Hot Chips and Sand
Copyright © 2012 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved
Vickie didn’t think
Cliff’s most distinctive feature was his eyes. Well, when blazing that
pure blue, yes. But what about his size, his impressive chest, his heady masculine
scent?
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 said 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, she rose and wandered with
deliberate nonchalance over to the globe. A glance over her shoulder showed the
captain 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. 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.”
At the tray, Vickie put
her body between it and the captain. Casually, she reached for one of the
petite sandwiches. It would hide nicely in the voluminous folds of the T‑shirt.
For once she was glad of that man Cliff’s size. One sandwich would fit easily. Or
two. They were small. Gradually, her fingers wrapped around bread.
The captain’s voice
sounded right behind her. “But you, Ms. Johnston.”
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 while feeling for
the dropped sandwich. “Yes?”
“You’d be better off
forgetting you ever encountered Cliff.”
Vickie abruptly halted
her attempt to grab a sandwich by feel alone. “Why?”
“He is a very…influential
man. But he is, by choice, unknown. He is a private man. If you attempt to
identify him, he will deny helping you, even deny being here in 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.”
“What? Why?” A private
man who worked behind the scenes, whom she should forget she had ever met, and
never ever mention to the government? “You make him sound like a criminal!”
Kulinahr chuckled, 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 fantasize in good conscience.
“Okay, I won’t talk
about Cliff.” But I doubt if I’ll forget
we ever met, she thought.
“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
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.’) “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 thatthe
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 a finger
to her 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.
Upon her arrival home
in the United States, Vickie marched right into the police station to make sure
Fahrrad couldn’t get his greedy little hands on her again. Somehow she got
connected with the US Marshals WitSec program, which sounded great until they
told her she’d have to give up programming. Not just her current job at
Fitzwater, but anything to do with computers. Might as well ban her from
chocolate and coffee for the rest of her life. She declined.
Vickie was also the press’s
obligatory three‑day wonder when she returned. “What was it like to be kidnapped
by overseas terrorists? They spoke
English. “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.
Before the start of all
the fuss, she shoved the huge black T-shirts, the one still with its strange
computer chip, in her dresser. At first she picked her underwear drawer but
then, cheeks hot, she moved them to a drawer with her pillowcases and sheets.
She thought briefly about returning the T-shirts to its owner, got even hotter,
and decided to leave that all for another day. In the ensuing ruckus, the whole
thing slipped from her mind.
She went back to work a
week later. Her best friend Tess jumped up and hugged her. “Oh my goodness,
Vickie. What are you doing here? You’ve just been through hell.”
“Hell, yes.” Vickie
hugged her back, acres of stress easing from her neck and back. “And the best
way out is friends and work.”
Tess grabbed her
shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You’re way too composed for having
been kidnapped.”
Vickie laughed. “I’m a
wreck on the inside.” She explained about WitSec. “I’m staying here, no
question. So I had a security system installed in my apartment.”
“Isn’t that expensive?”
“A little. I got it
covered it with cash courtesy of a short, sharp discussion with Jerry which
resulted in Fitzwater paying for it in full—apparently legal stuff comes from a
different pot in the General Ledger than salary.”
Tess rolled her eyes.
“So the workers are facing layoffs but there’s plenty of cash for buying off
lawsuits.”
“I know. Screwed up,
right? But I don’t fully trust other
people’s mechanicals so I also bought my own webcams.” Vickie unslung and
opened her backpack briefcase, pulled out a couple round eyes and showed Tess.
“I installed a bunch at my apartment, and I’m positioning a few strategically
here. I’m setting them up with automatic feeds to my smartphone—wrote the app
myself.”
“You go, girl.”
“I also bought pepper
spray and trained to use it. Now I’m putting the incident behind me. I’ve
missed several weeks of work and I have production to worry about.” She didn’t
add that all of it, from the kidnapping to the breath-taking escape to her
stomach-swooping rescue by a gorgeous man and hiding out with a Middle Eastern
prince, seemed rather more dream than real life. Like it never really happened.
So the small white
envelope with neat calligraphy and Canadian postmark that came a few days later
was 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. Calligraphy pen, from the looks
of it.” She held it up to the light. “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 a 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. Remembering 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.
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