Safe Zone: A Novel of Intimate Intrigue

By Barrett Newsom

Throughout the book we see life on the ground in Sarajevo and in the military trying to find a way to alleviate the suffering. Unfortunately, none of their plans seem to work out. But that is the tragic reality of the Bosnian Civil War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781882383078

Book preview

SAFE ZONE

A Novel of Intimate Intrigue

By Barrett Newsom

Published in the United States by GM Books, Beverly Hills, California.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Safe Zone

A Novel of Intimate Intrigue

Copyright© 2013 by Barrett Newsom. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from I.P.A. Graphics Management, Inc., dba GM Books, except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention Permissions Coordinator, at the address below:

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ISBN #9781882383-07-8

Editor: William Dorich

Book Design: Mark Heliger

Project Director: Anita Dorich

Cover Photo: Getty Images The Moon,

DataCraft Co. Ldt.

About The Author

Barrett attended writing workshops with detective mystery author Ken Kuhlken for a number of years. He has a strong background in telecommunications, working as a technician and a manager throughout his career. He is currently retired and living in La Mesa, California, where he is the care partner for his wife, Karen, of 30 years. He has three grown sons and one grandson. His first book was Fever Dream. Safe Zone is his first novel.

Introduction

It is impossible for me to write directly about the actual events at Srebrenica in July of 1995. The extent of the atrocities that took place are mind-numbing. Anyone who speaks about this tragedy must first acknowledge the great human loss and loss of humanity, a sadness so deep it can only be described as despair. Anguish. Reading accounts of what happened, I am shocked again and again, even though I have read it before. It was unimaginable. Therefore, I could not have imagined what it was really like when writing this book.

The fact that this book could never do justice to those who lost their lives, their dignity, their humanity in that place during those days almost stops me from publishing. In fact, it did stop me for many years. But now I am putting this work of fiction, an attempt at art, out there into the world to be accepted, rejected, or ignored. There can be no apology for those events and this book is in no way adequate as an apology. If anything, I must apologize for using this subject as a focal point for something as seemingly trivial as fiction.

I don’t think my skills as a writer could ever account for what happened in any way, shape, or form. But even as the main character in this book appears to be the perfect fool, so am I a perfect fool for transgressing on such sacred ground. But such a fool can be a part of something bigger, even as Parsifal in the Grail story achieved what no one else could achieve. I’m remembering what the point of the myth was: to heal the land. May that war-torn territory of Bosnia and the Balkans as a region find some healing or continued healing, despite the fact that there is no earthly king.

Prologue - August, 1995

I expect change. But then why am I surprised when I encounter things that show how some things never change? As a young recruit, creeping along dark alley walls in East Berlin, I was afraid to make the slightest sound or even breathe. Twenty-five years ago. Since, the Wall has fallen, along with so much of what it represented. Yet, our efforts to spy on our friends still seem to be based on our own insecurities. And until that night two weeks ago, standing in front of her door, in the deserted corridor at Langley, I’d never felt less safe.

Or more alone.

I found the door locked, but lifted my fist to the polished mahogany, not knowing if she was going to congratulate me on a job well done, or fire my ass. Knocked three times, ready for anything. In my mind I pictured her in one of those immaculately tailored power suits she liked to wear, gray or blue with a thin, chalk stripe, all straight lines with maybe a hint of curve. On a deeper level, I began composing my letter of resignation.

She opened the door and let me into the outer office, her aides having gone home, and then, without a word, led me to her inner sanctum. Through bullet-proof windows, floor to ceiling, I saw the darkened grounds and a nearly empty parking lot bathed in sodium light. Closing the door behind her, she pointed to several chairs around a glass coffee table. I sat.

This meeting officially never took place, she said, holding my eyes with a gaze like gun barrels. Let’s make that clear. Taking the chair next to mine, she crossed her legs. A rustle of silk.

I took a deep breath and nodded assent, furious to feel moisture break out on my palms, then let air out slowly through clenched teeth. No offer of coffee or something stronger, though I’d have declined. A delicate fragrance jolted me, Shiseido, my ex-wife’s hand cream.

Bill, she began, - she’d never called me anything except Burke before- I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot and I want to set things right. Fair enough?

I nodded again, the muscles in my neck suddenly stiff as iron. Of course. Whatever you say. As Executive Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, she had a right to expect things her way, even if she’d only been appointed three months before.

Let me tell you up front we’re very pleased with the results from Bosnia. The President asked me to pass along his appreciation.

I hesitated a heartbeat. Couldn’t see how the word pleased might apply. I said, Hopefully our man will live to hear of it.

I understand there’s a woman in the field, too. Rising intonation.

I hunkered down in my seat. British gal, from MI6. It’s something of a matrix operation.

Her next comment hit me like a slap. I trust there are no sex orgies, like Paris. Icicles formed on her lips. There can be no repeat of that liason.

That was unanticipated, I’m afraid. Very sorry. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

No excuse for it, she said, for emphasis. Anyway, I’m directing you to recall the team as soon as possible. Bring them home and do it quick. And Bill, she said with deliberation, I want that laptop recovered.

But we just began the series, I protested, struggling to keep my hackles down and avoid sputtering. They’ve only been to the two sites.

Srebrenica, she said like a curse.

Yes, I agreed. I thought we were interested in getting to the real truth about what’s happened on the ground.

We already know what that is, Bill. She stared at me icily.

You mean our minds have already been made up. Finally.

Doesn’t matter. We’ve got what we were after. There’s more to this than I can tell you. I’ve ordered NRO to re-task the satellite. I’ve put Reichman on it. She stood abruptly and held out her hand. Congratulations. You’ve done well.

You mean I fucked up, - I thought.

Getting to my feet, I hesitantly grasped her palm, knowing she’d feel my sweat. She gave a strong grip, her eyes piercing mine, her smile a grimace.

I need you to do one more thing for me, Bill. I need a report. Not some sanitized version. I want everything.

Everything, I repeated, noncommittal, reclaiming my hand.

I want all of it, she said, pointedly wiping her hand on her skirt. Everything that went into getting our people there. She walked to her desk, picked up a lone manila folder off a short stack. Are we clear?

Crystal, I mumbled the cliche reflexively. It may take a few days. I wondered like hell what was in that file she was holding.

Time you have, Bill. Take a week. Take two. She leaned her hip against the desk, her smile gone. But I don’t want you working on anything else.

But the Balkans are at the boiling point! I blurted. So many lives are at stake!

Not your concern. Not anymore.

Like hell!

I sent them into harm’s way. Their asses are on the line.

So get them out! she snapped. And don’t worry about your own ass. Reichman will cover for you. Make this priority one.

Her eyes drilled me and I fought an impulse to place the ball of my foot through the bridge of her nose.

I’ll set my own damn priorities.

Incredulous, I asked, So I’m being relieved of duty?

It’s only temporary, Bill.

My mouth felt like dry leaves in October. Temporary until when, might I ask?

She approached me bruskly, put her hand on my arm. My impulse was to recoil, but I let her hand rest there a moment. It felt cold even through my jacket, and a chill began seeping into me.

Just get me that report, Mr. Burke. We’ll take it from there.

I wandered back to the New Headquarters Building in somewhat of a daze. Well, I thought, if my head was going to roll, at least she wanted me to empty it out first.

I left the next evening from Dulles, using rush hour as a cloak of chaos. Credit cards hoarded for just such a contingency bought airline tickets for false routes. I paid cash for my real destination under an untraceable name, with a never-before-used passport that had stamps from around the world. I kept receipts for my voucher. A clandestine thrill ran in my blood again and I decided to enjoy my final trip abroad at government expense. I knew where Harry would go to ground and looked forward to a few days among the hazelnuts and pines.

***

Weary from jet lag and the drive down from Frankfurt, I parked beside the cozy chalet on a sun-filled afternoon. Looking positively radiant, Solange greeted me at the door as if I was the returning hero, instead of Harry, and introduced me to Martin, who eyed me suspiciously.

That night we waited. Broke the ice by playing three-handed canasta until all hours. Harry arrived the nexy day, alone on foot, a rumpled mess, only to sleep twenty-four hours straight through. After we revived him with bacon and scrambled eggs, I insisted on a day trip to buy a cuckoo clock as a house-warming gift. Harry seemed whole, if reserved. Late night sessions turned into long morning walks by the talkative brook, during which I learned more than I wanted, but less than I needed.

During that week, the Croatian Army pounded Serb positions in the Krajina, the border region between Croatia and Bosnia. NATO stood by and watched as Croat jets repeatedly violated the fabled No Fly Zone. Knin fell in a matter of days. A lull followed, during which I returned to Virginia with a rough draft of my report sketched hastily on notebooks and carrying the Director’s precious laptop, which now suffered from a particularly virulent virus resulting in what Harry called the blue screen of death.

Back at my desk, I burrowed through a maze of intercepts and field notes, trying to play catch up. Even as I manage these final revisions, the storm has burst with a vengeance in the south. Another mortar barrage on a marketplace in Sarajevo, with horrific casualties, has catapulted NATO into action. Air strikes are punishing Serb positions all over Bosnia. Even against the combined power of the United States, Great Britain and France, Bosnian Serbs remain intransigent, insisting Muslims planted Claymore mines in food baskets. They cite many injuries to lower extremities, uncharacteristic of mortar-caused wounds. But UN crater splash and trajectory analysis proved unequivocal, along with Cyrillic-marked pieces of mortar shells recovered from the scene by UNPROFOR. Serb claims that Muslims are murdering their own people seem cruelly absurd, but having seen the nature of man revealed in this war, only with great effort could I reject that possibility.

I’ve decided to submit my report in its entirety, letting those who were there tell their own stories where possible, with few editorial snips. It runs a bit long for a letter of resignation, but it will have to do.

Tonight, silver shadows stretch across the lawn outside my window, cast by a moon so bright it’s hard to believe it sheds no light of its own. Tomorrow, it will begin to wane again, but I won’t be here to see it.

William Burke, National Intelligence Officer

Langley, Virginia

Chapter 1

Friday, July 21, 1995

Above the dark Atlantic, United Airlines Flight 934 streaked through a moonless night.

Martin Kaye could not get comfortable enough to sleep and was too tired to think. Virtually every seat on the aircraft was occupied, it being the peak of tourist season and the route from Los Angeles to London one of the busiest. The cooling system blew merciful gusts of refrigerated and sanitized air. Seats in coach left zero elbow room.

Martin shifted his unassuming frame in the aisle seat. At five feet nine, a hundred sixty pounds, he had just enough space. He wore blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a Hawaiin shirt tucked in under a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. His wife, Susan, had chosen the peppery gray and blue colors to match his hair and eyes. Fit for his forty years, he was well balanced and light on his feet, per his Tai Chi instructor’s admonition, You must flow like water and be loose as a snake. Unless the jet encountered radical turbulence, these talents would hardly be necessary on his walks down the aisle.

He did his best not to disturb the man in the middle seat next to him. The result of copious amounts of liquor, he was out cold. Martin was glad to let sleeping dogs sleep. It amazed him how some people lost all sense of propriety as soon as they left home. At the start, his neighbor had been civil enough.

Anthony Meredith, at your service, he’d said with an English accent and a rakish grin as the plane readied for takeoff. Call me Tony. Younger than Martin by a few years, he wore a rumpled business suit.

Martin suspected at once that the man was a salesman of some sort. Admitting his own name and returning the smile, Martin settled in to get acquainted. Eleven hours aloft at 35,000 feet was time enough to get to know someone far too well if you weren’t careful. Martin made the mistake of asking Tony’s line of work. The plane reached cruising altitude and the seat belt light was out before the man stopped for breath.

Towards the end of Tony’s monologue, the flight attendant made her first visit with the drinks tray. She smiled warmly at Martin and spoke in a voice like soft music. And those mysterious dark eyes! Chinese, he wondered, or Cambodian? But tall. Maybe an angel, he guessed, noticing her silver wings. The name tag on her uniform read Merrilee. Then she was gone.

Tony elbowed Martin and winked. Did you see the way that stewardess looked at you? Maybe you’ll get lucky and join the mile high club.

Embarrassed, Martin chose to ignore him, chastising himself instead for letting his thoughts run free. He sipped a Diet Coke while his neighbor twisted the cap off a tiny bottle of vodka. Martin forced himself to think about Susan and the kids back home, trusting him to be faithful and sober. Martin’s problem was not so much with booze, but rather with women. Unfortunately, indulgence in one could lead to entrapment by the other. Martin felt a thin film of sweat mix with condensation on his glass. Mentally he recited the first part of the Serenity Prayer. Then he reminded himself - Promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Momentarily relieved, Martin was also glad to avoid the inevitable rejection from the guardian angel with magnetic eyes. Merrilee, he thought, such a pretty name. Like bells.

Two seats over, out the window, he caught glimpses of rose-colored light glinting off the wings as the aircraft sped towards darkness. Deciding to stroll around the cabin, Martin jostled through random passengers in the aisles, finding himself at last standing at the back of the plane. He peered through a window in the rear door.

Still over land, he saw the tops of fluffy clouds turning coppery in the fading evening rays. Below these, dark shadows made rolling hills a carpet of deep green. Lights winked on in scattered towns. He envisioned thousands of citizens in the heartland returning home from work , logging onto America On Line, checking e-mail, surfing the World Wide Web on their dial-up modems. Martin couldn’t tell what part of the country they were over until he saw a wide river sprawled behind their path, reflecting the molten sky. The Mississippi. He watched until it faded and the sky turned deep indigo, then black. White stars shone among the running lights.

***

In London, Friday night turned into Saturday. Two gentlemen, one from the New World and one from the Old, sat in the mezzanine of the Savoy hotel, apart from the pressure of aides and other ministers.

The Brits had called the meeting of the Contact Group following the fall of the U.N. Safe Area of Srebrenica to the Serbs the previous week. Initial claims of as many as 8,000 men and boys executed screamed for a concerted response. Because of the nightly forays of Nasic Oric and his Bosniak troops from the Safe Area into the countryside to purge ethnic Serbs from dozens of unprotected villages, as many as 3,000 innocents being killed mercilessly, the attack by the Republik of Serpska army was not a surprise. It was to be expected, since Serb General Ratko Mladic had said if the attacks from the Safe Area did not stop then he would stop them. Intercepts showed that Mladic had responded to his orders from Republic of Serpska President Radovan Karadzic to rid the area of Muslims, that such a demand could only be accomplished by what would be considered genocide, a word that had been spoken and debated since 1992. Regardless, days of horrendous carnage ensued with unspeakable events. Most of the four hundred Dutch U.N. troops and a large number of Bosniak soldiers from the 82nd Mountaineers only barely escaped in a long column along with untold numbers of the men and boys of the region. Their goal was to break through to Tuzla, but thousands more were killed in running battles along the way.

Since then, the haven at Zepa had come under fierce attack. Next in line was Gorazde, the third step down a ladder to defeat for the beleaguered Muslims in Bosnia. Bosniak attacks had also been carried out from Gorazde under the nominal protection as a Safe Area and a repeat of Srebrenica was feared. Satellite imagery showed burned and plundered houses, but much of that destruction happened when Bosniaks purged Serbs from the area two years before.

Negotiators neared exhaustion, but an exasperated American Secretary of Defense and the distinguished French Defense Minister remained at loggerheads. At the American’s suggestion, finding this quiet oasis among the luxuriously wasteful corridors gave them a final chance to fish or cut bait. The fact that the French had not responded with air support when appealed to by the Dutch forces in Srebrenica, with such dire results, pointed to what amounted to complicity in the carnage. Were they going to stand in the way again and watch the same tragedies happen? What had been proven graphically so many times since the start of the war was that for evil to win, good people need do nothing.

To break the deadlock, France and Britain would give up their plan to airlift a thousand NATO troops to Gorazde. The British minister had already agreed. Instead, they would reinforce Sarajevo. British and French Rapid Reaction forces, along with a contingent of Ukrainian peace keepers, would embark at once. The British 19th Field Regiment of Royal Artillery, equipped with 105mm light guns (light being a euphemism since each could hurl a 36 pound shell 10 miles), would dig in at Mount Igman, on the western edge of Sarajevo, supported by 500 elite Legionnaires.

To their mutual relief, the two men at last found themselves in agreement, as much out of expediency as anything. Standing to exchange a firm diplomatic handshake, they strode to rejoin the others.

Though forced to tone down its wording to appease the Russians, NATO’s ultimatum promised relentless and pounding air strikes should the Serbs make any further hostile move on Gorazde. As an ultimatum it was weak, a bit too diplomatic, too ambiguous, but the message remained: hands off Gorazde or else.

***

Martin Kaye passed the galley on the way back to his seat, noticing Merrilee and other attendants loading trays of food for the evening meal. He heard her laugh, like a flourish of bells. She tossed her head and looked up, meeting his gaze with surprise and a smile. Martin smiled back.

At his seat, he found Tony closing a Playboy magazine, which he placed in the accordion attaché between his knees as Martin sat down.

So Martin. Tell me about your trip. What exactly is it you do?

Research. Working on my doctorate.

A doctor, eh? Mine says I need to cut out fats and limit my alcohol intake. Too much blood in my alcohol system.

Martin noticed several bottles of vodka miniatures lying empty, then shook his head. Not a medical doctor, Tony. I’m working on my PhD.

In my line of work we spell it F.U.D. ‘Fear, Uncertainty, and Doubt’. That’s the Doctorate of Salesmanship.

Salesmen - Martin thought with a sigh. He’d spent his time in the trenches at the telephone company as an account executive braving elusive quotas. But his real knack was designing telecommunications systems and making them work. Peers acknowledged his expertise and customers appreciated it, but his latest reward had been a promotion to middle management, with added stress and a cut in take-home pay. This trip, a sabbatical to continue his education, was a well-deserved rest.

He decided to give Tony another chance. I’m studying the Information Superhighway.

Tony’s eyes lit up momentarily, perhaps at the mention of a familiar topic. Tell me more, Doc. I’m a captive audience.

Martin didn’t intend to give a lecture, but began one anyway. You’ve heard of the Internet… He continued until he noticed Tony’s eyes glazing over, then tried a favorite analogy, depicting the Internet as a series of dams. …As soon we bring the generators on line, the floodgates will be ready to burst. That’s how huge the reservoir of pent up demand is.

Tony yawned. I understand pent up demand. Right now I need another drink. And here she is, just in time. How lovely!

Martin turned to see Merrilee coaxing an errant strand of hair behind her ear with a manicured finger. Supper was served. She took extra moments helping with his tray before moving on. Her perfume lingered, mingling with supper smells.

Tony’s mouth was open, but not to eat his meal. How do you do it? he gawked, picking up his carafe of wine.

Do what? Martin asked, feigning innocence.

Are you kidding? Your cologne must be irresistible to beautiful women, he aped. Remind me to buy some.

Martin disregarded the backhanded compliment, but felt his ego take a bow. A warning signal went off, deep in his gut, like the growl of a wild beast with whom he was on intimate if unspoken terms. God grant me the serenity,he intoned inwardly and sighed, passed it off as hunger.

Tony motioned to Martin with his wine glass. Aren’t you having any? Never trust a man who doesn’t drink. Let me buy you one.

No thanks, Tony. I’m still recovering from last time.

On the wagon, eh. How long’s it been? Tony leered.

Not long enough, pal, Martin confessed. He turned to his meal, exploring with his fork. It looked surprisingly good. To his relief, Tony munched in silence. Soon, Merrilee brought Tony another small carafe of wine. Then, moving up the aisle, she glanced at Martin over her shoulder and winked a beautiful dark eye.

To get his mind off her, Martin considered the task ahead of him. Excitement mixed with apprehension. His research grant came from the Intelligent Freedom Foundation of New York. He had applied numerous places, Fullbright, Guggenheim, but his proposals had been rejected one by one. The letter from the IFF arrived out of the blue and he’d nearly recycled it with the junk mail, but Susan had fished it out of the trash. Given another chance, Martin responded eagerly with application documents. Although he was unfamiliar with the IFF, new organizations formed almost every day, and if they had money, so much the better.

When notification of the award came, Martin and Susan had discussed it warily over a candlelight supper, a subdued celebration. Susan was a manager at the same telecommunications company as Martin, and she agreed the trip was perfect to shake his career doldrums. But they both knew the risk he took stepping outside the support system of the family. Martin had fought through an addiction to pornography and strip clubs, with the help of a 12-Step group. Now, having made it through the steps, for the first time in years, their marriage felt strong enough to survive the test of separation. Difficult as it was, trust had been rebuilt. As for the research trip, clearly, taking the family along was not possible. Besides the cost, there was far too much work and only six weeks in which to do it. Better he go alone.

Merrilee arrived for the supper trays, shattering Martin’s reverie. Tony took the opportunity to become more obnoxious, insisting on grabbing her hand.

I wanted to thank you personally for your admirable service, he slurred. She tried to pull away but Tony held on.

Cut it out, Martin growled at him. She has a tough enough job already.

Tony pulled harder and then abruptly released her. The trays nearly wound up in Martin’s lap and Merrilee gave Tony a scowl that meant business. When she was gone, Martin turned to the pest with an equally stern look.

Oh, come on, Tony whined. Not everybody gets special treatment like you. I just wanted a little TLC. Is that too much to ask? He began to climb past Martin. Do you mind? I’ve got to go to the can. Snatching his briefcase, he stomped off.

Glad to be alone, Martin pushed the incident from his mind until he heard a commotion in the back of the plane, followed by a sharp slap. Silence flooded the cabin. Tony stood in the aisle in front of the rest rooms, his cheek turning bright pink. Merrilee stood her ground, arms akimbo. Obviously, she’d dealt the blow. Tony walked unsteadily back towards his seat. Merrilee’s stare could have bored holes in his back, but she caught Martin’s gaze and her face softened into a wry smile.

Not wanting to roast in the scorn Tony had brought their way, Martin elected to stretch his legs again. He meandered self-consciously now, catching the eye of numerous passengers. He drifted to the back of the plane, settling at the rear door, his window on the world.

The perpetual high-pitched vibration of the jet filled his ears, distant but omnipresent. Outside, it would be a roaring thunder. The sky was clear of any hint of cloud, magnificently starry. He felt someone next to him and turned to see Merrilee staring with him into the night.

She spoke first, in a hushed voice with an attractive English accent. Sometimes when I look out here at night I imagine I’m perched on the edge of the world.

Martin nodded, admired the constellations and her reflection in the glass.

She touched his arm. By the way, thanks for sticking up for me.

Martin shuffled his feet. I hope you know I don’t have anything to do with that guy.

I understand. By the way, it’s safe to go back. I think he’s knocked out.

You didn’t hit him again, did you? Martin grinned.

I mean he’s sleeping, she said with laugh and a blush. When he grabbed me, I just turned around and smack!

Well, it sounded great from where I was sitting. He actually grabbed you? Martin was incredulous.

Yeah! she said. It’s my body, after all. She put her hand to her mouth, blushing deeper, but stifling a laugh.

Martin reddened, too, gazed again into the night.

She spoke quietly. What kind of work do you do?

Telecommunications. Sending messages from far away, he mused.

She nodded towards the window. Picking up anything out there tonight?

Not really. Just thinking about the future, how sudden it all seems. Yet far away at the same time.

In flight school we talked about Einstein’s train traveling at the speed of light. Except with us it was a Boeing 747. We figured it’s a good way to stay young. She grinned up at him. I guess it’s all relative.

Martin returned her smile, beginning to like her for more than her seductive eyes. He felt the growl in his stomach again and reminded himself to watch out.

You know what they say. The more we learn, the less we really know. A professorial tone crept into his voice. It’s as if human knowledge has a life of its own. Growing faster all the time. Gobbling up everything.

She giggled prettily through her fingers. Sounds frightening!

I wrote about it for my MBA. Just intellectual history, really. ‘Knowledge Is A Beast’, I called it.

I see said the blind carpenter, said Merrilee, nodding sagely, "as he picked up his hammer and saw.

Some one once said that intellectuals must become the guardians of knowledge and integrity. He paused briefly, but Merrilee filled the gap.

But who is going to guard us from our guardians, she mused.

Maybe, said Martin, catching her up with a smile. Perhaps that’s another issue. It’s like this… he began, his thoughts racing far ahead of his words. He couldn’t stop. Next he’d be talking about Plato and Aristotle, the Rishis of the Himalayas, the Cosmic Egg. …Maybe it took a million years to hatch… Suddenly he felt like he was back at his oral exams years before. Time disappeared. He told her of his vision of Knowledge the Beast in full flight, from the Industrial Revolution to the Information Age. …like some fiery dragon with leathery wings, hunting for prey. While society is a mere mouse foraging in the grass. Finally, he came to the end. In summary, he paused, managing a weak grin, knowledge is a beast and it does not feed us. We feed it.

Staring into her eyes, he watched them harden from deep pools to obsidian. She didn’t blink and he had to look away.

Sorry, he stammered. I hope you don’t mind me carrying on.

Not at all. Sounds like poetry, she said, glancing at her watch, as if deciding it was time. There’s something important I need to talk to you about. She paused. But not here. In London. Her eyes implored him.

Taken aback, Martin sensed nervousness behind her calm exterior, like a glimpse of light through a cracked curtain. In London, he repeated blankly. I don’t understand. What is it? What’s so important? An involuntary shiver ran the length of his body.

I’m sorry, she said, touching his arm again. I can’t explain now. Please forgive me, but my break is over. Her composure returned and she turned to go.

Wait, Martin blurted. I don’t even know your name.

She pointed to her nameplate, flashing her flight attendant’s smile, but her eyes were bright points. Merrilee. This is me. She held out her hand. I’m Merrilee Kim.

They shook. Her grip was sure and firm, her fingers strong and supple, but her palm was damp, like his.

I’m Martin Kaye. His eyes probed her.

Yes, I know. She looked at him plainly, as if momentarily naked. Then she winked. Hey, did you notice? Our initials are the same. MK.

She left him alone and wondering, contemplating his place in her universe. Curiosity and apprehension pounded his brain. She jokes about Einstein? he thought, then postulated WE=MK squared. It sounded like a formula for trouble. He found his way back to his seat where Tony had summoned the decency to remain passed out.

Sleep eluded Martin. He willed himself to relax but could not stop his mind from turning in ever increasing circles. Finally, he got up to visit the restroom. He saw Merrilee and another flight attendant chatting near the galley, heard their muted accents as he passed. Merrilee waved. He smiled back and managed to stumble through the restroom door.

Alone in the narrow closet, he imagined his energy being sucked away by the vacuum along with the blue chemical water. He checked the mirror. His hair was a mess of gray-streaked spikes. Newly cut before his flight, it stuck out every which way. He looked like he just woke up, when he hadn’t been able to sleep at all. And now those bags under his eyes. Good thing the airline didn’t limit carry-off luggage.

Leaving the confines of the lavatory, Martin summoned his courage and approached the attendants’ station. Merrilee’s eyes brightened. Her long black hair shined as if just brushed. Amazed that she looked so good after all those hours on her feet, Martin was embarrassed by his own state of disrepair.

Can I get you anything? Merrilee asked.

No, thanks anyway, Merrilee. I just can’t get comfortable. He met her eyes again, unable to ask what was really on his mind, her mysterious hint about London. How do you stay so fresh?

We get used to the hours. Tomorrow I’ll sleep all day. You should see me then.

How can I?

How can you what? Her eyebrows went up like two fine crescents.

He braced himself. How can I see you tomorrow if you’re going to sleep all day? The joke was weak, but he wanted to give her an opening. He couldn’t believe he was flirting with her but it seemed like the best way to follow up.

"Then you’ll just have to come see me the day after tomorrow! And that’s that!" She smiled again, as if to dispel his unease.

But I’m here on business… he dodged, trying to wriggle out of the trap he had set for himself.

No excuses. Day after tomorrow is Sunday and you can’t work. Besides, I have a few days off and I could show you a bit of London.

Martin sidestepped her lead, checked his wrist watch. Still on West Coast time, it read just past midnight. You know, I think it’s tomorrow already.

So it is, she said. It will be morning before you know it.

Martin felt as if he had walked into a strange dream. Suddenly worried that she was putting him on, his cheeks began to burn. Then he met her eyes again and felt like he was floating in air.

Oh my, Merrilee said. You really do need some rest. You look all in. She tugged gently at his sleeve. Here. Let me help you.

Together they stepped towards his seat. Tony snored. She kept her hand on Martin’s arm as he sat down, her touch soft, reassuring.

She bent near and he caught a fragrance of fresh cut flowers. She slipped a folded piece of paper into the breast pocket of his jacket.

What’s this? he whispered.

My flat and phone. But don’t call tomorrow. You need your rest. Call Sunday. It’s important. She pouted her lips. Promise?

All right. Sunday. He couldn’t help giving in.

Get some sleep now. I’ll be right back there if you need me. Martin watched her walk away, one perfectly-trousered leg past the other.

He let out a deep sigh. Folding his hands in his lap, he felt his wedding ring, guilt jabbing him. He couldn’t call her, not even in his dreams. He practiced his deep breathing technigue and felt his body relax. Using the joints of his fingers, he counted twelve times on his left hand, then twelve times on his right.

But what in the world was so important? The question lodged itself somewhere between waking and sleeping, long past the sunrise, all the way to Heathrow.

Chapter 2

Saturday, July 22, 1995

The biggest problem was the heat. Midday temperatures in downtown London soared past a hundred degrees, with humidity about 70% and rising. Harry Porter’s mirrored glasses had fogged up again, so he took time at a pay phone to clear them, his intense blue eyes in constant motion. He hated sunglasses but resigned himself to keep them on. His Company, the CIA, had fitted the frames with a miniature video camera. Using these, the exchange of the arms shipment could be recorded unobtrusively for later analysis. Cameras pick up things easily missed on the first glance. Harry knew the