by Ed Hurst
Angie responded, “I know you have always been polite about my devotions. Had you asked me a year ago, I would have certainly said I expect men and women to argue. That’s so common here in Europe, like an unwritten law. Americans have big noises about feminist politics, but here those politics have ruled for a long time. You never said, but I know you don’t agree with much of feminism.”
With a half grin, he noted, “And you seem to be okay with it. I’m not much on arguing and debating. I trust in God and simply obey what I know He demands of me. Feminism is wrong because it’s native to Western Civilization, which is also pretty messed up. The whole thing is based on a completely false set of assumptions. I gave up trying to teach people a long time ago. I just walk in the light I have and let God worry about the details. For whatever reason, you have found yourself at home with my choices.”
She nodded with a firm expression of agreement. “Yes. I don’t know what it is, but it seems to work. I can tell when you don’t like something, but you just let it go. It’s like you know I’m going to run into trouble with it, but even if I don’t, maybe it does no good to argue.”
Preston shook his head. “We have too much else to worry about for me to pick at everything I don’t like. But you’ll notice I take full authority on some things and don’t make room for argument. That’s conscious.”
She grinned. “Yeah, but not for me. When you do that, it seems everything in me gets kind of quiet. I never met anyone like you before.” She put an arm around his waist and hugged him.
He responded in kind, grasping her around the shoulder. “For me, it doesn’t matter what you believe about Mary. I don’t care about the theology and mythology, if you will. What bothers me most is the tightly entangled feminism that comes in the package. When devotion to Mary gets in the way of serving her Son, it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t agree with folks who say it’s the same thing. Her Son was a Hebrew man, a very masculine culture. But a masculinity totally different from the European brand or the American brand. When devotion to Mary comes off like heathen idolatry, and especially when it becomes the excuse for perverting what the Bible teaches through these unconscious cultural assumptions about God’s Creation, I get a little unhappy. Since I often can’t explain it without people getting hysterical, I just back off and try to stay on course with my own devotion to God.”
After a few moments, he added, “You do what you have to do to keep a clear conscience. So will I. As long as we can negotiate the differences, we belong together.”
At that, she stopped him and fully embraced him with a firm kiss.
They decided not to antagonize the young priest at Pancratius Kerk over such things, and simply accepted him as a supporter, at least, of the association that employed them. They seldom saw him outside of Sunday worship, but did run into him one evening at the local Pizza Hut.
As they sat together enjoying the uniquely Dutch flavored American franchise offerings of Italian food, the priest made it a point to apologize to Angie for past abuses by the church. She didn’t query how much he knew of her past, but the controversy over revelations that Dutch priests and nuns had abused children was still a warm, if not hot, item in the news. Then he changed to topic.
“I’ve been praying for rain. I’m not so worried about it here in our water-soaked lowlands, but for the Belgian highlands. It would add so much to your next journey.”
Angie and Preston glanced at each other in puzzlement. Was he that much inside the association?
The priest went on. “It’s highly unusual, but I wanted to confer with you about something coming up in the next few weeks.” He paused at the look on their faces. “Yes, I know Gary and Henk. Most of us are constrained in ways you two are not. Perhaps it would amuse you to know what a large number of people in odd places are relying on you for things we’ve often longed to do ourselves, but just could not afford the risks of losing all our advantages.”
Preston offered, “We knew a long time ago not to poke at what’s behind the curtain. We aren’t mercenary about the pay, but as long as everything keeps working out and our few contacts seem happy with the results, we plan to stay at this.”
The priest smiled. “You make this too easy for me. Gary wants to meet with you down near Dinant. As I understand it, you’ll be doing something we believe is more typical of our operations. At the same time, it will add a dimension previously not possible.” He pulled out a pad of sticky notes and peeled off the top sheet. Sticking it down on the tabletop, he produced a pen from another pocket. Actually, it was a very fine-point pencil, Preston noticed.
After scribbling a bit, the priest pulled it up off the surface of the table and handed it to Angie. “Again, don’t lose heart.” He smiled warmly, then slid out of his seat and left, dodging through the crowd of the busy pizzeria.
On the note was an address in Weillen, Belgium.
Chapter 36
There was also a date, three days from then.
Preston and Angie had reduced virtually all communications to electronic means. For their pay packets, they decided to set up regular mail retrieval through the PostNL office nearest their apartment. Everything came addressed “Poste Restante” (General Delivery) in their alternative names and they checked weekly to ensure the personnel got used to seeing them. Their pay came twice each month, typically in the form of currency, but was postmarked from all over the Benelux. Aside from a handful of advertisement fliers, nothing was ever pushed through the mail slot in their door.
Until the day after the priest gave them their next assignment, that is. When they returned from their regular workout the next day, there was a fat padded envelope on the floor just about the size for shipping a cheap paperback novel. It bore the marks of some obscure private courier service.
Preston and Angie were justifiably nervous about it, but upon slowly opening it, they found a small, nondescript box of single-wall cardboard. It bore a lone adhesive mailing label from their ostensible employer in Luxembourg City. Inside were two thin packets with French labeling and a cover letter wrapped around some currency. The letter was something dashed off on a computer in a decorative, oversize font.
No camping or bikes this time. Need casual dress, swim and athletic attire. Don’t bother your hosts. See the old barn out back.
Angie translated the writing on the packets – hair-coloring kits, including the means to wash it out.
Preston looked at one of them. “I can see doing this to disguise your beautiful red mane, but I’m a little puzzled about mine.” Preston had allowed his hair to grow back out and kept a trimmed full beard. The instructions covered how to darken beards, too.
It would mean slipping out of their apartment before dawn to avoid being noticed with their different coloring. They decided for this trip to simply pack everything in normal duffel bags that had straps allowing them to be worn like backpacks. On the appointed day, it was just a short hike to the train station. There was an early express through Masstricht into Liege. This left just a short layover in Liege for a departure farther along the Meuse to Namur where they waited briefly for their train to Dinant. It was during this segment they each slipped into a toilet and changed from casual to hiking wear. Because these were such important rail links, it wasn’t too far from the scheduled times. They arrived mid-morning at the station.
It was pretty easy to find a TEC bus running close to their destination. They found it a fairly short and refreshing hike up along a stream, mostly through the woods to the north of the village. Near the crest of the terrain was a clearing on the left side of the road. At the far edge of this stood a very old stone farmhouse. The address was the one they had been given. They looked the place over from the road and noticed a narrow graveled track running around the north side of the house.
The place was very quiet and they were understandably nervous about it. Around back was indeed an old barn, mostly of stone but apparently patched at some point with bricks. On the far side was a small door set
deep into the brickwork. On it hung a tiny brown envelope with a rubber band through a hole punched in to top. Inside was the key to a padlock on the door. They opened it slowly and looked inside.
The ceiling was high, but the rafters slung low. It was clean and free of cobwebs. The interior space was only a few meters across and somewhat farther in depth. A single small window on the left, somewhat dirty, let in a little light. Across from the window on the interior wall was a double sink with a high arched spigot. The plumbing was mounted on the wall in plain sight. Beyond the sink was a toilet with the typical old European style high-mounted water tank up inside the rafters. On the nearer side of the sink was an old zinc-coated, slope-sided watering tank, just big enough to use as a bath. Both the sink and tub drained into an open channel cut into the floor and disappearing under the interior wall.
Opposite this on the wall with the small window was an ancient desk with two metal folding chairs. They had paint splattered on them from long ago, but were still serviceable. What drew their attention most was the hammock. The mesh was woven from strands that were quite thick. Slung on the high end from a rafter beam and tied on the low end to an upright post, it was over a meter across with sturdy spreader bars and the mesh was covered with a rather thin mattress. Angie walked over to the bed and squeezed the mattress; “federbett” she announced in German.
She turned to Preston with a smile. “This should be interesting.”
Preston grinned. “Just getting into it would be some work. Let’s see if we can work this out.”
With practice, they decided for the most part that Preston had to get into it first. He was just shy of six feet and substantial, though not burly. That the hammock was tied close to the gather at the top helped dampen the swinging a bit when they shifted in it. Preston glanced up and expressed a bit of surprise that the wooden framing didn’t creak under the weight of their small movements. They rested a moment and he noticed the desk had a single lamp plugged into a double outlet, the only power visible in the place. In the corner nearest the door was an old hanger rack with the built-in hangers, perhaps a dozen or so.
“This is really a classy accommodation,” he noted.
Turning to look around, Angie spotted something on the desk. It was a simple matter to roll off the side and she went to see what it was. After reading it a moment, she held it up for Preston to see. “Ticket for a kayak tomorrow morning!” She was clearly excited.
That’s because it had rained starting that night after they met with the priest for pizza. In the Dutch flatlands, it was a continuous moderate mist for the past three days, but in the Belgian highlands, Preston had noticed it was a heavier rain. It was just tapering off during their hike up the road from the bus stop. This virtually guaranteed La Lesse would be up to a good depth for their run down it tomorrow.
For now, it was close to lunchtime. There was no kind of wifi anywhere close. Preston tethered to the cellphone and found a decent signal. Between the tourist information maps online and the bike map they had picked up in Monschau, they discovered that the only eatery nearby was to the northwest. It wasn’t a long or unpleasant hike, just not what they expected. They were so very close to a major hub of tourist attractions, yet very nearly isolated in the Belgian highlands not far from the French border. The actual city of Dinant was something like seven kilometers away, mostly a straight line once they got back downhill into the village.
The tiny cafe in Falaën was quite adequate for a surprise lunch. The menu was available in several languages, but Preston let Angie do the talking. They also ordered something they could carry back and have for dinner later. They traded off carrying the bag as they looked around the picturesque village and took a few photos. Then they trudged back to their hideaway.
Chapter 37
They were ready bright and early the next morning to catch the bus down in the village.
There was a simple connection to another line in the south that ran all the way to the head of the kayak run in Houyet. They were hardly alone among the passengers with the same destination, but the morning was still cool and the crowds would not come until later. With the recent rains, the stream was a bit swollen and fast, perfect for this time of year. The only problem was finding the particular vendor who had issued the ticket, as there were several, each with their own color of kayaks. It was easy to find the guys who rented out the red ones and yellow ones, stacked on tall racks all over the place. They eventually found one with blue and white boats that matched the name on the ticket.
Their ticket included the deluxe paddles and a relatively fancy two-seater. Preston knew from experience that he had to sit in the rear. They were launched from a roller track that ran down into the water. It wasn’t all that different from his experience canoeing in the Boy Scouts back in the States. For the first kilometer or so, he talked Angie through keeping the thing aimed down stream and away from obstacles and other kayaks.
They really weren’t that far into the trip when they saw him. There were a handful of serious kayakers who rode their own equipment, and Gary was one of them. They were facing a tight turn to the left and he called to them from the shadows on the right. There was a tiny stream feeding into the main flow, running out from under a small wooden footbridge up on the bank. Gary had tied up his orange and black boat to a small but solid tree on the bank facing outward. He extended his line for Angie to tie off on the loop at the bow of their boat. This made for an odd water-borne conference with him facing them both.
“Glad to see you didn’t waste any daylight,” he started off. “Angie, if I really wanted to threaten Preston, what do you think I would do?”
She glanced back at Preston behind her and blurted out, “You would attack me.” Preston nodded agreement.
Gary grinned. “You two are an amazing team. Your level of trust is quite rare in this world. Yet people intending evil are forced to use the same means to their ends. They have to rely on people they can trust on some level. Preston, you helped run a business during the worst of the off-shoring days in the US. How did you stay competitive?”
Preston felt he knew where some of this was going. Without hesitation, “Well, fleet maintenance is pretty hard to do offshore, but a couple of companies tried to bring in foreign workers. We beat them on service. Parts are parts and we were all pretty much restricted to using the same basic equipment with so many suppliers closing shop. But the big thing for us was keeping our people happy and motivated to do better work for the money.”
Gary laughed. “Key word there – people instead of personnel. That says it all. It was the same in the Army, wasn’t it?”
Preston shook his head, “It would have been if the system hadn’t promoted bean counters over genuine leaders. I dare say some units I saw, the soldiers might not be too convinced their own superiors weren’t the enemy.”
Gary nodded. “Even bad guys know that. They might be willing to use fear, coercion and slavery, but there have to be a few insiders who run interference for them. A big shot working on his own has to run himself ragged in micromanagement. Smart bosses always find good people and divide up the workload.”
He took a deep breath and waved at some random passing girls hooting at him. “Kids,” he snorted. “You two don’t look too bad in your dark hair. For this mission you aren’t likely to see too many trafficking victims. In a few days there will be what I call a mini-Bilderberg meeting here in Dinant – politicians, business and labor leaders, big investors, and so forth. As you might expect, at least half of them are mere figureheads. We aren’t too concerned with the big shots. We need to know about their lieutenants.”
Gary shifted in his kayak and pulled on the rope a bit. “The paparazzi will be here, too. Did you ever work with them, Preston?”
Preston had, indeed, tried early on to get work with the freelance news photographers, but decided that was the wrong field of operations for him. “That was a cluster,” he snorted.
Gary continued, “In a crowd of pho
tographers at a media event, how many are actually working for their sponsors? Don’t you find some of them always willing to haggle with the competing interests?” Preston nodded as Gary went on. “Yeah, and there’s always a few who actually work for the people they pretend to photograph.” Again Preston nodded.
Gary turned to Angie, “Can you spot a photographer who isn’t really a photographer?”
“I think so,” she said with some curiosity in her eyes.
Gary leaned back a bit in cockpit of his kayak. “Don’t shoot pictures or video of the big shots. Shoot everyone but them. This thing should take a few days, so you’ll get plenty of time to figure out who is always there, who is playing maitre d’ for the people who get in the news. We are about to publish some big scandalous splash to shake things up, and we need to know who’s doing the real dirty work. Nobody else in the association has the time and energy to work this on the ground, nor anywhere near your talents – not to mention the obvious protection of God. You two are walking miracles. Don’t fling a needless challenge in His face, but don’t be afraid to keep His angels busy if that’s what the situation requires. Also, don’t stop anywhere and tie up your boat and leave it today. Someone will trade you for their less deluxe accommodations while your back is turned.”
Without another word, he turned and released the line holding them all in place and slipped past them into the river.
Angie grabbed the line and pulled the slack end into their kayak. They turned and drifted back out into the mainstream. Gary was already a distant speck, zipping down the river ahead of them in his custom fitted kayak. They focused on enjoying the scenery. At places the bank rose up steeply to stone cliffs. There were a couple of fancy châteaus right on the water.