by David Hearne
I have become a Trojan Horse, she mused darkly, in a way the ancient Greeks never anticipated.
But her thoughts delved deeper, sifting ancient lore for a closer, more fitting parallel. And found it. In feudal Japan a living warrior who failed to commit suicide upon the death of his master was a warrior without honor. He made his own way outside accepted societal constraints. In Zoe’s situation her master, the CIA, was not dead, but she felt they did want her dead. She was an aberration, a loose cannon the Company could not afford.
Zoe felt cold, her heart ice. Ronin she may be, yet she could not disassociate herself from the essence of her own identity. She understood intuitively that her true self was governed by the principles, the ideals and the emotions of Katherine Laforge. They had all been cloned into her along with bones, muscles and skin. And short of death Zoe could no more turn her back on those principles, than she could stop thinking and feeling. Caring was synonymous with love, and she cared deeply. Emotionally Zoe was Katherine in every sense, especially where it involved love of country, love of ideals, love of family and posterity.
Pushing herself up, Zoe cradled her head in her hands. “Somehow I must find room for me in here,” she told herself. As she agonized, a snippet of a poem, ‘But Now,’ written by American poet Cynthia Proctor came into her thoughts….
“But now,
My life not ended, though changed in many ways
Feel gentle wings that guide me
Still grace, with love,
My days.”
Zoe longed desperately for the guidance of gentle wings. Suddenly, the door opening brought her back to the moment. The head nurse pushed through the doorway, clothes draped across her arms. On her heels followed two others who surrounded Zoe.
“You must dress quickly,” the woman urged, her tone quivering with excitement. “Our Leader calls for you.”
They garbed her in the traditional Iraqi woman dress, leaving off the conventional head-covering because their patient was a Westerner. When Zoe met their critical approval, they assisted her into a wheelchair, and then wheeled it into the corridor.
“By coming here, to the hospital, he honors you,” the head nurse stressed. “Be most respectful,” she cautioned sternly, “but most of all, when he speaks, you must never, never, never contradict him.”
They wheeled her only a short distance down the hall, to the room reserved for the Iraqi President. When they wheeled her through the doorway, Zoe found the room’s décor remarkably austere, but what furnishings Saddam Hussein permitted were in fine taste. A big man, Iraq’s President pushed from the couch to his feet, waved the nurses from the room, and then regarded her in open appraisal.
For this visit he had abandoned his military uniform for a stark black Western suit, white shirt, and black tie.
As she studied him in turn, Zoe realized how truly cut off she was, exiled in an old world thousands of miles from her people. Achingly alone; out of her depth; and in the hands of a ruthless dictator. In a land where people lived and died at his whim.
“You are making fine progress, ah, in your recovery, Senator Laforge,” he said in acceptable, but accented English, his deep voice surprisingly cordial. She met his wide smile with her own, felt his charisma enfold her, but Katherine Laforge was no stranger to powerful people. “I am glad you will soon be well,” he told her. Then Saddam leaned closer, towering over the wheelchair. “Have you come to my country as my friend … or my enemy?”
Zoe’s blood chilled. In one sentence Saddam Hussein dangled a choice: friendship or judgment; life or death. But Katherine Laforge had researched the dictator carefully, and Zoe had rehearsed her lines well. Drawing on that knowledge she prayed her proposals would interest him, then wet her lips, and answered Saddam.
“My experience here in your country has helped me to see more clearly Iraq’s point of view,” she said without evasion. “Your son’s bravery in saving my life at the least makes me feel the need to offer my support to some of your causes.”
She took a deep breath and continued. “Lying here as I have these last months, I’ve thought much of what could be done to end our political stalemate and to reestablish the friendship that once existed between our countries.”
Saddam nodded, more a mere head shake than a gesture of approval, but it encouraged her to go on. “We worked with you when you fought the Iranian Islamic fundamentalists trying to overtake your country. Later you were looked upon as the most stable of countries in this area.”
Zoe spread her hands imploringly. “I believe we will both agree that we need to end the animosity between our countries and move forward with a stable peace and the rebuilding of your country.”
Stern eyes steeped with distrust bored into hers, but his smile never wavered. “Words,” he countered, “many American politicians have said such words.” When his tone hardened, the smile remained. “But words are easy. They do not lift the sanctions you Americans levy against us. Words do not purchase our oil or feed my people.”
“Or fund your tanks, planes and guns,” Zoe wanted to add, but she bit back such accusations. Instead, she said, “If you seek guarantees, I have none to give. I am sure you are well aware how elections work in our country. Unfortunately, being elected takes money, lots of money.”
“What is that to me?” he shot back.
Zoe took a deep breath. All or nothing, she told herself. “If I become President, I will honor any agreement we come to during this meeting. After I am inaugurated, and I assure you I will be inaugurated, the sanctions could be lifted quickly.” She hesitated for effect, then continued. “But any change in American policy has to be viewed as a result of positive change in your country.”
Saddam’s good humor died. “What does that mean?”
“Positive change,” she emphasized, “like Iraq capturing Islamic terrorists, publicly displaying them, but refusing to cooperate with America until I am elected.” She gave him her best smile. “I think the American people could change their views, seeing the problems that exist between our countries more as a personality clash between you and our President than fundamental differences in policy.”
Zoe’s heart drummed as Saddam abruptly moved behind her wheelchair, pushed it near the couch, and then sat down facing her. “You would do this?” he pressed, his tone troubled. “Why would you do this?”
“Being elected takes money, lots of money,” she repeated with emphasis. “You have lots of money.”
For long heartbeats she held that smile. Saddam Hussein understood bribes, had used bribes effectively in the United Nations’ Oil For Food Program. If Katherine Laforge received money from Saddam, she would do exactly as she promised. But any money Saddam advanced Zoe would never be deposited in the Senator’s campaign war chest and this did bother Zoe, but the money was needed for her escape.
Saddam slowly stroked his bearded chin, as he considered. Then his hand dropped. “You would do this--?”
Zoe held up her hand, conscious she was interrupting him, against the warnings of the nurse. But she pressed on. “No guarantees,” she emphasized decisively, “only an agreement between us with a firm understanding that it will benefit us both in days to come.”
His face revealed none of his thoughts as he leaned back into the softness of the plush couch. Saddam’s fingers beat an irregular rhythm against his leg as he weighed her proposal. Zoe watched his eyes, but their opaqueness gave no clues to his decision.
“You are an insightful woman, Katherine Laforge,” he said finally. “Our doctors must make you well for your return to the United States.” His broad lips stretched into a wide smile. “And I look forward to your Presidency.”
* * * *
Zoe felt weak and hollow when the nurses returned her to her hospital room. But she was elated none-the-less.
Well, Katherine, we did it,” she offered silently as they undressed her, eased her into bed. Zoe sensed Katherine’s underlying disapproval of the deception, but weighed against the f
uture, Kat’s objections were trivial.
As Zoe let her tensions drain away, her mind raced. The CIA had the manpower, the unlimited funds, to track her down and eliminate her. All she had were her wits and her influence in the role of Senator Laforge. And she would use her assets, as she must.
A stray thought surfaced, and Zoe eagerly seized it. Since the world believed she was the Senator, she could access funds from Senator Laforge’s accounts and use what she gained as she saw fit. Zoe knew the necessary codes, but she must exercise care. She would have one opportunity to transfer funds. After that, Katherine and her staff would be alerted and change the pin numbers.
But there were other avenues as well. Zoe knew she could call on the Senator’s long-term friendship with Mike Fuljenz to liquidate parts of her rare coin collection. He would do it if she asked. She was sure that no one would stop her from taking the money out of her portfolio account at Universal Coin & Bullion Co. Mike would have been aware that the Senator was supposed to be in a hospital in Iraq. And Zoe felt certain that, as Katherine’s friend, Mike would wire money to any bank she requested.
First she must establish a bank account with an international bank having offices in Iraq. As soon as possible, those funds must be moved out of Iraq, channeled through offshore bank accounts accessible only by Zoe Shelly. Once that was done, she could breathe a long sigh of relief.
And it will happen, she reassured herself, and when it does, I will be free.
* * * *
More days passed, and then one day a group of new visitors. They consisted of a team of expert plastic surgeons assigned to correct the skin damage to Zoe’s face and restore it back to Katherine Laforge’s image. But Zoe insisted on alterations, chin and cheek transplants, which could easily be removed later.
Under general anesthesia, the doctors performed the surgery in two separate sessions. Incisions began above the hairline at the temples, extending in a natural line in front of the ear and continued behind the earlobe to the lower scalp. They assured Zoe the incisions would fade rapidly, and she should suffer no discomfort from the fat and excess skin removal.
When she woke up in her room, Zoe fingered the loose bandages on her face. She fought the urge to smile for it would pull the skin I may have Katherine’s face, but in the subtle differences I finally have an identity of my own.
Two days after surgery, they withdrew the drainage tubes, a simple procedure done in the privacy of her room. Sometime later the clips used on the scalp were removed. In less than a week, Dr. Ibrahim unwrapped the bandages.
“You were told to expect bruising,” he reminded her, his face hovering close, “and there is some.” His adoring eyes never left hers. “Do not fear. The internal stitches will soon absorb, and the bruises will fade. Your beauty will not be marred.” He grinned as he straightened. “I shall look in on my favorite patient every chance, I get.”
* * * *
Zoe’s battles were part of her continuing war of survival, and often the steps she had to take conflicted with that part of her that still embraced Katherine’s morality. It wasn’t just the deceptions, and lies that bothered her, but also the harm she would eventually inflict on Katherine. To overcome these confusing feelings she would remind herself that Katherine would most likely have her killed just like she did so many times before in the laboratory. The fact that they shared the same emotions, the same memories also meant Ira was a wound that still festered.
She longed for escape from her gilded prison as much as she needed compassionate, loving arms about her. And she convinced herself that Dr. Ibrahim al-Janabi could fulfill both desires. Zoe seized every opportunity to entice him when he came to her room alone.
Her plans bore fruit. He lingered longer and longer. Finally, in the stolen moment when he kissed her, she knew he was hers.
“I must have you,” he whispered in her ear. “But not here. He would know and kill us both.”
“But Ira is not here,” she protested. “Anyway, he no longer cares. He has another--”
“Not your husband,” Ibrahim said fervently. “My President.” He drew a ragged breath, as much from fear as fading passion. “If I flaunt his hospitality by being intimate with you, he would have me gelded with hot pincers, then torture me slowly, keeping me alive for days.” His face pinched with deep concern. “You--Senator or not, he would simply hand over to the mob.”
His voice dropped, grew conspiratorial. “We must exercise great care. There are hidden microphones and cameras in this room.”
Zoe drew back hastily, her eyes widening in apprehension. “Then they will know we kissed?”
Ibrahim shook his head. “Do not fear. The video surveillance is automated. I have installed a forty-minute tape loop that records you sleeping.”
Elation flooded Zoe. Through Ibrahim she now might have a way to slip away from her hospital room unnoticed. If she somehow could elude the armed guards in the corridors…? She laid back and sighed and thought. “Soon she would be free.”
* * * *
As each day passed Ibrahim grew increasingly enamored with his convalescing patient. His advances remained meek, lingering kisses and an occasional intimate touch. Despite his obvious passion, fear of torture kept him celibate.
Loneliness and isolation weighed heavily on Zoe. Day after day Ibrahim continued to prove his faithfulness, and she allowed herself to love him. As their relationship deepened, he grew more pliable to her pressures. More astute and well connected than Zoe anticipated; he established an Iraqi bank account in Katherine Laforge’s name through a reputable Swiss bank. Using his family contacts, he arranged other offshore accounts under her Shelly alias.
One morning Zoe stood at the window, staring at the unchanging Baghdad skyline when Hessa, her primary nurse, burst into the room.
“Good, you are dressed,” she said with satisfaction. During the long days in the hospital, she had slowly warmed to Zoe. While Hessa was openly friendly, even considerate, they would never be friends. “He waits for you in the courtyard.”
At the hospital doorway, Hessa paused, allowed Zoe to go on alone. Saddam Hussein waited in the garden, his stout fingers tenderly caressing a blossom. A uniform and beret replaced the Western suit, but he offered the same wide smile he had given her when they last parted.
“Ah, Senator,” he turned and gestured, “see the blossoms wakening. Our country is indeed a fertile land.” He sighed wistfully. “But I did not ask you here to speak of flowers and gardens. Come, sit with me.”
She settled in the offered lawn chair, and let him study her face without interruption. “I see our doctors have been good to you.” His opaque eyes bored into hers. “I am told your recovery is almost complete. I assume you will want to return to the United States, yes?”
“That is my hope,” she answered. “But not in the way you expect.” She left that thought unsaid. “I have been gone a long time. There will be much to do.”
“And a campaign to run, which takes much money,” he added with emphasis. “I have considered the information you forwarded to me, especially the … what do you call it? Ah, yes, biodiesel.”
He waved his large hand dismissively. “No matter. My scientists can create vast algae farms in our desert areas to produce this biodiesel. I can, in turn, sell this product to other countries outside of United Nations sanctions.”
His gaze softened, became expansive. “Katherine Laforge, you have done me a great service. I shall not forget it.”
Zoe felt her tension fade. She allowed herself a pleased smile as she extended her hand. “To a better tomorrow.”
His hand swallowed hers, but he shook it gently. “A better tomorrow for both of us.” Then he grinned. “Beside the door are valises containing one-and-a-half million dollars,” his grin broadened, “for your campaign…. You better go home and win that election.”
* * * *
Early one morning Ibrahim barged into Zoe’s room his expression grave. “We must push forward our timetable. You
must escape this morning, now, or all will be lost.”
She glanced at the calendar on the table beside her bed. It read March 17, 2003. “Ibrahim…,” she pressed in growing alarm, “what has happened?”
“Your President Bush has given Saddam Hussein and his sons forty-eight hours to leave Iraq,” he said breathlessly. “If he refuses, your President declares war.”
Zoe’s heart thudded hollowly in her breast. She pictured Saddam Hussein’s immediate reaction, guards on her room or worse. “Yes. We must go now!”
He thrust a nurse’s uniform into her hands. “Put it on. It is somewhat large, but it will have to do.”
During her convalescence, Ibrahim had seen and touched almost every inch of her body. Without modesty, she stripped, and quickly donned the uniform.
“First, I must distract the guard,” he insisted. “When I spill my coins, leave your room and walk in the opposite direction. Wait for me at the far door.”
Zoe felt very alone with her ear pressed to the door, listening to Ibrahim’s footsteps in the hallway. She glanced at the boxes, presents Saddam Hussein had sent, all of which she would leave behind without a second thought.
Palming the doorknob, she turned it slowly, silently, until she felt the latch retract. When she heard coins spill onto the floor, Zoe eased the door open, closed it silently behind her, then turned away from the guard’s post and forced herself to walk unhurried down the brightly lit corridor.
Any moment she expected a shout, an order to halt, but none came. When she reached the far door, Zoe felt weak, and then realized she had been holding her breath. She shook her head silently and thought, “I should know better. Only an untrained novice would be so stupid!”
Heartbeats later Ibrahim joined her. “Through here,” he urged, and thrust the door wide. In an empty room, he had her change clothes again, this time into the head to toe garb of a devout Iraqi woman. Ibrahim clipped a laminated hospital badge to the front for her shawl.
