Interlude

by Lela Gilbert

  “Well, this may sound strange, but have you ever heard him say anything about drugs . . . drugs like hashish?”

  “What? Why on earth would you ask something like that?”

  The question made Betty squirm. That feeling of not knowing a lot about Jon always raised uncomfortable questions in her mind.

  “Well, we know that Jon has a half brother in New Zealand . . .”

  “A what?”

  “A half brother, maybe ten years younger, Darryl Dixon. He says that he thinks Jon was involved with some Middle East drug trafficking in the early eighties.”

  Betty was speechless. As far as she knew, Jon had never ever experimented with drugs, much less hashish, much less been involved in trafficking it. “Mike, that’s absurd! Who is this half brother?”

  “Well, he’s an ex-con who just got out of jail himself.”

  “When did he get out?”

  “Three days ago. And from what I can tell, he’s a chronic liar who likes seeing his name in the paper. He talked to a tabloid newspaper in Wellington. The authorities there passed the information on to us. The only reason I bothered you about it is because of the Badr brothers. Those guys are small-time criminals and have had their fingers in a few drug deals too.”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

  “Look, Mike.” Betty couldn’t hide the edge in her voice. “I’ve already told you that Jon and I haven’t discussed every aspect of our personal histories. But I’ve never known Jon to use drugs, and I certainly have never known him to sell them.”

  “And he never mentioned a half brother?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Okay, Betty. I believe you. This was something that we had to follow up on. You know, no stone left unturned . . . Sounds like Darryl just wanted to be the celebrity-of-the-week. Since I mentioned the Badr brothers, tell me, have you heard from your postman in Lebanon?”

  “Not since I . . . not since the last time he called, Mike.”

  “Well, I guess you can chalk this call up as another fishing expedition for me, Betty. So since I’ve got you on the phone anyway, tell me what’s happening. What are you doing with yourself?” Mike was his charming self now.

  “Oh, I’m working on a special project for OMI . . . We’re hoping to put a positive face on the things happening in Lebanon. Maybe show them that Westerners care for them a little more than they think . . .”

  Don’t tell him about Arthur Nichols.

  “Betty, that’s wonderful! You must be quite a woman to want to help the Lebanese under such unpleasant personal circumstances. What kind of project is it?”

  “Oh, we’re trying to ship milk into Lebanon for the children.”

  “Are you all funding it yourselves?”

  Don’t tell him about Arthur Nichols.

  “No, we’re working on some outside funding.”

  “Any success?”

  Betty desperately wanted to drop Arthur Nichols’ name to Mike. She wanted to impress him. And she also wanted to let him know that she had managed to squeeze some money out of a billionaire.

  “Well, it’s looking good. One television ministry in Dallas has promised to work with us and generate a substantial donation, and . . .

  Don’t tell him.

  But Betty couldn’t resist. “And Arthur Nichols has promised to help us.”

  “Nichols?” Mike was cooler than she expected. “Really?”

  “Yes. He told me he’d be able to underwrite the entire shipment.”

  “Who are you sending the milk to . . . the Red Cross?”

  “No, it’s supposed to be go to the Hezbollah children.”

  “Oh, so you’ll ship it to the Red Crescent in Beirut?”

  You’re telling him too much.

  “No, actually there’s a charitable organization associated with Hezbollah. They’ll be getting the milk.”

  “When are you planning to ship it?”

  “We hope to ship in ten days.” She took a chance. “Why don’t you put in a good word for us with the powers that be, Mike?”

  “I’ll do what I can, Betty. That’s quite a project. We could use some good will in Lebanon. Good luck, Betty. I’ll be in touch.”

  As Betty hung up the phone, she thought, Now maybe he won’t think I’m just an airhead from California with a drug-dealing boyfriend.

  She drove to work triumphantly, with an I-guess-I-told-him smirk on her face. She walked to her office and with newfound confidence started calling her overseas contacts, firming up the arrangements for the milk shipment.

  I wish Ben Shapiro would call. I need to know when the money’s coming from Nichols. She felt stimulated by her ongoing success and rather proud of herself, dropping names like Arthur Nichols around the CIA.

  That afternoon Shapiro called.

  “Is this Elisabeth Casey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The boss told me to give you a ring.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve been checking out this milk business.”

  “Yes?”

  “The boss doesn’t think it’s such a good idea.”

  Betty’s heart sank. Her face flushed. “There must be some mistake. I wrote down what he said to me. He said, ‘As far as I can see, we can fund this project.’”

  “Right. Mr. Nichols said, ‘as far as I can see.’ That means he was leaving it was up to me to do some investigating. And, frankly, I don’t like what I’m finding.”

  “What don’t you like, Mr. Shapiro?”

  “First of all, this Overseas Ministries International doesn’t have much of a reputation. I couldn’t find anyone who’s ever heard of them. They’ve got no track record with anybody.”

  “It’s a small organization, but everyone here is honest, and . . .”

  “And another thing, this Hezbollah connection. We’ve got no one on the ground in Lebanon who can get near them. We’ve got to be able to verify the arrival of the shipment. Mr. Nichols doesn’t put money into things he can’t verify, Miss.”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  “I can send you a $5,000 donation for your project. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Could I talk to Mr. Nichols again?”

  “Mr. Nichols is unavailable, Miss. He’s turned this over to me, and I’m saying $5,000—take it or leave it.”

  “Well, of course we’ll take it. It’s just that we were expecting so much more; we’ve already made arrangements.”

  “Well, maybe you can find some other funding. It was a pleasure talking to you, Miss. I’ll put the check in the mail today. All the best.”

  Betty dropped the phone. Against her better judgment she had told Mike about the milk project. Six hours later the Arthur Nichols promise had been rescinded. Had Brody betrayed her?

  She slowly got to her feet and walked toward Jim’s office, feeling defeated and ashamed. He hung up the phone just as she looked in the door.

  “Betty, come in! You’re doing such a great job on the milk project! What’s happening today? Any more billionaires?”

  She sat down and studied his face. “Jim, you’re not going to believe this, but Arthur Nichols is sending us $5,000. Period. That’s it.”

  Jim seemed more aggravated than surprised. “I thought he said he would fund the whole thing, Betty.”

  “He did. That’s exactly what he said. But then he turned the project over to some assistant, and he said no.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Yes. He said they’d never heard of OMI, they didn’t have a way to confirm any contact with Hezbollah, and they couldn’t verify the arrival and distribution of the milk inside Lebanon. Jim, I’m so sorry. I thought it was all settled.”

  “What exactly did Nichols say when you talked to him.”

  Betty looked at her pad again. “He said, ‘As far as I can see, we can fund this.’”

  “So I guess Shapiro’s the hatchet man.”

  “Either that or somebody changed Nichols�
� mind.”

  “Like who?”

  Betty had never mentioned Mike Brody to Jim. She hadn’t wanted to discuss his role in her life for several reasons—most notably because she enjoyed the secretive aspect of their conversations. “Jim, would the CIA have any reason to stop us from shipping milk to children?”

  Jim looked at her completely bewildered. “The CIA? What are you talking about?”

  “Jim, there’s a guy who calls me from Washington every now and then. He’s never really said who he is, except that he works for the government. He’s asked me all kind of questions about Jon.”

  “What kind of things is he asking you?”

  “Well, the latest question is whether Jon has ever been involved in drug trafficking.”

  “What?” Jim lunged forward in his chair. “Jon? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I’ve known Jon for years, and he’s as straight as an arrow. Who is this guy?”

  “His name is Mike Brody.”

  “So did you tell him about the milk and Nichols?”

  Betty was troubled by the truth on two counts. For one thing, she had told the Nichols story for the sole reason of impressing Mike. But the other reason disturbed her even more. She had clearly heard a warning in her mind—three times—and she had ignored it.

  “Jim, I shouldn’t have told him. I knew better. But I did it anyway. Do you think he aborted the Nichols deal for some reason?”

  Jim turned slowly around in his chair and looked out the window. “Betty, I’m going to tell you something. I think that a lot of people involved in international travel for business are approached by the ‘Company’ at some time or another. Chances are, we don’t even know who we’re talking to when it happens. But they’re pros—they have a way of finding out what they want to know, whether we mean to tell them or not.”

  “But why would the CIA want to stymie a humanitarian effort?”

  “Maybe it conflicts with some sort of sanctions that the government is quietly enforcing. Maybe there’s some other deal in the works that might get compromised. Or maybe they just don’t want amateurs getting in the way.”

  “Yeah, I can still hear O’Ryan saying, ‘Leave it to the professionals.’ But, on the other hand, maybe Mike didn’t say anything to Nichols and it’s just a coincidence.”

  Jim nodded. “My guess is we’ll never know. But shake it off, Betty, and be thankful for the $5,000. That’s a pretty respectable donation when you think about it.”

  “It’s not much milk, Jim.”

  “No, it isn’t, and you’d better get on the phone and cancel some of the shipment. At least until we hear from Ricky Simms. He’s still in the picture isn’t he?”

  Betty brightened a little. “You’re right. I forgot about him. I was so upset with Shapiro’s call. I’m sure those guys will come up with something. Ricky Simms said they would himself.”

  Jim smiled kindly at Betty. “So did Arthur Nichols . . . ”

  “Oh, don’t say that!”

  “Betty, you’ve worked hard on this project. But remember, when it’s all said and done, the Lord will take care of it. We’ve got to leave it in his hands. The way I see it, every $3,000 we raise will send one cargo container of dry milk into Beirut, including shipping. That’s a lot of milk they wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

  “But a couple of containers of milk isn’t going to impress Fadlallah much, is it?”

  “We’ll do all we can, and we won’t worry about the rest, Betty.”

  Betty’s pride in her fund-raising expertise was badly bruised. “I sure don’t want to do anything to hurt OMI, Jim. This could be embarrassing for you. You’ve done so much for me.”

  “Betty, OMI doesn’t win or lose in this proposition. Nobody knows anything about it, and there’s nothing in it for us, anyway. We’re just doing it to try and help Jon.” Jim stopped a moment and studied Betty’s weary face. “And frankly, Betty, I just want you to know how much we love you too.”

  Betty’s eyes misted. Just when you thought you couldn’t trust anybody . . .

  “Jim, tell me the truth. How much money do you think we’ll get from the Simms ministry?”

  Jim smiled shrewdly, rubbed his palms together and looked out the window. “What’d he say he’d raise . . . $500,000?”

  “Half a million, he said.”

  “I say we‘ll be lucky to see $5,000.”

  “What? $5,000? How can you say that?”

  Jim laughed at her horrified expression. “Well, you asked me, didn’t you? Maybe I’m wrong. But do me a favor and don’t write any $500,000 checks just yet. Okay?”

  7

  The African sky was boiling with clouds. Distant thunder rumbled. Rain splattered here and there in coin-size drops. And there was Betty with Jon—walking arm-in-arm with him, laughing with him, looking into his eyes.

  They had found their way from the city streets of Kampala to the outlying villages, where red mud clung to their shoes and chickens scurried out of the way as they passed.

  Jon was whispering to Betty, lightheartedly quoting the first line of a favorite sonnet: “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments . . .”

  They both knew Shakespeare’s words and were planning to recite them at their wedding. Jon had just taken Betty into his arms, smiling into her eyes, when she awoke.

  Where was she? Where was Jon? No, she reasoned dimly; it was thundering in Pasadena and Jon was nowhere to be found. Wishing she’d never awakened, Betty glanced at the clock. It was 2:36 in the morning. She closed her eyes, hoping somehow to recapture the wonderful dream where she’d left it.

  No such luck, she grumbled silently, cocooning herself in blankets. But at least I can remember his face a little better now. Every time she dozed off, another clap of thunder awakened her.

  After several minutes of unsuccessfully trying to be comfortable, Betty got up, turned on a light, and planted herself in her chair to wait out the storm. She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the exact contours of Jon’s face.

  His looks had always delighted her. He wasn’t the kind of man that women turned to admire, but his features were pleasing and he had a fine web of laugh lines around his eyes that made him appear warm-hearted and approachable. Impulsively, she jumped up and grabbed his picture off the bureau. She studied it, trying to retain the dream image a little longer.

  “Jon,” she whispered to the picture, “I’m so sorry, but I can hardly remember you.”

  What was it that had made her love him in the first place? It wasn’t really his looks—that had come later. It was something else, something indefinable that had linked them almost instantly. Her mind drifted back to their first meeting in Jim’s office. Nothing especially prophetic had been said right then. It was . . .

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.

  Betty sighed. Was theirs a “marriage of true minds?” It had always seemed so. The more she’d gotten to know Jon, the more she’d loved him. And he had responded to her with great warmth and delight. But now, with him unreachable and untouchable, such age-old questions as “What is love?” and “Why do we love each other?” found their way into her thoughts, followed by deeper concerns.

  Did he leave me because deep down inside he didn’t want to go through with the wedding? Was he secretly hoping he wouldn’t make it back? Why didn’t I insist that he stay here?Why didn’t I stop him? What a fool I was!

  Lightning and thunder punctuated her reverie and scores of troublesome issues remained unanswered. She tried to remember bygone conversations in which Jon had assured her of his commitment, but past words seemed meaningless. She needed to know how he felt right now. Had his imprisonment changed him? Had he thought through the relationship and decided it was too risky to try marriage again? Was he relieved that they were still unwed?

  Maybe it wouldn’t have worked anyway. The storm seemed to have abated. She got up, pushed open the curtains and surveyed the moon, as it broke through the
clouds. Maybe there’s someone else for me, someone better, and God didn’t want me to make a mistake. She glanced at Jon’s picture again, trying to remember.

  But God seemed to be in it from the beginning.

  In their first encounter they had been introduced to each other as writer and photographer, and Jon had asked to see her work. She had been faking her way through her first writing job and had nothing available whatsoever to demonstrate her talent to Jon. Nothing, that is, except for her poetry. Naturally she had assumed he would find it foolish. Fortunately he didn’t. Not many weeks later, they had traveled to Uganda and Kenya together on a book assignment, and they were soon bound together inextricably.

  Why did they love each other? As she had concluded a thousand times before, the bond was, quite simply, just there. They liked a great deal about each other’s personality, physical appeal, intelligence, and spirituality. Betty felt Jon was her better, despite his protests. His accomplishments amazed her. But there was no explanation for their emotional connection. And because Betty could not understand it, nothing assured her that it would survive.

  “God, is he the man you want me to marry?” She murmured the prayer and then wished she hadn’t. What if God said no? But, on the other hand, what if she married the wrong man and got into another unhappy union?

  Her limbs ached with weariness as the never-ending puzzle swirled around inside her. She reached for a devotional book and looked up the day’s date. “More than conquerors!” the text began. “Right,” she mumbled.

  She closed the book, picked up her Bible, and began to thumb through it. Love. Song of Solomon is about love. The pages rustled as she turned them. Her eyes were bleary, but part of the ancient poem provided a conclusive end to her ponderings.

  Place me like a seal over your heart,

  Like a seal on your arm;

  For love is as strong as death,

  Its jealousy unyielding as the grave.

  It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame.

  Many waters cannot quench love;

  Rivers cannot wash it away.

  If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love,

  It would be utterly scorned.

  Betty closed the book. So, according to old King Solomon, love could outlast anything. She couldn’t help but smile. He ought to know. He had about two thousand wives.