The Final Veil: Who had kidnapped America's favorite belly dancer?

by Pat Powers

  "Sure," said Thomson.

  "We'll have to move fast," I said. "I can't hold this lead from the Atlanta PD for long, and I really don't want to -- they can do a full court press on this one and maybe get some results."

  "I'll move fast," said Thomson.

  “So what's the story with Speakman?" I asked. "Did you get anything interesting in his PGP files?"

  "No smoking guns or anything, but I did find something," said Thomson. "It looks like Speakman was planning some sort of kidnapping, and that he had accomplices in the planning."

  "Oh, really," I said.

  "Yeah, I found a group of archived comments from a chat site that he'd saved," said Thomson. "Unfortunately, it's hard to tell from the context if they were just bullshitting around or if they really had some kind of job planned. It was a chat site for "force fantasies" fans, which is apparently their cover term for rape fantasies. But it could bear checking out."

  "Is there anything solid for us to go on other than a bunch of chatroom names?" I said.

  "I was able to trace a couple of the participants via their headers," said Thomson. "Either they're real neophytes about security, or they're not worried about it -- and they should be, considering some of the trash they were talking. So I've got real names and addresses for them. One's in Connecticut, one's in Florida and one's in St. Louis. But I notice none of them is more than a long day's drive from Atlanta."

  “I'll put Corporate Investigations on it," I said. "Do you have their names and numbers on you?"

  Thomson smiled. "Are grits groceries?" he asked, pulling out a sheet of paper with a neatly typed series of addresses.

  "OK," I said. "Great work. I'll give them a call and get them moving. Did you get any more on the Animal Woman?"

  "I did," said Thomson. "She's a brilliant young scholar who looked to have a promising career ahead of her in archaeology. She studied particularly sexual aspects of ancient cultures. Some of the things she studied put her in contact with the Goreans. She really liked the Goreans and thought they had something going with their atavistic sexual practices. Eventually, she became a Gorean slavegirl in her private life. Some of the things she wrote reflecting her beliefs about the nature of sexuality and how that was reflected in ancient societies brought her into conflict with feminist academics. You know anything about academic infighting, John?"

  "Not much, really," I confessed. "I've heard it's supposed to be vicious, but my days as a cop, where I dealt with people who really do go after one another with knives and whatnot has given me a certain perspective on the term 'vicious' which I would not apply to people who confine their conflicts to words. They may be mad, but they're civilized."

  "Yeah, you've got a point," said Thomson. "But what you have to realize is that it's for keeps, as a general rule. Generally academics who disagree with one another use words to discredit the ideas, the techniques, the very person of the academic they disagree with. Now, in academia reputation is everything. You build a good rep by doing good work in whatever field you are involved with. When someone attacks your work, they're not just attacking the abstract ideas or theories that are the basis of your work -- they're also attacking your livelihood. If they succeed in discrediting you, you could lose your income, your standing in the community, and any chance for advancement within that community. So it's personal in ways that most people don't understand."

  "Did Zygmonska get discredited?" I asked with interest.

  "Not really," said Thomson. "She achieved a certain fame as a result of her conflicts with the feminists. They tried to discredit her, but Zygmonska had done her homework and had evidence for all her theories, even if there were competing theories that explained her evidence away."

  "So it was kind of a draw," I said.

  "Exactly," said Thomson. "And being a draw, it was pretty much a win for her. She was the academic rogue, the one with the challenging new ideas that the established academics couldn't explain away. Feminists have a lot of influence in academia -- those women's studies departments have been a real bastion for them -- and I'm sure she would have been barred from a lot of universities by faculty who disagreed with her. But she would have been welcomed at many universities looking for some notoriety to beef up their faculty. And some important universities like to have rogues like Zygmonska on their faculty, especially if they do sound research work. So she had all the marbles. In fact, she was in a tenured post as a guest lecturer at Old Dominion when she disappeared about six months ago. Dropped right off the map. They were worried it might be a kidnapping at first, but she had left a note and made some calls and explained she was on some kind of sabbatical."

  I had to grin at that one. "Sabbatical, right," I said. "She's playing at being a pony girl."

  "What?" asked Thomson.

  "Last time I saw her, she had a metal plug shoved up her butt with a fake tail sticking out of it, she was wearing a ballgag and nothing much else, and her hands were cuffed behind her back," I said. "She was living like a pony. Her idea."

  Thomson grinned wryly. "How does she handle crapping with that thing in her butt and her hands cuffed?" he asked.

  "She has to beg people to pull it out for her," I said.

  "Did she ..." Thomson asked.

  "First thing she did," I said with a wry grin. "She needed to go pretty badly."

  "Man, this is the weirdest case..." Thomson said.

  "You don't know the half of it," I agreed. "This is definitely the weirdest case I've ever handled. I'd like it a lot better if April's life weren't in danger, though."

  "True," said Thomson. "Those CIA black ops guys definitely give me the willies."

  "I'll take them over your garden variety serial killer any day," I said. "They're sane, at least. In any event, it looks like this whole deal is some kind of brainwashing/reprogramming thing. I'm feeling a lot better about finding her alive since I figured that out."

  "You might not find her at all, if the CIA gets onto you," said Thomson. "In fact, you might vanish. Better watch your back out there."

  "I will," I said. "But I stll think it's a rogue doing some kind of side thing. Like that Mopus Deim guy that tried to convince a stripper to go straight and become a nice girl on the side while he was spying for the Soviets."

  My line didn't reduce Thomson's paranoia a bit. He insisted that we leave the restaurant separately, and he advised me to sweep my van for bugs. I agreed, then left the restaurant and headed down to Atlanta police headquarters for a talk with my old partner Jenkins.

  I was worried, I really needed to give Jenkins the lead that Dancer's father had provided, because the Atlanta PD had the resources to follow that one up and I didn't. But I feared it would point back to the CIA, which could endanger April. But then, I knew Jenkins, he still cared about the fate of victims. Not so much, perps, but a victim like April he would want to protect. I decided to open the whole bag for him.

  Chapter 33

  It doesn't account for the lesbian belly dancers, but then, what would?

  Atlanta police headquarters was its usual smelly, busy place, full of people of all colors being questioned and booked for the litany of misery that lay beneath any big city's crime statistics.

  Detective Jenkins was glad to see me. "Tell me you got some hot new leads," said Jenkins. "The brass is hot about this one, they're all over everyone's butt to solve it because of all the publicity."

  "I got some hot new leads for you," I said, grinning at him.

  "The hell you do," said Jenkins. "Spill."

  So I told him about the "intervention" people who spoke with April's father.

  "He never told us about that when he made his statement," said Jenkins thoughtfully.

  "He thought he was working with people who would help April," I said. "He thought of the Goreans as a kind of cult who had gotten hold of April's mind. It's not entirely unreasonable -- I've seen magazine articles saying that sort of thing about them. And some people who call themselves Goreans, or at least claim
to be influenced by Gor novels, have done some things that got them imprisoned. His concerns were not entirely misplaced."

  "Surely you remember from your days with the Department that it's illegal to lie to us during the course of an investigation," said Jenkins reproachfully.

  "Yeah, I remember all the people we prosecuted for that serious crime," I said. "I mean, feel free to sweat him with that threat, but I can tell you that his wife has gotten everything there is to be gotten out of him."

  "Oh, it's like that, is it?" said Jenkins.

  "It's EXACTLY like that," I said. "The guy's wife and daughters run roughshod over him at home -- they're a formidable bunch, they'd run roughshod over most men, I suspect -- and he gets a chance to finally show he's boss and have his opinions win out over everyone else's thanks to a couple of sincere, Christian-sounding strangers who plied him with flattery and faux respect. And he fell for it. But when he got caught out, Mrs. Dancer landed on him like a ton of bricks, and he sang like a canary. He's gonna be sleeping on the sofa for a LONG time."

  "I still think we'll bring him in and sweat him," Jenkins said.

  "Feel free," I said. "But please keep it quiet if you can."

  "Why should I keep it quiet?" asked Jenkins.

  "Well, this is just between you and me, right?" I asked.

  "Depends," said Jenkins. "If it's not important, sure, but you know I' not going to sit on anything that has the potential to help make a case."

  "I don't think that'll be a problem," I said. "This isn't so much unhelpful as farfetched. I've got some techie friends doing a little eavesdropping on my behalf. One of the suspects made a call that was scrambled -- and it was scrambled with cryptography that's serious high-level CIA stuff. Something called Greyman9."

  "I can see why you wouldn't want me talking about it," said Jenkins.

  "Now, here's why YOU don't want to, any more than you have to," I said. "The suspect is Betty Furnsome."

  "Ah," said Jenkins. "Her friends have all kinds of clout at the statehouse, I hear."

  "Exactly," I said. "If you talk about it, and it gets back to Furnsome's friends, your career as a detective could be over in short order. Plus there's the other thing."

  "Other thing?" Jenkins asked.

  "Yeah," I said. "The use of CIA brand crypto means there could be black ops involved here. If they know we're on to the intervention angle, they could decide to roll up their network. That could mean death for the two 'interveners' and for April as well."

  "So you're saying Furnsome is involved with a CIA black ops mission?" asked Jenkins dubiously.

  "No," I said. "That's what the evidence is saying. And it doesn't have to be an official CIA junket. That Mopus Deim outfit has some CIA spooks who are members ... remember that Baldrick Eames guy who went turncoat for the Soviets back in the early 90s? He was one of them. So was his boss and several others."

  "So,” said Jenkins, “you're thinking one of thees Mopus Deim types came up to one of the Mopus Deim CIA spooks and said, 'We need your help with this sexy belly dancer. She's a bad influence on our daughters and our husbands, not to mention our sons. We need you to do a bag job on her so we can do a little intensive counseling with her to help her get her head on straight.' So the spooks bagged her and now the Mopus Deim babes are scrubbing her brains clean,” said Jenkins.

  "It's a possibility," I agreed. "It kinda fits the facts. It doesn't account for the lesbian belly dancers, but then, what would?"

  "I hear you," said Jenkins, grinning. “This one's a lulu.”

  "What you could do is tap Furnsome's phone and if she makes a call using the Greyman9 crypto, you can reach your own conclusions, and get all the credit besides," I said.

  "Fuck that," said Jenkins. "Problem is, you know damn well what some of the people at the top here are like, John. They're already all over this case because they see it as a political football and they wanna run with it. They won't care if the vic dies or not. If I send this upstairs, it'll be all over the media in hours. Rich old white woman kidnaps hot young white babe, possibly with the aid of belly-dancing lesbians, and the fucking CIA is in on it? Every cop who owes a favor to a reporter, or who wants a reporter to owe him or her a favor, will be leaking this one."

  "I see your point," I said, inwardly relieved that Jenkins was seeing the possible implications of the investigation for April. "That is how the media would see it. I'm not convinced that every last lead is going to turn out to be the guilty party here. So just tell the brass about the intervention angle -- that's relatively dull, and it's the most likely lead to be productive -- the fact that those people were snooping around prior to April's abduction puts them at the top of the list as far as I'm concerned. And the intervention thing makes a lot more sense, anyway. Mopus Deim was never high on my list of suspects because I just don't see an outfit like that going for kidnapping and murder. But put it in terms of an INTERVENTION -- actually helping April get right with the Lord and stop her evil butt shaking -- I could see some splinter group within Mopus Deim getting all hot and bothered over that one."

  "You know, you'd make a pretty good cop," said Jenkins.

  "Ha ha," I said. "I've busted my last miserable junkie, thank you."

  "I hear you," said Jenkins.

  Chapter 34

  A very ACTIVE boy

  Sitting in my van on a side road near Atlanta PD, I didn't know what to do next. Basically, I'd pushed as hard as he could. Now might be a good time to sit and think a bit. On impulse, I called Astra. Well, not impulse. I had a break in the case, so I'd call Astra.

  "Hello, master," said Astra. lt gave me a bit of a thrill to hear her speak to him like that, and more of a thrill to know she meant it.

  "Hi, Astra," I said. "I got a little time in the case where the best thing I can do is let things develop, so I thought I'd give you a call."

  "Have you made progress in finding April?" Astra asked.

  "Yeah, looks like it," I said. "Some new leads have opened up that seem to point directly to the people who kidnapped April -- hopefully, to April's location as well."

  "I'm very glad to hear that, master," said Astra. "May a slave speak?"

  "Of course," I said. I liked certain aspects of the Gorean master/slave thing, but the whole "permission to speak" thing struck me as just being a pain in the ass.

  "Anytime I hear your voice is a good time, master," said Astra, "but I am conducting a class right now. What should I do about the needs of my class?"

  "Go teach 'em, of course," I said. "Sorry I interrupted."

  "Master need never feel sorry he chose to communicate with me, because I will never feel sorry about it," I said.

  "Right," I said, "nevertheless, I order you as your master to get me your class schedule so that you will be able to fulfill your obligation to your students and to me without conflict."

  "Yes master," said Astra.

  "Goodbye, slave," I said.

  "Goodbye, master," said Astra.

  That didn't take up as much time as I had hoped it would. I wasn't sleepy and I wasn't hungry. There was something I could do, I realized. I could visit that rest home for retired business biddies that Furnsome had set up. I wasn't sure if I needed permission or not to visit there, but it didn't seem likely -- they probably had friends and relatives over all the time, not to mention deliveries and such. A quick search on the Web under Furnsome's name got me the name of the place -- Lavender Acres. How nice. It sounded like a place of doilies and comforters and chintz and geegaws and whatnot. Wouldn't hurt to visit. And the drive to Roswell would give things time to develop.

  Develop they did. I was just turning onto Holcomb Bridge Road from the tree-lined expanse of Georgia 400 when my cell phone went off. Not my regular cell phone. The one Thomson had given me. Figuring that Paranoia Boy wouldn't be calling unless it was urgent, I pulled into the parking lot of one of the hotels that fringed the interstate and took the call.

  "Hi Andrew," I said. "Wazzup."

  "
Well, I was setting up for that phone call we were talking about, just checking the lines and whatnot, and I made a secure connection, and guess what my software detected on the other end of the line?" asked Thomson.

  "Um, a phone?" I guessed, playing along.

  "Yes," said Thomson, "but a phone whose data was being encrypted via Greyman9 encryption." The words were like a lightning bolt.

  "Oh, really?" I asked.

  "Really," said Thomson.

  "Anything else?" I asked.

  "No, I figured that was enough to merit a call," said Thomson.

  "Right you are," I said. "This changes things. We now have a suspect, front and center. Thanks."

  "You want me to proceed with the call?" asked Thomson.

  "No," I said. "We've already established the link we want to establish, and calling them would almost certainly give them more information about where we are than we would get from them. So, no, don't call. Proceed with the other stuff we discussed, though."

  "I will," said Thomson. "Watch yourself out there.'

  "You do the same," I said. “And, there's a couple of other things I want to go over with you," I added.

  After finishing the call, I sat and thought for a moment. Well, well, well. Betty Furnsome. Businesswoman. Humanitarian. Feminist. And almost certainly, kidnapper. Because if the people who had set up the intervention were using Greyman9, and Furnsome was using Greyman9, then they had a common source, which meant they were in together on April's abduction.

  Furnsome was a hard case. She wasn't going to crack if Jenkins took her downtown and tried to sweat her in one of those dank, dingy meeting rooms they had deep in the bowels of PD headquarters. As a woman who'd cracked the glass ceiling back in the days when it was really, really thick, she'd had to have been twice as tough as any of the male execs she dealt with, just as a matter of course. She'd had to work meetings where millions were on the line and not make even the tiniest error. No, nobody was gonna sweat anything out of Furnsome. But there were other ways of getting April's location from Furnsome -- and from the people around Furnsome. Yeah, that trip to Lavender Acres was looking more and more useful.