by Xavier Mayne
It was only about a half hour later that Brandt remembered that Donnelly had no idea he was on this odyssey. “Kerry, can I borrow your phone?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she said and dug it out of her bag. “Here you go—oh, crap.” She looked at the screen.
“What is it?”
“I wasn’t planning on leaving the country. This phone doesn’t have an international card in it. My company revoked all of those after a sales meeting in Winnipeg a couple of years ago that got a bit wild. If I’m going to travel abroad, I need to swap out the sim card, or it just won’t work.” She held the phone up for him to see that it was not operational.
Brandt sighed. “It’s a good thing he’s the levelheaded one when it comes to travel. I’m sure he’s fine, and he’ll probably be getting to New York any minute now.”
“Wasn’t he flying in today too?”
Brandt closed his eyes. This just kept getting worse. “He was. I just hope he got underway early enough that his plane was able to get in before the shutdown. I have his flight info here.” He picked up the phone in his lap and only then remembered it wasn’t his. “Crap.”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Ethan. Plus there’s really not much we can do to help him at this point, is there?”
“I guess you’re right. I’ll just look for a way to call him from the airport.”
The airport at Tijuana was a smaller and humbler affair than its counterpart in San Diego, but it did have the advantage of actual flights taking off. The ground stop affected flights to and from the US, but domestic Mexican flights were still running on schedule. On their way to the ticket counter, Brandt searched for a pay phone that would allow him to call Donnelly, but the intricacies of the key sequences required to do so surpassed his ability to guess the Spanish words for things like “dial” and “credit card.” The voice coached him patiently, but he kept reaching dead ends. He had to give up and hope he found a more amenable facility in Mexico City.
Thanks to Kerry’s travel agent, by the time they reached the ticket counter they both had reservations for the next flight to Mexico City. They hoped that once they arrived in Mexico City they might be able to make arrangements for the next leg, putting Brandt on the way to Europe and his wedding date.
What they found at Mexico City, however, made them feel anything but confident.
The airport
DONNELLY SAT staring at the line of increasingly impatient denizens of the first-class lounge. No one had yet seemed to get a satisfactory answer to their queries, so he didn’t see the point in getting up from his chair. His destination was the city most affected by the shutdown, so it hardly seemed worth asking if there was anything that could be done.
Sandler still held his phone to his ear, as he had for the last half hour. Donnelly was unaware whether Sandler had been speaking during that time; he hadn’t been listening, too wrapped up in his own dismal thoughts.
Suddenly, Sandler spoke.
“Okay, thanks. I appreciate the help, sir.” He pocketed his phone and looked at Donnelly. “Get your stuff together, Gabriel. I’m breaking us out of here.” He stood and buttoned his jacket, then adjusted the strap of the leather messenger bag that had never left his shoulder.
“What?”
“I told you we’d find a way to get you to the church on time, and so we shall. Now gather up your papers and to-do lists and let’s get moving. And grab a sandwich on the way out—we have a rather complicated day ahead of us.” Sandler hefted his compact duffel bag over his other shoulder and walked to the table that still bore a tasteful array of small bites for those whiling away the hours before a flight. He picked up a paper plate and began loading it up.
Donnelly, trying mightily to come to grips with the demolition of his itinerary, carefully slotted the stack of papers into his portfolio—a sleek leather one Brandt had surprised him with when his manila folder had simply given way under the strain of so many well-thumbed plans—put it into his carry-on, and picked up his sweater. He checked his phone one more time and again saw no indication that Brandt had even received his texts. He hoped that meant Brandt was sequestered in a conference room deep in the structure of the hotel and out of range, rather than any of the several dozen doomsday scenarios he’d been running in his head. One disaster at a time, he thought to himself.
“Here, grab a couple of these,” Sandler said by way of greeting when Donnelly joined him at the refreshment table, handing him several bottles of water. “It’s always good to have water on the way.”
“On the way where, exactly?” Donnelly asked as he began to stack little sandwiches on his own paper plate. “I didn’t think any of the planes were moving yet, and certainly not to New York.”
Sandler smiled at him conspiratorially. “You’re right, planes aren’t moving yet. That’s why we’re not taking a plane to New York. I’ve got a different plan to get us there.”
“But if you’re trying to get to London, aren’t you going to do the Atlanta or Miami thing you talked about? You don’t need to go to New York.”
“I think it would be rather rude of me to leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve got so much on your mind.” Sandler nodded toward the stuffed portfolio Donnelly held under his plate. “So I changed my route.”
“You can do that? I thought you were traveling for business. Won’t your employer want you to get to London as soon as possible?”
“I’m not traveling for business; traveling is my business.” Sandler seemed to note Donnelly’s confusion. “I’ll explain on the way—we really should get going.” He pocketed a couple of water bottles himself. “Ready?”
Donnelly nodded and fell into step behind Sandler. They made their way past the concierge desk and through the doorway to the terminal, thick frosted-glass door panels silently sliding out of their way and then closing behind them again.
“This way,” Sandler said, leaning in close to Donnelly’s ear to be heard over the hue and cry of the terminal. He put a hand on Donnelly’s elbow and guided him toward the baggage-claim area. They managed to thread their way through and out the doors to the pickup zone at the curb. Sandler swiveled his head rapidly, making several scans of the area, and then froze. He pointed into the distance. “There.”
Donnelly had no idea what they were walking toward, but followed along closely as they veered between idling cars, which seemed, like the airplanes, frozen in place, awaiting clearance to move.
Finally, they reached the outermost lane of the wide boulevard that ran between the terminal and the towering parking structures opposite. As they approached, a man stepped out of the front seat of a sleek black town car and walked around to the back door to open it.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Sandler called in greeting. “Can’t thank you enough for rescuing us.”
The driver smiled widely. “Always a pleasure to help out another member of the service,” he said, in an accent that Donnelly recognized as African, but which part of Africa he couldn’t place.
“Gabriel, this is Freeman Dewatti, a colleague of mine. Freeman, Gabriel’s on his way to get married, and we need to get him to New York by tomorrow.”
Freeman’s face turned instantly serious. “That is not going to be easy,” he said. “I can only get you to the District, and from there even the man himself could not get a flight out today.”
“No worries,” Sandler said cheerily. “I think I have a way to get us there.”
Freeman’s wide white smile returned. “Then get there you shall, of that there is no doubt.” He turned to Donnelly. “Your bride shall not be disappointed, Gabriel. Not with Sandler as your guide. Please, get in, and I will take you as far as I can.”
“Thank you,” Donnelly said as he stepped into the backseat of the town car. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, he swallowed his reaction to being reassured as to the emotional state of his “bride.”
Sandler sat next to him and shut the door as Freeman started the car. Donnelly coul
d see no way that they could possibly merge into the solid mass of immobile traffic, but Freeman apparently had already worked that out. He placed a red and blue flashing light on the dashboard of the car and simply drove on the sidewalk—luckily empty of any pedestrians at the moment. Once he had bypassed the lines of stopped cars, he returned to the roadway, switched off the flashing lights, and sped out of the airport.
“Sandler, what is it exactly that you do?” Donnelly carefully tried to avoid giving away his concern about what line of work this man he’d known for all of two hours might be in.
Sandler laughed. “I guess it does look a little strange, what with the black car and flashing lights. But it’s really nothing glamorous at all. Or sinister, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m just wondering what ‘service’ you and Freeman are both part of.”
“You listen like a police officer, even when you’re off duty,” Sandler replied approvingly. “He meant the diplomatic service. Freeman is an attaché at the Liberian embassy, and I knew if anyone could get us out of there and on our way, he could.”
“No need for flattery,” Freeman called back. “I happened to be passing through on the way back from a long drive—a mission for the ambassador—and I was happy to make a minor detour to pick up a friend.”
“Thank you again,” Donnelly replied.
“Delighted to be of service,” Freeman said with a bright smile.
They traveled a few miles in silence.
“At the risk of being tiresome—” Gabriel began.
“You would still like to know what I do,” Sandler finished the thought for him.
Gabriel smiled. “Unless it’s classified or something.”
“Nothing that important, alas. I’m simply a courier. I pick up something from one place and take it to another. That’s about it, really.”
“Not to sound thick, but isn’t that what the postal service is for?”
“For most things, the mail works fine. For almost all of the other things, there are many specialized delivery services that will fit the bill. But once in a great while something needs to be carried in person because it simply cannot be left unattended. For that, they call a courier like me.”
“And that’s why your messenger bag never leaves your shoulder?”
“Exactly. Some of the time I carry things like jewels or rare coins or financial instruments that for some reason are irreplaceable. Then there are cases like this one, when I’m carrying a diplomatic pouch. That’s why I was able to call upon my friend here to help.”
“You’re carrying a diplomatic pouch for Liberia?”
“No, not this time. But the diplomatic services watch out for each other—kind of an informal mutual-aid agreement—and Freeman here was generous enough to come to my aid.”
Donnelly leaned over toward Sandler. “So, what’s in the pouch?”
“Can’t tell you,” Sandler replied mysteriously. Then he laughed. “Because I don’t know myself. Diplomatic pouches are sealed, and it’s sort of an international incident to open one in transit—and my daddy didn’t raise me to violate the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations! Honestly I think it’s better for me not to know. I might get too nervous if I knew I was transporting nuclear launch codes or something. Ignorance is bliss when it comes to diplomatic pouches. And because I’m not actually a member of the diplomatic corps myself, I never actually get to find out what’s inside, though sometimes by catching the news afterward I can piece it together.”
“Well, it sounds like pretty exciting work,” Donnelly observed.
“On the whole it beats squiring a Stradivarius to Vienna, like I did last week. The violin had its own business class seat and everything. But it couldn’t make conversation, and it’s a long flight to Vienna if there’s no one to talk to.”
Donnelly glanced out the window at the landscape blurring past the window of the car. “Seems like a pretty glamorous life, especially to someone who grew up in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Even though I live here in the city, I’m still only a couple hours away from that small town. I’ve never even been to Europe, in the company of a violin or otherwise.”
Sandler fell silent, and he spent a long moment looking out his own window. “I thought it was glamorous too, for a few years. As someone who grew up in your typical American suburb, I got caught up in the thrill of being whisked through the back door of Buckingham Palace so I could place a parcel in the hand of the prime minister between courses at a state dinner. I once slipped through the loading dock of a museum carrying a diamond as big as my fist while decoy armored trucks parked out front. But there were some really sad moments too. I’ve carried astronaut remains and threats of war and vials containing samples of diseases that could wipe out the population of entire cities. I’ve traveled the world bearing the highest achievements and lowest impulses of our species, and I’m worn out.” He turned to look at Donnelly. “That’s why helping you today is so important to me. If I can make one person’s day a little better, then I’ve accomplished more than I could in a year of lugging priceless objects.” He fell silent for a moment. “That probably sounds ridiculous.”
“No, not at all. I think it sounds noble, and I don’t know how to thank you.”
Sandler smiled, every trace of sorrow erased in an instant. “Just be yourself. I’m so happy to have a conversation with someone that lasts longer than it takes for the next taxi to arrive.”
They settled in for the drive north.
“So, how does one choose a career in carrying rare and sometimes dangerous items to the far corners of the globe?” Donnelly asked when he tired of watching the landscape slip by through the tinted windows.
Sandler turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a very interesting story.”
“It’s less interesting than several more hours of watching trees go by?”
“You have a point. I guess what I meant is that it’s not a story I tell to many people, mainly because I don’t come off looking very good in it.”
Donnelly regarded him skeptically. “What part of not looking very good results in your being sent to Buckingham Palace? I kinda think anything that lands you at the Queen’s back door is probably not something you need to be ashamed of.”
“You really don’t want to hear it.”
“I think I really do. This may be my only chance to live a vicarious life of intrigue, so it would be the height of cruelty to keep it from me.”
“Okay, you win,” Sandler replied with a laugh. He smoothed the seam of his khaki trousers for a moment as if searching for how to begin. “It started when I was in college. I was pretty desperate for tuition money, not to mention rent on my little garret on the wrong side of campus. I’d always wanted to travel, and when I saw an ad in the student newspaper for a courier gig, I tore it out and stuck it on my fridge. Then when the fridge died—spoiling the last of my food budget for the month—and my slumlord refused to fix it, I called the number. My first job was carrying a briefcase to St. Bart’s.”
“When’s the part where you don’t come off looking good? Was St. Bart’s unfashionable that season or something?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that the job wasn’t really carrying the briefcase. I only found out once I got there I’d actually been hired to accompany the owner of the briefcase to St. Bart’s.”
“Wait—so your job was to carry a briefcase for someone who was going along on the trip too? Was it a really heavy briefcase or something?”
“Turned out what I was being paid for wasn’t what I carried, but what I brought with me.” He gestured vaguely at himself, up and down his body. “I was more like a personal assistant. To a pretty high-profile businessman who had stumbled on the courier thing as a way to employ college-age guys who could come along on his ‘business trips’ to provide services of a more… personal nature.”
Donnelly sat back in surprise. “So, you were an escort?”
Sandler no
dded.
“Did you know that going in, or did he spring it on you suddenly?”
Sandler looked out the window for a long moment.
“Come now, Sandy,” he said to me. “You had to see this coming.”
I hadn’t.
“Looking back, I guess I should have seen it coming.”
And another thing I hadn’t seen coming: him walking out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. A towel that quickly hit the floor, sort of like my stomach felt it did at that moment.
“Sir, I came here to help you with—”
“This,” he interrupted, pointing at the slab of cock that jutted from his groin. “Are you going to tell me you aren’t at all interested in touching this? Tasting it?”
I studied it for a moment, because where else was I going to look?
“I, uh….”
He stepped closer. “Now, son, let’s be honest with each other. This is not my first rodeo. And unless I miss my guess, this is not the first time you’ve been presented with a hard dick.”
Every faculty of speech failed me at that moment, and I could invent nothing to say other than the truth. “No, it’s not.”
“Did he rape you?” Donnelly asked, putting a hand on Sandler’s arm.
“No, it wasn’t like that.”
“You like cock, don’t you, son?” His erection throbbed at me, lunging higher as if hungry for my words, my consent. My submission.
“I guess I… yes, sir. I do.”
“Good, good.” He smiled, and put a hand on my shoulder. “Now, why don’t you get acquainted with mine. I think you’ll find it’s larger than most you’re likely to run across. And once you two have gotten to be close, close friends, we’ll go get a nice dinner, and I’ll buy all the drinks my very obedient young man could want. Okay?”