by Ted Peters
At the turn-around point in her run, Leona paused to sit on a park bench. The resting jogger took a draught from her water bottle as she hit the speed dial button on her mobile. Soon she and Angelina Latham—Leona’s nearest and dearest friend since their days together at Dearborn High School—were engrossed in conversation.
“Do you remember Sheila Hutchins?” asked Angie.
“Yes, I think so. Wasn’t she the one dating Richard Lawler at Dearborn High?”
“Yes, that’s Sheila. She actually married him. I can hardly believe it. Well, I ran into Sheila at Starbucks.”
“Starbucks! Ugh. Why not Peet’s?” Both laughed. Angie continued. “Well, let me get back to Sheila. She reported that Patty Scarpace died.”
“Oh no! How awful! I always liked Patty. What happened?”
“Evidently it was a combination of ovarian and breast cancer. The diagnosis came too late to save her. She deteriorated rapidly and died in a matter of weeks. I am devastated. I sat right behind her in Mrs. Karpinski's English class in ninth grade. I didn't hear about the death in time, so I missed the funeral. You can check out the obit on the Detroit News site. Sad, eh. So sad.”
“Yeah. Sad. I feel like I’ve lost touch with so many people. You’re my only link to the old crowd.”
Angie smiled through the phone. “Your Goddaughter lost her first tooth.”
“Congratulate Maddie for me.” Leona felt an emotional twinge, realizing for a moment that Angie’s youngest child was five years old and she, Leona, was still not married.
Angie paused. “Now, Lee, bring me up to date with you?”
Leona provided Angie with a brief account of her mugging, leaving out most of the violent details and minimizing the seriousness of the event. Angie had a way of over-dramatizing and then worrying. Leona also shared both the facts and her perceptions of the church council meeting, careful to make sure that Angie understood how important her ministry at Trinity was. Angie had married right out of college and had chosen the life of a mother and—twice at this point—the role of wife. Leona loved Angie like a sister, but they lived in totally different worlds. Leona mentioned meeting Graham.
“Tell me about this guy, Graham, Lee.”
“Well...”
“Is he good looking? Hot?”
“I’d say...”
“Wedding ring?”
“No.”
“Mustache?”
“No.”
“Beard?”
“No.”
“Body piercings?”
“No.”
“Tattoos?”
“No.”
“What do ya mean ‘no’? How do you know?”
“Well, no visible tattoos, for the sake of Antwerp.”
Angie interrupted. “Gotcha! I get the feeling that he’s triggered a little something in you, right?”
“Much too soon to say.”
“Lee, do you have any contact with, well, your secret love?”
“No. None. Remember, Angie, he’s not available to me. I’ve got to keep him out of my mind if I can.”
“But Graham’s apparently available.”
“How’s Harry?” asked Leona, trying to switch topics.
“Oh, for a second husband, he’ll do. But dragging him out of his man cave is more painful than extracting a tooth.”
“Remember, Angie, husbands come ‘n’ go but a girlfriend lasts a lifetime.”
“BFF!” said Angie. “Best Friends Forever.”
Both were quiet for a few moments. Angie had learned that quiet did not mean absence in Leona’s case. It meant thinking was taking place. She waited patiently.
“I’m disturbed, Angie,” said Leona. “This morning when I opened my front door I found the warm body of a dead squirrel. Broken neck. What could this mean?”
“Is somebody trying to frighten you?”
“I hesitate to think that. Yet, it is kind of ominous, isn’t it?”
“It worries me, Lee.”
“Well, Angie, gotta get back to my jog.”
“Keep me posted about this Graham character.”
“Will do. Bye.”
“Bye.”
11 Tuesday, Afghanistan, 7:25 pm
It was nearly dusk when Jarrod donned his party mood. His arriving guests were announced over the communication system. Soon the stairway door opened and into the underground quarters entered Abdullah, a couple of male accomplices, and two young Afghan women. Each woman was youthful and shapely with dark hair and penetrating brown eyes. Fright was carved into their faces, expressing the surprise and terror of a kidnapping. Each was held securely by a muscled Afghan bouncer.
Jarrod rose from his chair. He examined the chattel like a new car buyer examines a Rolls. The captives shifted on their feet, looking at one another with questioning eyes. In vain, each searched for comfort in her sister’s face. “Perfect,” said Jarrod. “You’ve done extremely well, Abby. Undress them.”
The two thugs ripped the clothes off the two women. They screamed and swung their arms. “What are you doing?” one shrieked, but to no avail. They were overpowered. “Allah be praised!” said the other girl crying. Once their clothes had been thrown about, the two humiliated women cowered and attempted without success to cover their private regions. Both were crying tears of exasperation and trepidation.
“It only gets better,” said Jarrod admiring the feminine pulchritude before his eyes. He turned and pressed the admittance button. He reported to the unseen voice in the other room that the refreshments for their party had arrived. The heavy steel door opened. The thugs pushed the two women in. Jarrod followed. The door shut.
12 Tuesday, Chicago, 6:20 pm
By 6:20 in the evening, the parking lot came alive with the arrival of a dozen African American teenagers. Graham greeted some while filing his way toward the church door and down the stairs into the Fellowship Hall. The U configuration had been replaced by chairs in a circle. A white board stood visibly as part of the circle. Graham said “Hello, Pastor Lee.” Leona and a man Graham had not yet met were busy placing things in order.
A young black woman, perhaps seventeen, was engaging Hillar in conversation while adding folding chairs to the circle. She wore a pale pink cashmere sweater, a pearl necklace, black jeans, and fuchsia pumps. Graham could overhear Hillar asking, “Are ya camp?”
“Yeah, I’m camp,” she said. They shared a high five. The young woman interrupted her conversation with Hillar and turned to look straight at Graham. Graham noticed that her hair was cropped short, nearly a buzz cut. She had unusually large brown eyes, stretching around her cheek bone to the side of her head.
“Hi, I’m Graham. I’m visiting.”
“Hi. I’m Owl.”
“Owl?”
“Yeah, my friends call me Owl.”
“Now, why Owl?”
She grimaced. In a disturbed tone she said, “Give me a break. My eyes!”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Graham smiled, embarrassed at his own lack of forthrightness.
At 6:30 the remaining teens shuffled down the stairs and entered the Fellowship Hall, noisily slapping one another’s hands and giving Leona and the other man, Charlie, affectionate greetings. The buzz was about Spider. Spider had been ejected from the public library. After a few minutes of transition, Leona asked everyone to sit down. She waved a pointed finger at Graham and then Charlie. “Graham, meet Charlie Chadwick. Charlie, this is Graham Washington.” They shook hands, and then each found a chair.
Charlie Chadwick took charge. With good humor Charlie facilitated introductions, welcoming everyone to this session of “Trinity Tuesday.” He began to speak in a low and almost pedantic voice. Each person leaned forward a bit to concentrate on what Charlie was saying. “I’d like to go around the room and ask each of you what’s been happening. We’ll select one of your problems. Then we’ll do a role play. Okay? Let’s start with you, Trayvon. Then Spencer, then...”
“Not me,” said Trayvon. “I think we
should role play Spider. He got kicked outta the library.” Affirmative grunts and “yeahs” echoed around the room.
“Well, Spider?” asked Charlie. “What d’ya think?”
Spider was already into it. “Yeah. I got kicked out of the library. An’ I wasn’t doin’ nuthin.”
“Who kicked you out of the library?”
“The cop. A white cop. An’ I wasn’t doin’ nuthin.”
“Why were you going to the library?” asked Charlie.
“Ta see my friends. They were writin' term papers. No sooner I’d gotten through the door, an’ the cop tol’ me to leave. Maybe he don’t like black kids.”
“Well,” announced Charlie. “I think we’ve got a live one. Who wants to play the cop?” Three hands went up. “Trayvon,” said Charlie. “Now, Spider, tell us where to put the cop and you take your position at the door of the library.”
After the shuffling of chairs, Trayvon was seated as if behind a desk. At the other side of the circle stood Spider.
“Okay, Spider,” said Charlie. “Now, walk into the library. But before you do, think: just how were you walking? What was on your face? What were your gestures? Can you duplicate these for us?”
“Oh, yeah,” answered Spider. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crimson tam. He gingerly placed it on his head, cocked slightly toward the right side. Then, he walked toward Trayvon. His gait was slow. His hands were in his back pockets. His long legs took deliberate steps with a slight angle, so he tipped from side to side.
“Why are you in the library?” queried Trayvon?
“Want to visit my friends,” answered Spider.
“You ain’t got no notebooks. No pens. No laptop. I don’t think yer here to read books. I’m gonna ask you to leave,” ordered Trayvon.
“What!?” exclaimed Spider.
Charlie broke in. “Trayvon, what are you observing? Why are you denying Spider entrance?”
“Cause Spider come in here styling. He’s not gonna study. He’s gonna show off and make trouble. He got no business in the library.”
“Okay, Spider and Trayvon,” said Charlie, “let’s reverse roles.” Spider sat down in the chair Trayvon had vacated. Trayvon played Spider’s role. He walked into the imaginary library, styling.
“Hey, you ain’t here ta study,” Spider said to Trayvon. “I’m not gonna let you in this library. Come back when yer ready to read.”
“But...”
“You heard me. We don’t want no trouble. You look like trouble.”
“I ain’t givin’ nobody no trouble!”
The group whooped with laughter. Trayvon chuckled. Spider covered his face with fingers spread and joined the chuckling. Mission accomplished.
The first role play had gone quickly. A second dealt with William, nicknamed “The Duke.” William complained that he had been thrown out of his house by his stepfather. His stepfather struggled to make ends meet by working at a car wash. Before his arrest, William had netted quite a sum of money from fencing stolen auto parts. Back home, he lavished his new wealth on his mother, paying off her Visa debt and buying her diamond earrings. When he was released from jail and placed on probation, his stepfather said there would be no room for the Duke at his mother’s flat. William asked the group: “Wha’d I do wrong?” A role play followed with William playing the role of his own stepfather.
At 8:30 Leona announced that the evening had come to an end. She invited everyone back for the following Trinity Tuesday. She volunteered to email each young person’s parole officer regarding tonight’s attendance, should they request it. Four hands went up. Leona made a mental note. Then she dismissed everyone.
Leona and Charlie buzzed together for a few moments, comparing notes on the evening’s session. Leona thanked Charlie and complimented him on his insights and on how well he had led the role plays. Charlie departed, tipping with a goodbye salute to Graham.
As the Fellowship Hall was released from its din and clamor, Graham sat smiling at Pastor Lee. Leona exhaled, as if to announce things were over. She made her rounds and met Graham outside the front door. Without much conversation they strolled together back toward the parsonage.
13 Tuesday, Chicago, 8:45 pm
Once in the house, Graham opened a paper bag. He pulled out a bottle of red wine. “You hinted that you like California wines,” said Graham, handing Leona the bottle. “It’s a Field Stone cab. Rich in body. I call it a poor man’s Silver Oak.”
Leona studied the label. “Oh, I know this one. It’s an estate bottled 2008 Staten Family Reserve cab. The Weinmeister, John Staten, originally spelled his name Stayten. Scotch-Irish. Now, Graham, I don't know this much about every wine master. I happened to have gone once to a Field Stone blessing of the harvest. John's ordained. Methodist, I think. He invited me to bless the grapes with him. Now, that doesn’t really matter. Only a little vintner trivia. Here’s what does matter: this is no poor man’s Silver Oak, Graham. It’s about as expensive and maybe just as good.”
Leona looked directly into Graham’s eyes. She was impressed that he had listened so attentively the evening before. This was a thoughtful gesture and an expensive gesture, but Leona said nothing about it. She handed the bottle back. Then she officiously walked to the kitchen. She turned to Graham from the kitchen doorway.
“Catch!” she said, tossing a cork screw. By the time Leona had returned with two stemmed glasses and a vinturi, Graham was ready to pour. Once the wine was honored with a ceremonial tasting and a double “Ahh!,” the two resumed the seating arrangement from the previous evening. Except this time Graham removed his sport coat unbidden.
“As you can see, I couldn’t do without Charlie. He’s actually a theoretician. He’s doing research at the University of Chicago on what prevents some children from learning in school. Loves kids. He’s devoted to helping them succeed here in the inner city. In addition to Trinity Tuesday he leads our Saturday Morning Club.”
“So, what’s…?” asked Graham.
“The Saturday Morning Club runs from nine to eleven. Saturdays, obviously. It’s for younger children in the neighborhood. Crafts and Bible stories. You know the bit.”
After a pause, Graham picked up on the previous evening’s conversation. “What happened in Tehran?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. NO!” Leona was less steel-faced than she had been the night before. “You work for the CIA. Just look it up.” Leona sipped her wine.
Graham was aware she was baiting him. “But I cannot gain access to this information. You know that. It’s classified at a level so far above Top Secret that it’s unavailable for any of us in the CIA rank and file. The classification was determined by the White House. Our illustrious president has clamped a lid on this so tight that I can’t pry it off. So, I need you as my source.”
“If the president’s lid is that tight, then what makes you think my lid would be looser?”
Graham paused. “Just what do you owe the president, anyhow?”
“Not a goddamn thing. It’s he who owes me. It’s he who owes our country, even the world. He’s taken a mortgage out on his own everlasting soul, and I fear he’ll not be able to pay it off.”
A long uncomfortable silence followed. It appeared to Graham that Leona’s mouth would remain sealed. Perhaps it was his turn to open things up. He leaned back on the couch, feigning relaxation. “Let me try to tell you what I know. In the battle between good and evil, it’s always quite disconcerting to find evil among one’s own allies, even one’s own trusted friends.”
“Or, even within oneself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Tell me who among your allies is betraying you.”
“Our allies, Leona. The betrayers belong to both of us.” Graham launched into a lengthy description of a deteriorating international situation. He and Leona both knew something that the public did not widely know, namely, the U.S. was already engaged in systematic espionage within Iran. A spy war was well under w
ay. From the point of view of the White House, the American objective was clear: to prevent nuclear weapons proliferation. Once the process of enriching uranium and preparing a delivery system for warheads was eliminated, then Israel, along with Europe, could breathe a sigh of relief. So also could Iran’s immediate Arab neighbors who, no less than non-Muslim countries, saw unpredictable Iran as a renegade. With so much at stake, few could criticize America for sending spies to secure the world from this nuclear threat.
“Then, there is Operation CUB,” said Graham.
“Operation CUB?”
“CUB is nothing official. It’s a nickname for Contractors Under Budenholzer. The operation is so secret that we don’t even know its name. So, those of us in the CIA simply identify it with Karl Budenholzer, who oversees private military operations.”
“I saw contractors at work in the field: protecting VIPs; conducting secret assassinations; guiding drones for the Pakistani government; supervising prisons; executing rendition and interrogating detainees; gathering intelligence through very persuasive means and such. Are the contractors still up to their ol’ tricks?”
“I would not use the word ‘tricks,’ Leona.” said Graham. “Yes, their duties are multiple. They perform tasks which our military would not normally do. Many have special forces training and they’re led by former Navy SEALs.”
“Who supervises them? Anybody?” asked Leona rhetorically.
“Supervise them? As soon as they’re given a contract to do a job, Washington’s eyes are averted. ‘See no evil,’ you know. It’s surprising how creative contractors get when immune from prosecution. Back in 2004 Order 17 offered immunity to contractors from Iraqi legal action. At that time this immunity applied to about 160,000 private military personnel in Iraq alone. Get that: 160,000 private military personnel, almost a one-for-one match with actual U.S. troops! This set a precedent that holds even today, regardless of the country our contractors are in. Immunity produces creativity, you know.”
