Two Peasants and a President (11 page)

“Not if we’re traveling as three separate families,” said Sally.  “Two separate couples and a retiree wouldn’t seem suspicious.  Jim and Sally P
e
tersen.  Brett and Maggie Walker.  Richard Davis.  Different names, di
f
ferent towns, no obvious connection.  Ray and Holly didn’t need visas for Hong Kong, so China
probably
doesn’t have much on them.  If we’re careful about the way we fill out the apps, I don’t think anybody will be the wiser.”

“Don’
t even go there,” Richard and Jim looked at Sally as they waded in at the same time. “There’s no way we’re going to put you two in danger.  We don’t know where this is going to lead; it could be dangerous and last time I checked, you two never made it through boot camp.”

“Yeah, but I know how to put a boot up your ass,”  Sally said to her husband.  “Look, Maggie and I won’t be breaking down any doors, but we’ve got eyes, we’ve got cameras and we can call the consulate if you two get in over your heads.”

“Sally,” said Richard solemnly, “I don’t think you understand.  “The American Consulate isn’t there for tourists, much less self-appointed private eyes.  It’s there to help big companies grease the wheels of commerce and give our ‘diplomats’ a place to hang their hats.  If we get in too deep, the last thing we should expect is for them to come to the rescue.”

“
Daddy
, damn it! 
You
don‘t understand!”
Sally said, holding back tears, my baby’s over there somewhere, and I’ll blow the damn consulate
up
if I that’s what it takes to bring her home!”

There was silence for several minutes as the reality of what they were about to undertake sank in.  Finally Richard broke the silence.

“I suspect that whatever happened, the cruise company knows som
e
thing.
That’s where we’ll start.  Jim, why don’t you start a list of what you think we should bring with us.  We can edit it later.  Focus on dual-use items that they’ll allow us in with.  Sally, you can make sure we have enough clothes, underwear and such.”

“Gee, thanks Dad,” replied Sally, wiping away the tears.  “I just love all the exciting stuff.  Boxers or briefs?”

“Maggie, how a
bout you start downloading the applications and see if we can get those going.  I’m assuming everyone’s passport isn’t expired . . .  Check on flights and hotels too, separate hotels that
are near
each other.  I’ll start on a plan of action.  When’s Brett gonna be here?”

“Tomorrow noon,” Maggie answered. 

19

The ambassador stood at the gate, wearing his usual plaster smile.  His top aide and one other from the embassy stood stiffly nearby.  The ‘perso
n
nel’ were in the first class cabin on the China Air flight and disembarked first.  There were only two, as it turned out, and neither resembled a diplomat.  One was quite tall for a Chinese man, probably from northern China where the males tend to be taller, thought the ambassador.  His bearing and build spoke of military training. 

Following him out of the jet way, was a shorter man, one who might easily be passed on the street without a second look, which was precisely what he preferred.   But beneath the unpretentious exterior, a calm resolve and confidence seemed to permeate the space around him, like a subtle, almost invisible force field.  His name was Mr. Chen, but he was better known in certain circles as ‘the piano tuner.’  Unlike the taller man, the ambassador recognized him immediately.

The ambassador escorted the pair through abbreviated formalities, while his aide assured that their luggage went directly from the
plane into the embassy cars. 
As the ambassador and his charges made their way out of the concourse, a janitor pushing his barrel and broom across the floor snapped pictures with a concealed camera, part of his custodial equipment.  Within the hour, the photos were being examined for any hint of what might be afoot. 

20

Uncle Tom’s Cabin arose from the dead.  It was a bit worse for the wear, but its spine wasn’t broken, and it would do.  Sitting with her knees up, as if to provide a place to rest the book and read it, but in reality hiding her lap from the little window in the door, Holly retrieved the paper from her bra and carefully unrolled it.  The paper, though it didn’t seem old, was nonetheless brittle. 
Obviously not one of China’s better knock-off’s
, she thought.  She flattened it as best she could and then inserted it among the back pages of the book. 

There was still the problem of something with which to write.  Her make up kit provided the answer.  The eye liner pencil was far from ideal but it could be made to work.   The next part would be more dangerous.  A
l
though her visitors sometimes inadvertently alerted her when they opened the door at the end of the hall, she did not trust that they would necessarily always do so.  She thought it likely that they also were spying on her. 

With the eye liner in her lap, she opened the book again and pretended to read, her knees shielding her lap from the door.  Carefully, she ‘penned’ her parent’s name, address, phone number and email address.  This took some time as the eye liner’s point was not fine and the piece of paper was small.  Finally she had squeezed it all onto the side opposite the message.  She waited several minutes for the eye liner to dry and then closed the book, hoping the pages would absorb any excess without smearing it. 

Holly sat thinking for some time about how she would get the piece of paper back to her angel, as she now thought of the cleaning lady.  She was quite simply the closest thing Holly had ever had to an angel watching over her.  Sometimes when she thought of her, she was reminded of her gran
d
mother, who had passed away several years ago.  Since then there had been an enormous empty place in her heart.  She knew her passing had left huge hole in her grandfather’s heart too, but the captain wasn’t one to share such things. 

The deep sense of sadness had returned.  She missed Ray more than she could put in
to
words; not knowing what had become of him tortured her constant
ly
.  She wondered what their families were doing now, there in their homes on the other side of the world.  Had they realized something was wrong?  Were they looking for her?

Suddenly there was a shot outside.  It so startled her that the book fell off her lap onto the floor.  The shot had been close, no more than
two hundred feet from her cell it seemed.
  Her father and grandfather had taught her to shoot and she knew the difference between that and any other sound.  She looked down and saw that her hands were trembling.   Fear replaced sadness as she questioned why someone would be shooting nearby.  Was t
hat to be her fate?  Surely not;
they wouldn’t have brought her all this way just to shoot her. 

But why was she here?  Dark imaginings paraded through her mind again as she struggled not to think about them.  She forced herself to listen intently, focusing on any noise coming
from outside her prison, as if some
sound might provide a clue to her future. 

It was some time later when she decided to turn her attention back to the message.  She needed to get the piece of paper back to the cleaning lady somehow.  Finally she settled on the same way she had received it, the sink.  She would wait until they turned the light out tonight and then insert the rolled piece of paper in a hole in the sink drain, just as she had found it.  She was certain that her angel would notice and retrieve it. 

21

It was an inviting little place.  The music didn’t sound like it had been hijacked from an elevator and it was spotlessly clean.  The best part was that the patrons scarcely looked up when he walked in.  He found an empty table in the corner and ordered a vodka gimlet.  He normally enjoyed a drink or two at a watering hole on Pennsylvania Avenue, but tonight he was just hoping for a place where he wouldn’t run into any friends . . . or enemies.

A little while later a couple in their thirties walked in and sat at the bar.  The male’s gestures and expression said that he was not happy with his gir
l
friend.  Their drinks had scarcely been served when they began to argue openly.  The argument had gone back and forth for about ten minutes when the male apparently decided they were leaving and grabbed her arm.  She jerked it away and told him she was staying.  When he attempted to take her arm again, the bartender stepped in.

“Sounds
like the lady doesn’t want to go, mister.”

“Stay out of this,” the man retorted.

“Here’s the way it’s gonna be, mister,” replied the bartender, placing his six foot four inch frame squarely across the bar from the man.  “You’ve been annoying my customers long enough, and now it’s time to go.”  The man thought for a moment and turned to his companion.

“This
ain’t
over, baby.”  He glared at the bartender, then headed for the door.

“Sorry,” the woman said to the bartender.

“
Nothin
’ to be sorry about,”
he replied.  “Need another drink?”

The man in the corner found himself thinking it wasn’t hard to unde
r
stand why the guy hadn’t wanted his girlfriend to stay.  This lady turned heads.  About five foot six and a tad over a hundred pounds, with natural red hair, she would have looked right at home on a movie set.  He resolved not to stare, reminding himself that his recent history with women was part of the reason he came here to be alone tonight. 
Besides
, he thought to himself,
your looks aren’t exactly in her neighborhood
.  But the look he had given her, however brief, hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

She cocked her head just slightly as if wondering if his look had been as friendly as it seemed.  Then she picked up her glass and coat and walked over to his table.  He couldn’t help but notice her legs.

“Feel like sharing a drink?” she asked, cocking her head again in a way that Virgil was already starting to like. 

Virgil, you dumb son of a bitch,
he thought to himself. 
You know damn well this would be a good time to march yourself out to the car and get on home.

He motioned toward the chair.

“We pretty well stomped all over your tranquility,” she said.  “Sorry for that.”

“It happens,” Virgil replied.  “Looks like your boyfriend picked the wrong bartender.”

“Ex-b
oyfriend,” she chuckled, adding:
“He just can’t seem to get that through his head.” 

Flashing a smile that seemed to say that the unpleasantness of a few moments ago was hereby banished, she held out her hand.

“Molly, Molly Marshall,”

“Virgil,” he replied, sensing he was already in trouble.  

“Well, Virgil, a few moments ago your look said that the last thing you want tonight is to have someone unload all her woe on you, so how about we talk about the good things in life?”

“Works for me,” he said.

“What do you like to do when you’re not busy bringing the paycheck home?” she asked.

“Oh, I enjoy playing a little piano, walks in the park, picnics, reading, things like that.  How ‘bout you?”

“Piano, eh?  I played until I went to college, then I just
kinda
drifted away, I guess.  These days I write a bit, easier than lugging a piano around.”

“Really,” said Virgil, “what do you write?”

“Oh, a little poetry, and a novel that never seems to get finished,” she answered.

“Expect you can find a lot to write about in Washington.”

“Yeah, if you like seedy novels,” she replied.  “Oops, there I go.  Sorry, just the good things.”  She smiled broadly and Virgil knew for sure then that he should have gone home.  

He’d avoided asking her what she does, even though he was curious, since he was hoping she wouldn’t ask him. 
So far, so good
, he thought.  But there was something bothering him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  She was just too easy to be with, like stumbling onto an empty lounge
chair and a fruity rum drink on a secluded white beach surrounded by tu
r
quoise blue water  You just told yourself it was OK, then sat down and e
n
joyed, even
though
you kne
w it shouldn’t be there. 

They both started to say something, then laughed.  A uncomfortable silence told them that the conversation had reached
the point where it either got
personal or inane going forward.  He knew why he’d avoided the pe
r
sonal, but wondered what her reasons were, aside from the good things and all that.