SEEING DOUBLE
Book II of the Elizabeth Reinhardt Series
Book I of the Olive Grove Series
Nancy J. Alexander
Copyright © 2015 Nancy J. Alexander
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1512160296
ISBN-13: 978-1512160291
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S COMMENTS
i
ACKNOWELDGEMENTS
i
1
FIRST ENCOUNTER
1
2
ON THE JOB
7
3
PASTA PUTTANESCA
9
4
SNAKE CHARMERS
13
5
MENARA
17
6
THE TRACKERS
21
7
MIDNIGHT MEETINGS
27
8
EAVESDROP
35
9
THE HOSTAGE
39
10
RECOLLECTIONS
41
11
IN THE OLIVE GROVE
43
12
IN THE PRESENCE OF MY ENEMY
47
13
NEPTUNE’S HAND
51
14
HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT
55
15
THE DOMINO EFFECT
63
16
LANDINGS HAPPY AND OTHERWISE
69
17
PAST TO PRESENT
75
18
SHOP TILL YOU DROP
79
19
WITH THE DAYLIGHT COMES THE DAWN
83
20
LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION
89
21
WHAT HANGS IN THE BALANCE?
97
22
CONNECTING THE DOTS
101
23
GOOD LUCK, BAD LUCK
107
24
THE SANDS OF TIME
115
25
ROUNDUP
121
26
NORTH-SOUTH-EAST-WEST
127
27
WHERE THERE’S A WILL
133
28
NEXT STOP
137
29
LONG DAYS NIGHT
145
30
WINDING PATHS
149
31
HI HO SILVER, AWAY
153
32
BY THE SEA
157
33
BEST MADE PLANS
167
34
DECISIONS AND COLLISIONS
173
35
JIGSAW
179
36
ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES
189
37
GRATEFUL CONNECTIONS
197
38
IN GOD WE TRUST
203
39
SIDEWINDER
209
40
WHAT GOES AROUND
213
41
A CERTAIN JUSTICE
225
42
IF WISHES HAD WINGS
231
43
LOOSENING KNOTS
251
44
LAY DOWN THE SWORD
239
45
AS THE SMOKE CLEARS
244
46
THE WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND
251
47
WHAT LIES AHEAD
261
48
RIPPLES FROM A PEBBLE
263
49
IMPLANTED AND EMBEDDED
269
50
TEETER TOTTER
279
51
RESPECT THE PROCESS
283
52
HOME STRETCH
289
53
CUTS AND SCARS
293
AUTHOR’S COMMENTS
The context for Seeing Double is the compelling situation in the Middle East, a place whose conflicts and controversies remind us daily how polarizing religious and ethnic differences can be and how continual is their struggle. It reminds us that extremism is nourished by generations of deprivation, frustration and alienation; by generations of indoctrination and isolation from other viewpoints and belief systems. The situation reminds us that sadly in spite of mankind’s great intellectual prowess, achievements and vast cultural accomplishments a regressive pull toward that which is most primitive within us remains. My heart goes out to those whose lives have been ruined or cut short by extreme fundamentalism and to those embedded in the irresolvable battle for the supremacy of truth. I am always aware of the impact hatred will have on generations of children as yet unborn in that part of the world where never-ending violence swirls through the sweltering sands.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank cousins Pam and Cindy, sister Carol and brother-in-law ‘Bus’ and niece Lauren; and Kay and Susan for their efforts reading and reviewing the book and providing valuable feedback on characters and content. Their efforts have enriched Seeing Double and hopefully empowered it to address the issues broiling in the Middle East from a more human though fictional perspective.
As always many thanks to my production director and valued advisor Tiffany Wrightson, to my pitch perfect audio-engineer Julian Comanda, and my incredibly talented graphic designer Christina Melito, without them NJA Productions would not exist. And of course, thanks to all of you who have read or listened to my work; who follow me online, read and comment on my blogs and constitute the core of my enthusiastic readers.
- 1 -
fIRST eNCOUNTER
His voice was soft, cultured, and he spoke with a Middle Eastern accent, possibly Israeli. “How do you do, Ma’am?” he asked with a polite bow. Extending his hand, the young man said, “I am Ari Ben-Aviv, ma'am and I am most pleased to be making your acquaintance."
He was striking, with tousled black hair and skin that was the color of toasted almonds. He had perfectly sculpted features and an enchanting smile. More beautiful than handsome, he was flawlessly dressed in a tailored navy suit and open collared lilac shirt. His smoke grey eyes were magnetizing, conveying sincerity with a hint of desperation. She indicated a cozy seating area, antique furniture embraced by brocade draperies and tall potted palms. Dutifully, he moved toward an over-stuffed chair and perched on its edge, eyes scanning the room from corner to corner. She remained standing, curious, observing him.
“How can I help you, Mr. Ben- Aviv?” she asked, beginning to move toward her chair.
“Would you be so kind, Ma’am, as to lock the door to this office, please? I know the request is a strange one, but I would feel more comfortable if you did so.”
“Of course, if it makes you feel more comfortable,” the woman replied crossing the room.
The door to her office locked automatically, but she went through the motions to reassure him. It was a curious request, but in her line of w
ork she was accustomed to unusual requests. “Is there anything else before we get started?” she asked, not expecting anything.
“Well, actually, if you would not mind, would you please to close also the curtains?”
Surprised, she looked at the young man and then glanced at her half drawn brocade draperies. Things were not adding up. This was not the way meetings of this sort usually began. She was about to sit down and ask him to explain his requests, but she changed her mind. Something told her she was dealing with something altogether different. The woman crossed to the window and studied the street below. Three men wearing fitted prayer caps, knee length cotton tunics and baggy pants, were arguing with each other gesturing and casting glances at her building. They were here for this man, this Ari Ben-Aviv. She knew it. Without taking her eyes off the men, she asked, “Exactly why are you here, Mr. Ben-Aviv?”
On the faded oriental carpet his black Zelli loafers moved restlessly. “I’m afraid I’m being followed,” he said in a hushed tone, “May I speak freely?”
“Of course, it’s perfectly safe here,” she assured him.
“How do you know?” he pressed, “Have you had your office checked for listening devices?”
That got her attention; she turned slightly, “No, I haven’t. Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m in danger,” he said quietly.
Processing the irrational thought took milliseconds. If he was in danger, why should she search for listening devices? She’d only just met him. Was he suggesting she knew about him in advance; she should have been prepared for him? Was he paranoid or was this something else? She had received a call from him days before asking for this appointment. He sounded urgent, but declined to discuss his predicament over the phone. The call had come up as ‘caller unknown’ on her caller ID. So prior to this meeting she had no information about him. She still had none.
Elisabeth Reinhardt, a clinical psychologist, frowned slightly. Standing at the window, she now inclined her head toward him, observed his restless shoes, his hands folded calmly on his lap and his eyes scanning her face intently. Inconsistent non-verbals, interesting...
“I’m in danger,” he repeated.
“Danger from…?” she asked watching the men pacing on the sidewalk.
“People are following me,” he whispered, “lots of people. I’m not crazy, I know they are there. You see them there, do you not?” his head motioned toward the window, “They are out there watching, waiting. Is that not correct?” She moved her eyes to his. Silent affirmation.
“They follow me,” he added. “Like a chameleon I disappear before their eyes. They say I transform myself and disappear. One minute I am green the next minute I am blue. They want very much to catch me. To get me before I disappear again.”
“Why come to me?” she asked again, “Why not go to the police?”
The young man raised his eyes to look at her, in a voice deep with innuendo, he said, “Because I know the truth.”
A chill ran up her spine triggering an alarm that spread through her system. Her eyes studied him as his eyes studied her. In the recesses of her mind, a fragment of memory tingled. A tiny blip from long ago. An image spiraled then it vanished. There was something about this young man, this Ari Ben Aviv. There was something about him that she couldn’t pinpoint.
“You have been highly recommended to me,” he had said on the phone. Who had made that recommendation? Why hadn’t she asked him that? Who knew about her and how did that person know this young man? Moreover, why had they recommended her to him? Her mind raced through the possibilities, but there was no time to think. On the street, she saw a polished black Mercedes pull up to the curb and one of the pacing men slipped into the back. The other two stood guard, continuing to glower at her building; their hostility barely contained.
“The truth?” she slowly responded to his statement.
“That is correct, Ma’am, yes the truth. It is all important.”
Then she was certain. He was playing the role of a psychiatric patient. But it was an act, a cover story. Two things were certain: He was not here for therapy and he was in mortal danger. So perhaps was she. She was nearly certain about a third thing, too, but pushed that thought aside for the moment.
“Do you not agree that the truth is all important?” he continued to ramble.
“Of course,” she said making a decision as the door to the Mercedes swung open and a white-haired, long bearded man got out. He wore a wrapped muslin turban, and a tan long-sleeved, floor-length djellaba; he was treated deferentially by the three younger men, who grew increasingly animated as they gestured toward her building. “Truth is important to all of us,” she replied absently.
“The problem is that there are many truths,” he said. “There is the truth of one group of people versus another group. Say the Arabs and the Israelis. There is the truth of one G-d versus another G-d, one holy book versus another holy book. On and on it goes. Those are all different truths, are they not?” he asked.
“And, what truth are you most concerned about?” she was on auto-pilot now, barely keeping up her end of the conversation. She wanted to keep him talking until she figured out what to do. In the event that they were being overheard she wanted to keep up appearances.
“Your truth and mine concern me most,” he replied vaguely.
So she said, “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Ben-Aviv tell me about your truth….” Her beckoning fingers invited a soliloquy. The young man turned in his chair, intent on her as she watched the street. He knew now that she knew. They were in this together.
“My father was born in Lebanon,” he began, “His father’s father had an olive grove near Houla. They traveled throughout the area….in my grandfather’s time….”
As she stood under the palms, she saw the older man get back into the car and the three younger men prepare to cross the street. Putting her finger to her lips she crossed the room…
“…traveled back and forth across the border between Israel and Lebanon selling olives and olive oil…they had many camels and many servants. They traveled across the desert....”
She moved toward her carved mahogany desk and the heavy mahogany bookcases that lined the back of the office.
“…my mother was from Israel…” He watched with rapt attention as she reached up to the neckline of her beige silk blouse and extracted a long antique gold chain from which a small key dangled.
He rambled on, “…my mother’s family worked on the fish farms not far from the border, she was 13 …..”
Opening a narrow desk drawer, Elisabeth Reinhardt slid back a narrow piece of molding and unlocked a concealed panel…
“…born a… a sabra… I was raised in my mother’s land ….”
Barely listening she waited as the bookcase glided open revealing a narrow staircase. She pointed to his feet and pantomimed an instruction. He did as she directed then rose to follow her…
“I lived you see as a citizen of two worlds…”
She touched a number on her cell, texted ‘urgent, pick-up in 5’ and pressed ‘SEND.' As they descended, the office wall closed silently behind them.
- 2 -
ON THE JOB
He slumped behind the steering wheel of his old maroon Camry, partly hidden behind a UPS truck busy with deliveries. He was heavyset and could hardly fit behind the steering wheel. A former policeman, in his mid-40’s, he had been reduced to occasional PI work for a small downtown firm specializing in surveillance. He had not been told the reason for this job. He was told very little these days, just enough to know what to look for. He was tired and bored. After ten hours, it was hard to keep his eyes open. The driver in a brown uniform returned to his truck and drove off. The man felt exposed and wished another truck would come and park in front of him. He pulled his Chicago CUBS cap, blue with a little red bear, over his eyes and slouched down. Reaching into the plastic bag on the seat beside him, he pulled out a package of gummy bears and tore through the cellop
hane.
He wondered for the thousandth time what she could be doing up there for so long. He wondered if he had time to run to MacDonald’s down the street. He really had to go. He couldn’t decide whether to walk the few blocks down Stony Island Avenue or whether to drive down there and risk losing his parking space. It was a perfect space. His hand was on the door handle when he saw her. He cursed softly, piss poor timing, he thought, grinning at his play on words. She wore knee high boots, jeans and a loose fitting jacket, a scarf, red and gold in a geometric pattern was wrapped around her shoulders. She walked under the overhang toward the small parking lot near her building, her wavy black hair hung nearly to her waist. In her twenties, she had good posture and a brisk energetic walk. She slipped into her tan Honda Civic and headed into traffic.
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 1
