Three Metal Pellets

By M. J. Simms-Maddox

In book #3 of The Priscilla Trilogy, it is time for Priscilla to become the woman she was meant to be.

Set in the late 1980s, after Priscilla returns from her time in Africa, she is besieged by prospective PR clients. But Priscilla has long since decided to only take on projects of substance, "earthy." So she waits and waits until, one day she receives a handwritten note that reads: "Interested in spearheading the marketing campaign for the next president?"

Meanwhile, her one-time lover, Carlton Elliott Bernhardt, the swarthy, intrepid special operative, surprises her with an invitation to meet his family at their home in Bow Lake, New Hampshire: his parents--Emerson C. Bernhardt II and Lady Chelsea, his surrogate father and head butler of sorts--Ramses, and his older sister--Arvana, a socialite and cocaine-addict.

As Priscilla steps back into the public eye, the South African terrorists close in on her again, this time, on the home front. In the climax, Priscilla conducts the PR performance of her lifetime.

By the end of her epic adventure, Priscilla discovers that her world and her possibilities in it in love and in work are far larger than the small circumscribed world of Ohio politics and her traditional family, and that she is a darn good PR consultant, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. J. Simms-Maddox, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732240643

M. J. Simms-Maddox

M. J. Simms-Maddox, PhD, is an independent (“indie”) author and the creator of the Priscilla Series. The South Carolina native grew up in the Snowbelt of western New York and currently resides in North Carolina. She earned her doctorate in political science from the Ohio State University, has served as a legislative aide in the Ohio Senate, operated a PR firm, and taught political science for over thirty years, and she travels extensively—all of which plays prominently in the Priscilla Series. The author found her passion for writing fiction somewhat late in her life and has been writing mostly mysteries and thrillers since 1999. She is affiliated with the African Literature Association, the Chanticleer Authors’ Conference, the North Carolina Writers’ Network, and the Women’s National Book Association. Apart from writing novels about professional women with agency, she enjoys all-things-books, traveling, and working in her yard.

Book preview

Pellets

1

The Invitation and Chapungu Sculpture Park

It was time for Priscilla to become the woman she was meant to be.

Only a month after Priscilla returned to Columbus from the press conference in West Germany, she found that the services of her home-based business, P. J. Austin and Associates, Incorporated, were suddenly in high demand. But she was not interested in any of the requests. She had assumed, correctly, that most of the prospective clients had only wanted to play off her notoriety. And even before her time in Africa, around the time of the Ohio premier of the documentary Mandela, she had begun conducting business that carried substance, business that was earthy, not superficial. So in her upscale West Third Street PR home-office in Victorian Village, she waited and waited and waited for something earthy to come across her desk.

Then, one day in early fall, about a year after her return from Africa, she received a handwritten note that read: Interested in spearheading the marketing campaign for the next president? The note had been signed by someone named Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth. The correspondence also contained an invitation to a retreat and a private reception at the Choctaw Ridge Resort in Birmingham, Alabama.

Since she could not decide whether to accept or turn down the Hollingsworth invitation, she called her friend Julia, and the two friends talked over brunch at a restaurant downtown.

Well, Girlfriend, Julia said, it seems to me that you’ve finally gotten the project you’ve been longing for.

Yeah, well, usually those guys stick with someone they already have ties with. Then again, they just might still be fishing. Anyway, I was also wondering about something else.

Oh, please, I can tell you’re interested ’cause you’re talking to me about it, Julia said. So, what’s holding you back?

Truthfully? I’m overwhelmed with work in Africa, and an exploratory presidential elections campaign is intense, all con—

Priscilla, who said you can’t do both? Julia interrupted. Besides, don’t forget: you’re PJ Austin!

Yeah, well, Carlton wants me to give him a good two weeks per visit with the foundation; that’s three months a year—too much time away from a presidential elections campaign.

Julia retorted, as if she were relishing the moment, "Not really; remember, you’d be commanding a workforce that’ll implement the marketing plan, unless you’re going to be one of those micromanagers." She chuckled.

Whatever. But first I need to find out if this Hollingsworth fellow is legit. Up for a trip to Birmingham?

"Birmingham? What’s in that neck of the woods?"

‘The next president’, Girlfriend, the next American president.

Harare, Zimbabwe

Before flying down to Birmingham, Priscilla took a flight to Zimbabwe and spent two weeks there, meeting with Carlton Elliott Bernhardt, chairman of the board of the Bernhardt Foundation’s Boarding Schools for Zimbabwean and South African Girls, and some of the new board members. A few months after her first time in Africa—following her abduction and encounters with the South Africa Nationalist Movement’s Patrol Guard—Carlton had convinced her to serve as the chief executive officer. So she spent several weeks after that screening candidates for the roles of executive directors, finance directors, chief operating officers, and headmasters and headmistresses. She also noticed that more and more youngsters were qualifying for admission to the boarding schools; indeed, attending them soon became the rage. So this first year was essential to establishing the foundation’s work, hence the three months she had mentioned in her conversation with Julia.

As her airliner began its descent, Priscilla looked out of her window and spotted the unfinished, timeworn airport below. Situated in an open expanse south of the capital, the runway was poorly paved and deficient in comparison to runways in more developed nations. In fact, the Harare International Airport sat in the middle of what might easily have been construed as an incomplete construction zone. Heavy machinery, including Caterpillars, sat idle amid mounds of dirt and gravel. And the terminal itself was a small, dull gray split-level concrete-and-stucco structure. The tallest feature, the control tower, barely reached three stories above the main level—a far cry from the control towers at JFK and SEATAC. Travelers to Zimbabwe like Priscilla J. Austin figured that someone did not think enough about the image of the country to even fix up its airport. What a sad introduction to this place, she thought.

She looked back in her lap, and fastened her seatbelt.

As the plane roared and the city rushed by her, she turned, looked out of her window, and spotted, far away and just above a canopy of trees, the marble ramparts of the Anglican Cathedral.

Why on earth am I back here? Third time in a year!

Then she remembered a recent meeting with her psychiatrist, when he had said, One way to overcome fear or trauma is to confront it head-on.

Okay, I’m good with that. But just then, after the plane had landed and the doors to the aircraft had opened, the heat of the Zimbabwean winter gushed through the cabin of the aircraft. It reminded her of the downside of her trip. This time of the year, it was dry and hot, and 90 degrees Fahrenheit!

Priscilla and the other passengers stepped off the aircraft into the heat: there was no shelter to protect them from the elements. Beads of sweat quickly formed on their foreheads as they stepped down the staircase on to the tarmac, where, at once, pandemonium brushed up against them. Many of the passengers pushed and shoved one another beneath the belly of the fuselage as they struggled to identify their belongings to the baggage handlers: there was no carousel inside the terminal. After Priscilla’s first visit there, she had purchased a small moss-green canvas satchel and spray painted a big letter A for Austin on its rear. It did not take her a second time to figure out how to maneuver that scene successfully or to learn that expensive leather luggage would not survive the baggage claim experience. She pointed out her canvas satchel to one of the baggage handlers. He handed it to her, and she slipped him a U.S. fiver. Then she latched her canvas satchel across her shoulders and commenced a casual stroll through the arrival gate along a narrow corridor just past the waiting room, then inside to a makeshift customs venue. All clear. She resumed her stride.

As she strolled into the crowded main space of the terminal, she saw several flight attendants behind three British Airways counters frantically attending to anxious travelers. Priscilla had just disembarked a British Airways flight. There was similar disarray at the nearby South African Airways counters—the primary airline emanating from this part of the continent. But what may have appeared to have been pandemonium among the travelers was, in fact, the norm for airline travelers in Zimbabwe. There were no orderly queues or roped off sections leading travelers to and from certain counters, rather an open space in which everyone fended for themselves. Otherwise, the only amenity occupying travelers’ attention was a scantily stocked gift shop, not even a big-screen television—all reflective of the country’s fledging economy.

Priscilla took out a wet wipe that she had kept from her flight, opened the packet and patted some of the moisture from her forehead and cheeks. Ah, she felt refreshed.

As she watched the hectic scene inside the main terminal, she felt someone or something pulling at her canvas satchel. So she turned around to see who or what it was. A tall, handsome man with a Mediterranean complexion and long, wavy, black hair pulled back into a ponytail—her own Charles Boyer—Carlton Elliott Bernhardt wore a smirk on his face as he held onto a strap on her canvas satchel.

Say, young lady, how ’bout I give you a hand with your bags?

Oh, Carlton, Priscilla smiled approvingly. It’s so good to see you.

During the previous two times she had traveled to Harare, her contact with him had been purely professional: he had approached her from a distance and had hugged her in a professional way. But this time, he hugged her closer than ever before, rubbing her shoulders and arms, and kept the embrace for the longest time. And also to her surprise, she returned his long embrace and even rubbed his arms, his shoulders too high for her. She at last seemed willing to yield to his affection.

Say, Miss Prissy, he whispered in her ear. Up for a short safari?

Gee, love, what’s come over you? she whispered back. I thought you wanted to get right down to business.

Carlton noticed she had referred to him in an affectionate way. Even though they had worked together over the past several months, they had not resumed their earlier romance. But Carlton did not want to rush Priscilla, so as soon as they arrived at his Land Rover parked in front of the terminal, he handed her canvas satchel to the driver. He and Priscilla got inside the vehicle. Then they drove away.

Today I’m going to show you some of the wonderful sights of this gorgeous country, starting with the Chapungu Sculpture Park nearby, and then we fly up to Vic Falls. You’ll love it there.

I really can’t believe you’re taking a break from work. It’s so unlike you, Carlton. What gives?

‘What gives’ is you, Missy. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.

‘This moment?’

Yes, my sweets. This is the first time I’ve sensed that you actually want to be here—that is, to be near me in an affectionate way.

At long last, Priscilla had relaxed. She had not forgotten about her past traumas in this part of Africa; rather, she had begun to cope with them. Her well-being connected to Carlton’s, but she had yet to realize it.

Off to the Rainbow Towers Hotel and Conference Center they went. They took Airport Road and headed north to downtown. Along the way, Carlton and his driver pointed out some of the sights to Priscilla: golf courses, schools, a train station, Coronation Park, Greenwood Park, and the National Art Gallery. But Priscilla hardly heard a word that either man said. She was too busy marveling at the rows upon rows of street vendors peddling assortments of fruits and vegetables, colorful fabrics and clothing, and wooden carvings of elephants, giraffes, and turtles. Some of the vendors held up their wares for the passersby to see them more closely; some even ran up to their jeep and tried to push their wares on them.

For the first time over the course of her two previous trips here, Priscilla took notice of the impoverished conditions of the people, most of whom wore tattered, dingy-colored clothing, both African and Western wear. Elderly men and women sat on wooden stumps and broken chairs alongside the display stands, some helping with the vending. Small children frolicked about. Some people were even barefoot. Yet, there was much pride in the peoples’ faces.

During Priscilla’s two previous trips, she had not even bothered to take notice of any of the attractions, not even the people. She had been in Harare to perform a job. So whenever Carlton took her to her hotel, she had kept her face in her paperwork regarding the business of the foundation. But not this time. For whatever the reason, this time, she wanted to know more about the place that not too long ago had brought her so much pain and sorrow.

But Priscilla had experienced similar scenes before. Back when CF Lieutenant Jeremy Onslow had rescued her from the crypt in the Anglican Cathedral, when she had been blanketed en route to the CF central command outpost, she caught a glimpse of the night life and those vendors alongside the streets that led into the city. This time, however, it was daylight, and she saw more clearly what her eyes had only glimpsed in the dark of night. And what she saw was significant because now she was more acutely aware of the role the boarding schools would play in the young orphans’ lives.

The closer they approached downtown Harare, the more commercial establishments Priscilla saw: banks and oil and gas companies, tobacco, fast food, and telecommunications businesses. Soon, they were caught up in a traffic jam, but Priscilla became animated over something else. Near the Parliament building, she pointed to the structure and, for the first time, mentioned the name Robert Mugabe.

This time, she caught sight of the Anglican Cathedral through her peripheral vision; she was on land now, not up in the air. Carlton wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her shoulders.

Oh, Missy, it all seems so long ago. But you made it through all right. He continued marveling at the stark difference in Priscilla’s attitude on this trip as compared to her previous visits. Then he went silent again.

When she said, You know, Carlton, Harare is just like any other city, he just smiled.

Once at the lavish Rainbow Towers Hotel and Conference Center, Carlton took Priscilla to her room. She unpacked and dressed in attire more appropriate for safaris and touring, a T-shirt and khaki shorts.

Carlton had wanted to show her the Great Zimbabwe, a UNESCO World Heritage site—one of the most famous ruined cities from the late Iron Age in southern Africa, but it was over 150 miles south of Harare, too far away for her short visit. So in keeping with Priscilla’s love of art, he opted instead to take her to Chapungu Sculpture Park on the periphery of the city in Msasa. There, local sculptors displayed their works in Zimbabwean stone, especially serpentine, springstone, and leopard rock.

They drove a mere seventeen minutes to the southeastern outskirts of the capital to the sculpture park. During their ride, Priscilla talked about some of her family members who were artistic. Carlton, my love, did I ever tell you that my mom, Liza, can draw?

Carlton made a slight smile and now and then stared at her in silence.

She had just called him my love. Priscilla was sounding like her old self.

She spoke proudly about her mom’s artistic skills. She can draw anything or anybody. One time, when she was in high school, a mean ole teacher refused to believe that she had drawn a clown. The teacher tore up Momma’s work and told her to draw it again. Momma was crushed. She still talks about that to this day.

My goodness, Missy, I’m sorry to hear that.

Oh, Carlton, darling, that’s okay. Momma got the last laugh. Once again, she had used an affectionate term as she talked to her one-time lover.

So, once again, Carlton just smiled at her and held his peace, allowing Priscilla to talk freely and with such vigor, a trait he had not observed in her in over a year.

Yeah, Priscilla boasted, "’cause shortly after that incident, the local newspaper sponsored a drawing contest, and Momma entered some of her drawings and won. Then she added, Plus, two of my sisters, Helen and Camille; my brother, Nelson, Jr.; and even German are artists. As for me, well, I don’t have that particular gene."

"But Missy, you’re a PR woman. Can’t get any better than that." Carlton spoke with much pride. He kissed her on her cheek. Priscilla smiled.

Still somewhat unaware of her natural skills of persuasion, Priscilla politely brushed him off. Yeah, well, whatever, she said. Then she stood up in the jeep and pointed straight ahead of her. Will you get a load of this place!

The sign read: CHAPUNGU SCULPTURE PARK. Priscilla had never before seen such huge stone sculptures. Some of the massive stonework depicted human forms, whereas others were abstract works of art.

And they’re so big! she exclaimed.

But not all of the artwork was big. In fact, much of it varied in size—from artwork that could fit on a table to garden-size artwork, such as the whimsical pieces depicting baboons and children embedded in the colorful landscape of succulents amid the lushness of the tall green plants and trees, a feature that would soon be adopted by American museums and botanical gardens.

As they entered the facility, an eager tour guide greeted them and immediately began his spiel. This park was conceived by Frank McEwen and opened in 1957. He wanted to provide local artists with a place to showcase their artwork, particularly of their Shona culture.

Then the tour guide pointed to a wall in the facility and a black-and-white photograph of another man, and said, Joram Mariga. Beyond any doubt, it was Joram’s influence on the local artistic community that led to his being called ‘the father of Zimbabwean sculpture.’ He told the couple that Joram had endorsed Shona sculpture, so the park featured mostly sculpture of that kind.

The Shona are the dominant ethnic group in Zimbabwe, the tour guide went on. They have strong beliefs in their ancestors and the belief that spirits inhabit nature in trees, water, mountains, and stone, and they have a vague idea of a remote High God. Some believe in the High God of Mwari, whose spirit inhabits people called ‘mediums.’ Witchcraft and sorcery are widespread. But there’s not much belief in an afterlife. Priscilla felt that the tour guide had spoken those last words as if he had wanted them to mean something to her.

Occasionally, Priscilla ventured away from Carlton and the tour guide. During one absence (as Priscilla later found out), the tour guide whispered to Carlton: She, well, she looks like that young lady who was in the news a while back.

And right you are, Carlton said, and he walked away as if he had been rudely interrupted. The tour guide evidently got the message and no longer mentioned the subject of Priscilla’s highly recognized persona.

When the tour guide noticed Priscilla staring at a massive figurative sculpture by Joseph Ndandarika, titled Magic Bird, he walked closer to her, and said, Joseph, like Michelangelo, believed that spirits inhabited rock formations and that, as sculptors, they unleashed the spirit in the stone in the course of their work. But Priscilla still did not fully appreciate the Shona belief that spirits inhabit stone and other elements in nature.

Then, Priscilla saw another impressive image of a bird, though a much smaller stone carving—a regal Bateleur Eagle, created by John Takawira, that had been made for and later presented to Pope John Paul II. But Priscilla was equally fascinated with a portrait of the colorful bird that was mounted behind its stone rendition: bare patches of bright red skin surrounded its eyes and the base of its bill. It’s mighty, grey shoulders—complemented by a shimmering coat of black feathers adorning its body and head—contrasted against its large red-colored feet, offset by a very small orange tail.

Oh yeah, Priscilla said to herself sarcastically. It’s ‘colorful’ all right.

But since the foot-high stone rendering of the Bateleur Eagle was of serpentine, the sleek, black, polished, stately creature suddenly commanded Priscilla’s attention.

As you can see, Ms. Austin, the tour guide said, "Takawira didn’t much care for colored stones. He preferred springstone, a hard, black serpentine, hence the remarkable contrast against the colorful bird in the portrait.

He added, The Bateleur Eagle is our national emblem, that is, the Zimbabwean national emblem. He exuded pride in those last words.

The tour guide continued pointing out works by other sculptors who had become internationally known, including Dominic Benhura, Makina Kameya, Sylvester Mubayi, and Fabian Madamombe, but Priscilla’s enthusiasm had begun to wane. She had been moving about the immense space for a little over an hour. Her pace slowed as she trailed behind Carlton and the tour guide. Both men were trying to show her more of the twenty-acre facility and its park. But neither man had taken into account that Priscilla had not long disembarked from a long international flight. In addition, there was a seven-hour time difference between the United States Eastern Time zone and that of Zimbabwe.

Just as the tour guide suggested they go outside and look at some of the sculpture in and around the pond, Priscilla had nearly dozed off from where she stood. Or did she doze off from where she leaned?

Once the tour guide and Carlton noticed her absence, they eventually caught sight of her leaning against a huge stone statue of a woman that seemed to be floating midair. Plainly, Priscilla’s jet lag had overtaken her. Carlton finally realized that much, so he picked up her small, sleep-deprived body and carried her back to the Land Rover.

Then they headed to the airport, not back to the hotel as Priscilla had thought. Then they boarded a jet to Victoria Falls.

2

Victoria Falls

Situated well over three hundred miles west of Harare, the powerful Victoria Falls pours into the Zambezi, one of the continent’s longest rivers. Priscilla slept throughout half of the flight there. She finally awoke around noon the same day that she and Carlton had gone to the Chapungu Sculpture Park, just as the plane was circling the falls.

As she peered out of her window, Wow! I can’t believe my eyes! she cried out, like an excited little girl.

Then she spotted some tourists bungee jumping off the Zambezi Bridge that connected Victoria Falls to Zambia, and said, I don’t think they’d let us do that in America.

When the airplane landed, a driver met the couple and drove them to the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge. As they drove up to the entrance to the hotel, Priscilla could not believe her eyes. She saw a small group of tourists standing at the entrance, watching a tall, middle-aged black man adorned in colorful regalia: an oversized feather-laden headdress, a leopard-skin robe, and beads around his ankles. He had an ashen-covered face, and he stomped his feet and pointed a wooden staff here and there, as if he were warning the visitors to keep away. Then he pranced about some broken bones scattered on the ground near his feet. He stopped abruptly. He pointed to a wooden painted shield that was erected against the wall behind him. The closest thing Priscilla had ever seen resembling the man was what Americans call a medicine man from some of the American Indian tribes. She stood mesmerized as the man performed his ritual and danced—bending over and picking up some of the bones and tossing them much as someone tosses dice on a casino table. Suddenly, he paused and mumbled something unintelligible to Priscilla’s ears. She felt as if he were addressing her. She stared at the man and smiled. He smiled back at her. Then he resumed his performance. Priscilla did not realize that the man was an employee of the hotel catering to the whims of the tourists.

After she and Carlton had gone to their room and changed clothes, Priscilla said, Please, Carlton. I want to see the falls.

With much excitement, again she said, Please, Carlton. I want see the falls.

Carlton was so surprised at the extent of her excitement that he stopped leafing through his tour packet of coupons for a safari and a tour of Victoria Falls. Okay, Missy. Let’s go. He had never before seen her so excited.

She continued to insist that they leave: "Now, I want to go now."

So Carlton took out the two tickets to the falls, and the couple left their hotel suite and caught a hotel van to Victoria Falls. So much for the safari and the tour that I arranged, Carlton thought, as he later shared with her.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the falls. They got out of the hotel van, joined several other eager tourists, handed the attendant their tickets, and walked down a steep hill to get a closer look at the three massive, gushing cataracts which were much taller and wider than Niagara Falls, near Priscilla’s home, Prendergast, New York.

And to think my family used to think it was big deal to take everyone visiting us to see Niagara Falls! she exclaimed. Wait’ll they get a load of this!

Next, they hurried over to the imposing statue of Scottish missionary and explorer David Livingstone, which overlooked the falls he had renamed to honor Britain’s Queen Victoria in 1855. There, Priscilla overheard a tour guide: Long before Europeans set eyes on the waterfalls, local tribesmen had already named them ‘Smoke that Thunders’ or Mosi-oa-tunya.

Later that evening, the couple walked the grounds of the impressive resort. They occasionally overheard some of the guests laughing out loud at the sound of someone screaming. Some of the other guests had left their windows and doors open, and some monkeys had entered their rooms. Magnificent peacocks also paraded about the grounds.

Back in the dining area, Priscilla and Carlton, along with the other guests, looked down onto a watering hole and watched elephants as they bathed. Priscilla listened to some of the people talking and noticed that they were from many different countries. Their accents gave them away, so most of the time, she and Carlton whispered to keep the other guests guessing their nationality.

Oh, Carlton, this place is as magnificent as you described it, she said. My God, this is beautiful country.

Oh, Missy, it’s so good to see you back at yourself again. I’ve missed you so much.

And I, you.

Just then several other couples made their way to the dance floor. Simon and Garfunkel’s popular Bridge over Troubled Water was playing through loudspeakers. Come, let’s dance, Carlton said. That’s a beautiful love song. Both he and she were familiar with the lyrics:

When you’re weary, feeling small,

When tears are in your eyes,

I will dry them all.

I’m on your side.

Oh, when times get rough.

And friends just can’t be found.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

When you’re down and out.

When you’re on the street.

When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you.

I’ll take your part.

Oh, when darkness comes,

And pain is all around,

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will lay me down.

Sail on silver girl, sail on by.

Your time has come to shine.

All your dreams are on their way.

See how they shine.

Oh, if you need a friend,

I’m sailing right behind.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will ease your mind.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will ease your mind.

As he held her close, all that Carlton could think about was how much he wanted Priscilla to know that he loved her, and that he wanted to be her bridge over troubled water.

So the couple danced and danced and danced.

Then, when they returned to their suite, Priscilla noticed for the first time that Carlton’s personal effects were there. As he disrobed, she said, Am I so jetlagged I didn’t realize we were in the same suite?

And?

Oh, no problem, I just can’t get over how long it’s been. I mean, I haven’t— She was overtaken by sorrow.

Oh, Missy, go ahead and cry. I’ve wondered over and over what it’d be like for you to even contemplate being with me again. So never mind me; I can wait forever. Then he lifted her up, softly kissed her forehead and neck, and rubbed her arms and shoulders, much as a loving parent would comfort a child.

As he cradled her small body, she said, Life’s so strange. He set her down, and she sat on the edge of the bed. First I tell you that we can’t be together because my family will never accept you, and you oblige. Then, I tell you that we can’t be together because I’m committed to another man, and again, you oblige. But now, I’m conflicted even more.

I know, I know, Missy. But it’s all okay and believe me, I certainly know how strange life can be.

Oh, Carlton, please, she said, as she stared into his alluring eyes, you’ve always lived such a privileged life. How on earth can you possibly know what I mean?

Missy, have you forgotten already? Your mother’s views are one thing, but my uncle was actually part of an organization that— Priscilla covered his mouth.

Oh, love, don’t do that to yourself. You had no way of knowing.

That may be a fact, but once your mom finds out that there’s something between you and someone even remotely connected to the apartheid regime, our goose is definitely cooked.

Crap. I never thought about all that.

Well, now, Missy. Let’s see how we get out of this one. Meanwhile, don’t you think it’s high time we both let go of some of our excess baggage, including our bizarre concerns about how our families might react to our being together?

Now that’s definitely much easier said than done.

Oh-h?

Carlton, there’s something else I need to run past you. Priscilla had long grown tired of talking about her family’s dislike of mixed-race couples, so she welcomed the opportunity to talk about something else.

Oh, yeah, pray tell, he said.

Well, she said as she stared closely at him for any reaction to what she was about to say, the other day I received an invitation to spearhead the marketing campaign for a presidential hopeful.

Wow! Missy, you go girl!

His name is Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth. He’s a congressman out of Birmingham, and I plan on giving him a once-over.

Carlton laughed with tremendous vigor. Welcome to the big league, ole girl! And I’m sure you know this, too, you can handle.

If only it were all that simple.

So you’re concerned our personal connection might adversely affect your guy’s campaign? Is that it?

Well, yeah, since you put it so bluntly.

Here we go again, Carlton said. Only this time it’s as complicated as hell.

Yet he thought it would never be a better time to explain something to Priscilla, so he said, Missy, circumstances are a tad more complicated than you might possibly imagine, and I mean that in every sense of the word. You see, you still view the world from a relatively narrow perspective. You’re so American in that respect.

Oh, really! an animated Priscilla said. Now it’s your turn to tell all.

We live in a global society, not a black-and-white world, not dichotomous, if you will. You see, you take for granted my being Lebanese. But do you have any idea what that means to many Americans today?

That your family’s from Lebanon, somewhere in the Near—or is that the Middle?—East. She sighed as if she had answered part of a pop quiz correctly.

Yeah, well, just as I thought. You’ve got your homework cut out for you, kiddo, and if my gut instincts serve me well, so, too, has the Hollingsworth Exploratory Presidential Elections Campaign team.

Now I’m really confused.

Miss Prissy, you’d better pour yourself a drink and leave the bottle on the table, ’cause it’s gonna be a long night. My story goes way back to the beginning of recorded history, before the Common Era, if you will.

Carlton began telling Priscilla about the place that some historians call the Near East, or the Middle East, especially the territory encompassing what is known as the Holy Land. He told her about the land that was once called Canaan, the land of milk and honey. He told her about the untold number of invasions in the area—from biblical times to the present, and ranging from Egypt, Assyria, and Rome under Pompey and Constantine to the Arab nations and to France under Napoleon.

Perhaps the most dramatic ‘invasion’ of all was the date the state of Israel was forcibly established, May 14, 1948, by the Israeli leader, David Ben-Gurion. Many of my relatives, former neighbors, and other Palestinian acquaintances were driven out of their homeland. They were displaced, Priscilla, much as the Jews were displaced by the Nazis in Germany and Eastern Europe. Only the Palestinians were displaced by what America and its European allies called the ‘good guys,’ Carlton said.

Priscilla asked, And so, why’s all that rel—?

Then it dawned on her what Carlton was trying to explain.

Oh-h, I see, now.

Yes, so now you’re beginning to see. Now I’m not just your Lebanese lover. Now, the reality of the situation sets in, eh?

Yes, I see.

"Missy, when people think of Lebanon today, they don’t see olive orchards, old television personalities, and financial institutions. They see the movie Raid on Entebbe. They see mean men hijacking aircraft and bombing airports. They see terrorists."

But while Carlton brought Priscilla up-to-date on what some people thought about the Lebanese people and on relations between the Palestinian Arabs and the Israelis and the West, she was thinking. She had no intention of letting go of her love for him merely because he was Lebanese, or, more precisely, Palestinian.

After she drank another glass of gin and tonic, she yelled out. By golly, I’ve got it!

All right, kiddo, I’ll bite.

Carlton, the long and short of it all is to try and beat the other side by getting out our version of the story first. So let’s start with your grandfather Emerson I’s reason for coming to America in the first place. And his politics. Any charities? What about your grandmother Marlena?

By the time that Priscilla had addressed a few more of Carlton’s concerns that his Lebanese ethnicity might be an impediment to her work on the Hollingsworth Exploratory Presidential Elections Campaign, even he had come to terms with her plan.

Oh-h, I get it now!

Priscilla nodded. Her plan would be especially important when she would learn about Carlton’s father’s longtime affiliation with JK McDougal, a major presidential contender. Surely the McDougal campaign had long since been aware of the Bernhardts’ ethnicity.

And as for the Hollingsworth camp, Priscilla went on, well, now, I really don’t think my association with you is going to be as big an issue as you might have thought. So, let’s not worry ourselves over any of that just yet. Incidentally, Carlton, my darling, do you really think yours is the only family with interesting ancestry and secrets? By the time the presidential elections campaign is over, much of what we’ve just discussed will pale as compared to issues confronting some of the other guys.

As things began to settle in her mind, Priscilla whispered to Carlton. We can resume our high-level talks tomorrow, maybe. But tonight, let’s join with the angels and take flight over the magnificence of the waterfalls. So for the first time in nearly two years, Carlton and Priscilla made love—again and again and again.

Carlton waited until Priscilla had fallen asleep. Then he called his friend and CF associate, Commander Tommy Wozniah, in Cleveland, Ohio.

Yeah, man, it’s going to be Hollingsworth, after all, Carlton said. They’ve asked our girl to join their campaign team and to attend a retreat at their resort."

Needn’t fret, my man, the CF commander said, we’ll alert some of the guys to follow the campaign team. Plus we’ve got connections with the candidate’s chief of security, Chuck Smirnoff.

Uh huh, yes. I understand.

But Carlton, you needn’t alter your plans, the CF commander said. We can handle things on our end and keep you informed. Okay?

But hold awhile, Tommy. Do you think they’ll try anything at the resort? Or will they wait until the primaries are underway? Plainly, the CF had readied for any renewed activity on the part of the revived SANM Patrol Guard. Only Carlton had not divulged any of that intel with the woman he loved.

Can’t answer that one yet, but we’re planning for every possibility. So calm down, man. We’ve got this.

And, do you—? Oh, never mind.

Out with it, Carlton. What’s on your mind?

I already answered my own question, man. I was wondering if we should at least alert Miss Prissy.

We’ve considered that, too, the CF commander said. "There’ll be a familiar face in the crowd at the reception and also at the other events down the road. Now, I bet you understand the rule against fraternizing with any of our wards. You’re too close. Just take care of things on your end."

Then the CF commander added, Say, man, have you had the ‘You know I’m Lebanese’ talk yet?

Yeah, finally, but I can’t say she fully gets it all yet.

She will. Just give her some time. Missy’s a political scientist, so she’s got to do her own research. But at least now you’ve prepared her for what might be an onslaught. Get some rest. It must be midnight over there.

Later, man, Carlton said, and they both disconnected their call.

The day after Priscilla returned to Columbus from Zimbabwe and the day before she flew with Julia to Birmingham, she went to the library on the main campus of The Ohio State University and began researching the history of the Hollingsworths of Birmingham. She wanted to know the answer to the main question on her mind: was Congressman Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth a man who knew who he was and what he wanted?

She learned that the family possessed a proud tradition of entrepreneurship and public service extending six generations, five of which had been in America.

For decades, the Hollingsworths had worked in the sugarcane industry in Barbados. Then, shortly after Barbados became independent, in the mid-1850s, Fleetwood Marshall’s great-great-grandfather—Marshall Hollingsworth—learned that Alabama was lacking a direct trade route to the much-sought-after sugar, so he migrated to Birmingham to open an import business and distribution site there. He did so even though slavery was still legal in the United States and he had enslaved relatives in the nation.

Priscilla immediately related to the Hollingsworth family. She had once worked with several faculty members at Florida A&M University who hailed from the West Indies, and she herself had traveled near Barbados. It was the summer that she had escorted some students from FAMU to the University of the West Indies in Trinidad. She remembered how fascinated she was to learn that Trinidad was so close to the coast of Venezuela and that Barbados was just a short distance northeast of Trinidad. As if she had been there with Fleetwood Marshall’s great great-grandfather, Priscilla could see through his eyes as he made his way to Birmingham.

Shortly after Marshall Hollingsworth arrived in Birmingham, he had established his sugar import business with little interference—mainly because the commodity was in high demand and white people overlooked his race. Later, after he visited the ports of Pensacola and Mobile, he was tempted to alter his original business plan—namely to move his import business from landlocked Birmingham to one of the two more alluring ports. After realizing that the ports’ tariffs on sugarcane would reduce his business’s profits, he decided to stick with his original business plan. As a consequence, his sugar import business thrived.

Later, Marshall Hollingsworth successfully expanded his sugar-import business by setting up import offices in Pensacola and New Orleans.

Then, shortly after the Civil War, Marshall Hollingsworth expanded his business interests by investing in a printing company and in other enterprises. This expansion eventually led to the highly successful Hollingsworth Industries.

After passage of the Fifteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution—giving former slaves the right to vote and hold public office—the Hollingsworths of Birmingham extended their interests into politics. Encouraged by the family to seek a seat in Congress, Furillo Marshall Hollingsworth, one of Marshall Hollingsworth’s sons, became one of the first African Americans to be elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from Alabama.

In her research, Priscilla also discovered that each Hollingsworth generation, without exception, was frugal in its business dealings, even though the Hollingsworth businesses, like many others, rose and fell with the ever-fluctuating economy. As a consequence, the family managed to follow the great-great-grandfather’s mantra, Save and invest. She also discovered the family’s emphasis on the importance of education in its business interests.

Eventually, Priscilla discovered the sheer pragmatism that had guided the Hollingsworth businessmen in their dealings—a trait which contributed much to the success of their enterprises. For example, Furillo Marshall revived some of the banks in Birmingham, but chose not to publicize their black ownership. He was aware of the new Jim Crow laws in the South, including Alabama. So he and other businessmen of the Hollingsworth family hired white floor managers and tellers, along with a few black employees. They also served their customers according to a separate but equal doctrine: the banks maintained public facilities and accommodations for coloreds only and for whites only. Indeed, so carefully pragmatic were they that they rarely ventured into the public sphere downstairs from their offices.

Nearing the end of her research, Priscilla discovered the one quest that had so long eluded the Hollingsworth family—a move into politics that would rival the success of the Hollingsworth business dealings. Or, as Grandfather Marshall Hollingsworth had said, We’ve got to get one of our sons elected president. To prepare for the quest, Hollingsworth family members served in Congress, on school boards, as state representatives and senators, as lawyers and local judges, and as entrepreneurs. Then came Fleetwood Marshall.

A fifth generation Hollingsworth, Fleetwood Marshall had already regained the family’s stature in Congress. So he was the most likely to fulfill the ultimate quest.

Priscilla learned that she had not been approached by a novice or a traditional civil rights activist or a high-profile clergyman such as the one for whom the airport in Birmingham had been renamed.

School children across the nation, including a younger Priscilla, had read about the role of such prominent figures in the civil rights era. But the schoolchildren, as well as many students of the black civil rights movement, rarely contemplated the composition of the backbone of those activities and movements. They did not know that the Hollingsworths and others like them had often facilitated much local civil rights activity through their financial support. Moreover, long before telecommunications and high technology, radio and print media had been the rage, and black businessmen in families such as the Hollingsworths had pretty much owned their own media outlets, further enhancing their capacity to back their preferred causes as well as to express opposition to unjust laws.

So that’s the backstory, Priscilla said as she concluded her research on the Hollingsworths of Birmingham. Now, she knew she had been contacted by a man who knew who he was and what he wanted.

But Priscilla still felt a need to know why Congressman Fleetwood Marshall Hollingsworth had chosen her to manage the public relations of his campaign. For after all, the congressman could have any PR firm of his choosing.

3

Revival of the SANM PG, and the Judges, too

Exhausted after her long day of research on the Hollingsworths at the university library, Priscilla returned to her home-office and headed straight to her bedroom to rest. But her doorbell ringing indicated that sleep would be put off a while longer. As she walked closer to her front door, she immediately recognized through the window panes two figures standing on her porch. FBI Agent Marvin Rothschild was tall, dark, and handsome with a full head of black hair. Standing closely beside him was a middle-aged man of medium build with a receding hairline, CIA Agent James Froley.

Nah, now what? Priscilla said as she opened her door and allowed the men to enter.

Evening, Ms. Austin, Agent Froley said, shaking her hand with a firm grip.

PJ, Girlfriend, Agent Rothschild said as he planted a kiss on her cheek.

After greeting her unexpected guests, Priscilla told them that she had just come home herself and that she needed to freshen up.

Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be with you shortly.

But before she excused herself, Agent Rothschild asked if he could show Agent Froley around her home-office. He had been to Priscilla’s West Third Street apartment before, but Agent Froley had not. Priscilla graciously consented to the agent’s request. Besides, she really did not wish to be bothered with either of them.

In June of 1986, FBI Agent Rothschild had been assigned to investigate two mysterious shootings that had occurred at the altar at First AME Zion Church in Columbus on the day of Priscilla’s ill-fated wedding where the groom—the Reverend Jonathan Morgan, the pastor of the church—had mistakenly been shot and killed. The assassin, a member of the SANM PG, had incapacitated, not killed, his intended target, Ohio state Senator Daniel P. Callahan. The assassin had been assigned to eliminate the senator because he had sponsored the South African Divestiture (SAD) Bill. Meanwhile, Priscilla had been abducted from the church, and her time in Africa had begun. While the CIA had dealt with her abduction and with capturing the SANM PG, FBI Agent Rothschild had been assigned to investigate the two shootings at the church. So, on the day in question, he and Columbus Police Detective David Stoudemeir had investigated the crime scene at the church; then the two officials had accompanied her friend Julia to Priscilla’s home-office in the quaint Victorian Village community near the university campus to locate the videotape of the Ohio Senate’s debate on the SAD Bill. Then, Agent Rothschild had gotten acquainted with Priscilla’s mother Liza, her nephew Germane, and Julia because he had been assigned to their protective detail.

But CIA Agent Froley only knew of Priscilla through her time in Africa through his work with the Collective Force (CF)—the unauthorized special operatives’ unit of the CIA that had brought about Priscilla’s successful rescue. But he did not know that three of his agents—Tommy Wozniah, Bartholomew Jordan and Angelo Delgato—had once tried to recruit Priscilla during her tenure as legislative aide to Senator Callahan. Nor did he know about Priscilla’s relationship with one of his other agents, Carlton Elliott Bernhardt. But he would be enlightened otherwise over the coming weeks and months.

As it turned out, however, Agent Froley’s superior officer knew about all of this and more. As for Priscilla, she only knew of the CF through her time with them in Africa, but nothing concrete, not even the name the CF unit.

Agent Froley’s superior officer knew how the SANM PG and the Judges had operated and how one day, soon, they would resume their efforts to capture and kill Priscilla. Equally important was his awareness that recruiting Priscilla into their ranks would strengthen the CIA’s ability to locate more of the SANM PG and the Judges and eventually to put them down. Therefore, upon Priscilla’s return to the States from her time in Africa, the superior officer, an unnamed deputy director, had instructed Agent Froley to recruit her into their ranks. Her cover had been designated as an ordinary citizen who happened to be a public relations consultant.

Well, that’s not a difficult role to play, Priscilla had said upon accepting the offer to join the CIA.

But Agent Froley did not see Priscilla’s potential asset as did his superior officer. Set in his old ways, he could not get past her race—or her gender, for that matter. But when his superior officer had explained to him how Priscilla’s role with the agency impacted his possible career advancement, Agent Froley began to get the point. Besides, his superior officer had told him, "a possible promotion to my slot is in order, if you play your cards right." Therefore, CIA Agent James Froley welcomed this unexpected opportunity to learn more about the heretofore mysterious PJ Austin.

Back at Priscilla’s home-office, Agent Froley was observing for the first time where Priscilla lived and conducted her PR business.

Agent Rothschild turned to his colleague and began speaking much like a docent in a museum, waving his hands in the air: This is PJ’s reception area where she greets her clients.

Still standing near the threshold of the front door, Agent Froley noticed a glass-topped tea table with some magazines set in the middle of the front of a coffee-colored sofa that sat against the back wall, each side of which was outfitted with a floor-model vase of long-stem dried plantings. He saw two floral-patterned Queen Anne chairs, one near the wall on the other side of the room and the other situated adjacent to the tea table. A lighted floor lamp stood beside each chair. He saw how Priscilla’s guests could face one another and how they could see the front door as well as the French doors leading to her office across the way. He also observed splashes of color in the fluffy pillows on the sofa and in the two landscape prints on the wall behind the sofa, and that an Oriental rug framed the space.

Well, Jim, what do you think, so far? Agent Rothschild asked his colleague.

Doesn’t exactly look like a black woman lives here.

Agent Rothschild relished the opportunity to show his CIA colleague that Priscilla was an ordinary person who happened to be black, just as he, Agent Rothschild, happened to be Jewish. Agent Froley was in for a short learning curve.

Agent Rothschild then opened the French doors that led to Priscilla’s office. Just as he walked into the space, Agent Froley stopped spellbound. There before him was an office that could easily have been that of any chief executive of a major corporation. Two tall windows on two separate walls rendered a stately appearance to the space. To his right, Agent Froley saw a huge mahogany desk in front of a decorative fireplace, a desk which Priscilla seldom used. A small lamp, a dark sleek multiline telephone, a pen and pencil holder with a crystal clock centerpiece, a marble ashtray, and a few other items were situated on her desk, and a dark, leather, high-back swivel chair behind the desk. Agent Froley saw that Priscilla kept an immaculate and impressive workspace. Nothing black about any of that, either.

Then Agent Froley gazed upon two magnificently, striped, silk upholstered chairs in front of the mahogany desk. Then he stared at an aquarium of colorful succulents in rocks and sand on the floor beside it, and then at a print of the Tappan Zee Bridge and another one of a rolling creek. Each print was hung from the wall on each side of the chimney behind her desk.

Next, Agent Rothschild walked to the only piece of personal furniture in the office: a Baldwin piano situated in front of the two windows facing the two men. He tapped on some of the keys.

And to think she has musical talents, too, he said.

But Agent Froley’s attention was less on the piano than on the black-and-white photos that sat on top of the musical instrument. He examined the attractive images of Priscilla’s siblings. Mostly though, he marveled at the photo of Nelson and Liza dressed in formal attire at a fund-raiser for former New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller. He knew that Priscilla’s father had been a staunch Republican, but now that fact was confirmed. But then, he wondered, So why’d she work for a Democratic state senator and now for Congressman Hollingsworth?

Instinctively, the heretofore narrow-minded CIA agent turned around to see what else was in the impressive space. He saw an IBM desktop computer, a printer, a scanner, and a fax machine on a workstation next to