Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

“Retired?” Kharzai screwed up his face in contemplation of the word. “Retired. Hrm. Interesting concept, but no, I'm too young. And besides, there are still bad guys out there, too much work yet to do.”

  “Are you on a mission up here?” Hilde asked.

  “If I was, I couldn't tell you.”

  “As I understand it, the CIA is not supposed to operate on US soil,” Lonnie said.

  “There are always exceptions to the rules,” Kharzai replied with a wave of his hand. “And no, I am not on a CIA mission up here. Or any mission in the strictest sense.”

  “Then what are you doing up here?” Mike asked.

  “Vacationing.”

  “What, like a fantasy cabbie tour?” Lonnie asked.

  “No, silly,” Kharzai said with a smile. “I suppose I can tell you because these other two already know what I do. Of course, the knowledge comes with the requisite, 'if you repeat it, I'll kill you' clause.”

  The baby kicked hard into Lonnie's diaphragm. She winced and let out a grunt, then said, “Uh, maybe I don't want to know.”

  Kharzai squished up his face and said in a high-pitched ‘church lady’ voice, “Too late.” It was a good imitation of Dana Carvey’s old Saturday Night Live character. “I have been working undercover in a well-known terrorist organization for several years. Last year, they attempted to set off a nuclear bomb in Ohio. I managed to get myself assigned as one of the leaders of the team that was to do it, and with the rather heroic help of Pastor Mike here, we were able to send all the other team members to their virginal reward. Which, by the way, did you know that not very many of those jihadi guys are actually aware of that whole seventy-two virgins concept, and a lot who are aware of it are actually scared to death by the idea because the ones who grow up in the terrorist camps and madrassas are usually taught that women are evil creatures only good for making baby martyrs, and they only do that right fifty percent of the time?”

  “Thanks for the sociology lesson,” Lonnie said.

  “Anyhoo... after that, I got back into the 'organization' and framed one of the dead guys with the failure. The leadership thought I should lay low for a while and suggested that I hide out far from everything. It was either here or a cave in Afghanistan, so here I am. About as remote as an Indiana-bred Persian guy can ever dream of being. There's neither a single camel nor a real cornstalk in this whole state. Can you imagine that?”

  “So you’re just hiding out in Anchorage,” Mike.

  “Basically,” said Kharzai.

  “And how is it that you got sent to pick us up instead of another of the hundreds of cabbies in Anchorage?” Hilde asked.

  “The bigger question,” Kharzai said, “is what were a pregnant Asian hottie and a knockout gorgeous redhead doing sitting alone in a truck late at night in a rail yard in an area known to have gangs wandering around? I didn’t believe Snake’s lady-love concept. Neither of you look like any lesbians I’ve ever seen. Girls with your genetically natural beauty only do it for money or cocaine in porn flicks. And even then they’re only good-looking with a ton of makeup.”

  “How did you know we were sitting there alone?” Lonnie asked, her tone that of an investigating state trooper.

  “You are a pretty intimidating lady, Lonnie. I was impressed when you threatened to shoot that leader dude,” Kharzai continued. “What was that you said? 'I'm gonna hormone your ass to hell.' That was truly classic. Wish I could use it myself, but being a dude, it'd sound kinda gay, so I guess I'll have to stick with ballsy stuff.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mike said. “You saw that whole thing?”

  “Yeah. And listened too.” Kharzai held up a cheap-looking listening device shaped like a small radar dish with headphones attached. It looked like something that would be sold in a kid’s spy kit. “Picked this bad boy up at Radio Shack. The box showed people listening to wildlife in the woods, but this is pure dirty teenage stalker tech, if you ask me. Works like a charm, though—even got to listen to your sweet little bio there, cop lady. Heart-breaking stuff, that.”

  “So now we know who the real voyeur is,” Lonnie said, glancing out the window, her face tightening.

  “Driving cab around this town can be pretty boring, and I was on my break, just listening to the rats clambering around the train yard when I picked up you girls.”

  “So if you saw those thugs coming in on us, why didn't you call the cops, or come down and help?” Lonnie asked.

  “Fair question,” Kharzai answered. “You want to explain to me what you were doing there to begin with?”

  “Why were you watching us?” Lonnie asked.

  “Why didn't you do something?” Hilde asked, suddenly quite upset as she recalled the nearly fatal encounter and her feeling of utterly terrified helplessness. “Those guys nearly killed us.”

  “You were even closer to your demise than you think, pretty lady,” he said. “I very nearly came cruising in to your rescue, but then saw Pastor Mike and Mojo comin' in and figured that between the four of you, those thuglets were about to be undone.”

  “You still didn't answer my question,” Lonnie stated. “What were you doing watching us?”

  “I wasn't. I was waiting for someone else.”

  “Who?” Mike demanded.

  Kharzai ignored the question. “Where were you and Mojo, Mike? I saw you guys get out on the highway, but didn't see where you went. Shipyard, maybe?”

  Mike was silent. Kharzai rounded a corner and pulled the taxi into the circular drive that stopped atthe lobby doors in front of the hotel.

  “Like the Cash-Cab guy says, end of the line, folks. But in this case, I ain't got dough for you—you gotta pay me, and that'll be eight dollars and forty-two cents.”

  “So you're not going to tell us what you were doing in the train yard,” Lonnie said.

  “Only if you tell me what you were doing there first. I don't do nothin' for free, not even for a pretty little China doll like you.”

  “I'm Korean.”

  “Ooh. A Kimchi-Mama. Spicy!”

  “We were tracking a terror suspect,” Mike said, handing him a ten-dollar bill.

  “Oh,” said Kharzai. “In that case, I can tell you what I was doing there, then. Do you want your change?”

  “No,” Mike said, “keep it.”

  “So tell us why you were there,” Hilde said.

  “Yeah.” Kharzai stretched his leg, straightening his body and raising his butt off the seat so he could put the money in his front pocket. “Waiting for someone to call a cab.”

  They waited to hear more. He just smiled at them as he sat back down.

  “Do you need a ride anywhere else?” He glanced back and forth between them. “If not, I've got more fares to catch. Gotta make a legitimate living, you know.”

  He emphasized the finality of the conversation by clicking the electric locks and pressing the automatic opener for the side doors. Then his bearded face spread into his trademark wide-eyed toothy grin and he nodded his head toward the doors. The women got out of the van and walked up to the sidewalk. Mike stayed in the seat, a hard stare attempting to bore into Kharzai's will, but to no avail. Realizing he was not going to get an answer, he shook his head in frustration, opened the door and stepped out, then flipped it shut with an angry whump. He stepped to the sidewalk where the women waited. The electric hum of the power window buzzed behind him.

  “Hey, preacher man!”

  Mike turned.

  “Have a good night,” Kharzai said, then pressed the button for the window to rise. Its hum stopped short and went back down again, and he added, “Beware the dudes who smell like vinegar and stale bread. Bad juju.” He started the window up again, put the van in gear, and started forward only to bounce to a shuddering stop and bring the window back down again. He smiled brightly, winked at Lonnie and Hilde, and wiggled his fingers in a childish wave. “G'nite, pretty ladies.”

  He pulled away from the hotel entrance, the automatic side doors pulling themselves shut a
s he turned onto Fourth Avenue.

  Chapter 11

  Captain Cook Hotel

  Tuesday, June 21st

  12:19 a.m.

  Steam floated out of the bathroom like a Finnish sauna, greeting Marcus as he stepped into the hotel room. He glanced through the open door. Lonnie smiled back at him from behind the glass of the shower stall. White mist hung in the air around her naked body. The door slid open with the smooth sound of the Teflon rollers against the metal track, and she stepped out, grabbing a thick terry cloth towel from the chrome bar on the wall. Water dripped from the tips of her hair as she lifted the towel and wrapped it like a turban around her head.

  With the stream of water stopped, she took a second towel and patted her body mostly dry, then wrapped the towel around her waist and stepped in front of the vanity mirror and picked up her lotion. The plastic bottle made a splattering sound as she squirted a dollop of the creamy cocoa-butter mixture onto her hand. She massaged it on to her swollen breasts and distended belly, hoping to keep the stretch marks to a minimum. As her hand moved gently across the taut skin around her belly button, the baby responded by pressing one of its limbs from within the chamber of her womb. A smile slid across Marcus’s weary face as he stared, mesmerized by the image of mother and child communicating with each other, two individual persons in one body. Her golden skin shimmered in the bright lights of the vanity as beads of moisture rose through the lotion and settled on the surface like tiny diamonds that swelled in size until they let go and slid into the absorbant cotton towel.

  Lonnie glanced at his reflection in the mirror. “Are you just going to stare?”

  “Yeah,” Marcus replied with a licentious grin, “unless I can touch, too.”

  “I can't reach my back,” she said with a tiny pout.

  “Then here I come—Lotion Man to the rescue.”

  She let out a playful laugh as he drew near and she passed the bottle of lotion to him. He squirted more of the white cream onto his hand and rubbed it in between his palms until it was as warm as his own body heat. Then he put his palms onto her skin and spread the lotion with long, deep strokes across her lower back, where the muscles were visibly most tense, pressing with his thumbs in an outward motion. He curved the tips of his fingers, hardening them into stiff rakes that he slid down the length of her spine, pressing deep into the tight muscles. She leaned onto the counter, her hands holding her body upright, fingers grasping the cool marble surface. Lonnie let out a sigh, her eyes sliding shut, face relaxing into an expression that bordered on ecstasy.

  “You are a good husband,” she said, her voice low and breathy. “I'll keep you.”

  “Were you considering otherwise?”

  “A lady has to keep her options open, you know,” she replied, “but so far, you've accumulated enough points to last for at least a decade.”

  “You're keeping score, eh?”

  “It's hard to keep score with you. There haven't been enough bad points to even make the list yet.”

  “Sounds like I'm safe then.”

  “Safe?” She pondered the word. “Securely married, yes, but as long as you're with me, you're in deep danger.”

  She turned around and pulled him close, pressing her lips to his in a passionate kiss, then slapped his rear end hard enough that he let out a yelp.

  She laughed out loud. “You sure are wimpy for a Marine.”

  “You don't hit like a girl,” he said back.

  “Well, you can't have it all—a hot wife and she's a pushover, too? Huh-uh, bub, this bod's gotta be worth a little work for ya.”

  Lonnie walked from the bathroom to the closet where her suitcase lay open on a folding metal rack. She sauntered with an exaggerated swaying of her hips for a couple of steps, then straightened her body with one hand under her belly and the other on her lower back.

  “Ooh, sexy walk ain't happening,” she said, sucking in a short breath.

  She bent over the suitcase, grunting from the exertion, and pulled out a pair of panties, then took a step back and leaned against the wall, twisting her leg at the hip in order to raise her foot high enough to be able to get it through the leg hole. Once her underpants were on, she stood back up to catch her breath before pulling on a pair of thin fleece pajama pants. Marcus watched her slide on a long, loose-fitting cotton T-shirt and found himself unexpectedly aroused at the sight of his fully dressed, and fully pregnant, wife.

  Early on, he had that assumed his sexual attraction to his wife would abate during the pregnancy, but had been surprised to find that he desired her even more. He had been a poet since he was young, always finding it easier to express himself in words on paper than he ever could with those spoken from the lips. In his twenty years of service in the Marines, he had penned over five hundred poems specifically for Lonnie, thousands of words arranged for her alone, and never to be seen by anyone else. He reached up and rubbed her shoulders and neck, drawing another sigh from her lips as he gently squeezed the physical tension away. A knock at the door snatched their attention.

  “Who is it?” Marcus called out.

  “It's Mike and Hilde,” came the response from the other side.

  Marcus crossed the room and opened the door.

  “I've been trying to reach Tonia since we got back,” Hilde said, “but she's not answering.”

  “How about the FBI office here in Anchorage?” Lonnie asked. “It's just a few blocks away.”

  “I tried there too. Got the automated attendant that said to leave a message or dial 911 for an emergency. I left a voice mail, but it’s not likely that an agent will get back to us before morning. And this is not a 911-type call. Local police will think it's a prank.”

  “Do you know what room your friend is in?” Marcus asked. “We could always go wake her up.”

  “I don't know the room. And besides, Tonia probably won’t to be back until after midnight anyway. The president himself isn’t here yet, and she's just on prep detail and so she’s probably living it up with her per diem money.”

  “Maybe we should wait downstairs,” Mike suggested, “and catch her when she comes in.”

  “When she does get back, I doubt she’s going to be in the mood to talk business,” Hilde said.

  “I don't think anything more is going to happen tonight,” Lonnie said. “If you guys want to do some more snooping around, that's up to you, but this pregnant lady has to get some sleep or she won’t be functional tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Marcus said. “Let’s meet up in the a.m.”

  “The FBI office probably opens about eight,” Hilde said. “How about if we meet downstairs for breakfast at seven, then head over there?”

  “That works for me,” Lonnie said.

  “Let's call Hogan, too,” Mike said. “He can get us an immediate audience with the local SAC.”

  They said their good nights, and Mike and Hilde went back to their room. Marcus took a quick shower. When he came out, Lonnie had already climbed into bed. He joined her, lying face-to-face, the bulk of her pregnant belly pressed into his own abdomen. The baby kicked against its father's stomach.

  “Baby wants to play with Daddy already.” he said.

  “He likes your touch,” Lonnie said.

  “Or she likes my touch.”

  “Could be.”

  Marcus smiled and started to hum a soft tune, as he had done almost every night since they were first married two years earlier. Like the arms of the mythical Morpheus, his sonorous baritone and smooth notes never failed to lull her into a deep sleep. Her stress faded as if washed away by a warm stream. Gradually, the baby stopped its movement, and Lonnie's breathing smoothed into a hushed rhythm. A few minutes later, Marcus drifted off too.

  ***

  Marcus woke promptly at six a.m. He never needed a clock's buzzer to pull him out of sleep, even when he was sick. Whatever time he had to be up, he just was. Lonnie slept for a few minutes longer, but was soon roused by the light and noise of her husband’s morning ri
tuals. By a quarter to seven, they were dressed and ready. They took a couple steps toward the door, then a succession of beeps burst from Lonnie’s purse. She pulled out her cell phone.

  “Oh! I forgot to charge my phone last night. Battery just died.” She plugged it in to the charging cord on the table beside the TV cabinet. “I’ll come back for it later.”

  They stepped into the hall, shut the door behind them, twisting the handle to make sure it locked, then walked to the elevators. Marcus held Lonnie's hand as they moved. In spite of the size of her belly, she walked erect and smooth. The fact that her body was at a fitness level far above average made it much easier to maintain her poise. Rather than shuffling with a penguin-like waddle, she strode like a pregnant momma jaguar, heavy with child, but still in control and still lethal.

  By the time they reached the restaurant, a raised platform next to the hotel lobby set up like a European sidewalk cafe, Mike and Hilde had already gotten a table. Steam floated from two cups of black coffee in front of them. As they approached the table, Mike signaled a waiter who came with a third cup of coffee for Marcus as Mike had instructed before they arrived.

  “Black, no sugar, right?” Mike said, remembering Marcus’s preference from their days in the military.

  “You got it,” Marcus said, then turned to the waiter. “And a V8 with a couple of lime wedges for my wife.”

  “Thank you, honey,” Lonnie said. While she had always loved Mexican food, which she craved constantly now, the smell of V8 vegetable juice had been repulsive to her before the pregnancy. Now, though, the tomato-based drink with two lime wedges was mandatory every day for breakfast.

  “Did you call Hogan?” Marcus asked.

  “We did,” Hilde said. “He is pulling up the file on Farrah to email to me, and said he'd put in a call to the local SAC right away. They should be expecting us about eight o'clock.”

  The waiter brought the glass of V8 and set a small plate with two lime wedges next to it. Lonnie squeezed them into the drink, then dropped the green fruits into the glass and stirred with a straw as the waiter took their food orders.