by Robert Graf
The wall clock showed 08:20. She barely controlled her excitement. She booted her tablet, then prepared a pot of decaf. She was too pumped up to need more caffeine
The clock ticked over to 09:30; no email. If it didn't arrive in fifteen minutes, she’d call. She again checked the email window, the little flag was up. Yes! She quickly read it: A name and link code at the Embassy plus confirmation codes for the ownership transfer. Damn, it's Friday evening there, will someone be around?
She entered the code in her comm app. A window appeared with the State Department’s eagle logo. It faded to a spectacled, round-faced man in a gray business suit. "Mr. Bolton, my name is Ann Grey. I believe Mr. Lipsom of Global Communication just contacted you?"
He studied her for a moment. "Yes, I'm Under Secretary Bolton. You are Dr. Ann Grey?"
"Yes, sir. I believe the Embassy is holding some equipment belonging to Global."
"A couple formalities first if you don't mind. Please state your social security number and date and place of birth?"
For a second she drew a blank, then told him.
"Please look directly at me without speaking or moving."
She complied. What was he doing? ID software?
He glanced up. "Everything seems to be in order. Do you have a confirmation code?"
She read off the code from the email.
"Very good. You understand this equipment was released to us after the British authorities impounded it as part of a crime investigation?"
"Yes, sir."
"We can make no guarantee as to its condition."
Uh oh. "You've seen it?"
"Oh my, yes. Cables and electronic widgets and cylinders and what all. Nothing broken, mind you, as far as we can tell. We do require payment in advance before handing the equipment over to a shipping firm."
"Certainly, but it must be packaged and shipped as delicate electronic equipment. It can't just be stuffed in boxes and dropped off at Heathrow."
"That's not a problem. We ship all manner of items around the world; however I won't have an accurate cost until next week. We don't work weekends unless there's a crisis somewhere. Thankfully, things seem quiet for now."
Damn, she'd hoped to get it sooner. "Do you have an account I can have my bank wire the funds to?"
"Yes, Bank of America." He read off a long string of numbers and characters which she wrote down and repeated back. "What's the shipping address?"
She wanted to pick it up, but with the security costs and Alex's injuries? "Ship it to my home address," and she gave him the details.
"We'll ship this under diplomatic seal, that way you won't have to pay duty."
"That's very kind of you."
He smiled. "It's little enough. May I ask if you know the gentleman who was recovered along with the equipment? We don't know all the details, though it appears he had a very rough time." He hastened to add, "Mind you, that isn't an official query, just my curiosity."
She hesitated, what's the harm? "I've worked with Farid for years and was overjoyed to learn of his safe return. Have you seen or spoken to him? Was he well?"
"Briefly. He seemed very tired and rather thin." He hesitated. "There was mention of a Dr. Grey involved in the kidnapping. Was that you?"
Poor Jon. "No, that was my husband, he was killed."
Bolton's face blanched, eyes wide. "I'm so very sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Please accept my sincere condolences."
"Thank you, it was a great shock."
He shook his head. "I can't imagine. Someone from the embassy will contact you Monday. May I have your link code?"
She gave it to him, thanked him again and closed the connection. Call Farid later?
"What was that all about?" Alex asked from behind her.
She started; she'd been so absorbed she hadn’t noticed his entrance. "Don't do that," she gasped, her pulse pounding.
"Sorry. Who were you speaking to?"
He didn't look sorry. "The embassy in London. The Brits released my prototype and Global doesn't want it, so I'm getting it back. Isn't that great news?" she asked excitedly, wanting to hug him. "Saves me months of effort and tons of money."
"You're going back to wearing your science hat?" he asked, frowning slightly.
Was that a hint of jealousy? "I never took it off. I hope you'll help."
"Doing what? My expertise is hands-on civil engineering. It's what I like and do best. Sitting in a lab or office all day isn't my idea of fun."
She chose her words with care. "I was thinking more along the line of someone to bounce ideas off, get feedback, and point out the error of my ways."
No smile. "You have colleagues for that sort of thing. Hell, Ann, I can barely spell quantum chromo dynamics."
“Q.U.A.N…," she began, then giggled at his expression.
His eye narrowed, then he laughed. “OK. You win.”
She swallowed her giggles. “I can't go to anyone until I have real, verifiable data, something publishable. I need you for that different viewpoint." She smiled. "Also, I like having you around."
"You're not just being kind?"
"Never happen. You earn your keep, and speaking of which, would you teach me how to shoot?"
His burnt eyebrow lifted in surprise. "You?" He shook his head. "No, get a professional, ask your buddy Ian for a recommendation. I predict he'll discourage you."
"You carry a gun."
"I've carried it for twenty years because it's required. The episode in Yreka is the only time I've drawn it for real. Other than refresher courses, I've never fired it. I decided years ago to never shoot someone just for stealing my equipment."
Could she shoot someone? "I feel so helpless even with all the guards and security in the house."
"And you want to do something more." He shook his head. "You've done the right thing, hiring professionals. Any wacko can carry a gun; the key is knowing when and how to use it. That takes extensive training and years more of experience. Ask your FBI agent."
She hated being lectured. "This your great personal experience speaking?" she asked in a sarcastic tone.
"It's my great inexperience speaking," he retorted. "Soldiering doesn't count. You studied Aikido for years, right?"
"Your point being it took years to become proficient." She grasped his hand and gently squeezed it. "Sorry for snapping at you."
He responded in kind. "We're already squabbling, yet I've been here less than a week."
"These are not normal circumstances. Forget the gun, it was a stupid idea." She released his hand. Now for something serious. "Tomorrow after lunch is the memorial service," she said, watching his reaction.
He frowned. "Will there be a lot of people?"
"I think not. My parents, Jon’s parents, a few people from work and maybe friends who've seen the obituary."
"I'd be too much of a distraction. You've got more than enough to handle. You're giving the eulogy?"
"Yes, I've been struggling with it all week." She held back her tears. "It's so fucking hard."
He reached around her waist and held her. "You'll do fine."
She leaned into his chest, careful not to bump his bad arm. "My heart wants you there, but you're right, I don't want to have to explain your presence, especially to Jon's parents. Ellen will be hard enough." She lifted her head and gazed into his eye. "Have you spoken to your other daughter?"
"I left voicemail."
"She's in the City?"
"Yeah, she has an apartment in the Haight and shares an art studio somewhere south of Market. I've never been there."
"Never seen where she lives?"
"No, I meant the studio. Her apartment is airy and sunny, on the second floor of a refurnished Victorian with a view of the Panhandle."
"I spent time there in 2010. I remember there were lots of druggies and homeless. Cops just wouldn't deal with them, and I haven't been back since."
He grimaced. "Yeah, that hasn’t changed much."
A sudden thought struc
k her. "You've never mentioned your parents."
His expression hardened. "I was raised an orphan, in and out of foster homes until an aunt took me in when I was eleven."
"Oh, Alex, I'm so sorry. That sounds horrible."
He shrugged. "The foster homes were sometimes bad, but once I went to live with Aunt Louise, life got better. We can talk about this another time; you've got things to do."
Touchy subject, be careful. "I'm going to call Farid. I hope he’ll talk to me, but even if he doesn’t I’ll feel reassured that he’s okay.
"Mind if I listen in, or is this private?"
"I’ve no secrets.” Not too many, anyway. “I'll try with the tablet," she replied opening the comm app.
"What's the time there?"
She glanced at the wall clock – 10:00. "Eight Friday evening," she replied, typing in the brother's code. “His brother’s name is Hana, but we’ve never been introduced. So stay out of view, please, I don’t want to upset anyone further.”
“Good idea.”
A window opened; an older Farid gazed at her from a stern, weathered face. He wore a long-sleeved gray dress or robe and was seated in a wooden armchair in an airy room with stucco-coated walls. "Allo?"
No mistaking that family resemblance. "Mr. Sawalha? My name is Ann Grey, and I work with Farid. How are you this morning?"
His eyes narrowed. "Grey, Dr. Grey?"
Uh oh. "Yes. I was overjoyed to learn of Farid's safe return. I was hoping to speak with him, is he available?"
The brother peered suspiciously at her. "He is here, by God's grace, but why should he want to speak with you. You created that djini-cursed machine that nearly got him killed."
How to answer that? His hostility disturbed her, though what did she expect? She looked to Alex for help, but he shrugged. "Mr. Sawalha, I understand your suspicion. I too have suffered. Tomorrow I bury my husband, killed by the people who kidnapped Farid. Please, may I speak with him?"
His expression softened. "Forgive my bad manners and accept my sympathy. I will get him. Remember, he has had a very rough time." The brother got up and disappeared from view.
"He's not too happy with you," Alex observed.
"No reason he should be. I hope Farid doesn't feel the same.”
A gaunt figure, dressed in the same style robe as his brother, shuffled into view and carefully sat down in the chair. The brother stood by his side.
For a second she didn't recognize Farid. My God, he's lost weight and that black beard and those haunted eyes? "Farid, I'm so glad you're safe. I was worried sick about you."
He gave her a glimmer of a smile. "Dr. Grey, as you can see I'm a lot thinner than last we met. I'm so sorry about your husband, it was horrible. There was nothing I could do to help him. I'm sorry," Farid blurted out, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"You were with Jon when he died?" she demanded, incredulously.
"Yes. They held us in a warehouse, chained, I don't know where, and made us fix your prototype, and this man came and forced us to show him how to test facts. Your husband was drugged, and they beat him, and he had a heart attack, and they wouldn't let me help or call 911. It was awful."
Ann felt sick to her stomach. She took a deep breath and exhaled. She’d felt confident she was prepared but not for this. Focus. "Farid, there was nothing you could do, you barely survived, be thankful for that."
"Yes, Dr. Grey, I give thanks to God every day for my survival. Hana told me you're burying your husband tomorrow?"
"He was cremated, and we're having a memorial service."
Farid stared at her and bit his lip as if deciding something. "I recognized the kidnappers' boss. He was a Member of Parliament but drowned, so I guess it doesn't matter."
What on earth? Parliament? "Do you know his name?"
"Oh yes, it was in all the papers, Jonathan Swales."
A cold anger filled her, and she could barely speak. Ian, you bastard! "He killed Jon?"
Her question startled Farid, and he hurriedly answered. "No, no. The first kidnappers in America killed him. This was the second group who killed that evil djinni, Maria, and kidnapped me from the first after they flew me to England. It's all mixed up in my head. I was hungry all the time and thought I'd be killed at any moment."
"What did the police say about Swales?"
Farid lowered his eyes. "I didn't tell them."
Alex started at her with an appalled expression and silently mouthed, "Jesus Christ."
Farid's words flowed over her, yet she couldn't assimilate them. Kidnapped twice and more killing? Why didn't he tell the police about Swales?
His brother interrupted, "Dr. Grey, that's enough. Farid needs to rest. You can call again in a few days."
She felt ashamed at her selfishness. "Of course. Farid, take care of yourself, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to contact me. Here's my phone code. I'd like to speak to your brother before ending this call."
Farid copied it down. "I appreciate you calling, Dr. Grey, we'll talk later." He stood and disappeared from sight.
The brother remained. "You wished to add something?"
"Yes. I'm concerned about Farid's safety. There's been two attempts on my life in the last week, with bombs. Do you have access to a security service?"
All expression fled Hana’s face. "Do you know who is responsible?"
"No, the FBI's investigating. Please, for your brother's and your family's sake, take extra precautions. If you need money to hire guards, I can help."
His mouth curled in a non-smile, and the eyes remained cold. "Thank you for the warning, you are very generous, but that is not necessary. I have family I can call upon, and I assure you we will be quite safe. May God be with you." The connection closed and the window vanished.
Ann slumped on her stool, overwhelmed by Farid's tale, and furious with Ian. "I had no concept of the hell he's been through. And he's so thin." The more she brooded the angrier she became. "God damn them to hell, who would do this?"
"Swales is on your list —MacDougal's acquaintance?"
"Yeah. It appears Swales told someone who stole the prototype and shot Hooper and Doug. Then he kidnapped Farid and Jon, killed Jon, and flew with Farid to England. That's where it gets confusing." She didn't care anymore. "I'm calling Winslow; let her figure out the details. I just want the bastards caught."
Alex held up his hand. "Wait a minute. It's been days since Farid escaped and talked to the British police. They must have contacted the FBI by now. There’s no way Farid would have been allowed to leave without telling them where he would be. He's a material witness, maybe the only one."
Was he right? Ian had warned her that the FBI didn't give out information. "Farid didn't tell the British about Swales, and he said nothing about the FBI contacting him. So they don't know?"
"Maybe. I'm just saying think about it first. Farid must have his reasons."
“He’s just escaped weeks of captivity. You saw him. He’s not thinking clearly.”
“Remember, Farid said there were two groups. That suggests Swales had a falling out with that ‘someone’. Maybe drowning wasn’t accidental.”
She couldn't sort all that out now. "Let's hope you're right. Anyway, I’ve got lots to do for tomorrow."
"Yeah, I’m going back to bed, read for a bit and rest.”
[Saturday, Petaluma]
Ann kissed Alex. "Wish me luck," she said and turned toward the waiting car.
"You'll do fine," he called after her.
She closed the door and buckled up. Ellen shifted into gear and drove away. She didn't want to talk, and Ellen respected her silence.
Ann wore her dark blue business suit and comfortable shoes; no heels for her, she hated the things. She hadn't brought a purse; she'd printed the eulogy and kept it folded in her pocket. She closed her eyes, steeling herself for her role. Can't be as bad as orals, she told herself. Oh yes it can; she pushed the thought aside.
"Here we are," Ellen announced, braking t
he car to a halt among other vehicles.
Ann opened her eyes, seeing the funeral home for the first time, rather than its website image. A pseudo-Spanish, one-storey white building with a tiled peaked roof at the end of a curving driveway lined with white fences and sycamores. A flagpole with Old Glory rippling in the light breeze stood at attention by the colonnaded entrance. Her stomach threatened to climb up her throat. She swallowed and tried to calm her racing pulse. Focus. You can do this.
She stepped out into the sunlight. An elderly couple standing on the porch caught her eye, the woman’s white hair glistening in the sun —her parents! Her mom wore a formal dark blue dress and her dad wore his best black suit. She hurried up the path, Ellen trailing behind. "Mom, Dad, I'm so glad you could make it. The flight and drive must have been hard."
Her mother gave her a quick hug. "Are you all right?" she asked, stepping back.
“Yes, Mom, ”Ann answered, aware of the slight lavender scent her mom favored. She turned and hugged her father. "How are you, Dad, enjoying retirement?"
He gave her a brief smile, "After nine years I'm getting used to it." He peered over Ann's shoulder. "Are you going to introduce your friend?"
"Mom, Dad, this is Ellen, my bodyguard." She held her breath.
Ellen had dressed appropriately, conservative skirt, blouse and jacket that barely covered the automatic tucked into the small of her back. She kept her professional smile, "Mr. Davis, Mrs. Davis, it's a pleasure to meet you."
Her father blinked in surprise. "Pleasure's mine," he replied, shaking Ellen’s hand. “Keeping my little girl safe?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ann's mother looked askance at Ellen. "A pleasure, I'm sure.”
"I'll explain later; we should go in," Ann said, stepping across the porch and through the open doorway.
Inside the foyer, hands clasped in front, stood a tall, fiftyish man in a gray suit, dark grey shirt and light grey tie—Jeff Landers, the funeral director. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Grey. The others are already in the chapel. We'll begin as soon as you enter. I'll give a brief introduction, then you present the eulogy. After that guests may make statements. Following that there are refreshments in the reception room. If you would follow me," he instructed.
