Fringes of Freedom and Liberty Weekend 1986: Would That All Had a Place to Return After Dark

By Michael Maness

Maness grew up in Southern California and migrated to Texas in 1972. After a short stint in the U.S. Air Force, Maness earned a B.A with a double major in Bible and Counseling at the Criswell Bible College from 1978 to 1985. This was a time of dire poverty and much struggle. He went on to earn a M.Div. with languages from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth in 1990, 1,600 hours of clinical from the Association of Clinical Pastoral Education at Shannon Hospital in San Angelo in 1992, became certified as a Suicide/Crisis Intervention Counselor for MHMR in the Concho Valley in 1991, and a D.Min. from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary in 1997.

He has received specialized training with the Texas Dept. of Human Services in Child Protective Services and with Texas Dept. of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) in Cultural Diversity, Safe Prisons crisis intervention program, and in TDCJs Post Trauma Staff Support team.

He has traveled throughout the United States and to several countries including Belgium, Israel, Egypt, Jordan, and Syria.

He is the Senior Clinical Chaplain at the Gib Lewis Texas State Prison and a Certified Correctional Chaplain with the American Correctional Chaplains Association. He is also a member of the American Correctional Association, Lions Club International, the Evangelical Theological Society, and several other state and national organizations.

He has written on a large variety of topics, both published and unpublished, and much of the work of his pen can be seen at his web site:

www.PreciousHeart.net

His interests focus on matters that affect the heart...the precious heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 13, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410721051

Michael Maness

     Maness grew up in Southern California and migrated to Texas in 1972.  After a short stint in the U.S. Air Force, Maness earned a B.A with a double major in Bible and Counseling at the Criswell Bible College from 1978 to 1985.  This was a time of dire poverty and much struggle.  He went on to earn a M.Div. with languages from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth in 1990, 1,600 hours of clinical from the Association of Clinical Pastoral Education at Shannon Hospital in San Angelo in 1992, became certified as a Suicide/Crisis Intervention Counselor for MHMR in the Concho Valley in 1991, and a D.Min. from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary in 1997.      He has received specialized training with the Texas Dept. of Human Services in Child Protective Services and with Texas Dept. of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) in Cultural Diversity, Safe Prisons crisis intervention program, and in TDCJ’s Post Trauma Staff Support team.      He has traveled throughout the United States and to several countries including Belgium, Israel, Egypt, Jordan, and Syria.      He is the Senior Clinical Chaplain at the Gib Lewis Texas State Prison and a Certified Correctional Chaplain with the American Correctional Chaplains Association.  He is also a member of the American Correctional Association, Lions Club International, the Evangelical Theological Society, and several other state and national organizations.      He has written on a large variety of topics, both published and unpublished, and much of the work of his pen can be seen at his web site: www.PreciousHeart.net His interests focus on matters that affect the heart...the precious heart.  

Book preview

© 2003 by Michael Maness\

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4107-2105-1 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4107-2106-X (Paperback)

ISBN: 1-4107-2107-8 (Dust Jacket)

ISBN: 9781410721051 (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2003090758

Contents

Abstract

Fringes Of Freedom And Liberty Weekend 1986

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nighteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Terrorism Dateline

Analytical Contents

Contents Synopsis

To my family and friends

Lovers of freedom

Brave soldiers past, present and future

Law enforcement and criminal justice professionals

All patriots of this great nation of ours

To all of those Proud to be an American

Also by author:

Precious Heart-Broken Heart:

Love and the Search for Finality in Divorce

Would You Lie to Save a Life:

The Quest for God’s Will This side of Heaven, or The

Case Against Radical Fundamentalism at the Fundamental Level

www.PreciousHeart.net

Abstract

In April 1986, the most violent anti-terrorist action to date took place on the coast of Libya—Reagan’s response to Qadhafi-supported terrorism. A couple of months later, on the Fourth of July, the largest patriotic celebration to date took place in Upper New York Bay.

Mukhtar Khaldun, a Libyan operative (odd chapters), attempts to accomplish the most significant mission of his career, not the most dangerous. America is a relatively safe place for a careful person, if not a repulsive and exploitive place. If he fails, so does his career.

FBI Agents Quin and Trish, equally capable, are paired to thwart an incident (even chapters). Neither is very dissatisfied or delusionary. An affinity develops between them.

Liberty Weekend 1986 and Operation Sail 1986 unfold about halfway through and crest on the evening of the Fourth of July. The values of democracy and idealistic tyranny collide.

Counsel in the heart of man is like deep water,

But a man of understanding will draw it out.

—Solomon\

Proverbs 10:5

For, aware of their own deficiencies and fearing

the capacity of their opponents, … whose subtle wits

were likely to anticipate them in contriving evil,

they struck boldly and at once.

—Thucydides

on the Peloponnesian War

Never before has there been a greater challenge to life,

liberty and civilization. Delay invites great danger.

—Franklin D. Roosevelt

War on Germany Declaration

For Nature also, cold and warm,

And moist and dry, devising long,

Thro’ many agents making strong,

Matures the individual form.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

from Love Thou Thy Land

Image326.JPG

Fringes of Freedom

and

Liberty Weekend 1986

ONE

Libya, a geologic hell, home of the Libyan Desert, the northern portion of the Sahara Desert, a vast wasteland of sand dunes and rocky plateaus. Boasting the hottest temperature recorded on earth at 139 degrees Fahrenheit. Home of the Qattarra Depression, a 7,000 square mile uninhabitable desert basin. At 436 feet below sea level at the its deepest, the Depression is the lowest point in Africa. Filling the depression with water from the Mediterranean forty miles north has been discussed. Till then, this and the surrounding swelter remain for the most part desolate and untraveled.

Libya, an economic antinomy, whose population majority subsists on agriculture though only eight percent of the country is cultivable. Whose exports of petroleum and natural gas supply its chief revenue. Whose military expertise is supplied by those it despises, chiefly atheistic Russia and bourgeois France.

Libya, an international vagabond, whose originally Arab culture has been tossed around the political table like an unwanted toy. The Ottomans divided North Africa in the 16th century utilizing only the taxes of coastal Libyans. Libyan self-rule eventually ousted Ottoman control. In the 19th century, the U.S., England, France, and the Two Sicilies campaigned against pirates resulting in a return of Ottoman rule to Libya. When Italy fought with Turkey, Italy got Libya as a prize. Despite the struggle, by 1914 Italy had occupied almost all of Libya.

All the while no one contributed anything of substance to the political or economic stability of Libya. After World War II, it was tossed away by the Big Four and placed under United Nations control, who subsequently allowed independence in 1952.

It was only a matter of time before a leader would arise to forge the country into a competing nation. King Idris did this. Libya grew. After the Arab-Israeli war of 1967, a burgeoning nationalism caused Libya to withdraw sale of its petroleum to Britain, the U.S. and Germany. Then on September 1, 1969, Colonel Muammar Abu Minyar al-Qaddafi led officers in a coup d’état against the king. An ardent nationalism and the near total ejection of western influence resulted.

*   *   *   *   *

On March 24, 1986, Libya fires on U.S. planes patrolling international waters below Col. Qadhafi’s line of death in the gulf of Sidra. U.S. missiles hit Libyan radars, damage two vessels and destroy a couple of Libyan planes.

On April 2, a bomb explodes on board a TWA jetliner on route to Athens from Rome: four die.

On April 5, a bomb explodes in the La Belle Discotheque, West Berlin, West Germany. One American serviceman and one Turkish woman die, and more than two hundred are wounded. Precise and irrefutable evidence surfaces—Libya is responsible.

At 2 a.m. Libyan time, on April 15, eighteen F-111F American bombers mounted with 500lb and 2,000lb laser guided Paveway 2 bombs and three Grumman/General Dynamic electronic warfare EF-111A’s arrive at three known military bases around Tripoli, having flown the 2,500 nautical miles from Britain around Spain and through the straits of Gibraltar with the help of twenty-eight KC-10 and KC-135 tankers. Aiding the F-111F’s around Tripoli and attacking two more bases around Benghazi, the carriers USS America and USS Coral Sea send fourteen Grumman A-6E’s, six McDonnell Douglas F/A-18’s, and six LTV Aerospace A-7E’s loaded with complements of Texas Instrument Shrike and HARM anti-radar missiles, 1,000lb Snakeye and multiple projectile Rockeye bombs.

The three General Dynamics EF-111A’s and three Grumman EA-6B’s jam Libyan communication and missile sites. Several Grumman F-14’s mounted with combinations of Hughes Phoenix, AIM-9 Sidewinder, and AIM-7 Sparrow air-to-air missiles provide combat air patrol. A couple of Grumman E-2C’s provide early warning against Libyan MiG 23 fighters and attack control for the entire operation with data links from the carriers’ Tactical Data Systems to the fighters and patrols.

Five bases are damaged in Libya. Three are around Tripoli: al Azziziyah, the main HQ for terrorist planning and home of Col. Qadhafi; Sidi Bilal, a port facility and a base for terrorist diver units; and the military side of the Tripoli Airport. Two are around Benghazi: al Jumahiriya, an alternate Eastern command post and barracks; and the Benina Airfield. There is much damage, including Russian made MiG 23’s, Fokker F-27’s, Mi-8 helicopters, I1-76 transports, and radar installations.

The U.S. Sixth Fleet and Air Force take relatively little damage with the loss of one F-111F. Five F-111F’s and two A-6E’s did not have positive target identification and returned without releasing their ordnances; two thirds of the carriers’ aircraft remained behind. Innocent civilians were to be protected as much as possible.

*   *   *   *   *

April 22, 1986, at the Tripoli General Hospital in Libyan North Africa, Colonel Mu’ammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi held the tiny hand of his critically injured little boy. His other boy was just as serious. His infant daughter was dead.

Many innocent civilians die reported JANA, Libya’s official news agency, about the American terrorist attack last week—proof of the imperialist’s intolerance of Libyan independence. All night vigils were held to mourn the dead and berate the American terrorists. Many rally around Col. Qadhafi. Some viewed the attack as an assassination attempt. Three Russian envoys rushed to Col. Qadhafi’s side to express condolences on behalf of the Motherland and ridicule Western aggression.

If only we were allowed bases on your coast, this could have been prevented, the Russian envoys had told him.

Looking into the face of his little boy, unconscious, tubes in his nose and arm, wires on his wrist, chest, and head, Colonel Mu’ammar al-Qadhafi recalled the Russians’ words. As much as he could use them, he was not naive enough to believe the Bear an honorable and vassal beast. Egypt, of the faith, had had trouble with them. What of Poland and Hungary? Afghanistan was becoming a nightmare no one took lightly. No, they would not get a military base here, he thought. He was not at the end of his resources.

At his Tripoli general headquarters, plans were tossed about, resources abroad tapped. The Americans would be celebrating their imperialism this July the fourth, two months hence, celebrating one hundred years of idolatry to a rusting statue in New York Bay and over two hundred years of capitalist exploitation around the world. And the statue, he reflected, recalling ancient history, even bore the seven-pointed crown of the sun-god Sol. Blasphemy.

Allah. Great One. Grant me the strength and the wisdom to avenge my dead against these infidel pigs. They must not do this without… . He clenched his teeth looking out of the second story window at troops training in the distance about three hundred yards away.

Col. Qadhafi turned to face General Sayyid Barasa, the only one allowed to enter unannounced. Barasa, a long time friend, carried news, very good news; it showed in his face.

Did you find a man?

Yes, Mu’ammar. I did. And you’ve met him, said Barasa with a shake of the two folders in his hand.

Oh?

Two years ago, he exposed that assassination attempt on your life.

Lieutenant Khaldun?

He’s a major now, sir. Do you know him well?

I grew up with his older brothers. Their family and mine have holdings around the Hun Oasis. Seems he was ambitious, loner. From a good family.

General Barasa set the folders on the corner of the large metal desk that was scattered with papers, books, other folders and three phones. Barasa set himself down on the leather couch and lit a cigarette, waiting. He knew Mu’ammar too well at times, he thought. But he dare not second guess him. Mu’ammar was a great and genuine leader, capable as few were; but he was a leader of a fragile nation, a nation becoming more isolated as the years passed. Isolated from their brothers, Barasa condescendingly thought. Mu’ammar was right: they needed an Arab unity, not just to fight the imperialists, but to keep the communists at bay as well. But Mu’ammar’s grand designs, as great as they were, and his careful leadership often eclipsed his political tact.

Because of Mu’ammar’s great leadership and his threatening power, General Barasa would not second guess him and rattle off answers to the questions he just knew Mu’ammar was going to ask. No, the general would not second guess, even if it would save time. Keeping his confident relations with Mu’ammar was as important as doing his job, more at times. Actually, his life could depend on his good relations with Mu’ammar. Though a friend, the general knew that Mu’ammar would not ever completely trust him or anyone. There had been too many coups and assassination attempts. And there were at present at least a half dozen organizations attempting to liberate Libya. Too many lay in wait.

Col. Qadhafi found it hard to be patient, but he would. Part of being a leader demanded it, so he looked out the window again as his general sat on the couch. Mukhtar Khaldun, he thought. He had met the major only twice before. Once in 1960, when Mukhtar was being chased by his older brother, Hasan, through the cobbled streets of Hun. Mu’ammar remembered himself as being eighteen years old then. And he would never forget the disgust on little Mukhtar’s face when Hasan caught him and dragged him away, kicking him in the butt. The Khaldun brothers were his friends then, and from a good family of camel traders, but they sure treated Mukhtar like trash. The second time Col. Qadhafi met Mukhtar, as Major Khaldun, had been two years ago. I decorated him myself, he recalled, for bravery and honor. Mukhtar had discovered the coup and planned the evasive action that had led to thirteen arrests. The little coup and assassination would have succeeded had it not been for Mukhtar. And that had been the only significant coup attempt since the first executions under the regime in 1977. Traitors were not taken lightly. Conversely, loyalists were rewarded. Mukhtar was rewarded, but was he qualified for this?

Mu’ammar turned, looked at the folders on the corner of the desk, then stepped over to take them as he sat down. They were Mukhtar’s personnel and top-secret operations files.

Mukhtar was born in February of 1950, eight years after Mu’ammar. He had spoken Arabic, Berber, Djerma, French and Hebrew from childhood. English and Russian had been studied to a well rounded fluency. His Italian and German were passable. His flair for languages, they believed, included several more North African dialects.

As commander of eastern guerrilla training, he had experience in a variety of tactical arenas. He had been an advisor, several times, to all of Col. Qadhafi’s foreign affairs officers and most of his cabinet. Five times honored for bravery, four times for outstanding leadership. Twenty-three awards were for performance in a variety of foreign and domestic duties, with thirteen of these medals for combat experiences. Every officer he had served under had left at least one recommendation, and he had turned down three promotions, desiring no more than his present commandership.

Can anyone know this many languages? asked Col. Qadhafi.

There is a great difference between speaking a language on the one hand and reading and writing a language on the other hand. Still, he is a remarkable man.

Mu’ammar was beginning to have second thoughts about Mukhtar. He may be too valuable to lose. Guerrilla commanders did not come cheap, nor did a linguistic ability. But they needed one they could trust, trust in the devious hands of American spoilers and liars.

Can we trust him, General?

Mu’ammar … there is no other I would give the job to. When we narrowed our selections down to twelve men, only seven—who could do the job—spoke English well enough, and none as well as Mukhtar. And only three of those seven have what I would consider training under fire. But no one even comes close, actually. I know Mukhtar personally, and if it can be done, he will find a way. Absolutely loyal, very capable. A terrible loss, if we lose him. The general lowered his head slowly and rubbed his eyes. Glance at his operations file.

Doing so, Col. Qadhafi’s head shook in slight disbelief. He read slowly the operations file abstract.

Mukhtar had participated in his first foreign operation at eleven years of age. Someone had tapped into his language skills early. He had been involved with every Arab country and most of the European countries save Spain, the northern countries, and, oddly enough, East and West Germany and Russia. There were thirty-seven operations listed, and the last seven were done under his command exclusively. The most recent were in Egypt, Israel, Iraq and Italy.

Remarkable, said Mu’ammar. He glanced back at Mukhtar’s family history.

He had married in 1977, but the wife died in a fire two years later, some seven years ago. His mother died in 1981. His one daughter, named Fatima, lived with a young woman friend many thought would soon become his next wife. His apartment was near hers in the Hun Oasis and was kept up through the efforts of an orphan houseboy named Uthman. When home, he lived simply and had no known excesses.

There was a grandfather whom Mukhtar visited frequently, but their relationship had not been determined. All that was known was that the old man had been a Sufi mullah before the revolution, never very influential. Since the Sufi sect of Islam came under persecution, most of the mystic leaders had ceased to teach. Whether Mukhtar carried Sufi leanings, or not, could not be known. Gone as often as he was and with the decidedly martial hat that he wore, if there was heresy in his life, it was not serious. It was known that he followed the salat ritual prayer, that he observed the fasts of Ramadan, and that he had been on the Hajj to Mecca three times.

He had the qualifications all right. If any Libyan was right for the job, Mukhtar was. But these qualifications led to another question.

Mu’ammar closed the folders, packed them together and looked at his general.

Will he do it?

Honor and bloodthirstiness do not dwell in the same man … ever, Mu’ammar. Ruthlessness, yes; but bloodthirstiness, no. He lacks that one quality. The general stopped, allowing Colonel Mu’ammar al-Qadhafi to grimace. Barasa did not like terrorism and had said as much before, and he liked Major Khaldun.

Mukhtar will do the job, the general continued, if there are no grenades in a park or machine guns in an airport. He must be assured that that is not part of the job. And he must be likewise assured that the job is necessary.

Col. Qadhafi quickly stood with a vengeful, wrinkled face and yelled, Necessary! through his teeth. It was a blood-debt he owed the Americans. How dare him.

The general held his peace, staring back. And I think a bonus would help: a bonus for trying and a bonus for success. He can handle killing better than many, Mu’ammar. Even innocent death. But it is not a soldier’s way to shoot women and children in an airport when there are soldiers to fight. The general raised his brows, job or no job. He will not do that, he said turning away and putting out his cigarette.

Mu’ammar gained his composure and turned to look out the window again.

Do what you think is best, General. There are three hundred thousand American dollars at your disposal. I don’t care what you do with it… . You know what has to be done. It has to be big and it has to work… . My sons and daughter. Allah! You know what has to be done, General. Do what you think is best. Leave me. Col. Qadhafi looked out the window at two boys trying to hock something to a soldier below. Without turning, he added, "I want to see it in the news, on the British broadcasts; I want to see it on my television set. I don ‘t want to see you until you can tell me a time."

The general was by the door. There were two months to plan and implement the retaliation against the imperialist superpower idolater.

I understand, Mu’ammar. General Barasa hesitated by the open door. Then he said, Subhanallah: Glory be to God.

TWO

It was a May Friday night. Forest Lane, in North Dallas, had become again an oval track for teenagers in their make-believe race cars circling in a never ending warm-up run. There were no divisible qualifying places in the circling vehicles, but a hierarchy of status was evident. Many high schools participated. The avant-garde owned their own vehicles; all had been sponsored by their parents. Though there was no real prize or finish line, it was understood that those who hadn’t shown up were the losers.

Quin Keragogos, senior FBI agent, pulled his Buick wagon into the Burger King parking lot, one of the scattered grandstands viewing the Forest Lane rally. Quin, his wife Sue, son and daughter, had been bowling and would finish their evening at the track’s concession stand.

He tried to make a point of doing something with his family at least every other month. It was the least he could do, he thought, and not nearly all that he wished. The Bureau made it very easy for him to neglect them. There was never enough time for any case. The Keragogos family would get some time though; he planned and made a priority for the time. He knew it was needed. But it was difficult.

For Doug and Christy, his kids, the evening could not have turned out better. Doug would rather eat Whoppers and fries than anything that his mother could fix, even if she was a marvelous chef. Christy could live on strawberry shakes, even against her mother’s protests. Doug wore commando fatigues and a matching T-shirt and had not ceased to give Christy instruction in bowling. Christy wore a spring green jumpsuit with a Snoopy iron-on on the back. Despite the two’s polar differences in everything, there had not been a fight the whole night. It was remarkable.

As a matter of fact, the whole month had gone well, at home and office. Quin believed the reasons for such a good month were manifold, but chief among them were his knowledgeable wife and his church. They were his greatest social assets, part of what he conceived to be the American dream.

And if part of the realized dream required a satisfying job and home, then he was living that dream. Yet, as things were, working for the Bureau and all, fighting crime as he did, there was much work to this dream. Little time and many threats.

Thanks, Dad, said Doug rather unexpectedly while looking out the window.

In the Burger King parking lot was Valdez, the older brother of Doug’s best friend, Josea. Valdez was sitting on the hood of a light brown Chevrolet Malibu. Three other young men stood around. Two girls stood with their hands in their blue-jeans pockets. All wore tennis shoes, the only similarity.

Hey, what are dads for? asked Quin, smiling at Sue, his wife, and turning off the car ignition. Let’s get something to eat.

I’m starving, said Christy.

Quin nodded. He was too, very much hungry.

There were three cars parked irregularly between the lots of the Burger King and the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurants. Seven other young men either sat on or stood by their cars. There were two girls in a red Ford pickup and two guys in a turquoise Camaro in the front of the lot facing Forest Lane. Two blue Ford Mustangs sat just inside the west entrance, facing opposite directions, the drivers talking to each other.

Quin and family filed into the Burger King and stood in line. It was crowded. Soon, Quin ordered three Whoppers with cheese, large order of fries, large Pepsi, large chocolate shake, and two apple pies.

Make that two large fries, corrected Quin to be on the safe side of satiation.

Sue would order last and stood with her hands on Christy’s shoulders. Doug was next.

Um? he thought out loud. He never knew what he wanted and always waited to the last moment for everything, deciding at random when time ran out. Dad had said anything, he remembered. So here goes.

I’ll have two Whoppers with cheese, two large fries, and two chocolate shakes. He looked back and up at his dad, then to the girl taking the order.

She repeated his order as friendly as any girl could be, ready to get off early on a summer Friday night.

Quin knew Doug would over order, always did. Doug was getting a little fat, too. Oh well.

They found their seats and ate. Time flew. Duty was performed and everyone was happy. They were home by nine-thirty.

Plopping down on the couch, lengthwise, Quin kicked off his shoes. He had been up since five in the morning. Doug had had an early basketball practice that morning so he went to bed quite congenially. It was past Christy’s bedtime, but no harm was done; she followed. Sue went to the bathroom and took a shower.

Butch, their shaggy mongrel mutt, was asleep in his bed by the fireplace.

The weekend was his, Quin mused. For the next week, he would clear things up at his Dallas office. One case was being closed and two were nearly so. Drugs were everywhere, and many of these kinds of cases related to each other. His unit was currently concentrating on a fence operation that was apparently supplying some major cash for large amounts of crack. The agents would be working without him in a week’s time.

Quin was promised to another assignment soon to be operational. The New York Liberty Weekend holiday demanded many more Special Agents to beef up the New York stock. After a FBI convention in Atlanta, Quin would oversee an anti-terrorist unit in Lower Manhattan.

Sue finished her shower, robed herself, and checked on the kids one more time. They slept well. In the living room, she sat on the edge of the couch beside her husband and unbuttoned his shirt.

Tired? she asked.

Nodding his head, he made one very long blink with both eyes.

She was tired, too, and ran her fingers up his chest through spots of fine light brown hair.

He drew her to him, and they slept.

*   *   *   *   *

Trisha Lombroso was tired and lay in her hot tub of water. She would be part of the soon-to-be operational anti-terrorist unit in Lower Manhattan. There was no knowledge, yet, of who her partners would be. But she mused anyway.

Her Virginia Beach home was inland about ten miles. It was purchased two years ago with the help of her sister who was in the realty business. A real bargain. She couldn’t pass it up, but had to concede she still did not know how she had gotten it: it was a complicated thing that had involved a foreclosure, two mortgage companies and a bank. It was hers now, rather it would be in ten years.

Stephanie had lived with Trisha for the past three years, and between the two of them, they could have made a good living as decorators. Stephanie was a former prostitute turned business major and would graduate in a year’s time, if all went well. Thanks to Trish.

With her left foot, Trisha fondled the water spigot to the left for more hot water. She had the house to herself. Stephanie was out with a car salesman on a trip to Greece. There was no rush, the tub was hers. It felt so good. The whole week was Trisha’s to enjoy; her senior agent was so kind. The following week would start in Atlanta with a convention on terrorism for the agents working the Liberty Weekend operation.

Off went the water with a flip of the spigot by her foot. The hot tub felt so good.

She lay thinking, trying hard to slow down. The last several months had been so erratic and frustrating. Things would speed up soon enough. One needed a good rest between assignments to function optimally.

She would sleep late tomorrow, Saturday, and notify Richard she was in town so he could in turn ask her out for dinner. She would go to Sunday Mass, and what else, she thought. Nothing else. But relax. Though a dozen things, important and not, flew through her mind, she said aloud to herself, running her hand up her body under the water, I will plan nothing till Monday … Monday … except dinner with Richard. The bath felt so good. Monday. She leaned her head back again.

Her Virginia Beach FBI Unit had just closed what she now considered the most trying and complicated case she had encountered since joining the Bureau.

Often she carried work home. But, when Trish left her office this evening, she had made an extra special effort to leave that case behind. Her senior agent had packaged the case for the attorney general’s office, and anything left would be handled by some local authorities in two other states. As for now, she would forget as much as she could. All the arrests had been done, and likewise the paperwork. If she never heard the name, Fred C. Constantinople, again, well, that would suit her just fine. A year of work had transpired on what turned out to be a two man operation, excluding local dealers. But he and his associates were out of business now and would be completely out of her mind soon enough. The bath felt so good.

The telephone rang. But there was no way she was going to answer it. With a deep breath, she lifted her hands and looked at her nails. Monday … Monday she would go to the salon for the works. That was plan one. No more plans, though. Not till Monday.

THREE

As Mukhtar’s camel crested the dune, a dorcas gazelle was startled from its drinking and broke into a southward run. Fatima, Mukhtar’s daughter, sprang to life in his lap watching the fleeing gazelle. Shwa’wish, his wife to be, sat behind him and smiled with Fatima at the sight of the oasis shaded with Phoenix and date palms.

Look, Daddy, look, Fatima said chasing the gazelle with her eyes and a small pointed finger.

Mukhtar steadied her in his lap as the camel followed the crest of the dune gently down. They were two hours south of the Hun village oasis, and the mid-day sun had begun to tax Fatima’s patience. But Mukhtar knew that he was about to go on mission again and needed to spend some time alone with her and Shwa’wish. He, too, smiled at the sight of the oasis, his favorite place to go.

It was halfway south between the Hun and Orno oases and out of the way of the major trade routes. Only traders traveling by camel used it since both villages were now accessible by good roads. The camel, as a major form of transportation, was becoming increasingly out of vogue.

Mukhtar eased El Aqid, his camel, down onto its knees so that they could dismount. Fatima wanted to go straight to the water, but Shwa’wish held her hand until Mukhtar had the chance to look around. Snakes were not so difficult to see and mostly hid at mid-day. Nothing, though, would ruin a day like a scorpion, and they were everywhere. Only those who knew the desert, like Mukhtar, and had the habitual caution to look, avoided the small chicken-like trails and other vestiges left by the pest. Having been stung once helped.

The north side of the pool looked safe enough, so Mukhtar waved at Shwa’wish. He took off his burnus, a large white hand-woven cowled cloak, and threw it by a date palm. His T-shirt and shoes followed. And he waded into the water in his khaki shorts.

Shwa’wish let go of Fatima’s hand. The two were almost like sisters. Shwa’wish had cared for Fatima the last seven of her nine years, since the death of Mukhtar’s wife. Shwa’wish, herself, was only twenty-four, and Mukhtar was as much a father to her as a future husband. There would be no other than Mukhtar, she thought, watching Fatima run to him.

El Aqid sat still on his callous knees, docile as Shwa’wish moved about him. She loosened a package from El Aqid and carried their things to the shade of several palms.

Fatima ran straight to the palm where Mukhtar had thrown his burnus, hurried out of her white burnus and shoes and into the water. Her blue combination swimsuit-jumpsuit gave evidence of a fine woman to be. She splashed to Mukhtar with only one thing in her mind—to dunk her dad. She liked to do that so much.

As Mukhtar was kneeling in the water, waiting for Fatima to splash to him, he glanced around again. If someone wished to rob them, he would come from the south: the palm and citrus trees were thicker on the southern side of the pool. But surely there was nothing to worry about, especially as the sun rose; the sun could beat down with temperatures of a hundred and twenty or more after mid-day. If someone had been following them from the north, he would have seen them. His service revolver and knife were in the bottom of the camel bag, and he could most likely get to them quick enough should any hostilities arise.

Fatima dived in front of Mukhtar with a deep breath. She placed her bare feet firmly in the sand and pushed off as hard as she could. Smiling broadly, she flung her hands up so fast and wild to surprise her dad that one of her fingers caught the side of his face.

Oh! turned Mukhtar, quickly taking the waist of his little girl. This is the thing I need to be worried about right now, he thought, as he fell backward into and under the water. Fatima made like a frog, arms and legs springing, and splashed over him.

Shwa’wish laid out the blanket and set out the food while watching Mukhtar and Fatima. She had packed some bread and prepared a dish of fruits, figs and dates, and a dish of smoked ham. Mukhtar had brought several single-serving bottles of peach and plum nectar and some bottles of distilled water. As she lay on her side, watching, she became scared. She tried to smile at Mukhtar and Fatima splashing together, but she could not hide her feelings. Mukhtar … going on another mission. Why did the army require so many missions? They were so dangerous. A lone tear fell from her right eye and she wiped it, bowing quickly into her free hand.

Mukhtar saw the tear anyway and began the ritual of slowing Fatima down so they could eat. Shwa’wish was crying again. God, she is a sensitive woman, he thought. If it wasn’t for her, missions would be so much easier. Well, for Fatima’s sake, also. But my Shwa’wish. It seems as though each departure hurts her more … me, too, though. Every damn grimace she makes knots my stomach.

Oh, Allah, help me not to hurt her and care for her while I’m gone, he whispered through his teeth.

The little frog climbed up his back. He waded to the shore and smothered Fatima with a big towel.

Shwa’wish looked at Mukhtar as if apologizing for the tear. She knew how it affected him and that he could not do much to change his job. But she knew how much he liked his job. A war of submission went on between them. It wasn’t the first time. Shwa’wish had always won the war, though, not knowing very well how to offend him.

I love you, Mukhtar, Shwa’wish said.

A lump grew in his throat and he was angry at himself. Why quiver? No reason, and he could not understand. All that he could say was, Allah is too good to me. He took her hand, kneeling, and kissed it trying to smile.

He had no smile of sincerity, no really soft smile of affection. So when he grinned, attempting