by Gus Leodas
Copyright © 2012 by Gus Leodas
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1468143271
ISBN 13: 9781468143270
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62112-527-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012900855
CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC
Ah, yes! As Lord Byron wrote – Revenge is sweet especially to women.
Several determined and concerned women in influential positions at the United Nations unite to help solve hunger and poverty in their countries. What they encounter, what happens to each in the service of their country was unplanned.
“Aphrodite spoke and loosened from her bosom the embroidered girdle of many colors into which all her allurements were fashioned. In it was love and in it desire and in it blandishing persuasion which steals the mind even of the wise.”
Homer, The Iliad
Theme: A revenge thriller of women confronting adversity.
NOVELS BY GUS LEODAS
http://www.gusleodas.com
[email protected]
Member: Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Directors Guild of America
The Forgotten Mission*
(WWII cold-case mystery) “Riveting. Written from the heart. An extremely tender perspective from the author’s point of view.”
– Delray Beach Book Club
“…Leodas promises action, drama and mystery. It is there.”
– New York Daily News
Investigator Mitchell Pappas finds artifacts on a Long Island farm belonging to WWII German spies. So begins his mission to unravel the mystery of the forgotten farm and the disappearance of the spies and the farmer’s teenage daughter, Melissa.
Unsafe Harbor*
“Unsafe Harbor revolves around a series of unexplained murders at an exclusive yacht club. As Mitchell Pappas proceeds through the maze of possibilities, he isn’t sure which way to turn. The outcome of Unsafe Harbor is a shocker, and it’s a testimony to Leodas’ writing skills that the reader is held in suspense until the very end.”
– The National Herald – Books Supplement
“A great book.” – Writers Digest
Selected as ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year / Award Finalist.
Also published in Europe as Hafen Der Angst.
Huntress*
Attorney Victoria Nelson-Lee retaliates against a conspiracy of powerful politicians and rogue state troopers who kill her husband then deceives local police to help her revenge via clever clues and notes from Greek mythology signed Artemis, the Greek goddess of hunting. Police and investigative author Mitchell Pappas team up again to solve a baffling and elusive revenge thriller.
“…and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?”
Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice
Ah, yes! As Lord Byron wrote
– Revenge is sweet especially to women.
Kirkus Review – “Leodas sets up his novel with an intriguing premise; the reader is unsure of why exactly Victoria and Warren were forced to flee their home, and the quest for that answer is what drives the narrative forward. Once Victoria makes her fateful decision at Warren’s funeral, the novel morphs into one full of action and excitement.”
A Sorority of Angels
Several determined and concerned women in influential positions at the United Nations unite to help solve hunger and poverty in their countries. What they encounter, what happens to each in the service of their country was unplanned.
Theme: A thriller of women confronting adversity.
*Part of the Mitchell Pappas mystery/thriller novels.
DEDICATION
To my fabulous sisters – Marie Benetos and Irene Leodas. Their energies move the world wherever they go, whatever they do. My eternal love and gratitude for all you have done to enhance my life.
My thanks to the Design Team at CreateSpace an Amazon.com Company who designed the interior and exterior of A Sorority of Angels. They all make me better.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
“There is no more trusting in women.”
—Homer
“What are you getting me into tonight?”
“We’re going to a gathering of women in the diplomatic world working in responsible positions in consulates and embassies, with spouses or dates or single. Nothing fancy,” Laura said. “We expect about two-to-three dozen guests, and featuring music and food from those two countries. Four of us started the idea positive more will join our group. Also, succeeding socials will be fun to sample various international cuisines, and for the women to acquaint and better understand other cultures and make new friends of common interests and work.”
Laura accepted an assignment with the Economic and Social Affairs Section at United States Mission to the United Nations. Her section spanned a broad spectrum including human rights questions and social and development items: food, population, economic, and environmental issues.
That assignment changed her.
A subtle or fleeting thought never alerted me as I gazed into her gray green eyes that her humanitarian causes and innocent philosophies would terrorize me.
My name is Adam Churchill, a lawyer and Senate Committee legal aide in Washington. Commuting to New York City evolved into a weekend ritual, my need to see Laura, who I love.
I long ago stopped trying to persuade her to abandon trying to save the world and focus on matters within her circle of life…and an immediate matter, marrying me; a subject she deferred.
“Nothing wrong with our weekends.”
“We should be married.”
“Continue the way we are for a few more months.”
Her response never changed, familiar, and expected although I hoped for a change in her position, why I raised the subject at every opportunity. I needed to see the sunrise in her eyes all the time.
I should’ve been persuasive about marriage and moving her out of New York. Instead, I settled for the status quo, difficult to tie down her free spirit, and she did love her career.
I met Laura Johnson at a house
social in Washington about a year ago when she worked as an aide to a representative from California. She drew me to her as a magnet. Deeming myself handsome, I attracted her with my dark curly hair, high cheekbones, and dimples when I smiled. I promptly set my sights on maneuvering her to bed (like a stray dog on the prowl). That goal faded to a backburner, temporarily, once she captivated me with her conversation and personality.
Laura possessed a natural quality, down to earth, nothing phony, and instant comfort. I didn’t score the first night when I escorted her home – she lived alone. I didn’t succeed after the second date or third waiting for her initiative. I wanted to weep from failure – my taking the initiative – fearing I might offend her and lose her friendship. You see, I’m not the bold type. Disappointed, intimacy rated as secondary compared to being with her, positive our future held that reward.
On our fourth date after entering her apartment, she dimmed a living room lamp and kissed me. I could have sworn I heard distant victory trumpets. In the appropriate words of Disraeli – Everything comes if a man will only wait.
From then on, she and my job dominated my life. When difficult for me to get away, she flew to D. C.
Whatever good in me, she brought out. Whatever love and passion I had, she knew how to surface. My love for her turned obsessive, needing her near, an important part of my lifeline, the vital organ that brought lasting sunshine into my days, wanting to merge with her soul; feelings never experienced before. Time with Laura was God rewarding me for working hard all week.
I would do anything for her.
That created my weakness.
Rain stopped before we left and reflecting streets flickered as water fizzled under passing car tires while a clean scent hung in the dampness of settled dust that freshened and mixed well with our senses.
That combination stirred Laura and I to a casual walking pace as we headed for the international social, our arms entwined, walking with caution, sometimes ballet like to avoid splashing her white slacks. We turned left at First Avenue up the shallow incline to 51st Street then turned left. Laura pointed across the street to an old heavy looking structure, a former elementary school.
“That building once served as the International Community Center where wives and children of diplomats gathered and socialized. Many outsiders never realize how strange and lonely it is for these families to come here not knowing anyone, the language, and culture, mainly spouses of junior U.N. diplomats. Wives of ambassadors travel in higher circles, but on occasion, they came here. Loneliness knows no boundaries, and regardless of differences in countries, they had this in common as strangers in a strange land with similar problems. However, a social structure exists in the U.N. It’s difficult for some to cope with the problems of housing and schools. The Hospitality Committee for U.N. Delegates helps to make their transition easier. Diplomatic service is less glamorous than perceived. Tonight’s party helps to meet and make new contacts.”
Arriving at the white brick apartment building on 51st Street between First and Second Avenues, we survived a blue uniformed door attendant’s scrutiny. He recognized Laura. The lobby displayed numerous plants and Carrara marble; marble Michelangelo used for his sculptures.
“If similar to a Washington party, an international hodge-podge, introduce me by country. Some foreign names are tough to remember. Who is hosting?”
“Shaba and Alise…Congo and Syria; two other founders.”
“The social sounds like a great idea.”
“It’s timely.”
“I’ll bet it was your idea.”
“True.”
“How come I never met them before?”
“Nobody sponsored similar parties, meaning aides to ambassadors or U.N. representatives. I promise you an enjoyable evening.”
“I look forward to meeting them.”
“They’re good friends.”
Stainless steel elevator doors opened, we entered. Laura touched the round heat sensitive disc and lit number seven.
“Shaba is top aide to Congo’s ambassador. She’s married. Her husband, a Congolese Army general, lives in Congo, in Kinshasa. Last year, renegade forces killed her two children in a raid. Losing her children devastated her and she needed to leave. Her husband arranged the U.N. position through President Busambi. She presents a happy facade that disguises deep anguish for her children, trying to put the tragedy behind her. She plans to visit her country shortly to salvage her marriage.”
“Why leave her husband?”
“They weren’t compatible. When the children died, nothing remained. She returns to make an effort with him, having to do with tradition and marriage.”
“A terrific character trait. Maybe it’ll work out for her. Losing your children is an unending and painful tragedy. How about Alise?”
“She’s single – lost her parents and two younger sisters in a car accident outside Damascus.”
Elevator doors whizzed open. Chatter and Middle Eastern music filtered into the hallway. A multicolored WELCOME sign in various languages hung on the last door. Laura pressed the buzzer. The door opened. Room din and Shaba greeted us. In the background, a few curious heads turned towards the door. Shaba’s smiling face lit up.
“Laura!”
They touched cheeks.
“Shaba, Adam. Adam, Shaba.”
She extended her hand. I accepted.
“Good evening, Shaba delighted to meet you.”
“I heard so much about you that I’ve known you for years. Come here.” She kissed my cheek, stepped back, and looked me over. She wrapped her arm under mine. “Laura, get another date. This man is mine.”
“You can have him. He’s a dud.”
Shaba, attractive in her short Afro, colorful floor length native dress, and big round gold earrings smiled.
“I’ll take him anyway. I’m desperate. I have kitchen duty. Hold on to Adam because if you give him up I have first rights.”
Shaba winked at me, smiled wider, and vanished.
We greeted all countries, some with escorts: Thailand, Cambodia, Pakistan, India, Chile, Slovenia, Argentina, Ecuador, Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, South Africa, Nigeria, Algeria, and Bulgaria.
Due to the party’s purpose, the gathering exempted animosities between countries and among women.
“Laura, you have good attendance here. But I notice the absence of Canada, Greece, Russia, China, Germany, England, France, Italy, Australia, and the like.”
“More would have been crowded for tonight. We will expand later. The U.N. has over one-hundred and ninety members. Our group will increase periodically as socials increase but no more than fifteen women at each social, excluding the original four. We should complete all countries within a year.”
“Sounds like you plan to build an organization.”
“You might be right lover.”
“Where’s Syria, Alise?”
Laura craned her neck rising on toes.
“Not here, may be in the kitchen. Excuse me.”
She left. I drifted to the bar bobbing and weaving cautious among guests and ordered a vodka martini with five small olives from a hired bartender dressed in white shirt and black bow tie.
Swirling stucco covered the spacious apartment’s high ceilings, decorations representative of Africa and Middle East, furnishings contemporary modern with a generous heaping of metal and glass accessories. A deep red velvet sofa leaped out from a white wall background. On one wall, two spears crossed over a native shield with markings and colorful features. Several guests wore native dress, speech patterns varied, educated and pleasant, a fascinating collage of diverse cultures, and accents.
Laura returned. Tall, I stood as a landmark, easy to find.
“Alise left for a few minutes; a problem about her date having second thoughts about coming.”
“Do you know him?”
“Never met him. He’s the Syrian ambassador, and felt out of place here. Oh, don’t say anything,” she whispered, “but he pays Alise
’s rent. Speaking on that subject, maybe you should do the same. I’m a poor working girl.”
“Stop getting stupid ideas.”
“We’ll discuss this subject the next time you get horny.”
My eyes drifted to a captivating woman of about thirty-seven who appeared unescorted talking to the couple from Thailand. Although names and countries blended into a tossed salad, I remembered her name and country – Pilar deLorenzo, from Argentina.
From her carriage and mannerisms, I knew she came from class, breeding obvious. An unmistakable sadness in her dark eyes continued to attract me instead of her poise, smile, or elegant beauty.
“How well do you know Argentina?” I asked Laura.
“I see her often. We’re close. She’s the fourth founder. The quartet sees each other regularly.”
“Is she alone tonight? No one accompanied her when you introduced me.”
“She came alone.”
“What’s her story?”
“Her husband was killed about a year ago in the economic riots in Buenos Aires. She has three children here in private schools. Her uncle, the president of Argentina, assigned her here when she wanted to leave Argentina for a while. Like Shaba, Pilar needed a change in geography to help her forget.”
“Looks like she never got over her loss.”
“She gives that impression; doesn’t date at all, still loyal to his memory. She’s a former Miss Argentina. Let’s go over and talk.”
“Who’s the other couple again? Thailand?”
“Kim and Tao Soom. Kim is her ambassador’s right hand. Tao interns at New York Hospital. Neurology, I believe.”
“Do they have a tragic background?”
“No.”
“That’s a relief. I began to believe everybody here had a tragedy.”
“Not so. I don’t have one – only you.”
Kim and Tao Soom and Pilar’s conversation stopped to greet us when we approached. We conversed for about fifteen minutes; subjects varied, but trivial. I cracked a few witty statements evoking intended laughter. Pilar lowered her facade to laugh although restrained. I was glad to contribute towards eradicating her sadness for a moment. Pilar owned a lovely smile with dimples exposing perfect teeth.
