Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Bard's Bed & Breakfast Mystery #1
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Chapter Nine --
“That’s so sad,” I told him. “Why did they have to wait so long to be together again? Why didn’t he just follow her to wherever she was?”
Ben reached out and tenderly touched my cheek, a wistful look in his distant eyes.
“The Soviets suspected it was all a ruse. You have to remember the Soviets had more than just a couple of moles in the CIA and other government agencies. Colonel Demitrov planted operatives and informants all around Uncle Edward after he left for academia, and they reported back to their handlers on a regular basis. There was a great deal to be gained from watching the Soviets spy on Uncle Edward. The CIA ran several operations as a result, and the agency couldn’t afford to bring Hortense back as long as it benefited from her absence.”
“That stinks,” I growled. “You’re telling me that Uncle Edward and Hortense couldn’t be together because the CIA needed to run some ops?”
“Bea, that’s how it works.” We headed into the airport. “The gain realized made the sacrifice worthwhile.”
“If it were you, would you have done the same thing? Would you have left me in the lurch?”
“Babe, I would have, but not for the reasons you think.” Ben was already on the hunt. I could tell he was surveying the action. “I love you enough to give you up to keep you safe. That’s what Uncle Edward was doing for Hortense. He was keeping her alive and well. As long as Demitrov and his crew thought she was dead, as long as the informants and operatives made sure she wasn’t around, she got to have a life. She earned a Ph.D. and became a well-respected authority on early Egyptian and Byzantine archaeology. By 1972, she had received tenure as a professor. Her summers were spent in Cairo, Baghdad, and Tehran, working on digs.”
We found our way to the baggage claim area, where I noticed Ben kept fondling his right pocket. That meant he was carrying a concealed weapon. His eyes scanned the crowd that had just exited the Delta flight from New York.”
“Hey!” I grabbed Ben’s arm. “Wait just one cotton-picking minute, Mister!”
He threw me a quick glance before turning his attention back to the anticipated arrival of “Mr. Williams”. I sensed his impatience. “What? Tell me quickly!”
“Uncle Edward spent his summers traveling in the Middle East. I know because he showed me the photographs of his adventures.”
“Your point being?”
“Why didn’t he just get together with Hortense over there? Surely they could have had at least one rendezvous,” I insisted. “They could have dressed in native costume, disguised themselves and been a couple again!”
“Well, duh.” Ben reached out and tapped my forehead, as if to punctuate the point. Uncle Edward hadn’t completely abandoned his wife. If mountains wouldn’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed would go to the mountains. Even as I stood there, I thought there was still probably a benefit to the CIA. They wouldn’t have helped Uncle Edward and Hortense get together if it hadn’t been advantageous. Still, it was a relief to know that the lovebirds hadn’t completely lost each other. They had enjoyed stolen moments through the years. Was it worth it? Would they have done it again in the same circumstances?
“Bea!” Ben’s voice cut through my musings and he gave me a good, strong poke towards the baggage conveyor. “Go over there and greet ‘Mr. Williams’ while I keep an eye out for trouble.”
“But I don’t see her,” I responded. “There’s only a little old man over there.”
“Bea, just do it, without an argument. For once in your life, just cooperate.”
“I’ve cooperated plenty of times....” My rebuttal was abruptly ended when my husband planted both hands on my shoulder, turned me around, and sent me unceremoniously on my way with a solid shove. Glaring at him over my shoulder, I decided that when “Mr. Williams” was finally brought back to the Bard’s Bed & Breakfast and comfortably ensconced, Ben was going to hear about this.
I waited and waited for our guest to appear through the doors from the gate. When all the other passengers had collected their bags and the conveyor belt finally stopped, I was still there, feeling like the proverbial high school girl stood up for the prom. Of course, misery loves company, and I wasn’t the only person still unclaimed in the waiting area. I turned my attention to the little old man beside me. Dressed in a brown suit, ancient relic of a tie, and white button-down shirt, his shoes scuffed and well-worn, he had a dark brown homburg hat on his head. I noticed he barely reached my shoulder as he leaned patiently on a cane. There was something about the face, something that nagged at me. I stumbled over my words as I looked at the bushy eyebrows, the creased smile. The hands. My eyes went to the hands. Small in shape, fingers narrow and short. A woman’s hands. I felt like a complete dope.
“Would you be Mr. Williams, by any chance?” I turned on my most charming smile.
“I would. Hanford Williams. And you are?”
“Call me Bea. Let me get that bag of yours. I apologize for being so unprepared. I expected your flight to come in at 5:48, but then I called the airline and found out it landed at 4:40.” I waited for “Mr. Williams” to add the numerical digits together and spit out the expected response, which he quickly did.
“I should have taken Flight 25 to Laguardia from Detroit. It would have given made more sense, but I was running late.” There it was, the confirmation. I turned, looking for Ben, but he was gone. I hesitated, wondering what to do with the elderly man beside me. Perhaps my husband went to get the car. That was a very sensible thing to do, considering “Mr. Williams” needed a cane.
Once outside the terminal, I started to get nervous. Clearly, Ben had not retrieved the car. It was still waiting in the parking space across the pavement.
“Do you mind if I take your arm?” asked “Mr. Williams” as we traversed the crosswalk.
“Not at all.” Offering my elbow, I paused as “he” took it, using it as an opportunity to lean into me.
“Just relax. Everything will be fine. The one thing you don’t want to do is draw attention to yourself by acting nervous. You’ll attract the security people like flies. Any chance you have the keys to the car?”
“No. Ben’s got them. But I think I still have my spare.” Digging through the pockets of my purse, I felt along the bottom for the extra key I had tossed in last week, when Ben had forgotten to return my set to the wall cabinet, after he used my wagon to take the trash to the landfill. “Aha!”
“Let’s use it.”
I unlocked the car door and helped “Mr. Williams” into the front seat, and then I took “his” luggage to the back of the Subaru, where I loaded it in and slammed the hatchback closed. As I dithered, trying to decide whether to take the driver’s seat or park myself in the back, I spotted Ben. He was definitely in a hurry. As he trotted towards us, he pointed in my direction, mimicked using a steering wheel, and glanced over his shoulder. I took that as a sign that I would be driving and slid behind the wheel. As the engine roared to life, Ben pulled open the back door and tossed himself into the car.
“Get going,” he insisted. “All hell’s about to break loose.”
“You must be Ben,” said “Mr. Williams” as I pulled out of the parking space and joined the line of cars waiting. “Is this going to go hot on us?”
“Not us,” grinned my handsome husband with a Cheshire cat smile that I caught sight of in the rearview mirror. “But I expect there will be a rather impressive emergency response any second now.”
Sure enough, as we pulled up to the cashier’s cubicle with our parking stub, sirens cut through the air, and by the time we headed west on Route 2, we could see the fleet of police cars flocking to the airport like seagulls at a the opening of a Frito bag left on an unattended towel at the beach.
“Might I ask what that was all about?” asked the passenger beside me.
“Ah,” Ben smiled, “you might. It seems that someone left a package by the men’s room.”
“What was in the package?” I wondered. “It must have
been suspicious.”
“It was,” Ben agreed, “very suspicious. Some sulfur powder, zinc powder, a couple of rags, and a lighter.”
“Oh,” nodded “Mr. Williams” with great enthusiasm, “a stinky smoke bomb. Brilliant.”
“Yes, I believe the security folks picked up a couple of men who were witnessed to be holding the materials.”
“Let me guess. Philippe and his body-snatching buddy,” I tossed over my shoulder to Ben in the backseat.
“Could be.”
About twenty minutes into the drive back to Arden Woods, Ben ordered me to pull over.
“Excuse me?” Just who did he think he was, my boss? I was pretty sure he was the guy who was about to get a tongue lashing.
“Oh, my,” he slapped his forehead lightly, “did I say ‘Pull over, Bea?’ What I meant to say was pull over, Bea, and make it snappy, doll face. Chop, chop.”
Beside me, “Mr. Williams” chuckled, barely able to contain “his” mirth behind the cover of one of those tiny hands. I glared at the pair of them.
“You forgot to say please,” the front seat passenger reminded my wayward husband. “A wife is not to be trifled with, Ben, and you must always remember to treat women with respect.”
I caught sight of a wink out of the corner of my eye and turned on the indicator, carefully pulling onto the soft shoulder of the tarmac on the Ethan Allen Highway.
“Not to worry, ‘Mr. Williams’,” I said cheerfully. “Ben’s sense of humor is an acquired taste. It comes from sleeping in the dog house. He’s quite used to it now, and looks forward to table scraps for dinner and the occasional bone tossed his way. We’ve found that he just cannot be trusted in the house without supervision.”
“Woof,” barked my husband, ever the hound. “To quote Brutus, ‘I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than such a Roman.’”
“Well, I hope your fellow canines keep you warm at night,” I retorted, “because you have been banished from my bed! Now, why are we stopped?”
“‘Mr. Williams” and I must have a talk. We shall be back shortly.”
“You’re leaving me here? You couldn’t ask me to pull over in Burlington or Colchester, when we passed coffee shop after coffee shop? You couldn’t sit in the bloody car while I ducked into a store in Georgia? Instead, you tell me to pull over in the middle of nowhere, so you and ‘Mr. Williams’ can have a chit-chat? You low-life son of a....”
“I think you’ll find, Beatrice, that the key phrase is ‘the middle of nowhere’,” our guest offered in a gentle, yet firm tone. “Far from observing eyes. Far from astute ears. We’ll do our best not to keep you cooling your heels for too long.”
“Ta-ta for now,” my husband called out cheerfully before shutting the car door. As I watched the pair of them disappear into the woods, I thought of ways I could make Ben suffer. His smugness was beginning to get under my skin so deep, I might have to have surgery to repair the damage to my flesh. No mere Band-aid would heal this injury. The last thing I wanted was a smart ass husband thinking he could order me around like some housemaid. Nay, I would find a way to put him down on bended knee, begging my forgiveness. I would not take this slight lightly, because I knew that beast that lived inside him. If I allowed him to take this liberty with me once, it would become habit, ingrained into his sorely lacking soul. He would assume I was at his beck and call, forever waiting on his every wish, every command. I would sooner tie my own hands behind my back and leap into Lake Champlain than let this cad have his way.
So busy was I with my marital musings, I did not notice the rather ominous black beast of an SUV until it was practically touching the back bumper of the silver station wagon.
“Crap!” I gasped, quickly checking the side mirror as I fumbled with the key. My only hope seemed to be getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Instinctively, I locked the doors, feeling particularly vulnerable, even as I turned on the engine and peeled out. Even as I pressed the accelerator to the floor and gunned the motor until it squealed like a stuck pig, I could see a pair of men in dark clothing hurrying back to their vehicle. Where was I to go?
Have you ever tried to come up with a plan while you are hurtling down a rural highway at seventy miles an hour? Believe me when I tell you, it’s hard to drive and plot at the same time. As much as I knew the area, and I did, my mind went blank as I scrambled to think of potential hiding places. That I left my husband and “Mr. Williams” behind did not trouble me. Those two were used to fleeing at a moment’s notice. I, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of practice in the art of disappearing.
Even as I drove, I could see the dark shadow moving closer on the horizon. If I could keep up the pace long enough to get to a decent hiking trail, I might have a chance to evade my pursuers. But first, I would have to abandon the car. I knew the hungry black Lincoln was more than capable of catching up to the bite-sized Subaru, and it would only be a matter of minutes before I faced the very real possibility of that enormous bumper smacking my little wagon right off the road. My best bet would probably be to head towards Silver Lake. Throwing caution to the wind, I waited until I came to the long, winding curve, pulled the car off onto a dirt track Ben and I had once used on a hike we took, and skidded my way across the rough surface. My goal was to get out of sight as quickly as possible, to get as deep into the woods as I could. I might not be able to outdrive those bastards on my heels, but I sure as hell could probably scramble into some little rabbit hole in the forest and outwait them.
Oh, you’re probably thinking that I’ve got too much confidence in going up against men chasing me in a black SUV. The truth is I was absolutely terrified that they might catch me. All I could think of was the story of Uncle Edward and Hortense. I did not want to disappear for two years, any more than I wished to be tied to railroad tracks. And I was damned if I was going to put myself in the position of being a pawn. As much as I trusted Ben with my life, I knew the truth. When it comes to national security, the CIA tends to focus on the most advantageous outcome. I mattered about as much as a mere barnicle on that Moby Dick behemoth -- the only way I would survive this wild ride is if I could hold on tight while the great whale swam the mighty ocean blue, or in this particular case, Lake Champlain.
Chapter Ten --
Before I decided on a place to pull over on the bumpy trail, I made a mental checklist of the things to grab the second the wheels rolled to a stop. My cell phone and pocketbook were at the ready. In the glove compartment, I had a map of local hiking trails, and I flipped open the door and grabbed it. That would come in handy because I didn’t want to use the phone, in case those bastards were locating my GPS. At the very least, the map would help me stay attenuated to my location. The last thing I wanted to do was pull a Hansel and Gretel. I gazed down at the cup holder, where Ben had left his half-empty bottle of spring water. For all the arguments we had had about buying water in plastic bottles when we had perfectly good water coming out of the sink faucet, I was grateful that at this moment I could throw it in my bag. I also spied a granola bar, and again thanked heaven for my husband’s habit of grabbing a couple whenever we got into the car. Last, but not least, I grabbed the little Tinker Swiss Army knife with the bottle opener, screwdriver, and blades Ben had tucked into my stocking two Christmases ago. As a weapon, it wasn’t all that promising, but you never know when you’re going to need to pop a top. Moving through the woods, I studied the terrain. What I needed was the thickest cover by the side of the road. I could park the Subaru in the middle of the dirt trail, effectively preventing them from driving any further. But I would have to get out of sight as quickly as possible, and that meant getting away from established trails and into the brush. As I drove past a little stretch of stream, I noticed the break in the trees. I could pull the car forward and, instead of running ahead, retrace my route back to civilization. My pursuers would probably assume I was heading deeper into the woods. For that reason, I grabbed my sunglasses, hoping to convince them the
y were right.
When I was certain they had not yet figured out I had left the winding highway, that I still had some time before they caught up with me, I found the narrowest part of the trail, parked the car, and made my escape. Tossing the sunglasses ahead of the wagon, I watched them land about fifteen feet from the car. Then I ran as fast as I could back down the dirt road, splaying pebbles as I scrambled to get to that little break in the foliage by the stream. It couldn’t have been much more than about a hundred yards. No sooner had I splashed across to a grove of ancient pine trees and hit the ground when I heard the sound of tires rumbling along. I squeezed myself behind the largest trunk I could find and held my breath.
As soon as they pulled up behind the silver wagon, the two men were out of their SUV and hot on my false trail. I watched as one picked up the pair of sunglasses and the other encouraged him forward. They clearly expected me to simply run on the road. Perhaps they assumed I had run out of fuel or had panicked. That was fine with me. It would give me the time I needed to escape. And I would have used it to flee, except a very Ben-like thought occurred to me. Why couldn’t I remove their tire valve caps, and give myself a little more time? Better still, I should puncture their tires, to keep them there. Creeping back down the road, my heart lodged in my throat and wailing away like Bob Marley’s Rastafarian ghost, surely loud enough to reverberate though the forest, I crawled on my way to the SUV. With great deliberation, I shoved the screwdriver into the side wall of the driver’s side rear tire as hard as I could. The little sizzling sound of escaping air gave me great satisfaction, so I moved around the back of the beast to do the same to the other rear tire. I considered doing the front two, but decided that was probably not the wisest course of action, since it would take me longer and those two goons might not be as dumb as I hoped. I scrambled back to my nest in the pines to regroup. As I hurried, I felt the little knife fall from my grip, bouncing down into the shrubbery. Exposed and vulnerable, I decided not to take any time to search for it, but I made a mental note of the approximate area, and if there was time and opportunity, I would return. In the meantime, I wanted to study my map and figure out how far off the blue trail I was. No sooner had I ducked down when the bad boys returned, frustration clearly written all over their faces. I could see them studying the terrain, looking for the slightest movement from me. Judging from the looks of things, it was time for them to split up and go their separate ways. The taller of the two was headed in my direction, and Mr. Cranky Pants did not look like a happy camper. His partner, Mr. Boxers in a Bunch, was headed up road.