad was the name on the cover letter. She had done her usual thorough
research and had discovered he was presently the dictator of a Middle East dot
on the map, Middle Yemen by name, recently coming to power in a particularly
bloody coup.
In
person he was a slight man in an overdesigned uniform and a too-big hat, with
small dark eyes and a tidy mustache.
At
their first meeting, in her company’s conference room, Fahrrad had stood as if
transfixed, eyes flat and glassy. “What an unusual color for hair. It is like a
sunset.” He reached out to touch a curl.
She automatically
slapped his hand away. She still could see his expression, his eyes sparking
with anger.
But
he controlled himself, and actually smiled, with a toothy, gold capped grin. He
gave a
slight bow in apology.
Vickie
knew weaseling when she saw it. Trying to get back in her good graces to get a
better price for his system. “So what is it you’re looking for, Colonel?”
“I wish
to implement a security system. Shall we sit?” He took a chair, then patted the
one next to him coaxingly.
She
stayed on her feet. “I’m not sure we can help you. Here at Fitzwater Software
and Consulting, we generally work in database design and implementation.”
“Yes,
so my advisor said. He also said that what I want is not so different, is it,
my dear?”
Terms
of endearment in the business environment grated on her. If Fahrrad hadn’t been
a client, she’d have made an issue out of it. As it was, she asked politely, “And
what do you wish to make secure?”
His
slow, sensual grin had not endeared him to her at all. It really looked more
like a leer, ruler of a country or not.
“Your
government’s headquarters?” she prompted. She remembered from her reading that Fahrrad
had infiltrated the palace and slaughtered all the people loyal to the Prince
Kulinahr in the coup. The world thought he’d killed the Prince himself and she
supposed at the time that he’d want security to make sure no one pulled the
same trick on him.
“Not
my headquarters, my dear. For the entire country.”
Her
legs wobbled under her and she found herself sitting next to him. The tech for
building security was commonplace. But a
whole country…? “Wouldn’t you be better asking your military about this sort of
thing?”
He
brushed at his mustaches. “Ah, no. We are a small country with little in terms
of development resources. But you and your company have just the combination of
initiative and experience that I am looking for.” He took her hands and held
them tightly. “I’m sure we will work well together.”
She
managed to squirm her fingers out of his hands and had to steel herself against
shaking the ick off them. “I’ll have to check with the vice president of
development on this, Col. Fahrrad. Unless you’d like to speak with her
yourself?”
“No,
sweetheart, I’d rather with you.” Again that oily grin. “Such beautiful,
unusual hair.”
She
shuddered even now, remembering it.
Two
days later, as she left work, men had kidnapped her. They hadn’t said a word,
but they didn’t have to. Their guns spoke for them quite clearly. She knew
better than to get into their car but with four of them grabbing her and
carting her off she didn’t have much choice. She tried to not be a complete
victim; as they dragged her past the clipped hedges she struggled briefly,
chucking her briefcase surreptitiously into the nearest bush. She hoped it
would alert someone, anyone that something serious had happened to her.
She only
started suspecting the Middle Yemen connection when her kidnappers broke their
silence. Only one spoke English. She didn’t recognize their native language but
she overheard a conversation punctuated quite frequently by Col. Fahrrad’s
name.
And
then they had arrived in that place of sand and sweltering heat and dank
buildings, and produced that skimpy teddy, which they had requested, quite
nicely if you didn’t consider the rude manner in which they had pointed at her
and the guns they had used to point
with, that she put on. Then they had burned her own clothes.
“Hey,
I might need those,” she protested.
“Not
with the Colonel, Madam,” the bilingual one answered.
They went
into the city to celebrate, leaving one guard behind. Maybe they thought she
wouldn’t attempt escape since she was nearly nude. Well, she was modest, but
she valued her life more highly than modesty.
The
remaining kidnapper was relieving himself in the next room, and she simply let
herself out. She snuck down the stairs.
And
saw the other three men, just entering the lobby, carrying food and drink. Apparently
they’d only gone out to get it.
She
dove behind a large sculpture that looked like a curled up triangle. For a
moment it seemed as if the men hadn’t seen her, but an old woman coming down
the stairs stopped and pointed at her, eyes bugging from under her veil.
Desperately Vickie put finger to lips, hoping the sign for shh translated. It must not have because the woman started yelling
at her.
The
three kidnappers came running. Vickie had then begun the flight which had
brought her to that truck of a man. To Cliff.
No comments:
Post a Comment