by Aiden James
“I’ll trump you with a Hamilton that not only says I’ll win, but that first base will be her idea!”
More snickers from the CIA duo, and bigger smiles from the ladies. Everyone, it seems, loves a guy who can effectively flirt.
“You’re on!” my son fired back, and I detected a glint of supreme satisfaction in his eyes that suddenly looked beyond where I stood. “Looks like it won’t take long to find out the verdict.”
“The verdict on what?”
My head whipped around at the sound of the voice...lush, genteel, with a hint of another language long since forgotten.
“That, my dear lady, has yet to be decided!” I pictured my charms surrounding the woman standing before me, and all at once swooping in under her defense system—should she have one. “I’m William Barrow, and this is my father, Alistair Barrow. Perhaps you’ve already met these other two gentlemen?”
I motioned to our escorts, who had never made their introductions known to us. All they had said when they accosted Alistair and me was that Michael Lavoie sent them; in order to make sure we boarded the right airplane. Being a bit put off by Michael’s further intrusion to my travel plans, I didn’t give a shit about ingratiating myself with these guys.
But in truth, I was now looking for a way to buy time...a distraction to pull this female’s attention from me long enough to get a handle on what my son and I would be dealing with. Obviously, she would be traveling with us. Her carry-on bags announced that much. Expensive designer, they matched the smart pantsuit and Prada heels. But it was the part not covered up that drew my attention and quickened my pulse. No, not her low cut blouse plainly visible through her light beige dress coat. That wasn’t it. Rather, her stunning face—especially her emerald eyes—framed by full flowing locks of raven-black hair that surprised me most.
More alluring than any woman I’d seen in decades—excluding my beloved Beatrice, of course. It must be the bright green eyes...I’m a sucker for the females that have them.
“I am Amy Golden Eagle,” she said, eyeing me knowingly as if she could clearly define my silent musings. “Michael sent me to accompany you and your father to Iran.”
Indian...and not just based on the name and darker complexion. Not unlike the other females in attendance, but different still. Not Middle Eastern in descent, and not from India. She was an American Indian, or if you will, a Native American.
“So you work for the CIA?” Alistair moved back toward us with an impressed expression upon his face. “Any chance you’re related to the late Stephen Golden Eagle, the famed anthropologist?”
“Yes,” she said. The two CIA agents moved over and took her flight bag and laptop from her, setting them in the pod across from where Alistair set his bag. “He was my father.”
Such a small world...at least between these two. It was time for me to join the party.
“Blackfoot,” I said, pausing to loosen the straps to my backpack that held everything I’d need other than clothing changes for the next two weeks. Including my latest razor-thin MAC laptop.
“Why yes, I am.” She sounded surprised. “Tony and Dan...let the pilots know we’re ready to leave. Michael is waiting for you both in the short term parking lot.”
I waited for her to continue. She waited for the agents to disappear inside the cockpit.
“You are as observant as Michael advised you would be,” she said to me, motioning for Alistair and me to join her in the pods. The three stewardesses acknowledged her head nod, and removed the dividers between our seating areas to where we could easily converse with one another. “Golden Eagle is the English translation for ‘Peta’.”
“Like the animal rights group?” My son wore a wry, enamored smile. Her presence had the same effect on him as on me. Only in Alistair’s case, humor with an intelligent edge was the driver behind his flirtations.
“Yes, exactly.” She smiled warmly at him.
I could already tell she had her guard up for me. If Alistair were twenty years younger, I might try to set him up with her. By my guess, Ms. Golden Eagle was in her mid to late twenties, just four or five years younger than the age my physical appearance would indicate.
“You’ll be taking off in a few minutes, so please take your seats,” advised one of the CIA men, a blonde with a receding hairline. It was the only distinguisher I had for determining who was who. Suits, shoes, and sunglasses were damned near identical. Just the hair color—one brown and the other blonde—and the forehead coverage were different.
“All right, Dan.” Amy motioned for us to join her in taking our seats. “Tell Michael thanks again.”
“Sure.”
The agents exited the plane and the three stewardesses moved to their positions. Alistair and I had flown together many, many times over the years. But being on a plane like this—on a luxury flight where the atmosphere was more like visiting the lounge of a fine five-star restaurant—was a completely new experience. Alistair’s child-like grin told me his anticipation of what takeoff would be like on this aircraft rivaled the excitement that fueled the smile I felt spreading across my face. Meanwhile, Ms. Golden Eagle seemed unfazed, as if she were an Emirates frequent flyer.
“So, do you work for the CIA in some capacity?”
I repeated Alistair’s earlier question after our surprisingly smooth takeoff. The tallest buildings in the D.C. skyline were behind us with just the deep blue Atlantic below. Alistair’s seat was directly in front of hers while mine was across the aisle from them both. All of us had a window-view close by.
“No, I don’t,” she said, removing her seatbelt. She relaxed in her leather chair, releasing the restraints so that it swiveled freely and allowed her to face me directly. “Michael is a family friend. When he heard you guys were headed to Iran he called me and asked if I’d be willing to join you. It provides the perfect cover for me to get close to Petr Stanislav.”
I certainly didn’t expect to hear that. No more than I expected a woman in designer clothes to assist me and my son in our assigned espionage. Of course, I still lacked specifics about what Alistair and I were supposed to do for our beloved country this time around.
“Then what is your vocation? I take it your father’s aspirations didn’t carry down to his children.”
Alistair sounded disappointed, though not with disdain. I think it was a reflection of how he’d feel if his kid never pursued something of an academic bent as he has. Yes, Alistair does have a kid...somewhere. The boy’s probably in his forties by now, and the child was born out of a tryst with a junkie/prostitute in the early 1970s. I could find out more information about him if I desired to know badly enough. But something inside tells me that it wouldn’t be positive news for Alistair—something very tragic about this unknown progeny. Since Alistair has never spent the effort to track down his kid, I haven’t done so either.
“My brother followed in his footsteps.” Amy shifted in her seat, letting me know the mention of her brother was uncomfortable territory for her. “Jeremy followed up on all of Dad’s research once he completed his doctoral work at Cambridge.”
“Ah, I remember reading something about him, come to think of it.” Alistair leaned forward and held his right hand as if it contained an imaginary pipe. “So what about you?”
“I followed the same career path to MIT, but it didn’t take with me. At least not long enough,” she explained. “So, when I graduated, I decided to go to law school. After finishing up at Harvard and working for a well-known Fortune 500 company, I went solo.... I now work mostly with upscale corporate clients as a freelance legal advisor, and the rest of my time is spent putting a strong enough case together to bring international actions against Mr. Stanislav.”
“So this is why you’re here—to serve him a subpoena?”
Believe it or not, I’ve found that a lighthearted comment like this can be a helpful icebreaker for some females. But, that sure isn’t the case with an ice-chick carrying a valid axe to grind.
�
�Petr Stanislav killed my father and mother,” she said, coolly, after turning to face me again. Anger turned her lovely green eyes a few shades darker. “After my father painstakingly spent five years translating an ancient Tibetan text for him, he had my parents tied to an anchor and thrown into the icy depths of the Baltic Sea!”
“I’m so sorry.... I had no idea.” I meant it, lowering my voice to a mere whisper.
Yes, the smart-ass smile also died just as quickly. Especially when my son mouthed ‘you owe me a Hamilton!’. Well, at least this explained why she was coming along with us. I didn’t need to ask her if that’s how she got Michael to give his okay. My biggest concern was how would she react if, and more likely when, we as a trio faced a bevy of assault weapons. Would she falter? Anger and bitterness will drive someone only so far.... It took Alistair several near-death experiences before his nerves steeled enough to where he only lightly worries about the hazards of the job. It’s merely a detestation of such bullshit for him now. Especially when a trip, like this one, could’ve been relatively free from such concerns.
“It’s okay. But I don’t want to talk about my parents anymore,” she said, and then turned her attention out the window closest to her.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why is it just you and not your brother that’s journeying to Tehran?” Alistair used his gentle persuasiveness to get her to engage us once more, after several minutes had passed in awkward silence.
“He did journey to Tehran...last year.” She kept her gaze focused out the window. I got the feeling she was near tears...holding it in, admirably. “He disappeared six months ago, right before Christmas. No one would help me try to locate him. When I approached the U.N., they said there was nothing they could do without proof of a crime. Even Michael couldn’t provide the necessary resources to launch a search for him...until you two came along.”
“Are you saying that your brother’s disappearance and Mr. Stanislav’s activities in the Alborz Mountains are related?”
My question drew an immediate look back to me from both my son and her.
“Yes, I believe they are related...in some way.” Amy’s eyes glistened with tears. “When he last wrote to me, just before Thanksgiving, he said Petr Stanislav had moved some massive trucks into the Alborz Mountains, and that it had something to do with the Tibetan manuscript that Dad worked on.”
“And that’s the last thing you heard from him?” I prodded her gently this time.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever mention anything about the Garden of Eden?”
Alistair posed this question. It surprised me a little since he thinks that aspect of this whole trip is complete nonsense. I hadn’t made up my mind one way or another. The place didn’t have to exist for some nutcase like Petr Stanislav to go looking for it.
“No...he didn’t,” she said. “It was Dad’s idea, that the real Garden of Eden existed somewhere either near or actually inside the mountain range. Despite my brother’s disbelief, I can picture him looking for whatever might be there in the Alborz Mountains. He wanted to vindicate our father’s work, one way or another....” She started to cry.
Alistair beat me to it. He moved over and cradled this beautiful woman in his arms while I looked on. Our thirteen-hour flight to Dubai had just started, and already we had a moment of drama. Or, I should say, surprises and drama.
Regardless of what would come next, having a woman along for our adventure had already changed the dynamics of our adventure. I just hoped Amy Golden Eagle’s high intelligence, beauty, and determination for justice would help us prevail over the wiles of Petr Stanislav. A villain whom we would soon discover was more cunning and ruthless than Alistair, I, and even our lovely companion would’ve ever imagined.
Chapter 7
Dubai should be dubbed the true ‘Emerald City’. Lots of polished steel, glistening glass windows, and a wealthy mixture of emancipated millionaire businessmen along with their robed brethren. Almost all are devoted to Islam and the fact we arrived at 5:35 a.m. local time that Saturday morning meant we would likely be interrupting ‘Fajr’. For those unfamiliar with Islamic religious customs, that’s the predawn prayer time for devotees to the world’s largest ‘practicing’ religion.
I realize my assertion will certainly ruffle some feathers among the evangelical Christian zealots in the western world. But I’m talking about actual faithful followers and not the occasional churchgoers who make up the majority of Christendom. If one takes an objective view of the past two hundred years, modern progress has eroded the prestige that once flourished within the earthly kingdoms of Jesus Christ. The more modern miracles embraced by the human race, the less need for daily divine revelation to guide one’s path to redemption. In other words, legends of a burning bush won’t impress anybody who’s held an Iphone in their hands. Perhaps when more technological distractions gain a stronger foothold in the eastern world, the score between Christians and Muslims will even out.
Which brings us back to Dubai, and what trillions of dollars and Euros funneled off the Arab oil fields has done for a group of people more comfortable with tents and camels less than two generations ago. And, yes, I should know. I’ve watched it happen with my own eyes.
“So, why must we accompany Ms. Golden Eagle to the Mall of the Emirates?”
Alistair was in a testy mood again when I roused him for the second time the next morning. The rising sun had already seized the lower eastern horizon, promising a scorcher for the desert city.
“Because you promised, don’t you remember?” I found the whole affair amusing. The sordid events from last night, that is, when my boy and our gorgeous cohort talked at length about a variety of academic subjects, imbibing themselves continuously until three bottles of French chardonnay and a liter of champagne disappeared. “You told Amy, and I quote, ‘I’d give anything to see someone ski inside the Mall of the Emirates!’”
“I said that?”
The look on his face was absolutely precious—more than any other I’d seen lately. A mixture of confusion, scorn, disbelief, and in the end child-like recognition that revealed all too clearly the missteps in judgment brought on by alcohol excess. A lifelong commitment to bachelorhood left Alistair at such a dire disadvantage to a beautiful and charming woman talking his ear off. After the first few drinks, the flirtation went both ways while I quietly looked on.
A few drinks will rarely leave me the slightest bit tipsy. If anything, it just helps me sleep longer than the two to three hours of rest I normally manage. In truth, whenever necessary, I can skip sleep for days on end—sometimes as much as a week and a half. My body’s regenerative powers not only keep me young and in robust health, but also make the normal necessity of rest obsolete. I doubt that anyone, other than another immortal, can imagine the discipline it takes to lay quietly night after night while other people sleep and my thoughts run rampantly.
“When will the plane continue on to Tehran?”
He sat up while reaching for his beloved day-planner that contained this information. Well, it did until I learned that our exhausted pilots would not be replaced at this juncture. Like my kid and his new gal pal, they needed their rest.
“Just after one o’clock this afternoon, once ‘Dhuhr’ is over,” I said. “That allows plenty of time for the pilots to rejuvenate, and to see how silly you look skiing down the slopes of an indoor ski resort!”
I laughed heartily at his expense—especially after he frowned fearfully.
“But I’ve never skied in my life!” he fumed.
“Precisely!” I countered, gleefully. “All the more reason to get there as soon as possible!”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds!”
That was Ms. Golden Eagle. When we both turned to look at her, my son and I both gasped slightly. Radiantly beautiful. That’s what popped into my mind, anyway. Our luxury jet included a full bath, and her flowing curls were still damp from a recent shower. She was dressed in designer jeans and a blue silk blous
e. Like a high classed debutante, she looked ready to do some serious shopping...but not so much the skiing she and Alistair had previously discussed.
“We may not have as much time to do everything we talked about last night.” She moved to the seat across from Alistair and placed her tote bag underneath. “I overheard the pilots say they expected to resume our journey at twelve-thirty this afternoon.”
“Well, it’s almost eight o’clock now. So if we get a move on it, we can decide on where and what to do over breakfast,” said Alistair, getting up from his seat.
He grimaced while stretching his back...always a little tight for him in the morning. He rubbed his temples while he leaned back, and I could tell he was fighting a headache, no doubt brought on by last night’s wine and champagne.
“Go ahead and take your shower and once you’re ready I’ll get cleaned up.” I thought it would be best for him to go first in hopes the water immersion might ease his physical discomfort. “In the meantime I’ll arrange for transportation to the mall.”
I thought I might encounter some resistance from our independent female, but she nodded approvingly for me to make the arrangements. With the assistance of the lovely Kali, I arranged for a taxi to be waiting for us outside the airport terminal. As soon as Alistair had showered and dressed, I took a quick shower. Attired in similar khaki shorts and a summer shirt to what my son wore, we exited the airplane flanking Amy on either side.
No doubt we looked a sight—two casual tourists with a fashion model in between. Other than a self-conscious glance by Alistair over his shoulder, we soon reached the taxi waiting for us. I must admit that I was quite impressed by Ms. Golden Eagle’s poise and ease in all of this. In no way a pompous bitch, she seemed to relish our company. Social time with the Barrow males was going well. But I looked forward to her reaction to the great outdoors when we all were roughing it in the Alborz wilderness in the next day or so.
