Angel Fire

by Andrew M. Greeley

  He slipped back into the parlor and stumbled to his own room.

  He shut the door and made sure that it was closed tight, though he did not lock it.

  Why bother?

  Then he became aware of the words on the fabric against which her sumptuous breasts and firm nipples pressed:

  OUR LADY OF ANGELS.

  A Catholic school some place. And a very nice touch. Comic.

  Go Lady of Angels! Beat Sacred Heart! Yes, this illusion was a comic illusion. Shivering with a sudden chill, he jumped into his bed and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

  Tomorrow, I’ll find a religious goods store and buy a rosary.

  And maybe a St. Christopher medal too.

  Maybe every medal they have in the fucking store.

  “Don’t be so jumpy,” Gaby snapped irritably. “You certainly must know that I car. prevent the plane from crashing.”

  “You admitted that your kind make mistakes. Remember Sarajevo.”

  “Keeping an airplane in the sky is a lot simpler than preventing a war. And I see I shouldn’t have told you about that mistake.”

  “If you’re not infallible,” he pointed out, hoisting his traveling bag nervously on his shoulder as they waited in the first-class check-in line, “and you admit that you’re not, the plane could still crash.”

  “Nonsense,” she said crisply.

  They were waiting, with very little patience, to check in for the TWA flight to London. They had first-class tickets but the first-class counter was closed.

  “Typical of a capitalist airline,” she sniffed.

  “Your idea to fly first class,” he whined.

  The first-class tickets were the beginning of their long day of

  bickering. Gaby pleaded with him to change to the Concorde. It would be a quicker and more restful trip.

  Absolutely not. I can’t afford it.

  I’m paying the expenses, I told you that.

  I could use the money for my children’s college education.

  They’ll win scholarships and don’t worry about them anyway.

  No Concorde and that’s final. I thought you folks respected the freedom of your pet chimps.

  All right, no Concorde.

  So she went over to TWA and changed their tickets to first class. I am not going to have you complaining all night about a Turkish baby vomiting in your lap.

  Then they fought about packing.

  In her view he would wear his new suit and cashmere coat, pack his three shirts, three extremely brief undershorts, a swim-suit (that he thought was too skimpy, a protest which she found greatly amusing), three pairs of socks, three ties, assorted sundries, pictures of his daughters, books and papers, all in his two Gucci bags: one over the shoulder and the other in his hand, with plenty of room left in the handbag.

  A formal suit for the awarding of the prize. Shirts to wear with the suit, black ties, sport clothes, sweaters to wear in Cambridge— everyone wore sweaters in Cambridge because central heating was a rarity—umbrella, raincoat, extra shirts and underwear.

  They have stores in London and Stockholm.

  You won’t buy them, you’ll make them, like you make your own clothes.

  I do not make them.

  A likely story. What about the clothes I’ve packed?

  Packed badly, I might say. You don’t need them. Sensible people travel light. Remember how long you had to wait for this enormous old suitcase at La Guardia.

  How did you know Laura Taylor was good in bed?

  It’s obvious. Why are you still thinking about that?

  You guys are voyeurs, that’s what you are.

  We are not. Your coupling is of no more interest to us than that of...

  Irish setters?

  You’re being difficult because you’re afraid of airplanes.

  You don’t have to be my guardian angel to figure that out.

  He lost the argument—ungraciously, of course. His old luggage and clothes simply vanished.

  If you really want that crap back, I’ll get it when you come home. Not the tux, however; I’ll be a laughingstock among all the other guardian angels if I permit you to ever wear that again.

  Crap is not a nice word for an angel to use.

  It happens to be the only appropriate word in your unimaginative language.

  Well, it was one way to take your mind off the prospect of sealing yourself in an aluminum tube for seven or eight hours and permitting some idiots to propel you through space at the rate of approximately half a thousand miles per hour.

  There was not, he told himself, anything to really worry about. She could surely hold a plane up in the air indefinitely if she chose to do so. And, since on the basis of proven performance, she could move at a rate only slightly less than the speed of light, she could surely catch him a fraction of a second before he tumbled into the hungry Atlantic.

  But...

  But what?

  Just but; that’s all.

  He had to wear his new suit, of which he had become inordinately proud, because a Nobel Prize winner had to look like a Nobel Prize winner when he disembarked in London. She dressed comfortably if expensively in black T-shirt and black jeans and a yellow cotton-and-silk long jacket that looked like an oversized windbreaker and was priced at $700 on the page of Bazaar from which she copied it or stole it, however she produced it.

  It was a crowd-stopping ensemble.

  What will they think of a would-be laureate that gets off the plane with that in tow?

  They’ll think he has good taste in women.

  Expensive taste.

  Grudging laughter from both of them.

  If she was his wife, or better, his mistress, he reflected, he would have fucked her four or five times that day, partly out of aggravation and partly out of affection and admiration.

  Instead, she was his guardian angel. Thank God.

  I guess.

  If you’re there to thank.

  Isn’t that the way to keep such a woman in line? I mean if she’s a human woman, not an angel?

  Likely to make her worse.

  A point.

  The phone rang off the wall. Congratulations, farewells, names to look up, Fee and Dee bursting with pride because there had been a whole day in his honor at St. Ignatius, requests for interviews from magazines and newspapers, lecture invitations, a rumor that The Leader was going to do an expose on him.

  “Do you think they really will?” he asked anxiously.

  “So what’s to expose? Your sex life?”

  “That’s nasty.”

  “It is and I’m sorry. Don’t worry about them. They’re useful only for the bathroom.”

  “For me, not for you.”

  Much laughter. “Got you baffled, don’t I?”

  The lecture invitations were turned down. You don’t like to fly, you have work to do, and Fee and Dee will need help with their homework when you come back.

  People was politely refused. It will give Moaning Mona another chance, and they are merchants of envy anyway.

  Ditto for USA Today. The McDonald’s of journalism, and that’s probably not fair to Big Mac. And innocent of ethical restraint.

  Good sports page.

  Fine. When you’re elected to the NFL Hall of Fame you can give them an interview.

  Yes, Mother.

  So it went.

  If I am supposed to search out a wife who is like her after this game is over—and I gather that’s the game plan—there’s going to have be a lot of fucking to protect my male ego.

  Well, nothing wrong with that.

  I hope.

  So finally they arrived at the check-in counter. The bored woman clerk demanded their passports.

  “Doctor Desmond and Doctor light?” She glanced from one to the other.

  “That’s right.”

  Gaby, he noticed, was wearing her ring again. It would suggest to those who saw it either that she had other commitments or that she and Sean were seriously involved.<
br />
  Well, she knows best.

  “Upgraded to first class?” She typed their names into the computer terminal.

  “That’s right.”

  He let Gaby deal with the ticket agent, because she would do so anyway.

  “Yes, I see.” The woman searched the screen uneasily. “Any luggage?”

  “Carry-on.” Gaby gestured to the four small bags.

  “Believe in traveling light, I see.”

  “Goes with the name.”

  The woman nodded, either ignoring the pun or not catching it. “One moment please.”

  She walked away from the desk and through a door behind her.

  “What’s that about?” Sean answered.

  “Trouble,” Gaby said glumly.

  The ticket agent returned with two tall, lean men in business suits, one brown, the other dark blue: look-alikes with closely cropped dark hair and receding hairlines.

  “Spooks,” Sean whispered.

  “Your spooks,” Gaby nodded agreement. “Ollie North types.”

  “Doctor Desmond?” Brown Suit pretended not to be sure which was which, even though their pictures were on the passports.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid we have a little problem with passport formalities. Might we have a word in private?”

  “What’s wrong?” Sean demanded uneasily.

  “Nothing serious I assure you, sir.” Blue Suit smiled agreeably. “Nothing that should interfere with you catching your plane if you will bear with us for a few moments. Just follow me please.”

  “Certainly,” Gaby replied for both of them.

  “It won’t be necessary for you to accompany us, Doctor Light,” Brown Suit said, “your passport is in perfect order.”

  “I’ll come anyway.”

  “I said”—Blue Suit being tough—“that it won’t be necessary.”

  He was favored with a Gaby “look” and, despite considerable pained resistance, managed to say, “Very well.”

  They were conducted into a small windowless room behind the ticket counter. A gray metal table stood in the middle of the room, two chairs on one side of it, one chair on the other. A telephone and two briefcases rested on the table.

  Both men sat behind the table.

  “I’m agent Spence,” said Blue Suit.

  “And I’m agent Cliff,” said Brown Suit.

  “Please sit down, Dr. Desmond.” Spence glanced up at Gaby, as if trying to figure out how she had managed to get into the room. “I’m sorry, Doctor Light....”

  “I’m quite capable of standing, Agent Spence.”

  The temperature in the room went down ten degrees.

  “We’re going to miss our plane,” Sean protested nervously.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Cliff waved his hand, “if we can obtain a little cooperation. The problem is, Doctor Desmond, that you seemed to have neglected to renew your passport. It expired two weeks ago.” He showed the book to Sean. “See, it says November fifteen of this year as the expiration date.”

  Sean glanced at the passport in astonishment. The permit had another year to run, of that he was sure. But the date had been smudged so that the last number of the year was hard to read.

  “No,” he said carefully, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Agent Cliff. It’s the date of next year.”

  “I’m sure not.” Spence pulled a stack of papers from one of the briefcases on the table. “We checked in our files and it is certain that your passport expired. You can always apply for a new one, but that takes time and I assume that you don’t have time now.”

  He removed the passport from Sean’s hand and laid it on the desk in front of him.

  “Doctor Desmond,” Gaby said icily, “has a lecture in Cambridge the day after tomorrow and then must go on to Stockholm to receive his Nobel Prize.”

  “So we understand.” Cliff withdrew another stack of papers

  from the second briefcase. “That’s why we would like to work something out. I’m sure you both understand that the laws of the United States are very strict on passport matters.”

  “You smudged it,” Sean shouted, “you fucking bastards smudged it.”

  “Very well, sir.” Spence pushed his papers back into his briefcase. “If that’s the way you feel about it, I would suggest you apply for another passport. Perhaps the Agency can get it to you in time for your Nobel Prize.”

  He stood up. Cliff lifted Sean’s passport from the steel table, put it in his briefcase, zipped up the briefcase and stood up too. “Sorry we could not have worked something out.”

  “May we see your IDs?” Gaby asked, her hands jammed into the pockets of her expensive jacket.

  “If you wish.” In one motion the men produced plastic cards from their jacket pockets.

  “Passport Agency.” Gaby glanced at the cards with scarcely veiled contempt. “May we have Doctor Desmond’s passport back?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, that won’t be possible.” Agent Spence smiled thinly.

  “Come on, Spence, we both know better than that. You have no right to his passport.”

  Reluctantly Cliff removed the disputed passport from his briefcase and laid it on the desk again.

  Gaby picked it up. “Why doesn’t everyone sit down? You too, Dr. Desmond.”

  Sean was not even aware that he had risen at the same time the two government agents had risen.

  Tapping her chin lightly with the passport, Gaby sat at the corner of the desk. “Langley, I presume?”

  “Certainly not!” Spence flushed brightly.

  “Sure.” Gaby grinned. “Let’s put the cards on the table because we very much want to catch our plane. What do the spooks out at Langley want to know?”

  “We are not spooks,” Cliff barked.

  “Sure and I’m Oliver North.” Gaby put the passport back on the table. “Let’s have it guys; what are your questions?”

  “We want to know about Doctor Desmond’s involvement with Doctor Stacey Reid.”

  “We want to see a copy of his Nobel acceptance speech.”

  “We want him to agree, in writing”—Spence pulled a long document from his briefcase—“to ask certain questions for us and to observe certain phenomena for us when he is in Europe.”

  “Only minor matters,” Cliff cooed reassuringly.

  “Project Archangel, I assume?”

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about.” Spence had begun to twitch, first a muscle in his neck, then one above his right eye.

  “Doctor Desmond?” Gaby cocked an eyebrow.

  “My relationship with Dr. Reid is my own affair.” No one laughed, though Gaby rolled her eyes. “I will not submit my acceptance speech to the government, and I’d sign a pack with the devil before I put my name on this crock of bullshit.”

  He winced after he had said “devil,” thinking what it would mean to Gaby. She only rolled her eyes again.

  And winked.

  “So I’m afraid you have your answer, gentlemen.”

  “Then Doctor Desmond”—both agents stood up as if on signal—“will not be able to leave on this flight,” said Spence.

  “And, I can confidently predict,” Cliff added, “he will not be able to go to Stockholm to receive his award. Perhaps”—he leered faintly—“you can accept it for him, Dr. light.”

  “Why not?” Gaby asked innocently. “This passport is brand new. It was issued only last week.”

  She offered the little book to Spence. He flipped open the cover, glanced at it, did a double take, and seemed to unfold like a wet newspaper.

  “What the hell!”

  Cliff grabbed the document, looked at it, and crumpled into his chair.

  “This is impossible!”

  “Look in your computer output.” Gaby pointed at a sheaf of papers sticking out of one of the briefcases.

  Fingers quivering, Spence pulled out the continuous feed packet and began to thumb through it.

  “Give it to me,” Cliff
barked, “you’ve got the shakes.”

  But he was not much better at finding the right page.

  Finally he pointed at a name toward the bottom of a sheet.

  “My God, she’s right!”

  “But it couldn’t be. Only a few minutes ago ...”

  “May we go now?” Gaby was most demure.

  “NO!”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s fraud here someplace!” Cliff jerked open his tie.

  “Or witchcraft, maybe?” Sean had begun to enjoy himself.

  Gaby frowned her disapproval, but her eyes were dancing.

  “You can’t leave, that’s final.”

  Gaby retrieved the passport and gave it to Sean. “I think we’re going to walk out of this room, find a New York police officer, put in a call to my good friend Captain McNamee, and tell him that we are being harassed by two men impersonating State Department employees.”

  “Don’t leave this room.” Spence reached for what Sean feared might be a shoulder holster.

  Don’t do it, fella, or your wife will be a widow. My assistant doesn’t like kids who play with guns.

  “Why don’t you answer your telephone?” Gaby pointed at the silent black phone.

  It rang.

  Spence, one hand pressed against his forehead, grabbed it.

  “Spence here.... Yes sir.... No sir.... Nothing sir. Following orders, sir.... Senator Cronin, sir? ... No, of course we don’t want to explain the project to her subcommittee, sir. How did she find

  out, sir? ... I know that it’s none of my business, sir___Yes sir,

  right away sir.... Yes sir.”

  “Toodle-loo, Agents Spence and Cliff.” Gabby entwined her arm with Sean’s. “Pleasant dreams!”

  “But, sir”—Spence was babbling—“the passport changed its date while they were here in the room!”

  “Let’s go to the boarding gate.” Gaby tugged at his arm. “You’ll have a minute or two to call Monsignor Ryan and thank him for the quick action the Cardinal’s sister-in-law obtained for us.”

  “We have to retrieve our tickets and get boarding passes.” Gaby reached in her purse and produced both tickets and passes.

  “And our bags.”

  “Right there.” She gestured at the foot of an escalator where four Gucci bags waited patiently. “I’m getting a headache.”

  “We’ll get you an aspirin or something once we’re on board. Do hurry, we have to call that adorable little priest.”