The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel

by Michael Yudov

  Pretty soon I noticed that my ears had stopped popping, and our angle of descent had mostly leveled off. Adding to that the fact that our engines had toned down their screaming drone, my recollection of the landing process told me we were almost on the ground. Outside of my window, the dark crowded around the lights on the wing, trying to overcome the intruder. The mist whipped around the trailing edge, disappearing into the nothingness. I’d been thinking that the mist obscuring my view of the cosmos was just some high-altitude formations, that we’d break out at any minute and then I’d see what my mind told me was actually there. No such luck. This wasn’t high altitude formations after all. It was rain cloud. And damn big rain clouds they were, stretching from just under cruising level, right down to the ground. Rain and fog. It figured. I fly thousands of miles, thinking to myself, ‘hey, now I’ll at least get some sunshine’, and it was raining. At that moment, two simultaneous events gave me a jolt. From the void outside my window, there was a flash of light so bright it almost hurt, and at the same moment in time we touched down, and fairly hard. For a split-second my mind equated the physical bump with the flash of light, telling me ‘We’ve been hit by lightning’, but before I could process it, it was rejected as the sensation of the landing continued and all else was normal as well. I realized I’d been holding my breath, and I let it out in a slow huff. As we rolled to full stop, the tension I’d been building leaked away leaving me a bit tired, and restless as well. We were down.

  Godsen leaned over me again to slide the shade down over the window. Her perfume caught my attention this time. It was very subtle, not overdone at all. It could even be interpreted as ‘her’ scent, not a perfume.

  She sat back and turned to me.

  “There’s a couple of cars waiting for us on the field here. You’ll ride with Therese. Wilson and Marly will be with you. I’ll be in the other car. We’ll go directly to the hotel and then have a quick meeting to decide on the evenings action. Or no action, as the case may be. Okay?”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  The plane had stopped by then, and she got up and headed to her cabin, leaving me to my own thoughts and actions.

  ~

  Chapter Twelve

  T

  here wasn’t much to pack up or so I thought. It only took me a few moments to strap on my hardware, slip into my jacket, and straighten my tie. I was almost ready. While I was putting on my backup piece, Wilson had popped in to get my bag. I was facing the door so he couldn’t have seen it from where he was standing because I had both hands behind my back adjusting my belt ostensibly. The first thing he said clued me in to the fact that I might have made a rush judgement about him.

  “I’m afraid that won’t wash, Jeffry. You’d best give it to me. I’ll put it with the rest of the… ‘authorized but unofficial’ gear.”

  He came inside and shut the door behind him. I looked him in the eye, and there was no doubt that we both knew exactly what we were talking about. I wasn’t going to let go without knowing a bit more than I did though.

  “Authorized but unofficial gear?” I reached behind my back to pull out the holster I’d just put on.

  “Yes. There’s a fair bit of ‘equipment’, shall we say, that comes under that category. The Colonel is extremely insistent that we not be caught short while on this trip. She feels it is imperative that we return with the job done to our complete satisfaction. That means not getting caught with our materiel cupboard bare, so to speak.”

  He held out his hand and I gave in, turning over the small automatic with its belt holster.

  “There’s ammo for it in my bag.” I indicated my case sitting on the luggage table.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll take care of it.” He pocketed the gun and picked up my bag, opening the cabin door with his free hand. “After you.” Always obliging, I went first.

  I grabbed my briefcase from the lounge on my way through, and headed for Switzerland. Wilson stayed in the lounge, sorting out the various personal luggage. Godsen’s Amazons were by the door again, unstrapping a good-sized cart full of cases most likely so that they could carry them down the steps one at a time. The cases were made of high-impact moulded plastic, and a couple were old-fashioned aluminum flight cases. Whatever the cargo, it seemed that we were carrying a fair bit of it. There were about a dozen cases in all, none larger than a regular suitcase, and a couple as small as a carry-on bag. My best guess was surveillance gear. I’d find out in due course, no doubt.

  As I passed, one of the women looked up at me and smiled.

  “Hi there, Claxton. Nice flight?”

  I must have had an inquisitive look on my face, because she straightened up and offered her hand.

  “I’m Westwood, and that’s Littlefox.”

  The handshake was strong and full. Her hand was warm to the touch, and her smile was genuine. I took a shine to her right off the bat.

  “Pleased to meet you Westwood.”

  Littlefox handed two of the cases from the cart to Westwood, and turned to shake my hand as well.

  “Ditto, etcetera.”

  She had a more serious attitude, but I sensed it was only put-on. She had a kind of self-mocking way about her, which was surprising, given that she could have been a movie star just on looks alone. Not that she was beautiful exactly, not in the Hollywood sense. She wasn’t. But she was memorable, even beautiful, in her own way. If you’d ever ran into her, you’d remember. She was tall, about six feet I’d say, with a gap-toothed grin, that showed off her teeth. She had the whitest, healthiest teeth I’d ever seen. But the hair, wow. There are times when you see someone, and there’s something about them that strikes you. It could be as elusive as a smile, or as indirect as the way they dress, and anything in between. With Littlefox it was her hair. She had it done in two braids, then gathered together in the back, so it wasn’t showing to its full advantage. Nonetheless it was easy to see the beauty of it. The blackest black and shining with even the feeble light in the companionway of the plane. I figured it would be something to see when she let it down. Her skin was Mediterranean dark, maybe a bit darker, and flawless. The high cheekbones and large, dark sparkling eyes gave her the additional impetus required, pushing her into the memorable range.

  Both of the women had changed their outfits choosing the jacket/blouse/skirt/pumps routine. Westwood’s in pale blue, Littlefox in light plum, a colour I’ve always liked. Westwood’s skirt was short enough to be considered trendy and showed off some very nice leg in the process, while Littlefox took a more conservative route in choosing the length of her skirt adding a dash of style by way of a side slit. Somehow, I found the longer skirt to be more attractive, even though it was less revealing. There are times when I think I’m more conservative than I let on, even to myself.

  I followed up the handshake with an inquisitive.

  “Seems as if we have a fair bit of luggage here. I’m betting it’s not all wardrobe changes.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I waited for denial or confirmation of my probe. Littlefox glanced at Westwood getting some sort of unseen signal then answered me.

  “First of all, it’s not all for you guys. We thought that the occasion demanded a particular attention to communications. If things go the way we want them to, there will be full-duplexed communications between all members of our group at all times. That requires a full mobile comms centre, and that requires gear. Lots of it. This whole cart is comms gear. Well, almost all of it.”

  She gestured at the pile of plastic and aluminum flight cases.

  I was struck by the forthrightness, and the degree of maximum concern for the mission she was showing to me. It was easy to like these ladies. Not quite what I’d expected.

  “Thanks. I guess I’d better head out. I’ll see you later.”

  They both got back to their work, and I walked out of the plane door into the Zurich night replete with fog and a light misting rain. The air was fresher than back home for sure. I always enjoyed the Alpine air, and that w
as the only kind Switzerland had. Even with the fog it smelled great.

  The cars waiting for us were right at the bottom of the stairs. There were also two Swiss soldiers with automatic weapons and someone who looked like their boss talking with a short man in a suit. I didn’t know anyone, and I hesitated for an instant. Wilson caught up with me from behind, with Therese trailing him.

  “Jeffry, take these.” He pushed the two bags he was carrying into my hands and pointed with his chin at the little palaver going on at the bottom of the steps. “That’s Casey talking to the head of Customs. He’s the transportation man for the team. Pilot, and so on. You get the wagon.” He was referring to the cars parked at the foot of the steps, an Audi four-door, and an Audi station wagon, the kind with four-wheel drive. “Westwood is your driver. Casey comes with us to Paris. The Colonel rides shotgun with you.” He interrupted me before I could respond. “Check in with Casey, then get settled in the back of the car. You’ll be rolling inside of ten minutes. Listen, be careful. And take good care of the Colonel, I’ll take personal exception to anything else.”

  I looked him straight in the eye for the second time that day. “The best I can give is the only way I know that’ll have to do.” He nodded at me, seeming to accept what I said and went back inside the plane. Therese and I descended the steps to ‘check in’ with Casey. He was expecting us. As we reached the bottom of the stairs he called out a jovial greeting.

  “Ah, Mr. Claxton and Miss Sauvé. I’d like to introduce you to Captain Sondvach.” He pronounced it ‘Son-vash’, and I couldn’t peg him down from the name. “Captain, these are the two ‘guests’ I’ve been speaking of.”

  The Captain didn’t seem too impressed. In fact, he didn’t seem too happy at all. He waved at one of the soldiers who slung his machine gun over his shoulder on its strap and came marching over double-time. A short rapid-fire exchange of Swiss-German ensued. The soldier reached into one of his uniforms many pockets and pulled out a small Polaroid camera. Edward filled us in.

  “He wants to get a photo for his files, head-shot only. Just give him a pose.” He smiled at us encouragingly.

  I set down the bags Wilson had given me placing them near the bottom of the steps only keeping my briefcase. We posed, and the soldier got his photos. Then it was passport time. We both had them handy, I in my inside jacket pocket, Therese in her purse. They were duly noted by the Captain, and then he used a trick I hadn’t seen since the last time I entered Israel. The notation of our entry in our passports was an add-on page stapled into the book. They had records, but we could just remove the staple and shred the entry record any time we chose. Preferably after leaving the country, I’m sure. It’s something that’s done routinely for businessmen who travel extensively in the Middle East. Some countries over there get a bit feisty about where you might have been recently.

  After that we were brushed with a metal detector rod, which screamed under both of my shoulders, naturally. The soldier stopped and lifted my jacket gingerly pulling out my forty-fives, and laying them on the hood of the station wagon right next to us before continuing. He knew what he was doing, because the whole time he handled them he kept his eye on me, not the guns. Therese got buzzed for her purse, making the soldier do the dreaded ‘purse search’ duty, embarrassing him and irritating her, which I think is par for the course, and for a brooch on her blouse which garnered only a cursory visual inspection. When he was done the Captain referred to his clipboard and cleared the pistols. The soldier waved me to pick them up again. I did, and that was it: we were done. Casey indicated that I should leave the bags including the briefcase and get in the car. We walked the few steps through the fog over to the sedan. I held the door open for Therese, and we both settled in to wait.

  That was one of the longest ten minute waits I’ve ever seen. There was entertainment, though. Our crew was hustling gear down the steps two cases at a time building a respectable little mountain of our own in the process. All the while, the Captain was quizzing Casey about the contents of the cases. I think. I had the window open, the better to catch the progress of the operation. There seemed to be some conflicting information between the clipboard and what Casey was saying. This perturbed the good Captain, and since he was the one who had the drop on us, he apparently felt that all night long wouldn’t be too long to take in straightening it all out.

  By the time Godsen and Westwood arrived, there was a sincerely heated discussion going on with about six of the flight cases laid open to the night fog. If the communications gear Westwood had talked about was particularly sensitive to moisture, we were quickly becoming lumbered with a lot of non-functional equipment. From what I could tell of the crew and their methods so far though, it was more likely to be as sensitive as a Timex watch. Bash it repeatedly on the rocks while traveling down the rapids of Snake River Canyon for about three or four days, then wear it to a black-tie reception for the Queen of England where your only duties are to give accurate readings of the time of day when asked, and you were fine. No problems.

  The fog was strengthening, not weakening, and even though the gang was only about ten paces from where we sat, it was becoming difficult to see who was getting the best of the situation. Even the voices were becoming indistinct, which only really lost me one side of the conversation, because I just wasn’t picking up much on the Swiss-German part. It seemed that Casey was fairly fluent in that language.

  I noticed that Therese was sitting with her arms wrapped around herself like you would when you were cold. Guiltily, I rolled up the window in a futile effort to keep out the damp.

  “It’s a bit cooler here than at home, isn’t it?”

  This was met with stony silence, clueing me in to a change in mood on her part. I tried again.

  “Therese, are you feeling alright?”

  This time she acknowledged my query, turning slightly in the seat to face me.

  “Non, je pense pas.” I think not.

  Then she curled up on the seat and laid her head against my arm and closed her eyes. Like this, her fragility showed through like a beacon in the night. She was just a kid, after all, and this was one hell of a lousy adventure for any kid to face. I adjusted my arm so that it held her across her shoulder. She snuggled in a little closer, but otherwise said nothing, not opening her eyes. Wisps of her hair trailed softly from behind her ears, making her delicate features stand out even more than usual. Her body was warm against mine and it felt good. John Dawson was a man who had made mistakes, and he paid the ultimate price for his foolishness, but he couldn’t have been all bad. Not when this… woman-child… had loved him. No, that wasn’t fair, young woman was fair, I had to remember that looks could be deceiving. I let my body relax into the seat, just sitting, feeling the heat from her body laid against me.

  Outside, the strange customs meeting was coming to an end. Apparently, Godsen had prevailed. Wilson and Casey were closing up the flight cases of equipment and stuffing them into the back of the station wagon. When they were done, they headed back up the steps to the plane. The rectangle of light from the doorway of the plane disappeared as I was staring at it. Shut from inside. Another car had pulled up in the background while the discussion had been going on, the headlights the only giveaway. I couldn’t tell exactly, but it had the boxy shape of a Volvo, showing up in the backwash of the headlights reflecting off of the fog. The whole scene was sort of strange, unconnected, like being in the middle of someone else’s dream. Sondvach got into the Volvo with one of his men and drove off while the other soldier got into the Audi sedan in front of us.

  A shadow appeared at the driver door, then it opened and Westwood got in. Turning around in the seat to face me, she nodded her head at Therese.

  “She Okay?”

  I liked Westwood so far, but her question seemed to be a bit cold, so I answered her in a protective way.

  “Yeah, just a bit tired I suppose. She hasn’t gotten much sleep lately.”

  “Right. We’re off in a minute, s
o she’ll have to wake up and buckle in.”

  Not knowing why, I defended Therese’s posture of sleeping.

  “I’ll hold her. She won’t roll around the car. I’m not waking her.”

  She pursed her lips about to argue the point, then apparently thought better of it.

  ”Fine, whatever.”

  She turned around to face the front and did up her own seatbelt.

  About two minutes later, the front passenger door opened and Godsen got in. She turned around in the seat before doing up his seatbelt and smiled at me.

  “We’re off.”

  I glanced down at Therese. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, so I figured she wasn’t going to. “Therese is asleep just now.” Even as I said it, it sounded goofy. Of course she was asleep, and who else would it be? Godsen glanced at her, nodded to me and sat back facing the front.

  Outside, the fog was now so thick you could play hide and seek in a phone booth. A perfect night for clandestine operations. My new pals seemed to be comfortable with it.

  The sedan in front of us growled to life, and Westwood started our car too. We followed the taillights of the sedan, because that’s all that we could see. Five seconds of driving at a walking pace made the plane disappear completely. For the next full minute, it was eerie, the splash-back of the headlights reflecting off the fog and the faint red pinpoints of the lead car’s taillights, that’s all there was. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was like being in the Twilight Zone, it made me apprehensive just sitting in the back feeling like I was in the hands of fate instead of being my own master. I wished I was the one driving. At least then I’d be in control of something.

  All of a sudden there was a break in the fog as if a strong wind had lifted the curtain. I could see for about fifty feet in all directions. The lead car was fully visible with the soldier at the wheel. The headlights from both cars reflected off of the fog on all sides of us lighting the ground, showing us the paved surface of the airfield. There was nothing else to see. The fog was a good twenty feet ahead of their car, a wall that rose to infinity. Then he drove into it, disappearing again, one piece at a time. First the hood, then the roof, then the trunk, then all that was left was the red lights, and we were driving into the wall. Nobody said a word, it was as if the feeling I had was the same one everyone had. A Twilight Zone kind of evening.