For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1

by Ted Peters

  It was Leona who broke the silence. “When I returned from Langley to my family’s home in Michigan, I fell into depression like a stone falling off a cliff. I was unable to talk about this. Couldn’t sleep at night. Couldn’t avoid a shadowy fear all day. Couldn’t get the picture of Aryānā’s severed head out of my mind. Sometimes I could hardly even pray about this.”

  “I can’t even imagine what that was like, Lee.”

  “My road to recovery was long, rocky and filled with potholes. I was not alone on this journey; my mother and my best friend, Angie, steered me. When I finally turned a corner, I changed gods. I shed that idol, my country. I went to California to study in a divinity school. I apprenticed myself to the gospel and I prepared myself for ministry and for a higher calling. Even in seminary I had my doubts, of course. There I met Rabbi Hayim Levy who cradled my soul while I was spiritually twisted and rung out like a wash rag. Eventually I emerged a different person. Well, not completely different.”

  “I thought you went to a Lutheran seminary?”

  “It was Lutheran. It was also ecumenical, because it was part of the Graduate Theological Union. Rabbi Levy was a guest professor, visiting one semester per year from Chicago.”

  “Oh. How are you different now, Lee?”

  “I became a pastor, obviously. The work of a pastor is small, fragmentary at best. I no longer work out of a grand vision of collecting food to prevent starvation, or peace on earth, or universal justice, or saving the planet from climate change, or whatever. Rather, I work day by day to share just one little crumb of grace—just one eye-blink of love—with people whose lives are painful, brutish, and short. I have to leave the rest up to God, if there can be a God with this kind of world. I can’t lift a single brick to build even a step on the porch of God’s kingdom.”

  “Are you suffering from survivor’s guilt?”

  “You betcha. In spades.”

  “Do you believe that by quitting the CIA you’re completely disconnected from what it did, or does? Are you innocent now as a pastor, whereas guys like me still in the service are marching under orders from Satan?”

  “No. I don’t believe that I’m innocent. Nor are cvic. Looking back, I think I now know what evil, even radical evil is. I've formulated Leona's Law of Evil: You know it's the voice of Satan when you hear the call to shed innocent blood."

  My point here is different. There’s no way I can become disconnected from someone else's sin. I’m connected, whether I like it or not. I’m connected like every citizen of this nation or of any nation in this world. We all share in the violence at home as well as abroad. When I try to extend a helping hand, I’m fully aware that I have blood on that hand. It may be invisible blood, but it’s blood all the same. Pontius Pilate fooled himself into thinking he could wash the blood off his hands. I try not to fool myself. I hope you don’t try to fool yourself, Graham. I’m a killer, whether I pull the trigger or not.”

  “You pulled no triggers, Lee. That’s clear.”

  “You’re not reading reality, Graham. Sin isn’t just my free action, just my trigger pulling. It’s more than that. It’s like lava flowing from a volcano that engulfs us. It engulfs the victims and the victors alike. What being connected means is that I share in the guilt of the killers in Iran and those at home who set up the circumstances for these twenty-seven, twenty-eight, deaths. Responsibility is like a virus—and I’m infected.”

  26 Wednesday, Chicago, 9:48pm

  “Does Budenholzer know that you’re in contact with me?” Leona asked.

  “No,” said Graham. “This operation has been planned solely by Holthusen. Even though Budenholzer is director of the Special Activities Division or SAD, he knows nothing. At least we think he knows nothing. Until he has more intelligence regarding who’s involved, Holthusen will wait to bring Budenholzer in on this. No need to sound an alarm too soon. What we want is for CUB to show its hand before we slap it.”

  “Could Budenholzer himself be siding with CUB? Or, could he even be masterminding CUB?”

  “As of right now, it appears he’s innocent. We use the abbreviation, CUB. Budenholzer doesn’t. Even though this acronym bears his name, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s even involved. CUB appears independent. More than likely the bad guy is Jarrod Grimes. He knows how to assassinate without leaving a clue to trace anything back to the CIA. Maybe he knows how to organize without leaving a trace as well.”

  Leona thought for a minute. “If I get into a scrape and I cannot get hold of you, whom should I contact at CIA?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to go straight to the top. Ask for Holthusen himself. I’ll give you the code if you’re ready to memorize it?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Cyrus Twelve.”

  Leona repeated it to herself. “Cyrus of Persia, eh.”

  Leona escorted Graham to the parking lot. Graham took a risk. He held out his arms, offering a hug of solace. Leona collapsed into his arms, her head nestling on his coat lapel. Slowly she wrapped her arms around so that her hands could feel his shoulder blades. The embrace was relaxed. It lasted longer than ordinary departure courtesy would warrant. Graham kissed her lightly on the top of her head.

  As Graham turned to walk toward his car, he remarked: “Do you see those eyes? There, watching you again. If it’s a demon, then you’re in for trouble. If it’s an angel, then this might be a moment of grace.”

  Leona stared into the dark. She could barely perceive the flickering of two blue-white jewels in the garage’s shadows. “Maybe we’re being watched by a CUB spy. Does CUB hire four-legged spies?”

  Graham saluted and departed. Although it looked like the end of the evening to Graham, it would not be for Leona.

  27 Thursday, Pakistan, 11:02 am

  Inside the house Leona locked the front door. She turned around. Her back fell against the door and she closed her eyes momentarily, placing her mind in a dark silence, allowing a moment of mental refreshment after her emotional thrashing.

  She drew the drapes on the windows and turned off all of the lights except one living room table lamp. En route to the kitchen she clicked the remote to turn on the large LED screen above the La-Z-Boy. “One more night cap,” she said to herself as she poured the few remaining drops of leftover cab into her glass. She switched off the kitchen light and returned to make herself comfortable on the living room couch, her left elbow on the Luther pillow. She picked up her iPhone. 10:02 pm. “It must be 11:02 am in Lahore,” she muttered. Then, she dialed a long series of numbers in Skype, thought by most to be an untraceable method of communication.

  Leona heard a click on the other end, but no voice. Clearing her throat she spoke distinctly: “In the name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.”

  “Leona, is that you?”

  “Yes, Muzaffar. Can you turn on your camera? I’ve got mine on.”

  The large LED screen flickered. The face of a man appeared: a fifty-year-old Pakistani man dressed with a snug white cap, white brocade shirt, and graying beard with glasses covering his face. “Oh, Leona, I can see you. Allah is good. I want to know how you’ve been?”

  Leona Foxx and Muzaffar Haq exchanged family news and provided each other with respective health reports. Leona told her friend on the other side of the world about her parish work. They compared the weather in Chicago and Lahore.

  Leona lifted her wine glass so Muzaffar could plainly see it. “I toast you, my friend.” Then she laughed.

  “If Noman were here, he would toast you. I’m the strict Muslim, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m teasing you with my degraded Western values.”

  “To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “I would like to say that I want to talk about theology. But alas, it’s politics. Sorry. What can you tell me about Islamic fundamentalism in Pakistan? Is there any growth in sympathy for Iran’s nuclear program? Official or unofficial? I know this is a complicated question, but I need to get a feel for
the situation in your part of the world.”

  Muzaffar thought for a moment. “As you’re probably aware, Leona, what you call ‘Islamic fundamentalism’ is undeniably growing in influence. For those of us here in the university, it is disruptive. We try to teach with critical consciousness, but our students voice rigidity and dogmatism. I don’t know if they actually believe all they say, but they’re encouraged to protest by their local imams. We Muslims have never gone through a version of the Enlightenment or Reformation like you have. We’re stuck in the pre-modern world. So this kind of popular religiosity risks losing what academic substance we can offer. In my biology lab, I’m now challenged by creationists just as you are in America.”

  “Muzaffar, what do you attribute this to? Heightened spirituality? Is it healthy?”

  “I wish I could say that, but it does not appear that way to me. It appears driven by cultural anxiety and power politics. For three centuries we’ve suffered from a sense of cultural inferiority in relationship to the West. Today, some of our leaders think that if we are faithful to Allah, then Allah will raise up his holy wrath against you and all your kind. The flames of this religious rhetoric are fueled and fanned by those who think they can gain political power through it.”

  “How does this cash out between Pakistan and Iran? Pakistan has the bomb. Iran does not. Do you—I mean do the rising Islamic rightists—want another nuclear power as your neighbor, even if it’s an Islamic state?”

  “This is a delicate one. On the one hand, Pakistani leadership wants to prevent nuclear arms proliferation. Any country, not only India, could use WMDs against Pakistan. On the other hand, some of my passionate Muslim friends believe that it is Islam—international Islam not divided by national boundaries—that makes up the people of God. For these devotees, a nuclear Iran would strengthen the people of Allah globe wide. I simply cannot predict how it will all shake out.”

  “Muzaffar, you’re such a man of peace. This tense situation must keep you up late at night.”

  “I can only ask Allah to bring peace. And I do.”

  “Muzaffar, perhaps you can help me. I’ve lost some of my contacts in Iran. Might you know Qudrat Al-Damad? Do you know how to get hold of him?”

  “No, I don’t recognize the name. These days I’m not communicating much with our friends in Tehran. The email addresses keep changing, as do the phone numbers. No more Tweet chats. I don’t actually recall meeting someone with that name. You might try going through the office of the Grand Mufti in Cairo.”

  “Well, I’m trying to be discreet. I’d like to make contact quietly, with no noise around it. Thanks anyway.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Leona, but I have a student appointment shortly here in my office.”

  “May God be with you, Muzaffar.”

  “May God be with you, Leona.”

  Leona clicked off. She took a long slow sip of her wine, emptying the glass.

  28 Thursday, Chicago, 2:01 am

  Leona had enjoyed little more than two hours of deep sleep. Her parsonage phone rang. “This is National Security Officer Norman Hastings. Did I awaken you, Reverend Foxx?”

  “Yes. What’s this about?”

  “Cyrus Twelve. Please put on your clothes and come downstairs. You’ll receive further instructions.”

  “Wait! Who’s...?”

  The connection was broken.

  She had heard the code “Cyrus Twelve.” Could this be a CUB trap? Shouldn’t this code be private for only herself and Holthusen? After puzzling about this for a few seconds, Leona stood up and threw on her jeans and sweatshirt. Almost unconsciously, she slid her pistol into her waistband. She simultaneously brushed her hair and teeth, then wrapped her hair in her signature pony tail while racing down the stairway toward the front door.

  Loud thunder-like rhythmic sounds assaulted her ears. The house shook. The noise grew louder. She thrust the front door open. The roar became deafening. To her left she spotted a black SUV blocking her parking lot exit to the alley. Turning her head she saw another blocking the street exit. Men on both ends of the parking lot were communicating on radios or cell phones. Suddenly, she and her surroundings were bathed in an intense blue white light. Her right arm rose to her forehead to protect her from both the light and a blast of wind. Descending from above was a helicopter, landing in the almost empty parking lot.

  One of the men on the ground approached her and shouted, “Are you Reverend Foxx?”

  “Yes, I am. What’s this all about?”

  “Just a moment, ma’am.”

  Once on the ground, Leona identified a Bell 206B-3 Long Ranger IV. Norman Hastings, a tall man about Leona’s age wearing a gray suit, escorted her by the arm to the open helicopter door. She pulled herself up and into the empty front seat and fastened the belt. After she boarded she noted that the pilot was a U.S. Marine. He nodded to her with a friendly salute. Behind her sat two men in suits, each with a radio wire running from one ear. The Long Ranger IV lifted off.

  Through the windows Leona surveyed the scene below: neighbors exiting their houses and rushing to the helicopter landing site. The noise must’ve awakened them, she thought. Maybe they think this is a police action? She observed the plain-clothed occupants of the SUVs guarding the parking lot entrances talking with the neighbors. Probably explaining the commotion. I wonder what lies they’re telling.

  After only a minute, the black SUVs left their positions at each end of her shrinking parking lot. The floodlight turned off. Only the city lights of Chicago remained to offset the darkness of the night. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

  What the hell is going on? Leona asked herself.

  “Did Graham send you?” she asked turning to the two seated behind her.

  “No,” said the apparent security officer behind the pilot. “I don’t know anybody named Graham. We were sent by someone else. You are completely safe in our care,” he assured her. “It will only be a few minutes to our destination.”

  Climbing to a thousand feet the pilot shifted their direction to the east, over Lake Michigan. Leona took in the beauty of the city lights receding as the sky became darker. They turned north. Below and west Leona recognized the Adler Planetarium and, to its right, Buckingham Fountain. She felt the craft descending. What?! Are we going to land on the water?

  Within minutes, Leona sighted the probable target: a Great Lakes freighter at anchor in the bay. It seemed to have very few lights compared to other freighters within view. Yet, as the descent progressed, it became clear that this would be the landing site.

  The helicopter spun and rocked for a brief period, then went still. The engine cut off. All four passengers disembarked onto the ship’s deck. Leona stretched, feeling the cool breeze of the water off Lake Michigan on her neck. Another security agent, perhaps fifty wearing a tie and a dark-colored windbreaker, approached.

  “Reverend Foxx?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an appointment. Please follow me.”

  The two walked briskly on the starboard side toward the ship’s bow, toward the cabin complex. Passing by two guards with machine guns, her unnamed escort stopped briefly. “I know you’re pack’n heat. Would you please give it to me? I’ll return it.”

  Leona complied. He knocked on a weathered and rusted steel door. The door opened a crack. He announced, “Reverend Foxx has arrived.”

  The door closed. Sixty seconds passed. Leona stood motionless. Her escort looked at her with an expressionless face. Finally, the door opened again, this time wider. A rather large plain-clothed security guard said, “The president will see you now, Reverend Foxx.”

  29 Thursday, Chicago, 2:29 am

  Once inside Leona viewed a cozy but elegantly appointed office, complete with comfortable chairs, multiple LED screens and computers, plus a wet bar. Behind the desk sat President Andrew Dodge. On her side of the desk two other individuals stood up to greet her. She recognized the sixtyish woman on her left as Leslie Richardson, the Vice Presi
dent. The man to her right she also recognized. It was CIA Director, Gerhart Holthusen.

  “Welcome, Pastor Lee,” said the president, now also on his feet. Perhaps you know Vice President Richardson and Director Holthusen?”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Madam Vice President,” said Leona. She turned right. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Holthusen.”

  “My pleasure,” he responded. All took their chairs, Leona sitting center and facing the president. “Had I known I would spend the middle of my night with such an august gathering, I would have worn my new black suit. I bought it for this kind of an occasion. Now, I don’t get to show it off. You’ll have to accept me in my jeans and sweatshirt.”

  Grins appeared on all four faces.

  “Why do I get the feeling that this is an important meeting?” queried Leona taking the initiative. The vice president seemed a tad surprised at how relaxed the new arrival appeared and how impertinent, perhaps? Holthusen’s knowing smile only grew.

  The president took the floor. He offered a perfunctory apology for disturbing Leona’s sleep and for whisking her to an unknown destination and for any other inconvenience this might have caused her. Leona waited with growing impatience for the formalities to subside. The president went on to describe the Great Lakes freighter as an ideal secret rendezvous spot. No one in Chicago knew that the president was visiting his hometown. Well, not yet of course. He sought a few private hours for doing business before his official reception at City Hall, scheduled for Friday noon.

  “How is your ministry at Trinity Church?” asked the president.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, I doubt if that is the reason you brought me here. Even my bishop wouldn’t go to this much effort to find out about my ministry.” Leona’s body language was becoming increasingly icy. The vice president mirrored Leona with a corresponding iciness. She said nothing.