Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “I’m kidding, relax. I just want to make sure things are going well between you two.”

  “Things are going well. Satisfied?”

  “How well?”

  “Obviously not satisfied.” He sighed. “It’s only our third date. She’s sweet, and we have many common interests. I’m enjoying the time I’m spending with Anna.”

  “Is it like . . . like when we went out?”

  “Oh, is this what you’re fishing for, comparisons with the past?”

  “Take it easy. That’s not what I’m after.”

  “OK, tell me what exactly are you after?”

  “I want to make sure she’s getting the best of you, that part of you so often invested in work, research, or anything else but the girl. Anna deserves all your passion, your desires, your understanding. Even that part of you I never got.”

  Justin’s frown melted, as Carrie’s voice became softer. “Justin, you and Anna will make a great couple. Please, make sure you don’t allow work to get in the way.”

  “Work is exactly what brought us together, and I will not let it pull us apart.”

  “If that starts to happen, I’ll come and scream at you ‘what the hell are you doing?’” Carrie said with a big smile.

  “Yes, please do that.”

  “I will. I wish someone would have done it for us, but they didn’t, and I can’t change the past. But I can help you plan the wedding and name your babies.”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on there. Aren’t we rushing things here just a little bit? Wedding? Babies? We’ve gone out only three times!”

  “Hey, it’s never too early to plan who’s going to be your kids’ godmother. And now, thanks to me, you’ve got one less thing to worry about. I’ll let you and Anna take care of the rest.”

  “Gee, thanks. I’ll let you know if I need more of this kind of help.”

  “Look, that’s . . . isn’t that Nick there?” Carrie pointed at a black sedan to their right. “No, I guess it’s not.”

  “Nice change of subject, but thanks for changing it. Are you ready for today’s meeting?”

  “I’ve been ready two weeks ago. I told the surgeon at Montfort to give me a wheelchair. I could have rolled out in style through our office corridors. But he insisted I had to walk and regain control of my leg muscles.”

  “Do they hurt?”

  “Is the sky blue? Of course they hurt. I have to sit down every fifteen minutes, otherwise they’ll give in. But yeah, I’ll think I’m ready to face the music.”

  * * *

  No bagpipes were waiting for their arrival at the CIS headquarters, and no red carpet was rolled out for them. In fact, Carrie humbly submitted her aluminum crutches to the meticulous search of two heavyset guards at the entrance. A few acquaintances nodded quick hellos. No questions asked, no explanations sought. This was an intelligence agency and their missions were secret. Only the people who needed to know learned only what they needed to know.

  The elevator ride to the sixth floor was fast and quiet. Carrie winced as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other a couple of times. They came out of the elevator and made their way to the office of Ms. Claire Johnson, Director General of Intelligence for the North Africa Division.

  Justin announced their arrival with a light knock. “Welcome back, Carrie,” Johnson greeted them at the door.

  She waited for Carrie to hobble inside and take a seat at the oval glass table.

  “I’m glad to see both of you are doing well.” She sat next to Carrie. “Much better than the last time I saw you at Montfort.”

  “You should have seen the Danes,” Carrie replied, “the ones that made it alive, I mean.”

  Johnson grinned. Her gray eyes glowed. She turned to Justin. “Do you have the reports ready?”

  “Yes. They’re complete.” He removed two manila folders from his briefcase. “This one,” he said, pointing at the thick one, then sliding it toward his boss, “is the classified report. The only copy. The second file is for the public archives.”

  Johnson flipped through the classified report. “It’s very detailed and comprehensive.”

  “I used the recollection of the events from my team members and the people on the ground. In addition, the intel provided by our foreign assets allowed us to recreate a clear picture of the Arctic Wargame.”

  Johnson opened the second folder. She smiled as she read the two-page document inside. “I like the words you’ve chosen to describe the Arctic Wargame operation for the public: ‘The Arctic Wargame, executed through coordinated teamwork among various Canadian government departments, simulated hostile incursions in Canada’s Arctic and the immediate defensive response by the local population and the Canadian Forces.’ Bravo.”

  Justin nodded modestly.

  Johnson set aside both folders. “Regarding your informants, they seem to have adapted quite well to the Witness Protection Program,” she said with a smile. “And they gave us more intel about someone else other than the Danes pulling the strings of the Arctic Wargame.”

  “But we still have nothing concrete that the Russians organized this attack?” Justin asked.

  “Yes, nothing concrete,” Johnson replied, “but a lot of circumstantial evidence. And there was an interesting development in Denmark.”

  “The Danes are ready to apologize?” Carrie asked.

  “Eh, far from it. They’re still investigating. Canada’s using all diplomatic channels to clear up this situation without making too many waves. We’re talking to our counterparts in the Danish intelligence to clarify everything.”

  Carrie shook her head. Justin closed his eyes. “What’s the interesting development?” he asked.

  “Ms. Helma Madsen, the wife of Gunter Madsen, is claiming to have been kidnapped. According to her, she was released a couple of weeks ago and the kidnappers were Russians.”

  Carrie frowned. “She has some evidence for her claims?”

  “No. She insists the men who took her spoke Russian. She says she can recognize their voices, but she never saw their faces.”

  “Is that it?” Justin asked.

  “That’s insufficient,” Carrie said.

  Johnson nodded. “Yes and no. Yes, we know the Russians organized the Arctic Wargame. No, we don’t have evidence to prove it.”

  Justin sighed. Carrie frowned but said nothing.

  “On the bright side of things,” Johnson said, “the government has almost finished revising its Arctic Strategy, focusing on its enhancement and its expansion. The budget proposal will almost double the funding for the defense of our Northern borders over the next five years. We’ll have more Rangers on the ground and they’ll be better equipped, with state-of-the-art technology. Two other deep-water ports are being proposed, one at Banks Island and the other at Baffin Island, at each end of the Northwest Passage, in addition to the one in Nanisivik. Canada will have five more vessels with year-round icebreaking capabilities in addition to the one in Nanisivik.”

  Johnson glanced at her watch. “Moving forward, there’s one last thing to do before I let you go.”

  She retreated to her desk, reaching for a notepad and her phone handset. Justin glanced quickly at Carrie, who raised her index finger to her lips. A glimmer of mischief flickered in her eyes, as if she knew what scheme Johnson was plotting.

  “It’s exactly nine o’clock.” Johnson began dialing a number. “We have to be absolutely punctual for this phone call, which is probably the most important in your entire life.”

  “Is this another job?” Justin asked.

  Carrie hushed him with a headshake.

  Johnson smiled. “You’ll get your answer in a second . . . oh, yes, good evening, madam, this is Claire Johnson, Director General of Intelligence for the North Africa Division with the CIS, the Canadian Intelligence Service. Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Of course, I’ll wait.”

  Justin began to wiggle in his chair.

  “OK, let’s tell him.” Johnson nodded at Carrie. “S
omeone very important wants to give you her recognition.”

  “Pardon—” Justin began, but Johnson’s hand gesture stopped him.

  “Your Majesty, this is Claire Johnson.”

  She’s really talking to the Queen?

  “Yes, of course, your Majesty. Very well, thank you. As scheduled, I have Mr. Justin Hall and his partner, Ms. Carrie O’Connor, on the line. They will be delighted to talk to you.”

  Justin had no time to get over the initial shock. Johnson offered him the phone handset. He cleared his throat and hesitated a moment, before walking to her desk.

  “Come on, Justin,” Johnson whispered, covering the receiver with her hand. “We can’t make Her Majesty wait.”

  Justin picked up the phone and took a deep breath. “Your Majesty,” he said finally. “Mr. Hall at your service.”

  LOOK FOR ME

  By

  Traci Hohenstein

  Look For Me Copyright © 2013 by Traci Hohenstein

  All rights reserved.

  Publisher: Traci Hohenstein

  Tracihohenstein@gmail.com

  Thank you to my first readers for your invaluable input: Shirley Satterfield, Mark Weinberg, and Tanya Banks Wichterman.

  Thanks to my wonderful son, Chase Satterfield, for all your help on this novella. You rock!

  And last but not least, thank you to my awesome readers. You are the reason that I write! Thank you for supporting me by buying my books, suggesting them to other readers, and leaving reviews on Amazon and other reader sites. You don’t know how much that really means to me. Thank you, thank you!!!

  Website: http://www.tracihohenstein.com

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/TraciHohenstein

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  Email: tracihohenstein@gmail.com

  In memory of my grandmother

  Ruby Singletary Richter

  PART ONE – “ROCK A BYE”

  Chapter 1

  He parked the beat-up truck on the corner of Harbor Way and Bal Bay Drive. It was a sultry day in South Florida and the heat lapping at his palms and forehead compelled him to keep the truck’s engine alive and the air conditioning running. He waited patiently and observed his surroundings—vast, carefully-manicured lawns painted an unnatural green lined the gray brick roads. Towering southern oaks and budding orange trees dotted the lawns and edges of the lots, as if to add a sense of privacy to the massive houses which the wealthy Miami suburbanites called home. He, however, could not be fooled by the façade that the inhabitants constructed to hide their secrets—these yuppies pried and gossiped and drunkenly confessed in such a fashion that there wasn’t an ounce of privacy to be offered by well-groomed foliage. Only the husbands left daily, piloting their fancy sports cars and luxurious SUVs to the cities hospitals and law firms and corner offices that they worked in. Most women rarely left during the work week and only if their supply of Pinot Grigio had dwindled or they needed a fresh shot of Botox. Often, when abandoned by their husbands on a Friday night, they smothered their faces with creams and powders and flocked in groups for some rooftop party in South Beach, like bored macaws in search of a new perch to sink their talons into. The children were often stuck at home, emotionally neglected, with a foreign nanny.

  Disgusting, he thought to himself, these people tell themselves they are keeping their children safe, fencing them off from the baddies of the rest of the world. These gates weren’t keeping the rest of the world away from them; no, these gates were a cage - keeping them from the rest of the world.

  Finally, a young girl ventured out from her porch down to the edge of the lawn. He shot up in his seat, rolled down the window, and grabbed a pair of binoculars from the passenger seat. Adjusting the range, he zoomed in on her long red hair, porcelain skin and tiny frame.

  A stray breeze caused a sheet of paper to flutter around the passenger seat. He picked it up and studied the information.

  The name on the paper, Mallory Scott, was in bold face font. What a beautiful name, he thought to himself. According to the report, she was three years old. He glanced up at the girl who had busied herself playing with dolls at the edge of the lawn. The picture was definitely a match.

  A young woman came out onto the grass – clearly the child’s mother, her hair was a few shades lighter than her daughter’s – more of a strawberry blonde. She was, however, just as beautiful. He watched as the mom leaned over and kissed her daughter’s forehead before retreating back across the lawn to her plush chair on the front porch. While Mallory continued playing with her dolls, the mom sat idly, balancing a computer on her lap, her eyes cemented in toil.

  Not today, he thought. Yet, just as he was about to leave this suburban zoo, the mom ran inside the house, perhaps to tend to something urgent. He put the truck back in park. This could be his perfect opportunity. With that neglectful mother inside and the shutters drawn shut, he could make it to sweet, little Mallory and back to his truck in less than thirty seconds. His fingers tapped furiously on the steering wheel. It was now or never.

  Chapter 2

  “How long has your daughter been missing?” the police officer asked her again.

  “I told you, forty-five minutes!” Rachel’s mind was racing nearly as fast as her heart.

  The mid-afternoon heat enveloped a growing scene outside the Scott household in the gated community of Bal Harbour. Curious neighbors stood sweating behind yellow tape, while officers asked them questions one-by-one. Everyone had thought to have seen something, and those that didn’t offered trivial gossip about the Scotts, or their gardener, or their housekeeper. Rachel’s neighbor across the street, Dianna Livingston, an elderly widow, had hustled over as soon as she heard Rachel screaming for Mallory. She’d spent thirty minutes with Rachel, walking through the entire neighborhood, shouting Mallory’s name. Now, her voice hoarse and her legs tired, Dianna sat beside Rachel on the living room couch and patted her back.

  The police officer was scribbling furiously in his notebook when a knock at the door interrupted them. Rachel jumped up, her heart pounding as she rushed by the officer and into the foyer. She took the brass door handle in her hand and took a deep breath. Please be my little girl, her mind vied against all other thoughts. She flung it open and nearly collapsed into tears. There was only a short, beefy man standing before her. Once she realized Mallory wasn’t accompanying him, her eyes transfixed on the swarm of inquisitive neighbors craning their necks in an attempt to observe every miserable affair happening within the Scott household. Most bothered to fix their eyes on a passing officer or the ground when Rachel caught their glare, but some of the more intrusive neighbors seemed to stare right through her. It was the worst day of her life, yet for the neighbors it was a spectacle. A few tears rolled away from Rachel’s vacant green eyes.

  “Eh-um,” the man tried for her attention. “Mrs. Scott? I’m Detective Red Cooper with Miami P.D. May I come in?”

  Rachel focused her gaze back to him. “Sure,” she choked out before clearing her throat. “We’re in the living room with one of your officers.”

  The officer, whom Rachel didn’t realize was lurking behind her in the foyer, looked relieved when Detective Cooper slid past her. Dianna was now occupied with making coffee in the kitchen so Rachel walked over to the breakfast table and took a seat. The officer and Detective Cooper paused in the living room to exchange the details of her daughter’s disappearance. Rachel eavesdropped on their conversation at first, but then her mind wandered deeply. She silently berated herself for the hundredth time for leaving Mallory unattended this morning. If she had only insisted that Mallory come inside with her.

  “May I?” Detective Cooper’s voice brought Rachel out of her muddled thoughts. He gestured toward a chair across the table.

  Rachel stared blankly into space, her face unrepresentative of the thoughts that tortured her mind.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Livingston answered for Rachel, placing her hand on the detective’s bac
k. She shot a worried glance at Rachel and placed a cup of coffee before his chair. Then she took her own seat between the detective and Rachel.

  With all of the commotion just beyond the police tape that bordered her lawn, the house seemed overwhelmingly empty. Even when Rachel was home alone it didn’t seem so desolate. The air was stiller than ever, although the downstairs was an open floor plan. From her seat at the breakfast table, which overlooked the backyard, she could see the front door. The oversized kitchen to her left was occupied only by the gentle drip of a coffee machine, and the only movement in the living room on her right came from the gentle floating of a million specks of dust suspended in the air, highlighted by the slits of sunlight that penetrated the louver blinds. Maybe it wasn’t the house that was empty - maybe it was her.

  “We’ve got a recent picture of Mallory,” Detective Cooper broke the silence. “Our PR department will distribute it to all of the appropriate media.”

  “What about an AMBER alert?” Rachel snapped out of the terrible thoughts that had been holding her hostage.

  “Unfortunately, without a vehicle or person description, we can’t do an AMBER alert,” Detective Cooper answered. “We have additional officers talking to the neighbors and security personnel at your front gate to see if we can come up with something. Until then, Mallory’s picture will be distributed to all media outlets.”

  “We pay a lot of money to live here so neighborhood security better have some answers,” Rachel said, feeling sick to her stomach. “My little girl didn’t just wander off.”

  “Your husband is on his way home?” Detective Cooper asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. He took a flight to Orlando this morning for a business meeting.”

  “We’ve been calling him every few minutes,” Mrs. Livingston added.

  Rachel stared out the window at two police officers standing on her dock, one of them smoking a cigarette. Detective Cooper followed her gaze.