He fastened his seat belt, adjusted the side and rear-view mirrors, programmed her address into the Ford Falcon’s auto-drive computer console, flipped the toggle switch to activate the windshield’s infra-red night vision feature, and backed out of the parking space. Realizing he hadn’t eaten since noon, he spied a late night fast food drive-thru and decided to order a Wendy’s “Healthy Double,” combo meal which included two cholesterol free beef patties, topped with genetically altered bacon and cheese, accompanied by vitamin C infused fries and a large, caffeine-free Diet Coke.
When I am crowned pharaoh, he thought, we will have Wendy’s in Egypt. At the pick-up and pay window, the young girl asked him which location he worked at. A petite brunette of 19 or 20, she was clearly checking him and his car out. She had to ask a second time and pointed to his uniform before he realized he wore the outfit of a Wendy’s employee.
“Oh, uh, yes,” he answered, handing the girl a ten. “I work on the other side of town.” He froze her with his gaze and decided to do a little spell casting exercise before heading to Boston.
She handed him back 26 cents in change and said, “I get off in about 20 minutes.” She arched her eyebrows. “Why don’t you come back by? Maybe we could do something?”
With a charming smile Horus replied, “It would be my pleasure,” After all, he needed to practice if he wanted to improve his magical abilities. And besides, she reminded him vaguely of Jeanne.
Forty-five minutes later, parked near the dumpster at the back of the Wendy’s parking lot, lying back in the fully reclined leather seat of the S.U.V. he half-listened to the radio station she selected as the elfin brunette, named Marilyn, covered him with kisses and unbuckled his belt. The FM station played a lot of rebellious-sounding crap with angry radio personalities that sounded like some kind of militant, right-wing idiots.
At the end of a particularly annoying song, the DJ introduced a newscaster who said he had a late breaking story of national importance. “After a suspected terrorist attack during a Democratic party fund raiser at the Watergate Hotel, the vice president has been taken to Bethesda Military Hospital in Maryland this evening. Late word is that he is recovering from what has been diagnosed as a mild heart attack. At first it was feared that Vice President Gillpatrick had been stricken by the same chemical or poison that has reportedly killed as many as nine members of the staff at Aldo Donatello’s, including the famous chef...” Horus bolted upright, abruptly interrupting the spellbound performance of his new acquaintance.
“Hey!” a bewildered Marilyn complained. “What’s wrong?”
“Shut up,” Horus hissed, “I want to hear this.”
“...Governor Johnson was pronounced dead after extensive efforts to revive him proved unsuccessful. Again, for those of you who may just be tuning in, at the Watergate Hotel this evening President Daley was not affected and Vice President Gillpatrick, while evidently not stricken by the same poison or chemical agent that has killed nine, or now we are hearing possibly ten people, is reported in serious, but stable condition this evening at Bethesda Military Hospital after having suffered a mild heart attack. This is Gene Pendleton reporting from the nation’s capitol. Stay tuned to WASH-FM news for the latest developments coming out of Washington this evening.”
Furious, Horus grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. He slammed his fists against the hub of the steering wheel, scaring Marilyn as well as a nearby vagrant. Teetering on the edge of two sturdy, cardboard boxes, he had been rummaging in the fast food eatery’s large dumpster, searching for food. The unkempt man was so unnerved by the unexpected blast from the horn of the S.U.V. that he lost his balance and nearly did a swan dive, unshaven face first, into the pile of pungent garbage.
Having regained his balance and a semblance of his composure, upon seeing the fogged up windows of the vehicle, the homeless man figured some rich kids were either copulating, smoking dope, or both, and shook his fist. “Get a motel, you goddamned, rich little assholes!” He was surprised again as the passenger side door flew open and a dark-haired girl in a Wendy’s uniform fell out, screaming an impressive string of obscenities while tumbling to the pavement.
The vehicle started and roared off, tires squealing as it left the nearly deserted parking lot and turned back onto the street, leaving two individuals unified in their assessment of the driver, vehemently displaying their extreme displeasure by screaming expletives, while exuberantly pointing fully extended middle fingers on both hands upwards at a virtually cloudless sky, in which the moon shone like an uncirculated silver dollar on a black velvet background.
Chapter Sixteen
Halfway to Bethesda, while the SUV drove itself towards its pre-programmed destination, Horus entered search parameters for the digital radio, frantic to locate a news station with more information about the vice president and his condition. How could he not have been affected? he wondered. He must have at least touched the wet tablecloth. It was saturated! How could he possibly… The auto-scan station finder interrupted his thoughts, detecting a news report in progress, coming from a station in Maryland.
“…the shocking revelation was released to the press less than five minutes ago by President Daley’s Press Secretary, Richard Miller, who assured NBC Whitehouse Correspondent, Peter Chung, that a major press conference would be held within the next thirty minutes. Stay tuned to NBC for that conference and the latest details coming out of Bethesda, Maryland, as well as our nation’s capitol this evening. This is Stan Derrington returning you to your local stations until the press conference begins.”
The Bethesda station’s news anchorman, Dennis Peterson, said, “Elsewhere this evening, the Bethesda City Council met this morning to discuss issues that have…”
“What revelation? What details?” Horus shouted, leaning forward and pounding on the dashboard. “I do not care about your stupid city council meeting!” Irritated beyond the point of clear thinking, he punched the scan button again, this time with enough force to break it, leaving the radio in permanent scan mode without the ability to lock onto any individual signal. Aggravated beyond words by the annoying parade of stations heard in eight-second snippets, yet powerless to do anything about it, he turned the audio system off and tapped his Chronocom to call the Egyptian embassy.
~~~
The call came in on the special line designated solely for private communications with the visiting emissary. Realizing who the caller must be, the Egyptian ambassador answered right away. “Yes, Lord Falcon, what is your bidding?”
“Tell me, Ambassador Nazir, what is happening? I am on my way to Bethesda, but I am hearing reports on the radio that the vice president has suffered a mild heart attack. I am curious to know if this is true, or if he is suffering from the effects of the poison that was intended to kill him. Is he perhaps dead and the press has simply not been informed, or has been asked not to release the news by the American political propaganda machine?”
Nazir answered, “I too am watching and listening to all available press releases, Lord Falcon. While reporting that the vice president was in distress, our operatives at the fundraiser were unclear as to the nature of the vice president’s affliction. We have several operatives working in security at Bethesda who will assist you upon your arrival– their watch phone code is 0947– but even they are not yet positive of the exact cause of Gillpatrick’s hospitalization, or of his current condition. As you might suspect, the United States security forces are doing everything possible to protect Gillpatrick. They are thicker than desert flies on camel dung throughout the hospital district.”
“You have served me well, Ambassador Nazir, you have nothing to fear from me. You shall be rewarded for your service. I have made some impromptu changes to my itinerary for tomorrow and need for you to arrange transportation for two, by helicopter.”
Further calmed by the words of praise, Nazir exhaled and listened to the detailed instructions, after which he replied, “I live to serve Egypt my Lord. Through your actions the pro
phets have decreed that we shall rise again. I pray that you will not forget your humble servant.”
~~~
Horus answered with the phrase he had learned from Thomas. “So let it be done.” He tapped the crystal of his Cartier communications device to disconnect the call.
Miles from his destination, aided by the light of the full moon, Horus’s keen, bird-like, nocturnal vision penetrated the obscuring shroud of distance and darkness. In heightened contrast and detail, he identified the myriad makes and models of a dozen patrolling military helicopters and single-engine, winged security aircraft. A few would have been obvious, even to those with normal vision, as their searchlights panned the ground below. Most, however, would have remained vague shadows, imperceptible to the average naked eye except for brief flashes from their inconspicuous running lights. Alternately soaring and dipping from lofty to low altitudes and then climbing steeply again, the dark images danced in the skies performing as if in a choreographed aerial ballet over the hospital district and the outskirts of the city.
Horus tapped his watch phone again and said, “0947,” as the Ford began to decelerate and moved into the far right lane.
Within seconds a subdued voice with a distinct Arabic accent answered, “Lord Falcon, we have been expecting your call. There is an elderly woman on the 17th floor of Bethesda Military Hospital named Rebecca Evans. She is there, in room 1723, due to minor complications caused by diabetes. She is scheduled for a pancreas islet cell transplant. She is expecting a visit from her nephew, Daniel Smith. The 18th floor is where the vice president is being kept. Naturally it is off limits to all visitors. There is a supply closet next to room 1723 in which you will find the items you will need. Mrs. Evans will give you the key to the closet.” The caller hung up without further discourse as a road sign proclaimed the Hospital District exit was now a quarter mile ahead. Even before completing its descent from the off ramp, the traffic snarled to a stop as armed military security forces went from vehicle to vehicle, checking identifications and reasons for being in the area.
Horus rolled down his window and smiled warmly as a soldier dressed in Army green, complete with helmet, approached. “Sorry for the delay, sir,” the soldier atoned, “but I need to see your driver’s license and insurance papers before I can allow you to proceed.” He held his hand out expecting no trouble and got none, but frowned, dissatisfied with what he received, as Horus handed him his license, a temporary one with no photo, and his Allstate Farm insurance card. He asked, “Do you have any identification cards with a photo of yourself, sir? A college I.D. perhaps? Anything?”
Horus smiled again and shook his head no, saying, “Sorry sir. I lost my wallet a couple of weeks ago, so everything I have is either brand new or temporary. Is there some kind of problem going on that I should know about? I was on my way to see my aunt, who is in Bethesda Military Hospital.”
That got the soldier’s attention, as he peered more intently at Horus and asked, “Going to Bethesda, are you? What floor is your aunt on and what is the nature of her illness?”
Horus replied without hesitation, “She is on the 17th floor. Her name is Rebecca Evans, and she is scheduled to have minor surgery to implant pancreas cells to cure her diabetes. Do you think the gift shop would still be open at this hour? I would love to get her some flowers.” He raised his eyebrows and gave a hopeful look, as if he really thought that the soldier might know about the gift shop.
Shaking his head no, the soldier returned the insurance card and temporary license, getting a good look into the back seat and passenger side areas at the same time. Satisfied that nothing seemed amiss, he waived Horus on and proceeded to the next vehicle.
At the hospital parking lot Horus took the ticket imprinted with the time of his arrival and pulled forward when the gate lifted to allow him to enter. Before he could get out of his vehicle, after finding a space not far from one of the entrances, he was approached by two white helmeted MP’s, one of them carrying a rifle, while the other carried what looked like a large, white tuning fork. Horus knew what it was. It was a wireless metal and explosives detecting device like the ones currently used in the airports. Horus was instructed to hand his keys to the MP with the rifle and stood back, calmly, while the other ran the instrument over, under, and through every crevice of the SUV. Next, the MP with the metal detector ran the instrument up and down the length of Horus’s body, front and back, asking him to raise his arms.
“Who are you visiting today?” the soldier with the rifle inquired.
Horus sighed, resigned to answering all of the same questions the previous soldier had asked and replied, “My aunt, Becky Evans, who is in room 1723.” The metal detector hummed as it skimmed over his hips and legs, “She is here,” Horus continued, “for a minor surgical procedure to cure her diabetes.”
“Yeah, well, how come she’s at Bethesda?” The MP with the metal detector asked. “What branch of the military did she serve in?”
“Oh, my uncle, her husband, served in the armed forces, not her,” Horus answered. “He was a colonel who served many years ago in Iraq. He’s buried in Arlington.”
That seemed to satisfy both soldiers, who stepped back as the search for weapons or explosives had failed to produce anything. The rifle toting soldier handed Horus’s keys back, and said, “Very good, sir. Have a pleasant visit. I hope your aunt responds well to the surgery.”
“Thanks,” Horus replied. As he walked towards the entrance he wondered how many more interrogations and searches he would have to submit to before he was allowed to see “Aunt Becky.”
Walking past the outpatient surgery waiting room downstairs, Horus stopped in his tracks and turned around as he heard a news program coming from a corner of the room where a plasma TV was mounted.
“…say that Gillpatrick is alert and recovering from what has been described as nothing more than an irregular heartbeat rather than a heart attack. The attending physician at Bethesda Military, Dr. Benjamin Jessup, Chief of Cardiology, says the arrhythmia which felled the senator is being treated…”
“Senator? Senator?” Horus questioned what he had heard. A mistake, perhaps? It must have been. It had to be. The Americans had insisted that Senator Gillpatrick was killed in Israel, while posing as the vice president. Was he? After all, they were identical twins. Perhaps the switch never took place. Perhaps the vice president really had been killed in Israel and the United States political machine dreamed up the switch story in an attempt to get those responsible to reveal themselves.
Horus focused his attention on the television as the newscaster summarized the day’s top story. “And so, as this day draws to a close, after presenting enough bizarre plot twists to rival an academy award winning screenplay, the government has now admitted to fabrication of a cover-up regarding the real identity of the man who was assassinated at Zion Stadium along with Ambassador Franklin. Tonight it is Senator Gillpatrick, rather than the vice president, who is recovering in Bethesda Military Hospital.” Behind the newscaster, pictures of the Gillpatrick twins appeared, one showing the senator with his wife and daughter, the other showing the vice president standing with President Daley on the front lawn of the White House. The picture of the senator faded, while the vice president’s picture was enlarged to the point that it filled the entire screen. Superimposed under the picture were his birth date and the date of his demise. The newscaster remained silent for a moment while computer-generated American flags appeared and waived and patriotic music played in the background.
Whispering to himself, Horus said, “I knew it.” A satisfied smile spread across his face. “I knew all along that it had to be him. I felt it.” He turned away from the television, yearning to witness the reaction of the average American family and felt a perverse thrill as he observed the children, asleep on their mother’s laps, or playing, completely unconcerned and unaware of the world shaping events that were unfolding.
In contrast to their unaffected offspring, the faces of the adult
s reflected the realization that there were forces active in this world that could and, in fact, had already carried out terrorist activities against their most protected leaders. If the leaders of their country weren’t safe, how could they and their children be safe? The answer was simply that they couldn’t be. Despair was etched upon the faces of the parents as their eyes moved from the TV to the innocent children and then back. Immeasurably pleased, Horus figured, now all I need to do is visit Aunt Becky to tie up some loose ends and then, Boston, here I come.
Chapter Seventeen
The gold Ford Falcon SUV zoomed onto the entry ramp. Deploying the airfoil stability wings, it accelerated to the pre-rush-hour speed limit of 85 km/h. Preprogrammed to navigate the distance from Bethesda to Baltimore, the pneumatic gravitational and speed sensitive shock absorbers lowered the vehicle’s profile by a foot. At the same time, the Ford sealed off the underbelly of the car, covering non-aerodynamic areas that increased wind drag and reduced fuel efficiency.
Cruising in the middle of ten northbound lanes, Horus felt a wave of nausea as he opened the console between the passenger and driver’s seat and dropped in the key that it turned out he had not needed — the one he had gotten from “Aunt Becky.”
Even though he had been following orders to make sure there were no loose ends, he still couldn’t believe what he had done. It had been wrong. What happened to the sensitive boy who delighted in playing with small animals? Last year, he could never have done what he did — not even to fulfill what he or others regarded as his destiny. He fought off another wave of nausea as the SUV continued on its route.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 14