The Falcon and His Desert Rose

by George R. Lasher

  Johnson turned his bloodshot eyes to the president, on the other side of the table. “What do you think Rod? Are you jush gonna shit there, and...”

  Several ladies sitting close enough to hear the governor tittered nervously, prompting the president to interrupt, “We’re all old friends at this table, Governor. We all have to look out for each other, especially on a night when the members of the press practically outnumber the political figures and potential contributors in attendance. Why, they’re thicker than flies tonight, Governor — thicker than flies. So we have to be on our best behavior, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Smoothing a few disheveled strands of silvery hair back from his forehead, the governor straightened indignantly in his chair with a mighty “Harrumph,” and turned away from both the president and Gillpatrick. He slapped the back of the Massachusetts governor, who sat on his other side, and began to complain about the wait-staff to him.

  Daley and Gillpatrick exchanged relieved glances.

  Kevin raised his wine glass. “To your uncanny abilities as a mediator, Mr. President. Hail to the chief.”

  The string quartet paused for a moment as waiters began to serve the glorified soup about which the black waiter had boasted. They launched into a lively, mood lifting melody, providing an agreeable ambiance for tonight’s first course.

  In the kitchen, Horus prepared to lift a silver tray, upon which sat six bowls of Chef Aldo’s award-winning soup, listed on the menu as Zuppa di Fagioli con la Pasta. Before picking the tray up, he withdrew the amber vial from his jacket, looked around to be sure no one was watching, and quickly, but carefully, unscrewed the lid. He tilted the bottle to allow one tiny, enormously lethal drop to edge over the rim, dangling for one dramatic moment before falling and disappearing into the hearty mixture of beans, ground meat, pasta, tomatoes, and Italian spices that swam in the bowl nearest to him.

  After screwing the lid back on and dropping the vial into his pocket, he reached down and picked up the tray. Turning around, he almost ran into Agent Harrison who had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. The sudden stop upset Horus’s balance enough to send all six bowls of soup sliding forward on the tray. Most men would have dropped everything, but the cat-quick reflexes that Horus possessed allowed him to correct the angle of the tray fast enough to prevent it and its contents from being spilled.

  “Whoa, that was a close one,” Harrison said, holding out his bandaged palms. “What did you say your name was, again?”

  “Hamadi,” Horus answered, unfazed by Harrison’s sly attempt to catch him off guard, “Please, if you don’t mind, before it gets cold, I must deliver this soup to the people at the table of the president and vice president.” From the other side of the kitchen Aldo stopped and watched with keen interest.

  Harrison eyed Horus and asked, “Would you by any chance know anyone by the name Horace Khene, Kheneme, oh hell, Kehnemesomething?”

  Horus didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry, sir. I really don’t know anyone named Horace. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” Harrison stepped aside and let Horus pass, watching him go as he balanced the loaded tray on one hand pushed the door open with the other.

  Governor Johnson grumbled as Horus set the bowl of soup down in front of him, “Looks like we’s da last to gets our soup. I wonders why dat be?” He pointed at the waiter and winked a bloodshot eye at the president.

  “Now Wilbur,” the president shook his head in dismay, “please behave.”

  Horus paid no attention to the inebriated governor and set the poisoned bowl of soup down in front of Gillpatrick before proceeding to the other side of the table.

  “Don’t treat me like a child, Rod,” the governor shot back. Sweeping his arms out wide to make a point, he continued. “I command a lot of votes and demand the reshpect that should come with those votes!” He banged his right fist down on the table, while his left hand accidentally struck the soup bowl in front of Gillpatrick. A few drops spattered onto the old man’s age-spotted hand as well as the clean, white, tablecloth.

  Johnson’s apology was laced with a double shot of sarcasm as he slurred, “Oops, sho shorry Mr. Vice President, I sheem to have made a messh for Amos and Andy to clean up.” He patted at the wet spot on the tablecloth with his hand and said, “Ahh, it’s not that bad. It’s jusht a little shpill.”

  “No big deal, Governor,” Gillpatrick replied, “I’m not much on soup anyway.”

  Johnson seemed pleased to hear that. “Alright then. Like my daddy ushed to shay, ‘that jusht leaves more for me.’ By the way, is it hot in here or... “The governor reached up to wipe away beads of perspiration that sprouted across his forehead. His face became pale, and his hands quivered as if he had some kind of palsy.

  Gillpatrick stood and called out, “We have a medical emergency here. We need a doctor, please!” Amidst screams and gasps of alarm from those nearby, Governor Johnson slumped sideways and crumpled to the floor, grinding his teeth. He gasped and clawed at his throat as if he were choking. Medical assistance arrived in a flash, but Johnson had turned gray and had stopped moving by the time they got him on a stretcher and carried him away.

  From the next table, a visibly upset woman wearing a stunning diamond necklace asked Kevin, “What the hell do you think happened?”

  “Hard to say. Could be a heart attack, I guess. Judging by the way he acted, he had been drinking before he got here.” Kevin turned and asked the president “Was he a smoker?”

  Daley replied, “Like a freight train.”

  “Stupid question wasn’t it?” Gillpatrick admitted. “Now that I think of it, you could smell the tobacco on his suit a mile away. I guess the smell of the alcohol on his breath overwhelmed it. So what do we do now, Mr. President? Do we go on with the show?”

  Sitting back down after motioning to the string quartet to resume playing, Daley leaned forward and answered, “We have to carry on. Besides, Johnson is a tough old bird, he may well recover.”

  “I don’t know about that, Mr. President,” Kevin responded, “his color didn’t look good at all — pretty ashen if you ask me.”

  “Nonetheless, we need to fill the campaign coffers this evening. You don’t think we can win the next election strictly on your charm and grace alone, now do you?”

  “I need to speak with you about that, sir. I’ve been giving this run for the presidency a lot of thought.”

  Daley straightened up. “That’s my boy, planning your platform strategy already, are you?”

  “No, not exactly. You see,” Kevin leaned forward, lowering his voice, intending for just the president to hear him, his sleeve within an inch of the area where the soup had spilled. “I’m not my brother, Mr. President. He was ready to make the supreme sacrifice for his country, but at this point in my life, I don’t believe I’m ready to do the same.”

  Daley pointed to the wet spot and said, “Careful, there, that’s a nice tuxedo you’re wearing. No sense in getting a nasty tomato-based stain on it. Let’s see if we can’t get someone to replace this tablecloth.”

  “Oh, damn. Did I get any of it on me?” Kevin rolled his wrist this way and that, checking to see if he had gotten any of the soup on his tux. “Looks like just a small spot here on my shirt cuff,” he said, “but I think it will come out.” After dipping his napkin into his water glass, He rubbed the reddened spot with it, testing to see if the stain would come out. It faded and spread, rather than disappearing. “Oh well, I’ll have to leave this one to the cleaners. Anyway Mr. President, as I was saying, I have a daughter in high school and a wife that—”

  “That you love very much,” Daley interjected. “I understand what you are trying to say, especially in light of recent events. You’re having second thoughts about running.”

  “Not second thoughts, sir,” Kevin interrupted, “I’m through with thinking. I’ve decided I’m not going to stay in politics. After I finish this term, I’m going into law, or perhaps teaching. I want to spend time with my family. I hope you understand.”


  “Understand, yes, of course. But I am disappointed. This would be a sure thing. The nation would rise up in support of both you and your brother. You would be the next president, I’m sure of it.”

  Kevin leaned forward even further, saying, “Mr. President, I had hoped we could end the charade of me posing as my brother, perhaps as early as this evening. As soon as this fundraiser ends, I’m heading back to Boston. I don’t intend to return to Washington except to get my brother’s belongings and to put his affairs in order.”

  The president pointed down at the table again with a pained expression on his face and Kevin glanced down at the point where he had placed both arms right in the damp spot on the table. “Aw geez. Both arms.” Looking at them in dismay, he held up the soiled sleeves of his black tuxedo. Frustration evident in his voice, Kevin said, “I’ll look like a clown before the night is over if they don’t get this damned tablecloth changed. I’m going to go find a waiter. By the way, does it seem like it’s getting warm in here to you?”

  The president shook his head. “Not really.”

  As soon as he stood up and turned around, Kevin saw Horus, along with two other waiters, coming with a clean table cloth. They removed the soup bowls, the bread plates, and silverware, along with the water, wine glasses, and the soiled tablecloth. They placed them on two trays while Horus stood back and waited. After the other two waiters finished wiping and drying the large table, Horus replaced the tablecloth.

  As he smoothed out the folds in the tablecloth, Horus apologized. “We had a bit of difficulty locating the right size for this larger table, or we would have been here sooner. I do hope the gentleman who took ill will recover. Did he say anything? Was he conscious as the paramedics attended to him?”

  Kevin answered, “No, nothing, and I don’t believe he was conscious when they took him away. I’m afraid he may have suffered a heart attack.”

  Horus’s eyes widened as he saw the sleeves of Gillpatrick’s jacket, “Oh dear, look at the sleeves of your jacket, sir. I feel partially responsible. Perhaps, if we had gotten here sooner that might have been avoided. Surely your sleeves aren’t soaked through to your skin? We could send out for another shirt and jacket if you are uncomfortable?”

  Kevin reached up to his forehead and wiped his brow, saying, “No, I, uh, that won’t be necessary, but you know, it does seem too warm in here to me. I’m perspiring.”

  “I’ll check the thermostat, right away,” Horus promised. “The other two waiters will be back in a moment with new napkins, plates, silverware and glasses. Before I go, is there anything else I can do?”

  Feeling slightly shaky and more than a little weak, Gillpatrick said no and stepped up to the table, pulling his chair up behind him and sitting down. Horus took one last, close look at the eyes of the person he had been told was the vice president, and then returned to the kitchen, where he found the two waiters lying on the floor, convulsing. Aldo Donatello, several of the kitchen staff, and secret service agent Alan Harrison knelt next to them, trying to ascertain what had happened. Squeezing his way around Harrison, who was calling for medical assistance, Horus motioned for Aldo to join him near the back of the kitchen.

  The big chef waddled his way over to where Horus waited. He wore a suspicious look on his fat face, as if he suspected that somehow this late addition to his wait-staff might be responsible for the grave condition of his two employees. “What did you do to them?” Aldo demanded.

  “Biological weapon, but don’t worry, I have an antidote.” Horus reached into his jacket and handed Aldo the amber vial.

  “Wait a minute,” the chef protested, “Where’s the syringe?”

  “No syringe necessary,” Horus replied, “just make sure you get a few drops of this stuff on your skin, and while you’re at it, unless you want to see a pile of bodies in your kitchen, you better get some on that secret service agent and the others who are surely infected by now.”

  “What about you?” Aldo inquired, “Aren’t you going to help?”

  “My job is done here,” Horus declared, turning away and placing his hand on the doorknob. He opened the door and then turned back just long enough to say, “With each passing second, it is less likely that you, or any of those people will live. Get some of that antidote on your palm and then just touch their skin. Hurry, while there’s still time. Thanks for your help and remember, for the rest of your life you will be richly rewarded for your service.”

  ~~~

  As the door closed behind Horus, Aldo stared at the amber vial. Resolutely, he screwed the top off and let several drops fall onto his outstretched palm.

  By the time he reached the group surrounding the now motionless waiters, CPR was being performed by Harrison on one, while another kitchen employee, Aldo’s second-in-command, Luigi, attempted the same resuscitation technique on the other. Feeling his heart racing from what he assumed was a combination of exertion and the excitement of the moment, Aldo bent forward. With sweat breaking out on his forehead, he encouraged Luigi and patted him on the back of the neck with the hand that now possessed the killing touch.

  Passing among his nine other employees gathered in a tight huddle, he repeated the act again and again, until he had condemned rather than saved them all, ending with Alan Harrison, who continued to labor in vain over the inert body of the first waiter to fall.

  ~~~

  After reducing the entire crowd of potential Democratic campaign contributors to a panicked state by racing through the main dining room less than one minute later, the two teams of stretcher bearing paramedics that burst through the kitchen door found four more restaurant employees, including Aldo, on the floor. His left hand still clutching the amber bottle, Aldo choked and gasped while clawing at his throat.

  With his equilibrium threatening to dessert him, Harrison, whose breathing became labored, did his best to explain what he had seen and what he felt as he spoke to Morgan Robinson. Panting, Harrison warned, “You better get more people over here right away, and we need to evacuate...” He began to choke and cough, spasmodically. The horrible, body-wracking coughs made Morrison wince at the sound which issued from the speakers in his office.

  When he could speak again, Harrison rasped in a hard-to-understand voice. “Please, get the people out of here. This could be some kind of...” he coughed again and wheezed pitifully. A lengthy pause ensued before he found the breath to finish. “Some kind of germ warfare, terrorist attack.” His legs gave away and he fell forward, knocking over a tower of plates that crashed and clattered down upon him and the floor.

  ~~~

  In the solitude of his office, with the imposing circular emblem of the C.I.A. covering much of the wall behind him, Robinson jumped up after hearing Harrison’s final words and the sounds of the shattering china.

  Helplessly, he shouted from his desk, “Harrison? Harrison!” He pounded a fist on his desk and bellowed one last time, “Harrison, are you still there?” At first, over the ceiling mounted speakers, he only heard the unsettling hiss of an open communications channel. Then came the crunching footsteps of the arriving medical teams, treading on the fragmented remains of the ruby-colored bone china, monogrammed in flowing ivory script with the capitalized initials of the world-famous chef who had prepared his last feast.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Running at a moderate pace on the sidewalk flanking the banks of the Potomac, Horus slowed from time to time. He paused to listen for footsteps in pursuit. By now, in spite of the best efforts of the world’s finest security teams, pandemonium would have broken out in the dining room of Aldo Donatello’s. While police and security agents did their best to detain them, wealthy, formally attired men and women, seized by panic, would be attempting to escape the posh dining area before they became victims of this terrorist attack. Some, perhaps even the president, would be asking for everyone to remain calm.

  The flames of fear would be fanned by stretcher bearing paramedics carrying the vice president and the dead and dying me
mbers of the famous chef’s staff to waiting ambulances parked in the hotel’s main entry.

  Horace knew that every law enforcement agent in this part of the country would be on the lookout for a tall, bearded black man known as Hamadi, as well as a tall, Arabic male, recently graduated from MIT, named Horace Khenemetankh. He wasn’t worried. With his chameleon-like ability he had changed his hair color and skin pigmentation. No longer black or Arabic, he had become a tall, clean-shaven, blonde, Caucasian male.

  Beneath one of the many lamps lighting the path along the Potomac, Horus admired his new image in a small, circular mirror. Satisfied that he was alone and unobserved, he dropped the mirror into a sack containing his waiter’s outfit and the Braun electric razor he used to shave his beard. He heaved the bundle as far out into the waters of the Potomac as possible. Sailing in a splendid arc, the sack soared beyond the illumination of the security lamp, and made a satisfying splash as it smacked the water. Horace stared back in the direction from which he had come. Still alone, he listened to the chaotic symphony in the distance, played by warbling ambulances and police sirens, accompanied by the percussive chopping of hovering helicopters.

  I should win an Oscar, Horace thought. Earlier, as Ahmad Rashtiff, a black man of great wealth from Saudi Arabia, he had participated in meaningless ideological repartee with the world’s wealthiest visiting dignitaries. Now, he wore a fast food employee’s uniform as he portrayed Daniel Smith, a handsome but confused young American.

  Having completed his prime objective, he felt ready to pursue the second task on his agenda, a personal matter he had not shared with the vizier or anyone else. He began to walk briskly in the direction of an all-night parking lot, where a car parked in a prearranged space waited for him.

  When he reached the predetermined spot, he grinned. Someone at the embassy had a sense of humor. The automobile was a brand new, 2024 Ford Falcon. Unlocking the door, he smiled as he slid in and the seat began to move, ergonomically repositioning itself for a man of his stature. He doubted if those that watched over him would find any humor in his decision not to drive this rented, special edition sports utility vehicle to the airport in Baltimore for his return flight, scheduled for six the next morning. By six, he figured, turning the ignition and gunning the powerful engine, I’ll be nearing Boston to seize my queen.