It's Raining in Marrakech

By X. W. Kavanagh

Will Kavanagh has reunited with the woman of his dreams, and the magic carpet ride he’s on with Dominique seems almost the living fairy tale until harsh reality sets in and he suddenly discovers there is a price to pay for redemption. It’s Raining in Marrakech will take you on the path less chosen and captivate your mind as Will becomes first the student and then the leader as life turns deadly serious and he must call upon every friend and force he knows to formulate his plan for survival. As the players are inexorably drawn to North Africa, Dominique proves her mettle as she calls upon her own ancestral tribe against the madman who is so obsessed with her. What began as a thrill ride turns into the most deadly game ever invented: kill or be killed. Pushed to the very edge of their limits, Will and company make one final daring move to banish the powerful force of obsessed evil to hell where he belongs. Come share the ride as Kavanagh forever puts aside his subliminal naivety and fear to become the reluctant hero of It’s Raining in Marrakech.

• Language: English
• Publisher: X. W. Kavanagh
• Release date: Jun 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990448006

X. W. Kavanagh

X. W. Kavanagh is the pseudonym of the exciting new author of The Circle: Freelancing with Freud, which features the unlikely but dynamic pairing of Will, the Cajun fortunate son who escapes the bayous, and Dominique, the intriguing French-Moroccan enchantress of Bedouin mystique.Will’s alter ego also escaped humble Southern roots, traveled the world, discovered love and tragedy and then lived to write about it. Having lived inside the bureaucratic framework as a government mule, he shares searing insights into survival and cunning from within the maddening mosaic.So what’s Will’s alter ego like for real? Not surprisingly, he sees life exactly the way Will Kavanagh does; totally unapologetic about his roots or his opinions. He’s a straight shooter who calls ‘em like he sees ‘em, and doesn’t abide fools willingly. Does he exist on moral quicksand? It totally depends on your point of view. As Kavanagh is wont to describe a moral dilemma, ‘if you don’t mind, it don’t matter.’Does this get him across the breakers with people from time to time? You bet, but you’ll never have to guess how he feels about something. Especially women, with his doggedly heterosexual brunt, but you must endeavor to treat all people with dignity. Do we sometimes fail? Again, Kavanagh might say, ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’I’m a real believer that it’s the journey, not the destination that makes life most interesting. Our experiences make us who we are, so the more exciting they are the more robust the description of the moment is enabled. Will this perhaps insult the decencies of some readers? It’s just the difference between people, but I make every attempt to limit the damage to mere affronts, as opposed to indictments.I certainly hope you enjoy reading about Will and Dominique and their Circle of Love as much as I’ve enjoyed writing about them. Will’s journey through the wilderness of work and play will certainly keep you entertained, hopefully into the wee hours of the night—which is when much of it was written!I am now working on the second installment of Will Kavanagh’s adventures, and I sincerely hope that you’ll join me down the next path of the yellow brick road. Stay tuned, and please feel free to contact me about your reactions, impressions or even ideas about where you’d like to see Will Kavanagh go to next. From where I sit, it’s only an airplane ride away!

Book preview

The Circle

It’s Raining in

Marrakech

by

X. W. Kavanagh

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by Xavier W. Kavanagh

ISBN-13: 978-0-9904480-0-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Lyrics to ‘Son of a Satan’s Angels,’ by Dick Jonas, 1969, were reprinted with permission from Dick Jonas. Visit Dick’s website at www.erosonic.com the home of America’s foremost military aviation balladeers.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Cover Design by Will Kavanagh and Raydar

Cover Art by Vera Kelly

Electronic adaptation by www.StunningBooks.com

For Ray Darnell

who never, ever gave up believing in me

Other Novels by X. W. Kavanagh

The Circle series

Freelancing with Freud (the beginning)

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1: The Reunion of a Lifetime

Chapter 2: Dominique’s Missing Years

Chapter 3: Saying Goodbye to Clark

Chapter 4: Baguio, the Other Mile High City

Chapter 5: Checking In on the Left Coast

Chapter 6: A Detour to Northern California

Chapter 7: The Triumphant Return Home

Chapter 8: A Cerebral Honeymoon

Chapter 9: Preparing for the Dangerous World

Chapter 10: A Reunion in the City of Lights

Chapter 11: Kidnap and Ransom: Planning the Operation

Chapter 12: The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 13: Rocking the Casbah

Chapter 14: Going Loud in Algiers

Chapter 15: The Final Showdown in Ksar el Boukhari

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I must salute my wife Charlene, who has supported and loved me throughout this long unpredictable journey called life as we know it. With her unflinching belief in me I have been able to continue this long, incredibly rewarding and unrelentingly exasperating life as a writer and author.

I have similarly been rewarded with the compassionate and unswerving love and generosity of my sister Patricia. She’s been my biggest proponent and most ardent supporter throughout. Pat has also served as my harshest critic when I needed someone to refocus my attention in order to create a truly remarkable story and product.

The uncharted path from writer to author to publisher is fraught with frustration and intimidation. Les Denton of Stunning Books has been a true hero, righting the ship for me with her timely and incredibly adept capacity to convert a manuscript into a digital reality. The old adage about making a silk purse from a sow’s ear is clearly in play when considering the transformation Les brings about.

I would be remiss if I do not express my appreciation to Dick Jonas for his permission to reprint the lyrics of Son of a Satan’s Angels within this novel. His song became the anthem of the Air Force fighter pilots who took me in as one of their own during my stay at the Palace outside of Clark Air Base. Son of a Satan’s Angels served as the sacred opening prayer for all Palace Parties.

Finally, I want to make special mention of Ray Darnell, whom I’ve dedicated this book to. Ray was an old high school buddy of mine who re-emerged forty years later to become my rock of stability and who kept my head up and pointing forward on a daily basis. He totally embraced my first book, Freelancing with Freud, and was so taken by it that he designed the cover. He has since become my collaborator on military equipment, tactics and operations for the combat sequences in this and all future novels in The Circle series. Ray served as the inspiration for the character Hal Rayfield in It’s Raining in Marrakech.

Chapter 1

The Reunion of a Lifetime

So there I was, lying in bed in the Manila Hotel, the love of my life sleeping soundly next to me as I pondered what a long crazy journey my life had been thus far. I was arguably the luckiest man alive; reunited against all odds with the woman given up as dead and gone forever.

I bucked formidable odds by running the gauntlet of the US military justice system, acquitted in a gut-wrenchingly emotional court-martial. And here I was, the stranger in a strange land facing life without a plan, except that I would share it with my dear Dominique.

Dominique Lefebvre, my angel who magically appeared, somehow rescued from that horrible prison and torture in North Africa, delivered to me with open arms. How strange it must seem to everyone else, my blind, unflinchable faith in a woman I’d known for all of six months; sufficient to keep me grounded in ‘hope springs eternal’ until the ultimate miracle occurred three years after a parting so painful that it still resonated in my soul.

After we had celebrated the reunion with our rescuers, whom we had dubbed the Gideon’s Angels, at the bar and then between ourselves in private, it was time to get some answers to my most intense curiosity. I rustled her gently from slumber, You know Dominique, when I last saw you I was unsure that I would ever see you again. Seeing you walk down that Jetway was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life; at least until it dawned on me the next day that I could never even seek you out with the military threat hanging over me. So, tell me my love, what happened after you said the word ‘Forever’ to me that fateful day at Dulles?

Must we go down that long and fearsome path tonight love? I am so very tired but happy to see you—can we possibly delay that unpleasantness for a few hours of sleep?

I could only guess at what she had endured, Of course we can Dom, but I must learn what has transpired in your life while I was out in my own wilderness without you.

I know that you love me Will because you so badly want to know but you trust me. When I saw you downstairs earlier, it was as if no time had passed and we were magically joined again.

That’s because we were magically joined again Dom. And I don’t ever plan to be away from you again as long as we both live. Can you make that commitment to me, not to leave me ever again?

I do, and I will before the world very soon. I’m afraid I…. she was saying when something of importance seemed to register. Will, indulge me by telling me how it is that you haven’t fallen in love and married?

Well, let’s see. After you were deported I became overwrought and bitter, but your departure did signal the death knell of my ‘toxic relationship’ of a marriage. Between the demands of my job and my inability to stop thinking of you, I was totally uninterested in developing a serious relationship with any woman.

Did you often feel the need to sleep with women? she asked in such a gentle manner that I found myself opening up to her.

Oh, yeah, but that didn’t happen with any frequency until I got assigned here in the Philippines. Then I think I took my revenge out on my ex-wife by bedding almost any attractive woman I wanted.

Any attractive woman? Was it really that simple?

Pretty much; I projected myself as a macho bad boy woman killer in an environment where seemingly every attractive female was on the hunt. It was the ultimate hedonistic world here when I arrived.

So why did you ever want to leave this wonderful hedonistic world?

"I didn’t. I accidentally stumbled upon a young woman—barely out of her teen years—who was instantly attracted to me and pursued me shamelessly until we wound up in bed at her parents’ house.’

And how did this disrupt your hedonist lifestyle?

That’s the part I couldn’t understand at first. I had multiple low-maintenance, low-stress relationships that provided me with a variety of predictable thrills, but she quickly became compelling to me. She had been raped years before, and she selected me to lead her out of the dark tunnel of fear and distrust she was locked into. I cleaned my slate of casual sex so that we could be exclusive lovers, and she floored me by asking if I was all hers.

So you emerged from this fun world to experience something more attachable?

Attachable? I’ve never heard that word use as such. It made me uneasy when I found myself thinking about our first night together while I was having sex for the first time with Christine. I was almost shocked by it: sex with you was always sacrosanct. If you recall, we fucked our first night and made love thereafter. That’s pretty close to how it became with Christine.

It sounds as if you two were predisposed Will. How did you not marry her?

There are no coincidences, eh? We would have, but her father was Sicilian Catholic and he stepped in to quash the relationship after I was sucked into the drug investigation. In retrospect, I believe fate stepped in to deliver me; I would have never pursued any meaningful relationship with a woman if I’d known you were alive.

Just overnight ones, right? How did her father quash the relationship?

By convincing me that he’d have me killed, anywhere in the United States, if I ever made contact with his daughter again. I seemed to already be in a life-love-death triangle with you, no reason to tempt fate by taking on another.

You’re pretty sure of yourself on this, are you Will?

"The book you gave me to read about Edgar Cayce, There Is a River, actually convinced me of it. The discussion of coincidence and karma brought us into clear focus."

So you finally read it, did you?

I did, on the way to the court-martial. I was prepared for whichever way the verdict was announced. Thank God I didn’t have to go to prison. Almost involuntarily I looked upward and crossed myself.

So now you truly understand The Circle of Love, where we perfected our total connection with one another?

Well, I’m not Sigmund Freud’s great grand-daughter, but I think I understand it reasonably well.

Good. Are you ready to learn to love me 24 hours a day, not just while we can sneak away?

I’m sure as hell going to make a go of it. Now my dear, I want to hear you promise me that we will never be apart again.

I promise you Will Kavanagh that we will always be together for the rest of our lives, she said as her eyes got heavy with fatigue.

Good, sleep my princess. I will still love you when you wake up, and I’ll be right here beside you.

I had returned to the Philippines a free man, acquitted in a court-martial that was both gut-wrenching and—in the end—exhilarating. On the flight back from California, I had traveled with my defense attorney extraordinaire, Captain Trip Jones, and had met up with Brigadier General Keith Melson in Hawaii. We discussed first the trial and then my life most of the trip back across the Pacific. I had been ‘talked’ into staying over in Manila for the night, ostensibly because we had gotten in so late.

I had stayed at the Manila Hotel before; it was quite simply the class act of lodging in the Philippines. Douglas MacArthur had used it as his headquarters after retaking the Philippines from the Japanese in World War II. Although I couldn’t afford the rates, my benefactors insisted that we stay there, and had settled in for a drink in the hotel bar.

I noticed that the bar had gotten eerily quiet just as I detected someone approaching from behind; and then I heard the magic words, It’s Raining in Marrakech. I instantly recognized that Marrakech was a secret code word Dominique and I had established years before to signal imminent trouble. And I would never forget that voice, a lilting French accent that when spoken with meaning was inhumanly sexy. When I turned around I felt as though I was going to have a heart attack, the jolt of adrenaline hit me so suddenly. And there she was, in the flesh before me, the woman of my dreams I was told had been killed in Morocco a year earlier. And at that moment we knew we had both died and gone to heaven.

On the night of our last loving contact, that fateful night she was deported from the United States—over an administrative irregularity on her entry visa a decade earlier—she had introduced me to Grand Marnier, the ‘drink of happiness.’ I had sipped on Grand Marnier many times since that night, always reflecting at least for a moment on who had introduced it to me and why.

On this ultimate night of happiness, Grand Marnier was the toast of happiness between Dominique, myself and our three Gideon’s Angels: Brigadier General Keith Melson, chief USAF lawyer for the Pacific; Captain Trip Jones, my defense lawyer and savior during my court-martial on cocaine charges; and Chief Master Sergeant Bob Kellor, a military paralegal specialist who served as Melson’s worldwide investigator. Without these three men, the history of Will and Dominique would have ended that night at Dulles Airport; but it hadn’t turned out that way.

The fact that Dominique and I ever saw each other, much less knew either was still alive, was due totally to the interest and dedicated efforts of these three men, who somehow believed that either I was worth the effort or that Dominique or I had been dealt a bad hand and needed help in squaring away the karmic debt.

Chapter 2

Dominique’s Missing Years

Even though I had warned the front desk that no calls were to be put through, there was a message waiting light blinking on the phone when I came to the next morning. When I checked it was Keith Melson telling me that he had to go to the embassy for a meeting, but that Bob Kellor would get with us to get some signatures on forms to facilitate Dom’s entry visa into the States. With an eye on my still sleeping princess, I ordered up a breakfast buffet, figuring the selection was probably a luxury for Dom considering where she had been for the past few weeks—wherever that was!

My God Will, what a feast! Did you think I was starved to death? Dom railed on as I removed the covers from the food.

Naw, just thought I’d give you some choices you might not have seen recently, I replied, hoping to be the perfect fiancé.

Well, you know the pork isn’t particularly main stream in Arab North Africa, so you achieved your surprise, she said with a tinge of anticipation as she reached for a slice of crisp bacon.

I don’t want you to think I’ve turned prudish Dom, but perhaps you could put on a robe; Bob Kellor’s coming by with some papers for you to sign to get your entry visa, I said with a smirk.

Oh, and you don’t think he would appreciate my nakedness? she responded with a pout.

I’m more than positive that he would appreciate it, but I have suddenly become somewhat possessive around you, I can’t imagine why.

I remember you becoming jealous our first night together; I’m flattered that you still care, she said, fishing like hell.

That was before I knew that you loved me more than any other man, I replied, hoping to nip this chitchat in the bud.

So now that you know that, you have become somewhat complacent? she asked, still feisty.

No, now that I’ve waited three years to have you again, I’ve become somewhat protective of my interests, that’s all, I offered, trying another angle.

Correct answer Captain Kavanagh; we are both protective of our interests now. Call Bob and tell him to come up.

So, now that you’ve taken care of the paperwork, we’ve had breakfast, and cemented our lust for one another yet again, it’s time to fish or cut bait, as Mary Claiborne, my key defense witness, is wont to say, I pronounced, signaling my readiness for Ms. Lefebvre to come clean about the missing years.

Fish or cut bait; what does that mean? she asked.

It means that it’s time to either tell the truth or continue hedging your way around it, I replied.

I see, and was this Ms. Claiborne a more than casual acquaintance of yours? she inquired, obviously trying to distract me.

Another time, is the answer I believe you once provided me, I said.

So Ms. Claiborne was a romantic interest of yours? she asked.

No, I was a romantic target of hers. So what befell you after we parted ways Dominique? The insertion of her given name seemed to register with her so she shrugged and began telling the most fantastic and horrific tale I would ever hear.

After a stopover in Paris, I arrived in Rabat tired and confused and checked into a hotel to gather my wits and determine what I should do next. I first called my mother to let her know I was back in Morocco and then called Mando, my T’ai chi instructor from childhood whom I will always trust with my life. He insisted that I return to Marrakech as soon as possible, as it was safer and was a place where I felt comfortable.

So what’s Marrakech like? For that matter, what’s Morocco like? I asked, having traveled only to points west of the US East Coast, never having ventured east to Europe, Africa or the Middle East."

For your geography lesson today, Morocco is a diverse country on the northwest corner of the African continent, slightly larger in area that the state of California. It is bounded by the Mediterranean Sea to the north, the Atlantic Ocean to the west and Algeria to the east. The Atlas Mountain range traverses Morocco roughly north to south, defining starkly different climates and socio-economic areas. To the east of the Atlas Mountains, the Sahara Desert controls all, and the cities and towns there are dry, arid and poverty stricken. To the west of the Atlas Mountains lies the fertile coastal plain which grows most of Morocco’s food and livestock. The cities of Casablanca, Rabat and Tangier are seaports located in the western portion of the country, as is Marrakech, although it is located about 100 miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean. Marrakech is located within sight of snow-capped mountains, although it is located in the hills leading up to the mountains.

Sort of like foothills? I asked, trying to relate.

Right, like foothills of the Atlas Mountains. While the climate of Tangier is largely temperate Mediterranean, Marrakech is more like your southern California, with summer high temperatures reaching 100 degrees Fahrenheit regularly in July and August

Okay, so you returned to Marrakech from Rabat; by plane?

No, of course not; air travel within Morocco is restricted to the wealthy, and when I returned I had very little money—only what I took out with me—so I took a bus like almost everyone else in Morocco travels.

So what happened when you got to Marrakech? That was sort of your adopted home, right? From after your family fled there following the French naval calamity at Casablanca?

Yes, you were paying attention that night weren’t you? My mother was beyond thrilled and relieved to see me back again, although she wondered where Carth was. I explained the entire story to her—and yes, she knows all about you—and she insisted that I stay with her there at her estate.

So who was this Mando? I wondered.

Mando Chu is a very important mentor of mine from when I was growing up in Marrakech. My father had insisted through my mother that I be physically active and receive training in the ancient Chinese martial arts so that I could defend myself in this world ruled by brute force.

So this Mando turned you into a Kung Fu expert? I asked, demonstrating my complete naivety with the martial arts. My only exposure had being the television series starring David Carradine.

Dom’s laugh quickly turned into a look of disapproval and replied, Mando is a T’ai chi ch’uan master, and he taught me through disciplined lessons the three aspects of health, meditation and martial arts.

Health and meditation? I thought it was about disabling one’s enemy? I asked, now fully engaged.

Most people have the same impression Will. The physical defense parts of T’ai chi cannot easily exist—or be mastered—without the health and meditation components. Regardless of one’s intentions for betterment, it is not possible to receive the full benefits of T’ai chi without a healthy body with soft and pliable muscles and especially joints.

That does go against conventional wisdom, doesn’t it? Everyone I know thinks Arnold Schwarzenegger is the epitome of an opponent. What about the meditation business? I asked, my curiosity piqued.

T’ai chi, when practiced in its intended fashion, requires a state of mental calm and clarity. This is achieved through meditation and is integral to successful execution of the physical interaction with one’s opponent.

Meditation eh? Who would have known? Is this something I should do; you know, for mental calm and clarity?

She laughed again, but this time approvingly and answered, It is absolutely something you should consider Will. The practice of yoga, from the ancient Buddhists, has become a common form of exercise that interestingly combines the mental and clarity aspects with the soft and supple muscular objective. Perhaps we could enroll in a yoga class together. Would you be interested?

Okay, we’ll do it. So how good are you at self-defense? I never saw you do any kung fu moves when I knew you in Colorado, I asked, seriously dubious of how effective my five-five, 105 pound fiancée would be against macho men.

Well, I guess it’s time to find out Mr. Kavanagh, she said with a smirk.

As we stood in the middle of the hotel room, Dom challenged, I want you to take a swing at me with your fist; make it as hard a punch as you can throw.

I will not. What if I hurt you; remember I told you I’d never harm you and would only love you Dom, I replied honestly.

Looking at me furtively, the eyes narrowing to focused slits, she intoned, Don’t worry Will, you won’t come close to even touching me.

Okay, here it comes, and don’t say I didn’t warn you, I declared as I assumed a boxing stance, wound up lightly and threw a right cross directly at her face.

Surprising me, Dom deftly sidestepped my punch, made a smooth shift back towards me and moved her open palm to the center of my chest; I didn’t notice her other hand behind my neck until she flipped me in the air, landing me on my back none too gently.

I looked up at her from the floor in shock and asked, How in the hell did you do that?

She reached down, took my hand, helped me back to my feet, and said, T’ai chi is all about redirecting brute force. The primary objective in the redirection is to quickly capture the opponent’s center of gravity and displace it. The use of the open palm, what Mando refers to as the ‘boundless fist,’ is just as effective as a balled fist if placed in the correct part of the opponent’s body.

Such as the solar plexus? Disrupting the breathing of the opponent has psychological as well as physical advantages. It’s hard for me to believe the woman I fell head over heels in love with was capable of whipping my ass at any moment. I can certainly see that you would be an unfortunate choice as an enemy—all 105 pounds of you, I said admiringly.

I seem to recall that 105 pounds was enough to float you into ecstasy Captain Kavanagh.

You got that right baby. So what happened after you got back to Marrakech?

When I left Denver to come to Washington for the Realty Convention, I was aware that I might not be coming back and signed over a specific power of attorney to my corporate lawyer—whom I found I had to trust—to manage my assets. I sold the brokerage to my stellar staff realtor—who received a regional award at the DC banquet by the way—so it was a clean break for the business. When I walked on the plane that night at Dulles, I had about two hundred dollars in cash and my credit card, and that was it for liquid assets.

If you recall, Keith Melson asked me for my mother’s address in Marrakech as he was leaving the room the night of my deportation, although I didn’t know why. The day after I arrived back at my mother’s house in Marrakech I got an international telephone call from Bob Kellor, whom I had only met during the rendezvous in Boston with you. Bob told me that Keith Melson had asked him to get in touch with me—he wasn’t restricted from such contact as you officers were—and gave me his phone number and address in case I needed to contact someone in the government besides the State Department. He also advised me that upon service of the deportation order, the IRS had placed a ‘freeze’ on my assets. He assured me that this would at least keep my assets safe until I could reclaim them when my five year banishment was over.

I couldn’t believe he was being so nice, and told him so. He said that you and he were more than friends and that it was the least he could do to help out given the tragically unfair situation. Two days later I got a fax from Bob that showed the IRS had frozen $125,000 in my name, and I would have access to it at some time in the future. So you see, they were trying to relieve the agony even from the start.

Good, I wouldn’t have expected any less, since I was completely helpless myself. So what did you do for a living after you got back to Marrakech? Do they have realtors there?

They do, but they are local brokers; there is no umbrella organization like Prudential to coordinate listings, develop advertising and maintain agent networks. Did I tell you that I was awarded a scholarship to college? Dom asked.

Yes. I seem to remember you mentioning something. What about it? I asked.

Since I was the daughter of a French citizen, the French mining consortium Peirnon sponsored scholarships for French children. I was an excellent student and was awarded one for the period of my university stay.

Interrupting, I added, I can see that you’re an excellent student; who taught you all about the sex?

That actually happened when I was at the university in Rabat—thanks to my benefactor Peirnon—where I showed an unnatural interest in Freudian investigations of the ego and its effect on our behavior.

So they actually had classes in Freelancing with Freud, our sexual freedom art form? I wondered in disbelief. They didn’t offer anything like that at WestTech, because they’d have been jammed pack filled.

Laughing, she continued, No Will, they weren’t classes on sexual fulfillment, but instead were geared towards explanation of the male ego and how this held undeniable implications for behavior. The specific machinations of Freelancing were the fruit of a very interesting course I took in the Indian Hindu sexual art of Kama Sutra years after I had finished the university.

And are there more tricks to learn from your Kama Sutra source? I wondered.

Oh yes; I plan to introduce you to the most difficult but rewarding one when we go on our honeymoon. By the way, when do you want to get married?

Soon, but not right this minute, he said, throttling the attempt at disrupting the story. So what happened with this Peirnon consortium? Did you have something to do with them after you arrived back in Marrakech?

Right. Mando suggested that I get in touch with the head of their sales office and it turned out they were looking for someone—such as a sophisticated, attractive woman of local flavor—to be their marketing face point. Peirnon had become huge in Morocco mining phosphate, which is the key ingredient in agricultural fertilizer. Morocco is the largest exporter of phosphate in the world. Peirnon was expanding their portfolio beyond phosphates, opening up new mines in the Atlas foothills for silver, zinc and cobalt.

So for a year I traveled to commodity conferences and precious metals conventions announcing the entry of Peirnon into the metals market in Canada, Scandinavia and Europe. It was interesting for a while, but after the markets became aware of Peirnon’s presence, my role became secondary so I elected to step aside rather than become just another corporate ornament.

I’m a little sheepish to ask this Dom, but what did you do about sex during all this time? Wasn’t the prospect of sex difficult when you knew whomever you elected to liaise with would fall madly in love with you? I ventured, wondering if I was walking out onto a tightrope.

Dom moved next to me, put her arm around my neck and replied, Liaised with? I’ve never heard that term before; what does it mean?

It means how did you have casual sex with someone when you knew there was a real likelihood they might fall madly in love with you? I replied, thinking I was being crystal clear.

Smiling furtively she said, I see. The sales office director for Peirnon was a handsome, sophisticated and very worldly man of means who had traveled extensively before taking the job in Marrakech. I was attracted to Henri physically, but as you noted, I was cautious of ensnaring anyone unintentionally into a committed relationship.

Including yourself, I presume? I said.

Most notably myself; I had already endured the most intense love with a younger, dashing American military officer, and I was in no condition for further emotional complications.

Indeed; so how did you work things out to have casual sex with Henri? I’m enraptured.

Henri invited me to dinner one evening at his house with his girlfriend Michelle. As we ate dinner and drank many bottles of excellent French wine, it became evident that Michelle was quite attracted to me.

Interrupting, I asked, Attracted to you? So how did you feel about her?

Noting that my eyebrows were dancing, Dom smiled and replied, We had had much wine by the time the subject was openly broached, so I told her that she intrigued me. This set off a wave of excitement in Henri, who looked at Michelle and asked if perhaps we could have a ménage a trois. Do you know this Will?

Oh yeah, a three-way sex event. I even tried it a couple of times in the Philippines. So what happened next? I asked, barely able to contain my eyebrows.

Well, Michelle and I did find each other attractive, especially without any clothes on, and Henri was so turned on by the two of us that we had sex off and on for a couple of hours. After that, if I was in town when Michelle was—she lives in Paris and runs a boutique—we would get together for a little light hearted fun and sex. It seemed to work out as the perfect solution for sex without love.

I began laughing uncontrollably and only noticed a moment later that Dom was not as humored as I, so I offered by way of explanation, I’m sorry Dom, I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just that I was recruited into a bachelor party house based on my driving conviction of separating the concepts of sex and love. So what became of the guilt-free ménage a trois?

Bachelor party house? Do you still live there? Dom asked with a touch of curiosity.

No, I moved out of that den of iniquity when Christine—the young woman—and I committed to one another. Why, would you like to go there? I offered.

I think so; I don’t know that either of us will pass this way again after we leave, so I’d like to see the entire Philippine experience as you lived it.

You’re shitting me right? I asked, shaking my head.

No Will, I’m not kidding; I want to see the Philippines the way you experienced it. I don’t need to crawl to the depths of Sodom and Gomorrah to do that, do I?

You are incredible, I said, grasping her in my arms, only you could want to see what my life was like; only you could care enough. Of course I’ll show you what life was like when we get back to Clark.

Back to Clark? We’re going to the Air Force Base? Can I get in there? she asked, unsure of the security protocol.

Dominique, I am an officer of the United States Air Force in good standing; as such I am free to bring guests onto Clark Air Base. I’ve still got a few weeks before my service separation date, so we can go back and do some tourist things.

But don’t you have to work?

No baby, my working days with the Air Force are about all gone. I have three weeks annual vacation time coming to me, and I’m taking it with you here in the Philippines before we head back to the States to get married. Sound okay to you?

Smiling as she kissed me, she replied, Yes it sounds wonderful Will; I suppose we won’t run out of money?

Naw, things are cheap here, I said as the phone rang.

Hello, I said in my most officious voice.

Kavanagh, what in the hell are you doing? No, don’t answer that question, I don’t want to know. I know what the hell you are doing you lucky shit. Want to share a ride back to Clark with me and General Melson tomorrow? Trip Jones cockily inquired.

I looked at Dom quizzically and replied, Sure, I guess we can’t stay in the lap of luxury forever. Dom’s coming with us though; I’m never leaving that woman anywhere the rest of my life.

Yeah, yeah, I get it Kavanagh. You and she are staying at my place in Carmenville until you finally leave this place for the last time. Once you get back to your car, you’ll be free like the bird. Going on terminal leave?

We were just discussing that very subject, and the answer is yes. I see a nice long relaxing stay in Baguio in our future. I said, basking.

Yeah, well fuck you Kavanagh, you ungrateful prick. I’ve got to go to Kunsan for a damn murder trial in three days. By the way, Melson wants us to have dinner outside of the hotel tonight; do you know any good restaurants in Manila, as opposed to bars and massage parlors? Trip gouged.

As a matter of fact, I know of a really good Italian place over in Makati; a little pricey but you won’t get Marcos Revenge from it. I said as Dom looked at me in total confusion.

Sounds like a winner. Want to make reservations for us, say at seven? By the way, what’s the name of the place we’re going to; Melson might ask?

Yeah, I’ll make reservations at seven for the five of us at Angelo’s. When’s Bob going back? I wondered.

He’s been on the road a while, like most of us come to think of it. He’s heading back to the States on the TIA charter out of Clark tomorrow at noon. Melson’s going to be on that flight too, after he meets with the 13th Air Force Commander and his lawyer to relate the outcome of his meet with the Philippine Minister of Defense today on the Status of Forces Agreement.

So how are we getting back to Clark? Am I driving? I pondered.

No Kavanagh, and the only way you’re getting out of that is that Bob Kellor is junior to you in rank only and Melson won’t make him drive on the Philippine insanity called the Expressway. The Military Attaché’s getting us a limo and driver for the trip; it’d be a van if Melson wasn’t a Brigadier General. So once again, you’re making out like the lucky bastard you are. Speaking of which, enjoy the rest of the afternoon you asshole. Jesus, I’m missing Penny Martindale already.

Not to worry oh attorney extraordinaire; we can fix you up with some heavy breathing if that’s what the doctor orders back in Angeles, I said, twisting the knife.

Listen you little cocksucker, I am your savior and your concierge for the foreseeable future; don’t press your luck, he replied, with a bite of angst.

Right, meet you downstairs at, say 1830 hours? Makati’s not that far away.

Okay, see you then.

So what was that all about? What’s Baguio? my sweet Dominique asked after I hung up.

Let’s see if I can remember it all: we’re going out to dinner with the Gideon’s Angels tonight at six thirty to a good Italian restaurant—Jesus I hope I don’t run into my airline friend; we’re heading over to Clark tomorrow in a chauffeured limousine and will stay at Trip’s house until we head back to the States; Bob and Keith are heading back tomorrow from Clark on a charter flight; and you and I are going to a mountaintop recreation facility in the Philippine’s only mile high city for a few days of rest, relaxation and Freelancing. Did I leave anything out?

Airline friend?

Oh, yeah. I broke it off with a stewardess I had been having raucous liaisons with, and she introduced me to the restaurant originally. I just hope we can make it through the night without another close encounter, I offered.

Raucous liaisons?

Devoid of love, replete with shouting, I supplied, hoping I’d provided enough voyeur details.

And you’re hoping to avoid running into her tonight? Why is that William; wasn’t I to get the full Philippine experience? she asked, the use of my Christian name making her point.

You’re right; it won’t be embarrassing for me because I tell you everything and if there are no secrets, so is life n’est pas?

Now you’re acting like a man who has no secrets. Weren’t you going to make the reservations?

Jesus Christ, I almost forgot; what would I do without you? I asked automatically, but was quickly reminded that I had spoken the truth.

I hope you never have to find out again, for my sake as well as yours, she replied.

After making the reservations, I turned to her and said, So, I think we got interrupted; how long did the ménage a trois thing with Michelle and Henri play out? Was it your go-to fix for sex without love?

It worked out fine for about a year and a half, and then Michelle told me she had committed to her lover in Paris, so she and Henri were calling their intermittent arrangement off. Predictably, Henri wanted to continue our arrangement as a ménage a deux, but I was wary of the emotion trap that could have enveloped either of us if left to its on meandering.

So that was it for sex? I asked, a bit too incredulous for Dom’s taste.

Yes Will; I wasn’t living in Sodom and Gomorrah, but the interlude with Henri and Michelle was fine for me.

So what happened after the job with Peirnon?

Well, all during the time I was with Peirnon, at least while I was home, I went through daily t’ai chi sessions with Mando to maintain my health and poise. One night at home after dinner I was talking with my mother—whom you will like immensely—and asked her why Alain never came to visit. She told me that it was dangerous for him to travel openly because the government security forces would arrest and detain him if they captured him; as you recall he was affiliated with the Atlas Triad.

If he was an ‘outlaw,’ how did he live in Morocco? I asked, not seeing the picture clearly.

Will, there are essentially two Morocco’s; one west of the Atlas Mountains and one east of the mountains in the desert. The central government maintains governance and control essentially on the west side, which is also the wealthy, populated and robust part. The part of Morocco east of the Atlas’ is desolate, remote and poverty-stricken. The Sahara Desert is thankfully blocked from obliterating the land any further by the Atlas’ but the part of Morocco that is within the Sahara is somewhat like the American wild, wild west.

So no government control there? I asked, trying to grasp the enormity of the geo-demographic lesson.

For the most part, correct. So the guerillas can organize and thrive there, as much as one can in the desert. Almost all resources—except sand and wind—must be brought in there, so life is expensive and unpleasant. Also, since there’s no way to make a living, graft and theft are rampant, as is killing. The only safe way to exist there is to join up with one of the warlords who wields power; safety in numbers.

So what happened? I asked.

Well, since he couldn’t come to Marrakech, and it had been three years since I had last seen him, I decided to travel to Er Rachidia where he lived so that we could visit with one another and renew our ties.

Okay, this is beginning to blend with the only fragment of what I knew of your whereabouts. Unfortunately, Keith Melson called and told me you had been killed along a highway outside of a place called Tinerhin, on your way to Er Rachidia. So what really happened?

The highway drive from Marrakech to Er Rachidia is about 250 miles, which is much longer than it looks on a map as the road first goes south to traverse the pass through the Atlas Mountains. The road on the desert side of the mountains becomes somewhat lawless, so for safety I signed up with a group of twelve travelers to make the trip in a two vehicle convoy. It was a slow and uncomfortable journey, and we were grateful when we stopped in Tinerhin for gas and a bathroom break. As we were heading out of the gasoline station where we stopped, I heard a whisper off to one side and looked to see Alain motioning for me to come to him. When I did he pulled me outside the back of the building and told me I should not get back in the convoy because it was too dangerous from the threat of ambush.

So what’d you do, just not show back up?

I started to go out to the convoy and tell them I wasn’t going further, but Alain refused to let me as it would raise too much suspicion. So after waiting thirty minutes and failing to find me after searching the area, the caravan left and as I was leaving with Alain back towards Marrakech I saw the cloud of smoke from the explosion. I have never felt guiltier in my life Will; it was horrible knowing those innocent travelers were killed so violently.

"I can imagine; Melson told me it was a Moroccan army unit setting up an ambush for guerillas that actually destroyed the convoy. So what did you do then? Didn’t you say Alain couldn’t go back to Marrakech openly?

That’s right, but there is a fairly sizable city called Ouarzazate on the desert side of the Atlas pass, so we departed in his vehicle with another armed guerilla and headed back south. We had only traveled a few miles when someone began firing at our sedan. The driver pulled off the road suddenly and we got out to hide behind some boulders beside the road.

When the bodyguard began firing from behind the boulders, a fusillade of bullets erupted around us and one ricocheted and stone splinters from where the bullet hit blew across my forehead. I didn’t notice it in the panic until I felt warm blood running down my face. We bandaged it as best we could until we got to Ouarzazate an hour later, and a doctor sympathetic to the guerillas stitched up the wound as best he could in his kitchen, hence the scar on my forehead.

I think it looks incredibly sexy; who else has a beauty mark like that? So you finally made it to Ouarzazate; then what happened?

In spite of the terror of the day, we had the night to visit and catch up on our lives since we’d last seen each other. The next day Alain met up with a trusted comrade who drove me back to my mother’s home in Marrakech. It took me weeks to overcome the fright and shock of having nearly died in that ambush. To this day I see the faces of those poor passengers going off to die on that God forsaken highway.

But for the grace of God go I. You have your brother to thank for pulling you out of that fire. So what happened next? Did you attempt another visit to Er Rachidia?

Not by driving again. I did fly to Er Rachidia a few months later to give my brother some good news. Not long after the ambush, I got word from my father’s family in Austria that my grandmother’s estate had recaptured some significant wealth from a Swiss bank and that I must go there to claim my inheritance.

Now let me see if I can keep up Dom; your grandmother was Sofia, the illegitimate daughter of Sigmund Freud and his sister-in-law, correct? I said, making every attempt possible to recall our conversation a few hours before the deportation.

Correct, and I am truly amazed that you remember that. Sofia married Jacques Lefebvre and they lived in Lyon, France where they had four sons including my father Philippe. When the Germans invaded France my grandfather remained loyal to the Free French government in exile and the Nazis confiscated all of his considerable assets by moving their bank balances to secret Swiss bank accounts.

But I thought you told me your father died fighting for the Vichy French? I asked, the scenario not making sense.

Again I am impressed almost to amazement that you remember. There was terrible discord in my father’s family when the war broke out; my father and one of his brothers sided with the Nazis and my grandfather and his other two sons remained loyal to France, she explained.

So if the Nazis stole the family’s assets, how did you have an inheritance to claim? I asked, still confused.

Our family will always be indebted to the Jewish Nazi hunters, for after they rounded up the key Nazi criminals their best financial minds began sorting the puzzle of where all of the confiscated fortunes were hidden within the secret Swiss bank accounts.

Okay, I think I follow so far. How did they trace the money from France to a secret Swiss bank account?

It would have probably been impossible without the intervention of the United States, Britain and France to publicly humiliate the Swiss banking industry for their complicity with the Nazis in hiding stolen fortunes taken from the Jews who were unceremoniously sent off to die in concentration camps.

So a Free Frenchman who got similarly violated came under the purview of the search? I wondered.

Right, it was all stolen by the Nazis, so the Jewish Repatriation Commission pursued the return of my family’s money just as if we were Jewish. And by the way, the Nazis stole everything of special value; they discovered caves and warehouses crammed with gold, rare paintings, silver house wares and decorations, coins, stamps, and jewels.

So how much was your share of the recovered loot, I mean your family’s assets? I asked.

With accrued interest over the nearly forty years, the total amount recovered was just under ten million dollars. Alain and I each inherited a million dollars from my grandmother’s estate.

So how did that work? Were there taxation considerations? I pondered.

You bet; the government of Morocco would have taken almost all of it since it was foreign capital not earned in that country. The Jewish accountants knew this, as it was not unique to Morocco and applied to many descendants of victims who had migrated in what they referred to as the Diaspora—or dispersal.

So what did you do to avoid this secondary confiscation? I wondered.

As a direct descendant of Sigmund Freud, Alain and myself were awarded citizenship as Austrians, and the repatriated wealth of Nazi crimes is not taxable in that country. We set up a revocable trust to manage the money, and draw funds from it for international transactions.

Good, so you are not destitute.

And neither are you Mr. Kavanagh; one day very soon you will have a wife, and what is mine is yours.

That’s very loyal of you to so commit Dominique, but I’m not marrying you for your money; I didn’t know about it until just now. If I have my way I will always carry my weight financially. Speaking of money, that’s what brought all of this deportation madness about—you sending money to Alain. What was that, a year or so before you learned of this inheritance?

Looking up as she thought, she finally had the fix and said, "I sent the last wire transfer to Alain about twenty months before I learned of the inheritance. So you’re right, that timing could have saved a lot of trouble, n’est pas?

I guess it got us where we are now, however it worked out, I observed.

But I would never have chosen the terror that became of my life if I had known what awaited me in Er Rachidia.

I guess we’re coming to that part? So what happened in your life when you returned from Vienna a wealthy woman?

And just how did you know it was Vienna, Mr. Kavanagh?

I seem to recall in the back of my memory banks that your great grandfather was a native of Vienna, and that’s where the affair between he and Dominique occurred. Just trying to connect the dots, I said, but was immediately set upon by my fiancée who pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me.

And just how did you know her name was Dominique, Mr. Kavanagh? I don’t recall telling you that piece of my life story.

Then perhaps you should open the front cover of the book you gave me and read the inscription Sigismund left for his lover.

That is going to earn you a bonus addition to our Freelancing agenda. Interested? she asked but I was already warming to the occasion, as evidenced by a burgeoning lower member.

So what do I have to do?

You’re doing it, she said pointing to my growing erection.

Okay, what’s the trick; you’ve got my undivided attention? I said, smiling for a living suddenly.

You are well versed in the location of what you call the D spot inside me, correct?

You bet; want me to find it for you?

Not with your fingers this time, let’s use your erection instead.

Whoa, that sounds interesting; any special way?

After we’re properly lubricated, I will mount you from above and lean back as far as I can. Getting the picture?

Absolutely, we use static penile pressure to stimulate the front side where the spot resides. Any little nuances I should be aware of?

The backward and downward pressure on you might seem a bit unusual at first, but I think we can synchronize to it in short order. Ready to give it a go?

Après vous, mademoiselle.

The lubrication preliminary was its own reward, as we both gave consideration to abandoning the ‘sluice drive’ for more familiar pastures, but rededicated ourselves to the new task when Dom gave me a slight grumble, motioning for me to lay on my back instead of her lap. I would be less than honest if I said the downward pressure on my swanse wasn’t slightly uncomfortable, but just as I was having this thought I heard Dom emit the first groan of passion. In this particular position, there wasn’t much for me to do except remain in position, as Dom did the sluicing that led to a complete collapse onto my chest, her skin cool and clammy like a shark’s. So what do you think? Nice alternative position for Freelancing? she asked.

Hell yeah, I got to see you return to the princess of orgasm. What a show!

Oh, you’re bored suddenly? Well don’t move Captain, I’m coming in your direction.

Hey, hey, hey, we don’t need any rash behavior here Dom. I wasn’t really bored, I said, but it was too late and I knew I was in for the electrical shock of the afternoon. Just go easy on me Dom, I pleaded.

Yeah, right.

You want some lunch? It’s one thirty and we’re not eating until seven or so. What do you think? I asked, trying to downplay my ravenous appetite.

We’re having Italian tonight; let’s eat something a little lighter. What about some Philippine appetizers, do you know of any?

Oh yeah, I said as I reached over to call room service. Hello, yes this is Captain Kavanagh in Room 813. I’d like two dozen crisp lumpia with some sweet and sour sauce, a dozen pork sticks with barbeque sauce, some sliced mangos and a bowl of chicharron—vinegar and soy for dipping. Also how about a bucket of San Miguel exports okay? Right, thanks.

That was light? Dom asked, thinking I had ordered enough food for a Boy Scout troop. Oh yeah; if we keep doing that kind of exercise all afternoon there won’t be a crumb left. Trust me on this one Mrs. Lefebvre.

When are you going to stop calling me that?

Never, I replied as I began kissing her despotically.

I would have never thought I’d like this pork skin dipped in vinegar, but it’s actually quite good, Dom exclaimed as she ate the last of the chicharron.

I surveyed the remnants of the appetizers and said, Glad we went light babe; otherwise we’d gain weight at this rate.

It’s your fault Will; that D spot you put me through after the lumpia worked off a thousand calories I’m sure.

I knew you’d see the light. How about the pork sticks?

They were deceptively good; where did you discover those? she inquired.

Every street in Angeles City has a street vendor with grill carts roasting those pork sticks. They’re almost like the Philippine’s featured protein snack. Gotta be careful to only eat sticks you see them cooking; food lying around in the Philippines is an invitation to Marcos’ Revenge.

That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that; what exactly is Marcos’ Revenge?

It’s the Philippine version of Montezuma’s Revenge in Mexico. Ever heard of it?

Of course; my agents at the brokerage in Denver talked about it after vacationing in Mexico; some violent form of diarrhea, correct?

Absolutely correct; the Philippines is the only place in the world you’ll see cocky American studs drinking soda from a bottle using a straw.

I don’t understand.

Well, the bacteria are so virulent in this diabolically humid environment that it clusters around the cap ridge on bottles; it is normal for sodas to be dispensed with a napkin on top of the opened bottle so you can wipe off the cap ridge. That is, if you’re brave enough to drink from the bottle.

That’s amazing; so how did you eat here? Was anything safe for you?

For me and most Americans, we considered the food in the Philippines to be deadly due to the absence of reliable refrigeration, so we mostly drank alcohol.

For sustenance? Dom asked, totally incredulous.

I guess the beer had some nutritional value. No one gained weight here. Even though the food prepared on base was typically below our stateside taste standards, we tolerated it to keep from hitting the Lomotil.

Lomotil?

Right, two tiny little pills would immobilize the gastrointestinal tract of a bull elephant.

And nothing was safe to eat?

If you saw it cooked and ate it right away, it was generally safe if the food hadn’t spoiled before it was cooked. That’s why the Mongolian Barbeque at the Officer’s Club was such a huge draw; it was semi-frozen when you picked out what you wanted, it was then cooked in front of you, was delicious and you never had gastro problems from it.

I’ve heard of Mongolian Barbeque; they even had it on special occasions at the Lowery O’Club.

Good, we’ll have some next week at the O’Club. So what happened next in Dominique’s Missing Years odyssey?

You and your titles. When I returned from Vienna I wanted to tell Alain of his good fortune, so I got in contact with him and told him I had some wonderful news and that I would fly up to see him. What with the inheritance, I had enough money to fly; I would not tempt fate again on that God forsaken highway.

Then the drama really began. The leader of the camp at Er Rachidia was a man named Mustafa, and he and I got along famously. We were descended from the same Bedouin tribe that migrated across northern Africa centuries ago and made an uneasy peace with the Berbers, the indigenous people of Morocco. The reunion of Alain and me was a major celebration event for the camp, and everyone had a grand time toasting with roasted lamb and green tea with mint.

As the camp was an Arabic all male enclave, Mustafa had me stay with his aunt in her dwelling nearby. The next day an Algerian warlord came to the camp to meet with Mustafa. He was a man I knew from the past. After he recognized me, he approached and told me that he was going to retrieve his property, and that I would be leaving with him to return to Algeria. I was terrified and went to Mustafa seeking his protection, and to his credit he declared that I was under the protection of his house, and swore a blood oath to any man who attempted to harm me.

"After this, he even assigned two bodyguards to protect me when I went to his aunt’s house for the evening. That night, I was assaulted in my bed and injected with