Trial of Silence: Pre-Trial Volume I

By Diane Haun

Part I
PRE-TRIAL
Vol. 1
The time: about 2030, not much has changed except UN reorganization and creation of the Junta, a group of five, their power envied by world leaders, and others. The face of terrorism has shifted so when Kyle Bremmer, Junta spokesperson says, Whats to do with this new breed of terrorist? and Iris Stuart quips, Capture one and ask him. thats what they do.
Iris was joking.
Caustic Sean Fitzgerald, ex-IRA becomes a UN employee, coming with a contract out on him and a price on his head. Kyle claims hes the best strategist alive. Do they trust him? Good grief, no! Does Sean care? Hell no. Does he do what they want? Whew, he does. Does anyone like his mountain warlord friend Alexander Zachariah? Heaven forbid. Do they care? Hardly. Are they good terrorist trackers? Oh, yes. Anyone know who fathered Iriss twins; Sean will do the research. Did Rutledge, Iriss husband, die in the fiery crash or is he off making clones?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475980585

Diane Haun

Diane Haun has a Ph.D in theatre from the U of Utah. This is the 4th book of the TRIAL OF SILENCE series. Four of her plays have been produced. She has lived in interesting places: Catalina Island (Artistic Director of the Avalon Players, Gregory Harrisons launching pad), housewife in L..A., and English teacher in Sevilla, Spain, now retired in Albuquerque, New Mexico. One of her two daughters lives near Monterey, Ca, the other one nearby in ABQ.

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Copyright © 2013 Diane Haun.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8057-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8058-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 3/22/2013

CONTENTS

Preface

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

For AZ, who made a difference.

PREFACE

1978: I finished a Ph.D. in Theatre at the University of Utah that summer, stayed for the production of two plays from my dissertation that had won a state and the university contest and left for Spain in December to write a novel. The idea had come to me while doing research on another prize winning play produced the year before, also in the dissertation.

1983: In Spain I was teaching English full time, had a 1st draft of the historical part of the book I had come to write, stalled on the illusive modern half that would not come. I wrote two plays that year, one of which had to do with assassins that kill the famous for a face on the news for thirty seconds three times a day for a week. I especially liked the idea of this play but was not satisfied I had the best genre for the material. Trial of Silence was the title.

1986: I was working longer hours and many weekends corrected papers for Professors at the U. Their scientific papers had to be published in English. (That was an exercise of the blind leading the blind for a while, not so much because of their limited English or my limited Spanish but primarily because of my complete ignorance of Biology, Chemistry, Physics, and Mathematics. The situation was a bit ludicrous … except we got them published.). I hadn’t been writing and about that time decided I didn’t have time to do it anyway. Fortunately, those scientific papers kept me in touch during the years I didn’t write.

1990: I had air-conditioning installed in the apartment, the first big step toward writing again. Summers in Sevilla were not favorable to do much, high temperatures with an abundance of humidity produced days of negligible energy and sleepless nights. Most of my classes were at the University so I was on a normal school schedule: holidays and summers free along with weekends, add to that two weeks free in the Sevilla spring, one for Semana Santa (Usually in March), the other for la Feria (In April), which on paper looked good for writing time. During the three-month block, the summer, it was impossible to write, the heat was that debilitating. I spent a lot of summer time next to a large fan watching TV, sweating and chain smoking, moving as little as possible. The autumn I went back to work after air-conditioning installation everyone said I was much nicer. It was amazing what being able to sleep at night did for me. I paid the elevated electricity bill happily.

1994: Still teaching English full time and not writing, I felt isolated, sometimes lonely and always desperate to write. I knew if I did not write again and soon I might be tempted to throw the typewriter off the balcony and with my luck I’d hit someone in the head and go to jail. One day the news mentioned a terrorist attack (ETA) that caught my attention. When I arrived at the lounge on the 4th floor, Chemistry Building, the following day there were several people discussing the bombing and from what they were saying several were killed. I said I thought it was only one. I was wrong. Later I heard my own words in my head It was only one! As if killing one person was acceptable. In a country where terrorist testimonials were the norm I was becoming jaded; the Spaniards I knew were not. I put that jaded thought on hold and spent several days evaluating dynamics of the situation. I was ashamed of being blasé about people being killed in a country I had adopted but was in fact theirs and none of mine were in danger. I decided I wanted to make a statement against terrorism. There was, however, one serious problem: I didn’t have a story idea burning to be written. As an experiment as well as an effort to write again I pulled Trial of Silence off the shelf, the plan being to incorporate the anti-terrorism theme into the Trial of Silence theme—I had in hand the last hundred pages of a book, just had to write 400 pages more to get to that ending.

I did not read one book that first year; neither did I watch TV nor listen to the news; I didn’t want any outside influences. I faced that first blank piece of white paper afraid I had dried up. One year later, working full time, cleaning less, ironing very little, cooking as little as possible, not taking siestas, going to bed an hour later and with an air-conditioned summer I had 1,000 folio-sized pages of a first draft. With several ideas still floating, the book felt unfinished, and especially since I had not yet reached a place to incorporate the play into the narration. The notion began percolating that maybe I should think in terms of two books, until I had to move the 1000 pages from one place to another on my desk, Dummy, you already have two books, how about a trilogy? The play became the first part of the second book.

1997-8: I was having the time of two lives, a period of complete joy, never happier. That school year a student/Professor of Zoology let me use a computer they had sitting around and volunteered one of his students to teach me how to use it. The summer vacation following that year I had to go back to the electric typewriter and when the e key fell off I said yes to another student that autumn who offered to lend the money to buy a computer in October. I dislike being in debt more than anything and paid the loan back as soon as I could; meanwhile, I did not have one moment’s regret for accepting help to get that computer. I was, and still am (2013), in awe of the computer world.

One sunny day in September, the trilogy nearing completion, the book-time being a tad futuristic, I turned on the TV to get a news item I could mention to give the reader a timeline for the story. The South Tower had just been hit. CNN was still setting up their command center and friends in Sevilla began calling to see if I knew what had happened. I sat like a lump for two weeks night and day watching my book on TV. No one would have believed for a moment I had not written the first book while watching 9/11 and aftermath on CNN … it was prophetic. There was a tall bearded Arab, for example, in the book and I had never heard of the other. There was an airplane hijacking, with a touch of humor no less. I thought I had coined terrorist-tracker. There were so many similarities I can’t even remember them now. The 1st book became absolutely useless that day and it was the only one of the three that could have stood alone the 2nd and 3rd books depending entirely on the 1st one. Dominos comes to mind.

My personal tragedy was nothing compared to what I watched on TV those days and nights in that September. I cried with those that had been forced to alter their lives forever because of a terrorist statement—like family and friends of ETA victims, be it one or fifteen killed—and I was furious by the time I returned to work the first of October. One day on a bus on the way home I decided those terrorist bastards were not going to void seven years I had spent on 2000 pages. That weekend I started rewriting The Trial of Silence.

The 1st decade of this century, in addition to working on a shift of focus for the trilogy, included the accidental death of my son, Matthew, in Utah Mountains (2005) and the decision to leave the loved city I felt was mine and return to the States to be more convenient to my daughters, Catherine and Elizabeth (2007). Besides the move, readjusting to living in the States again and indecision about seeking an agent for the trilogy I had serious doubts about—so much about terrorism everywhere, what could I add—led to the decision not to publish: finish the books and send CDs of them to family and friends, Plan A. In December of 2011 I ran into a sale on Memory Sticks and bought several, thinking if a person didn’t like the trilogy they could at least enjoy the gift. Early last year (2012), to prepare the Memory Sticks I reread the books after not having looked at them for over a year and found I could still laugh in the places that were supposed to be amusing. I decided to publish, which led me, finally, to iUniverse.

Since Little Women (aged eight) I have been a reader and over the years I have been grateful to the countless writers that have given me innumerable hours of pure enjoyment. I feel on some primal level I owe a debt to others, to give them a few hours of uncomplicated pleasure. Writing is lonely work; regardless of who might be around to encourage or to criticize someone has to sit alone at a writing machine or with #2 pencils and get it done. If what I have written gives someone a few moments of happiness, which I desire with all my heart, then the alone hours will have been worth it and my debt will have been paid.

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I feel obliged to clarify a detail about Universities in Spain. Franco did not allow them to build on one campus. For example, the Medical School in Sevilla is in the Macarena barrio, the Humanities and Law Schools are in the city center; the Business School is in Roman y Cajal Ave, etc. My first apartment was in Reina Mercedes across the street from the Science Faculties, which at the time included Engineering, Pharmacy, Chemistry, Biology, Physics and Mathematics. My English classes were private, not part of the University Language Department. My students were primarily professors or grad-students and the classes were in their offices, some were in the homes of the students, a few were in my apt after I moved to Triana. I never worked for the university. Consequently, when I mention the U I am generally referring to private classes at the Science Campus of the University of Sevilla in Reina Mercedes.

Diane Haun

Albuquerque, New Mexico

February, 2013.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to María Luisa Moya Morán, Inmaculada (Inma) Domene-Nuñez and Jo Jannsen, three people I read the book(s) to, separately and at different stages of completion. María Lusia got the first awkward pages of a 1st draft; any thank you can hardly be enough.

My son Matthew read a draft of the trilogy; his comments helped get me centered. Helen Layton, a friend from always, recently reading it kindly called attention to typos and sentences that were not clear, an invaluable unexpected eleventh hour life-line. A special thanks to this bright kind woman and dear friend who has a fun sense of humor. Our paths have not crossed many times over the years since elementary school, but when they have it has always been as if we had met yesterday not years ago.

Warm thanks to the Spanish Guardia Civil, the Sevilla contingent, and especially to Coronel Carlos Caceres Espejo. They generously took the time to show me the tools of terrorism and those of antiterrorism, sharing unstintingly of what they do and how they do it. It was awesome and has enriched my enjoyment of almost every film I have seen since then.

My gratitude to the following:

Ramón Bellogin Izquierdo and María Rosario Espuny Gómez, Profs of Microbiology, U of Sevilla, a special couple, different but compatible. They shared home and table with me. They had a steadiness that touched me. It was appreciated.

Luis Narváez Macarro, mathematician (Algebra) and Caroline Clause Klamp, a physicist, U of Sevilla also a special couple. I didn’t meet anyone in Sevilla that I liked more than Luis and Caroline; they are an attractive couple. Luis was a fountain of info on various small details for the book. Luis and Caroline have a refreshing optimistic approach to life and both are from interesting backgrounds.

Prof Emilio Galan Huertos, Geology Dept, U of Sevilla, gave me the idea for the volcano, instantly triggering memories of a lava tunnel I saw on Kauai, exactly what I needed for the story. Francisco Sanchez Burgos, Physical Chemistry Prof explained exactly what a hydrogen-oxygen mix would do to the scene I had set up. Prof Richard Rand, Department of Physics and Astrology, U of New Mexico, saved me from making a fool of myself over a moonrise. Harvey Layton, a retired journalist, having had over the years a formidable collection of antique cars, clarified a doubt for me. José Carlos García, Zoology Prof, U of Sevilla, Head of Spanish Marine Biology, lent me the space and tools to work on the book while on campus, assigning Santiago (Santi), one of his students, the pleasure of initiating me into computer mysteries. Santi helped me find the mouse until I learned how not to lose it; all the young people in this group helped with the early days on the computer. Grad-students who spent most of a day at their keyboards, often scratched a head over a problem I was having, I don’t know, Diane, I’ve never seen that before. I must have driven them nuts. Hat off to Prof García and his intrepid troops.

Ana González García, la mujer con las manos de mágica (The lady with magic hands.) She kept my body firm, my toes tingling and her massages kept the adrenalin high I was on from blowing off the top of my head: I learned how to relax. She is a kind friend and the most spiritual person I know. To know Ana is to love her.

Andrés Aguilera, genetics Prof, U of Sevilla gave me 2 1 hour sessions from an impossibly busy schedule to explain cloning; Dolly was breaking news at the time and because of the nature of the book I could not ignore cloning as if it wasn’t there. I took careful notes so I could integrate How to Clone smoothly into the Ms. A few days later a local newspaper had an article on cloning with an easy to follow diagram of the procedure. Saved me trying to explain it in a fascinating creative way in the book, but it sure wasted 2 hours for Andrés. He heads Molecular Biology at CABIMER (Biology and Biomedicine Research Center), which has various groups working on Genome Biology: Epigenetics, DNA repair, Genome instability, cell signaling, stem cell and regenerative medicine. In other words, primarily cancer research. Correcting papers for Andrés and his group has kept me on my tingling toes. Completely ignorant of genetics, doing their papers has always been challenging. I thank them for the opportunity of participating in their story while writing mine.

Antonio Ayala, Prof of Biochemistry and Biology, U of Sevilla, Faculty of Pharmacy heads a group researching aging, the why of it and possibilities of controlling it. Antonio’s papers have given me insight into my own aging process, a gift. He asked me to edit a book he and other European scientists put together; talk about an ego boost. I would be remiss not to mention Antonio; his help with the book had to do with a smiling pleasant giving face on campus.

José María Fernandez-Bolaños, Prof of Organic Chemistry, Dept of Organic Chemistry, U of Sevilla, added many specific and some illusive positive tid-bits to my life in Sevilla. He works with groups researching derivations from olive mill wastewater. Among other healthful items they have found remarkable compounds of antitumor and anti-inflammatory properties, another path to cancer cures along with healthful discoveries. He read early pages of the book and his comment about the male protagonist made me realize I had to get serious and create a character or stop pretending to write. He is a deceptively caring person; it was his idea that I meet his brother-in-law, the Coronel. I am humbly grateful to José for many things.

Juan José Calvente Pacheco, Prof of Physical Chemistry, U of Sevilla is a person that makes me smile every time I think of him—he has an interesting sense of humor. He helps everyone in the Dept with computer problems, even creates programs if the software being used is not quite adequate for specific experiments. He is unflappable. He showed daughter Elizabeth and me his village, including an old olive mill, helping us get a take on Andalusia past and present. He downloaded music for me to write by that has been a gift beyond measure.

Miguel Angel San-Miguel Barrera, Prof of Physical Chemistry, Dept of Physical Chemistry, Faculty of Pharmacy, U of Sevilla. Visiting Prof at Universidade Estadual de Campinas, Campinas, Brazil. One could get dizzy trying to keep up with Miguel Angel’s places of study just as now, as a Prof, he is still very much on the move. He helped me in many ways I’m sure he doesn’t even know about; he is a kind man.

Mercedes Atienza Ruiz, Associate Prof of Physiology, Laboratory of Functional Neuroscience, Dept of Physciology and Cellular Biology, University Pablo de Olavide in Sevilla. The sleep group she co-directs does research on Alzheimer’s, the disease that took my father and is working on a sister. Their papers are interesting to correct and keep me current with Alzheimer’s. Merchi took me to the doctor once when I was too ill to do it myself.

She and Inma, two extremely busy women, came to my home when I got word of Matthew’s death; when my impulse was isolation they stayed the day and when they left I knew they had done something extraordinary for me; we had had a wonderful unforgettable day. It was a huge leap in dealing with what my mind did not want to accept, leaving me able to talk about Matthew without using him.

Carmen Jimenez Calzado, Prof of Physical Chemistry, U of Sevilla and her husband Emilio Iglesias Delgado, an engineering technician for the Consejeria de Education, Junta de Andalusia came to my home when they heard about Matthew, bringing their son, Juan, to share with me for the evening. He was under a year, at the age babies began to show their incredible personalities. He was so beautiful, a bright, incredible child that had fortunately landed in the right family. He is now 8 and Fernando has been added to this generous family. They gave me more that evening than I could begin to put into words … except I must thank them for it.

Don Francisco Sanchez Burgos with a loan made it possible for me to get my first computer, which means without it the trilogy may not have been finished. He and his lovely wife, Felisa Leria Mackay took me to dinner the last Friday I was in Sevilla, after which we went to a Flamenco bar, the kind of place tourists would never find, for a night of Sevillanas (A folk dance that musicians (guitars) and/or onlookers sing and clap the accompaniment, typical in Andalusia.). I still hear some of the music in my head. My heartfelt gratitude for that special night.

Amalia Rodriguez–Rodriguez, Prof Physical Chemistry, for her bravery. I saw something in her face one day when she was facing a horrible situation that was so beautiful I had to use it in the book, I hope successfully.

Mª del Pilar López Cornejo, associate Prof, Physical Chemistry, U of Sevilla, another brave lady, survives particular family problems, the demanding pull of motherhood with full-time work under far from ideal circumstances. I must thank her for not hating me after being sick in her office.

Javier Fernández Sanz, Prof, Dept of Physical Chemistry, University of Sevilla, works in Theoretical research, quantum mechanical theory, taught at Université de Pau (France) three years, two years as visiting professor at Stanford, Chemical Engineering Department, an interesting brilliant man. We had many discussion about the books, most likely too many for him; however, he was a good listener and while I was involved in conversation about the books my mind was spinning and there were always ideas that came from those conversations. Much more help than was ever evident.

Special thanks to Inma for the drawings in the books and for the covers. She caught the soul of it immediately.

Thanks to Michael Cram from Albuquerque, a courteous friendly young man who keeps the present computer in line.

A special thanks to three medical folk: Drs Patricia McElrath, Kathleen Wade and Josephine Trujillo. They have given care, confidence and many chudkles.

My thanks to Larry Roth a friend at Rio Vista in Albuquerque, a man who made me laugh when I was in a bad patch and did not feel much like laughing and who finally told me the truth.

Last but not least my thanks to Traci Anderson, a fun patient lady from iUniverse.

PROLOGUE

45479.jpg Gingerly balancing a full wineglass of Napa Valley Chablis Iris managed to set it down without spilling a drop near the square white ceramic plate sitting on the heavy glass-topped driftwood coffee table. The plate held two moderate-sized triangles of her favorite Manchego cheese, six large pitted black olives, one handful of small thin whole-wheat crackers and four cherry tomatoes, all of it artistically organized around a generous scoop of guacamole. Two leafy twigs of perky fresh watercress lay across the top of this artistry along with one sprig of fresh parsley for an after eating breath sweetener.

Just home from two weeks intensive job training, Armed & Unarmed Self-defense, legs folded, she sat straight-backed on the floor to begin a meal she had anticipated with relish for days. She had had enough of the heavy tasteless food served at the UN Training Camp after the first day. A conversation with Kyle Bremmer and she will not have to return to repair disappointing results.

Almost never alone, she basked in the silence of Reynard’s elegant apartment. Nibbling selectively she placed the Smith & Wesson Compact next to the RC and manicuring kit already on the table, carefully, to avoid scratching the glass top. Failing part of the course had been embarrassing: last in a group of thirty-six. Offset somewhat by being first in that same group with a handgun. Later she would extract the clip of the rapid-fire tool and practice drawing and firing as their instructor had suggested for daily maintenance exercise. But first she would watch the TV news, after eating, never before or during, ruins the pleasure of the meal and gives her acid stomach. There had been an enormous volcanic eruption a few years previously that had become Breaking News again and she was interested in hearing the update.

Updating information on world events was a requisite for working directly with the Advisory Junta, the not-at-all-behind-the-scenes power-dynamo of the reorganized United Nations. The Junta, with the necessary clout and full UN backing, was one of few groups making consistently effective advances for the underprivileged of the earth. Unfortunately, though fully empowered, they were still occasionally short of funding for favorite projects. Iris enjoyed working for the Junta … most of the time.

Munching parsley, Iris picked up the RC and zapped to the most tolerable news program. The anchor was still on background of the original event so there was time to repair her camp-damaged long fingernails before she had to pay close attention.

… The universality of the seismic activity added to the confusion. Doubt centered on where and how this activity would focus. For once seismographers had little idea of what they were dealing with. Meanwhile, doomsayers were in their element, church attendance increased 158%; those expecting the end of the world met on hills to wait for it, hundreds of fringe people committed communal suicide, Islam saw signs of the final Jihad, Orthodox Jews readied themselves for the Messiah and Christendom braced for the belated Second Coming. The rest of the world waited patiently for whatever was on the way.

Some were not that patient. Iris remembered it was like waiting to see if the approaching Hurricane was going to be as bad as they said it would be while the wind was blowing your garden into the next county. Not a pleasant waiting that.

Most expected massive earthquakes along the Pacific Rim complete with tsunamis, widespread destruction and millions dead, something that would probably drop Los Angeles into the ocean. The unexpected was a volcano erupting in the Syrian Desert at ground level layering up a mountain over fourteen months that made Paricutín, the 1943 eruption in Michoacán Mexico, look like an anthill. Paricutín destroyed its village namesake, many small surrounding villages as well as burying valuable farmlands. Human loss was minimal and the final fires of Paricutin were out by 1952.

This similar, more recent, still nameless volcano rose on barren desert lands.

Iris had a weird feeling about this natural cataclysm that killed no one for being in the wrong place. Ash hovering for months was given credit for innumerable respiratory-related deaths in the Tigress-Euphrates and Eastern Mediterranean Basins but there was not one death on the day of the eruption or during the months of the cone buildup.

The immediate drama of the event was, lamentably, lost to posterity, because … Due to a chain of unfortunate circumstances at that particular Space Satellite Control Center, they were unable to film the initial eruption on January 1st. There was no crisis being monitored at the moment and the seemingly universal seismic rumblings had been going on long enough to be practically ignored. The reduced graveyard crew at the SSCC was caught with enervating hangovers. The absent, soon—to—lose—his—stars, supervising general gave them permission, by phone, to go out for coffee to get away from their keyboards for a few minutes. The soon—to—be—demoted exhausted Captain Young left behind to tend shop fell asleep. Next on the chain of mishaps was a rare power outage, coupled with a defective generator the general’s nephew failed to put on the Take A Look At list, thus preventing cameras from clicking on.

A few heads rolled over that lack of footage. Iris pointed out to the TV. And if memory served, the alarm system, the one device that could conceivably have softened the disaster, was not turned on. Iris enjoyed irony and one specific detail of the story had always amused her: a satellite vacuum took place every thirty-two days in that area for one hour during data evaluation and reprogramming, which was when the volcano chose to erupt. The incompetence that day at SSCC hadn’t really mattered, but someone had to pay … .

Today, Kyle Bremmer, Junta Spokesperson, had this to say: We find it prudent to implode the volcano into its own crater, which will then seal lava tunnels running south, in the direction of Saudi Arabia, east toward Iraq, north to Syria and west on the way to Jordan. We will also delete the tunnel master plan from UN computers.

Probably regret that delete, Kyle. Iris told the absent Junta Spokesman. You pay far too much attention to the GA. She qualified, In my opinion.

Mr. Bremmer refused to make further comments on the UN volcano modification. However, reliable sources indicate that miscreants have prepared tunnels for kidnap victims, hiding places for themselves and stolen weapons. A well-known group of Islamic terrorists tried to prepare the only tunnel near Jordan heading west as a lava carrier to bury as much of Israel as they could; if not that, to destroy a large part of the country. Palestinian collateral damage, a sympathizer claimed later when asked, would have been the price for pushing Israel into the Mediterranean.

Our dependable sources have confirmed that the plan was to artificially force gas pressure on molten rock—like a natural volcano: oxygen to feed the fires and nitrogen to push the product. However, a misunderstanding arose between the bought geologist and the eager terrorists during a long distance phone conversation. It seems the geologist told them to steal inert nitrogen; they heard hydrogen. As soon as the scientist arrived on the scene, bellows pumped oxygen into the tunnel to feed the rock melting fires and the visitor barely had time to say, You did get nitrogen, didn’t you? before the hydrogen-oxygen mix surfaced their project in small pieces and buried food, protective tarps, three Hummers, the geologist and the twenty terrorists.

Mr. Bremmer went on to say there were several entrances to the lava tunnel network they will have to find and seal.

Good luck with that, Kyle.

Iris was not pleased with the report that added nothing new to the Volcano saga. Consequently, when the White House Press Secretary appeared, dodged several diametrically opposed observations and questions followed by the routine evasions, half-truths and possible lies, the already annoyed lady stood, picked up the S&W and shot the TV.

The blast prevented her from hearing Reynard’s arrival. He peeked around the living room arch and saw her standing, feet apart, right-hand on hip, left one holding the smoking gun, mumbling something about political foolishness.

He waited to speak until she saw him. Why did you do that?

Oh … I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to, haven’t you?

Spare the twins please, he said fondly. He hung his suit jacket in the entry closet, took off his tie and traded the wilted white silk shirt for a casual crisp blue cotton designer top, the silk going into the dirty clothes basket in the closet. The training course … how was it? He asked, heading for the kitchen to begin his lengthy Monday night dinner preparations as she took out the clip in the S&W to practice drawing and shooting.

It was… Her voice trailed off.

Interesting?

I was going to say bordering on the not particularly interesting. Why did she still protect him from her engaging work? Only the food was not worth mention.

Did you learn anything?

Everything I need to know. She chuckled, having failed half the course.

She watched him into the kitchen wondering why he never kissed her when he came home—even when they hadn’t seen each other for more than two weeks. She decided that was the wrong question and chose the head-in-sand-approach until the right one occurred to her.

He would want her body later; he always did.

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What Iris Stuart did not know was that her returning husband required a little time to readjust to her space whenever he left it. She did not know that Deny X, terrorist, died that summer in a shootout with Paris police. Neither did she know that in early October a haunted Sean Fitzgerald found an entrance to the main lava tunnel. Neither did she know that on the last Thursday in November grubby pieces of the UN-deleted tunnel master plan turned up in Alexander Zachariah’s hands. He paced for days while making the decision to send five teams of two, disguised as lost tourists, into the desolate vastness of the Syrian Desert … to join pieces.

If he did not find the entrances someone else would: Bedouins looking for camp sites and animal shelter, terrorists, mercenaries, United Nation troops, for example.

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Iris was joking about knowing everything she needed to know.

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CHAPTER 1

45479.jpg The Almond Joy landed between my hands. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Fitzgerald slumming. He was just inside the door. If I threw something from there it would fall either a meter short of the desk or I’d send it through the bulletproof outer office window behind me. I looked up anyway; it had startled me.

What kind of fey folk do you work for, Ms. Stuart? he said, slouching uninvited into the chair across the desk. Not exactly a too good to be true type, he wore moccasins so he could appear without being heard, Levi jeans, T-shirts and relatively long hair so he looked like an ex-terrorist working for the UN.

They also sign your checks.

He broke the wrapper on his Baby Ruth, nodded at the Almond Joy like I should do the same. You’re too skinny.

It did taste good. Thank you.

Oh, you’re quite welcome. He put the last of the candy in his generous mouth, licked his fingers and wiped them on his jeans. That out of the way he put his feet on my brought-from-home burled-walnut-desk, perfectly aware that I do not like feet on it even if moccasin heels are soft. Do you know what those relics did?

What now?

They asked what I would do, if left up to me, about air hijackings. I told them and the bastards did it. He had a lot of names for the Junta.

Kyle always says you’re a good strategist. Kyle had said the best.

I was leg-pulling, Ms. Stuart. He chuckled a That’ll teach me. Jesus, it was so long ago they asked I’d forgot about it. He shook his head as he did regularly over Junta antics. A captured terrorist, which was why he was in New York, he was bothered by the fact that the Junta committed crimes—his word—that would not have occurred to him as an active. He also used British English when he remembered to, thinking it annoyed me—forgot not forgotten.

When he first came to New York he challenged everything, most often from contrariness. He claimed to be amoral and accused the Junta of … everything. Fitzgerald was one of those unnatural male creatures who did not have to have the last word, although he usually got it because when he finished commenting there was just not a lot left to say. Like the day he, Kyle and I were having a rare cup of coffee together discussing an obscure legal point I’d uncovered supporting our choice in a gray area of a project the Junta was preparing.

Sean had said, You want to be the good guys all the time and you can’t. Why not stop trying?

We’re exploring legal possibilities, Mr. Fitzgerald, that’s all.

When you come hard up against an illegal rock, Ms. Stuart, what do you do?

What we have to.

Bash your head on it? He grinned, You could save yourselves weeks of valuable time by going directly to the bloody whacking—nothing intended.

Kyle interjected, We have to answer to the GA, Sean, among others.

Sean gave him a half-sneer. What does that mean?

If it’s legal, they know about it, if it isn’t, they don’t, Kyle clarified cordially.

And what do you call that kind of behavior, Mr. Spokesperson?

Prudent. What would you call it?

Hypocritical.

The lull in our conversation about hijackings and strategies must have been longer than it seemed. Knowing I was lost in my head Sean stood to get my attention. Are you packing for Algeria, Ms. Stuart?

Soon.

I look forward to going back to the desert.

I knew better than to ask, Why?

It will be amusing to see you—God-forbid—sweating and dirty.

And?

And?

Surely you have other reasons?

That’s enough, but there is one other. He waited for me to ask. I didn’t so he told me. Seeing you run around out there with loose stays.

Loose stays?

Loose Stays. His face said Aren’t I clever?

I put a thoughtful look on mine. No one wears stays these days. I interrupted his breath of retort with, I do remember reading about loose stays … perhaps in one of the old books I lent you. I smiled sweetly, Ian Rankin, possibly? I thought it was funny, too. He also meant it in a figurative sense.

Not admitting anything, and not ashamed of plagiarizing, he leaned toward me. I thought it was old Henning Mankell. Want another candy bar?

No, thank you. Suddenly I didn’t know which of them had mentioned loose stays, Rankin or Mankell. Please don’t make a habit of this.

Not a bad habit. He stared as I cleaned fingers with a moist wipe-all. A good stay breaker, he chuckled. I like women with a little more meat than you have, Ms. Stuart.

I stood and leaned toward him; one cannot retreat with Fitzgerald, one has to meet him head on. I have all the meat I need. It wasn’t a little more he wanted; it was a surfeit he was after. From what I’d heard he’d been to bed with all the available women in my office and half the Secretary Pool.

He took off my glasses before I realized what he was going to do. Can you see me?

I’m nearsighted not blind. I could feel his chocolate flavored breath on my face.

What do you see?

I see … you.

No, what do you see?

I debated a moment: What he wants to hear? What I want to say? I saw depths in the dark eyes and my reflection. I see a civilized man … when he wants to be.

Not what he wanted. It was your voice on the airport speakers at the hijacking, wasn’t it Ms. Stuart? He set my glasses on the desk and strutted out.

Fitzgerald must have as many spies in the building as Kyle.

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The attic in the long-gone Montana house was the favorite hideout at the ranch when I was young. It was a nest to curl up in and read through lengthy melancholy winters. Warmed by perpetual cooking fires and, incidentally, central heating, it was also a source of costumes for school parties, Halloween and personal festivities when a fleeting escape from reality was urgent and I was still ignorant about how to put my head in the sand, ignorance almost genetic until I went east to law school.

Books were what I loved most about the attic: the too tattered paperbacks that didn’t merit space on the overcrowded shelves downstairs with the ever-lasting tidy editions. The classics were well represented but what titillated among the miscellaneous boxed treasures was Nancy Drew, The Sheik, Lord of the Rings, The Dune Chronicles, Harry Potter, The Color Purple, Beloved, the namesake, for example. Dune was so worn from rereads all six volumes should have been recycled before I was born, whereas Beloved looked new because no one in the house could tolerate the pain of reading it twice. The jewel in the dust for me was the complete works of Zane Grey. Hooked on a description of the American Southwest I hadn’t seen yet and a desert I wanted to love because he did, I had read them three times by the time I was fourteen. And always in the back of my mind was the lore that Lila, my grandmother, had read them. I could understand her reading Lahiri, Herbert, Tolkien, Rowling, Walker, Morrison, and even Hull, not Zane Grey. Forever giving the impression of a diamond in the rough, Lila’s adult reading habits contradicted the uncut: Simone de Beauvoir, Doris Lessing, Edith Wharton, Jane Austin, historians, philosophers, some of the early feminists then the tame ones. I had hoped Mr. Grey’s books would help pin down the taciturn woman who was raising me. His passion for the desert put my quest on hold, however. My quest was vulgar curiosity; his passion was a lifelong romance.

Growing up with an exquisite view of the Rockies first thing in the morning from my upstairs bedroom window was not the ideal background for a person to learn desert appreciation. I suppose that depends on memories. At sixteen, as a tourist, a flaming sunset seen from the top of Oak Creek Canyon, backlighting a distant Monument Valley-ish setting left me thinking no painting, no photo, not even antediluvian John Ford could do justice to that breathtaking desert landscape.

If you want to scream with joyful laughter, in the bottom of that northern Arizona canyon is a place called Slide Rock where you sit upstream in throwaway jeans, the backside in good condition, or securely patched, and let the stream carry you over the mossy rocks to a pool below where you paddle to the next section of slippery rocks. You must have warm clothing for later, even in August. The water is snow run-off from the Navajo sacred mountain. It takes hours to warm up the chill but the restorative laughter is more than worth it.

In a far desert, on the edge of the Great Western Erg in North Africa, after a first kiss behind rocks in a dry river valley, there was a firefight and death, a friend lost; consequently, memories of that vast land are adulterated.

Half a day from that valley is a particular mesa and nearby is a slope with a 35º angle. If you lie beside the one you want to love and wrap arms and legs around each other you can roll together to the dune bottom with a slight starting push. Also wonderfully funny. But you can’t do that if you have an appointment later—no shower.

On days when nothing charms, a stirred up dune memory is endless red dust in bleakness that darts through my mind like the ephemeral fireflies you never see coming.

The final bloodshed in that desert would most likely have been worse without the kiss.

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The desert the Bobcat is flying over at the moment looks as if it belongs on another planet; this because of distant fragile-looking needle peaks that in fact have much more girth when flown over than one imagines. Distance tricks the imagination. The dune fields below have two distinguishable fronts: a stable system held by stunted scrub that cover and fight winds that would uproot or keep them flattened to land that undernourishes, beneath a sky that drops either no rain or torrents of it. But there they are—survivors. The other front is active. The pilot tells me the ground surface wind is not strong in spite of puffs of sand lifting then settling elsewhere. No scrub there. Dry limbs, bare of leaves and life, stick out of the slack side of the dunes halfway down, remnants of a forest the mobile dunes covered as they moved across the land at five to six meters per year.

If there is animal life we are moving too fast to see it, a desolating absence giving the impression that just a little farther on everything falls over the edge of the earth.

Us with it.

At the moment, memories have little to do with desert kisses; it’s the merry white Christmas kisses rolling on the undertow of turbulent sorrow.

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I like my job. As a rule I have a favorable opinion of the United Nations. I almost always enjoy traveling. I’m a messenger for the UN. That’s a half-truth. I’m a Junta Special, which involves among other assignments carrying messages.

Paradoxical? With easy communication to anyone in the world as close as pockets and handbags complete with images and sound, why an official messenger? It’s about birthday toys. Youngsters have forced big companies, spy and governmental agencies, crime specialists—doing and detecting—to resort to the Transfer Machine to maintain their secrets private. TMs are too expensive to be abundant, and 100% effective computer anti-hacking security software is beyond the means of the average computer owner and is useless against cell phones. The Junta has to send messengers once in a while to those who do not have TMs. No one is more than a few weeks ahead of the playful youths, not to speak of professional intruders.

In my opinion modern communication is dazzling. I said to my secretary the day they put the most recent computer on my desk, Good grief! The skinny thing could scratch my back. Unfortunately I didn’t know Fitzgerald was present. Why do you want one to scratch your back, Ms. Stuart, when you had one that could scratch your arse? I took off my glasses to blur his smirk. Because, Mr. Fitzgerald, when I have an itch, it’s my back. He was always complaining about waste but it was onerous getting past his dirty mouth to appreciate a genuine justified concern.

At any rate, the UN flies messengers to remote territories, then they have to travel hundreds of kilometers in local means, sometimes crossing whole dusty countries, and depending on the weather they catch trains, hire sleighs, wait out the rain and I had to ski in once with a delivery. Sites can be bugged, contents of electronic devices can be deleted or distorted and machines can be unplugged, switched off, crossed, tapped or virused.

I cannot.

Neither do I fear electrical storms. I am uneasy in ambiguous situations because of possessing a literal mind that prefers vivid unequivocal detail. Most machines set my teeth on edge unless I can figure out how they function, or how to laugh at them—the mice accompanying computers, for example. Where I work they won’t let us use Voice because of security and I refused to cut my nails for the touch-field and I certainly did not want that vulgar little raised symbol. Not only did the mice have minds of their own but the files they accessed were not the kind to encourage one to sleep nights. The first mouse at work meant the first bodyguards: one Hawaiian, one Colombian, one Siberian and one Dane, big men, carrying guns that could put rather a large hole in a person. They always seemed to wear dark suits, starched collars and string ties, looking more frightening than anything that could possibly harm me if they stayed home. When I went to the Junta to inquire if they had guards available who were not so big and who wore ties that did not look like backup weapons, the five of them smiled, in unison, and said to trust them—the Junta—nothing about trusting the escort. In any case, that plastic gadget sat on my desk for a week and I could not bring myself to call it mouse.

So I went to a fabric shop on my lunch hour where only ladies were present, accompanied by the international string quartet that misled no one by pretending they were not keeping an eye on me. No one would have noticed me if they had stayed in the limousine and I’m sure everyone thought I had been unfaithful to my husband and required watching. While there I bought a small piece of cloth, two tiny black buttons, a strip of felt and with the glue in my desk and scissors from my bag, I had an object that resembled a mouse. The cloth fur is synthetic, looks real, more like Canadian Fox than Mouse, but it amuses me and made it so I could communicate with Eva Peterson, my secretary, without pointing.

When the Junta brought Colonel Pick in from the field and turned him loose in the building to head the UN Special Forces, Junta Elite Military Unit & Intelligence Sub-Department (JEMU&IS-D—reason enough to call it Special Forces) and he ordered a scattering of metal detectors installed throughout the office building—machines I detest—I had maintenance set up a Pick frame at my office door. Then I had a sign made to hang from it that anyone taller than I am has to duck under; it says LIE DETECTOR.

The frame bell I control from my desk.

I’ve had hours of amusement watching the curious duck through that frame to see if there really is an eye that squawks when they enter with their lies. Even before I took over as Section Head my office was known as NeverNeverLand and the chair facing the desk was called The Hook.

I push the button only when Pick comes in. If I see him. Usually I don’t. A few times I’ve looked up to see a long thigh sitting on the edge of my desk and a hand playing with the mouse. He once asked me to make one for him. I refused, of course. It would have to be done in his office and the woman who values her reputation doesn’t go up to Pick’s office unless it’s absolutely necessary and then doesn’t stay longer than ten minutes. Fitzgerald says it takes him more than ten minutes to find … it.

I’ve also had to learn to laugh at myself. One Christmas vacation Zachariah and Fitzgerald put on my office door just below the nameplate

Iris Stuart

Legal counsel

another plaque made of the same official brass:

Ear balls & foot

Specialist

It’s still there. They expected me to take it down but by then I wasn’t afraid of either of them, although at the time everyone else was.

When I travel the Junta doesn’t tell me the contents of the oxblood leather briefcase chained to my right wrist. Usually I know what’s there because half an hour is set aside each morning for Eva Peterson to report what’s in the news, keeping me informed without my being masochistic watching it. Five minutes for the news, twenty-five for what’s happening in the building. I never ask the Junta.

I defend the briefcase with my life. Happily that extremity hasn’t come up often. Under pressure, packing for fieldwork, I’ve forgotten articles of clothing, never a shoulder holster—dyed to match custom-tailored blouses—for the Smith & Wesson Compact they assigned me: semi-automatic, 24 rounds, the only compact I carry. It is licensed to enter any country and to be on any