“You are going to alert the authorities at the airport, aren’t you?” Thomas demanded.
Hanratty shot back, “Have you got even the foggiest idea of how many airports, public and private, there are in Massachusetts? There’s got to be at least 20!” He began listing them, counting them off on black leather-gloved fingers. “Let’s see, besides Logan there’s Fitchburg, Westover, Barnstable, Beverly, Gardner and Hanscom, not to mention Lawrence and oh, never mind. I’ll see to it that the FAA is contacted, and they’ll send out a bulletin. But who says he’d be leaving from an airport in Massachusetts? Hell, for all we know he could already be in Connecticut, or New York, or Pennsylvania. Christ, we might as well be hunting for the proverbial needle in a damn haystack!”
Hanratty was right, he just didn’t know how right. A needle most certainly had been involved. When the already spellbound victim had answered the door that morning her captor had wasted no time in plunging a hypodermic needle into her, administering a powerful, quick acting sedative that rendered his captive incapable of resistance. He had picked her up and carried her back to the bedroom where he had undressed her, admiring what would soon be his to do with as he wished. He was running his hand up the inside of her smooth, bare thigh when the ringing of her chronocom reminded him of the necessity for haste, and motivated him to get her dressed again so that they could proceed to their next destination.
~~~
Far from Boston’s Logan International Airport, Horus was bound for Albany, New York, where a helicopter waited to whisk him and his obsession to yet another airport, further south. There, a private jet was being fueled in preparation for a quick sojourn to Mexico City. From there, another jet stood ready to make a transcontinental flight to London. With the SUV on auto-drive, cruising just under the posted legal limit— a tortoise-like 80 miles an hour— the dozing passenger next to him commanded the majority of his attention. He smoothed dark strands of hair away from the forehead of his beloved queen to be and reclined in his seat.
Horus closed his eyes, took her hand in his, and joined her in the spell-created world he continued to control. He hoped she would not awaken, at least not until they landed in Egypt, and maybe not even then.
~~~
Accompanied by more bannered trumpets than had ever marched in the combined histories of the Rose Bowl and Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parades, and clothed in cascading layers of gleaming gold, Jeanne Mosley descended the steps of an awe-inspiring temple built to demonstrate the unwavering ardor of the pharaoh. On either side of the dromos, a long paved avenue flanked by magnificent alabaster sphinxes, restricted by royal guards, both male and female subjects reached out in futile attempts to merely touch the hem of her garment. The people had gathered to express their fanatical love and undying devotion, while attentive fan bearers created light breezes to cool her majesty. They waved long, ornate, golden handled fans tipped with elongated, colorful peacock plumes.
Clad in white linen, so sheer as to create nothing more than a flimsy gossamer veil rippling across their nubile bodies, a dozen teenaged virgins, giggling amidst the excitement, scampered barefoot before the queen, tossing aromatic rose petals taken from American Beauties, of course, in front of her every step.
As the mate of Horus the Falcon, divine Son of Osiris and Isis, she now lived as a goddess. With her spouse controlling the assets of the entire planet, she would never again be expected to do so much as lift a finger to bathe, feed, or dress herself, unless she simply insisted upon doing so. Twelve kilometers south of Cairo, on the western side of the Nile, she and the pharaoh had settled in Memphis, the glittering, newly rebuilt capitol city of Egypt, originally founded over 4,000 years earlier by King Menes. With the aid of Horus, her destiny, or “shoy” as the Egyptians called it, could now be fulfilled. She would revel in each day, enjoy life to its fullest in a breathtaking world of dazzling opulence and splendor, and bear Pharaoh’s children.
The air vibrated as a thousand trumpets rang out, announcing the arrival of the royal barge that would ferry the royal couple up the Nile to Edfu, Hierakonpolis, and Letopolis, where festivals in honor of the newly crowned pharaoh and his queen would last for a full month.
As she set foot on the largest vessel ever to sail the Nile, Jeanne recalled being attacked on an Egyptian barge by a group of enslaved jackals. Dismissing the remembrance as nothing more than the recollection of a bad dream, she reached out to take the waiting hand of her proud husband. “Is this all real?” she asked. He smiled reassuringly, yet she remained skeptical.
Something wasn’t right about all of this. Just as the jackals had been nothing more than unpleasant nocturnal emanations of her subconscious mind, this had to be a dream. It just had to be. But, if somehow this were not a dream, it eclipsed anything ever before experienced by any queen or commoner, including Hatshepsut, Cleopatra and Nefertiti.
Chapter Nineteen
Sitting in an oversized chair behind the massive desk, the big guy with the Drew Carey crew cut admonished his visitor, “Young man, will you just cool your jets for a minute?” Morgan Robinson wasn’t about to encourage the son of his recently deceased, longtime friend, U.N. Ambassador Benjamin Jefferson Franklin, to go off on some wild goose chase that would be extremely dangerous, maybe life threatening. “We’ve got five other countries, besides the United States, looking for this bastard. The Israelis are madder than a wet hen and have demanded his head on a silver platter. What makes you think you can do anything the rest of our combined forces can’t?”
“Director Robinson, let me ask this. Would you just sit idly by, twiddling your thumbs, if the woman you loved had been kidnapped by the same person who assassinated your father?”
Robinson stared at the papers on his desk, considering how he might react. “No, I suppose not, but I wouldn’t try to take matters into my own hands and go off on some crazy vigilante vendetta. This isn’t the old west, you know. Thomas, with your two years of military service and your degree from M.I.T. you meet all of the prerequisites for the C.I.A. to consider employing you, but I have a hunch you wouldn’t stick around to complete the Harvey Point training program before we could place you in the field. Why don’t you stay home and pursue a political career instead of putting yourself in harm’s way? Haven’t you given any thought to running for—?”
“My father and Vice President Gillpatrick were pursuing political careers and look where it got them. Hey, I’m not planning on becoming a bounty hunter, sir. I just want to be in the thick of things. I want to help. I know you and my father were friends. If you can’t put me in the field right away as a C.I.A. operative, I thought you might at least be able to provide me with some other options. What are my chances of getting into the U.N. Peacekeeping forces?”
“Thomas, what about your mother? For Pete’s sake, what would happen to her if you were injured, or—”
“I guess you haven’t heard, sir. The doctors aren’t optimistic about her recovery. She’s in bad shape.” Thomas leaned forward, tapping the index finger of his right hand on the arm of the chair. “Don’t you see? A man who I trusted and thought of as my friend has torn my world apart. I’m never going to be able to live with myself if I don’t do everything in my power to bring him to justice.”
Robinson sighed and relented, “I suppose I can pull a few strings for you. I can’t remember what your resume said. What did you do in the Navy?”
“Maintenance and engineering,” Thomas replied. “I can fix anything from a Toyota to a nuclear sub.”
“Right, and you majored in Engineering at MIT. Well, that’s good. Engineers and mechanics are easy to place. Go home and pack your bags. I’ll find something for you.” Robinson stood, indicating the end of their meeting.
“Thanks,” Thomas got up and reached across the wide desk to shake hands.
“Don’t worry,” Robinson assured, “We’ll find him. You’ll be testifying at his trial, soon.”
Headed for the door, Thomas turned his head and spoke over his
shoulder. “Not if I find him first.”
~~~
At 8:45 the next morning, Thomas stared at the caller I.D. readout on his yellow and white gold chronocom. The readout identified the caller as General Avery Edmondson. Recalling that Edmondson commanded British forces in the Middle East, Thomas accepted the call by tapping the cobalt blue, crystal face. “Good morning, General. To what do I owe—”
“Cut the crap, Franklin.” The crisp reply rang with impatience, a dash of annoyance, and a dose of old-fashioned, British aloofness. “You bloody well know to what you owe this honor. And let’s get it straight, shall we? Just because your daddy and C.I.A. Director Robinson were old chums doesn’t mean you’re going to get to do anything more than follow orders and fix things. You’re to be at Logan International in two days for transit to your new base. An agent and a physician will drop by your apartment within one hour. The doctor will conduct a physical examination. The agent will bring documents for you to sign and will tell you where you fit in with this operation. I trust your passport is in order?”
“Yes sir. It is,” Thomas replied.
“Bully, that’s one less aggravation. I know you have a number of questions to ask, but frankly, I don’t relish answering them. Do be a good soldier and save your queries for someone else. Is there a need to inform anyone of your absence?”
“No, not really, I’m not employed, and my mother’s in…”
“Spare me the details. Explain it to the dial tone, if you wish.” Thomas heard an abrupt click as the connection terminated, followed by the indifferent monotone to which the general alluded. Thomas listened for a moment, stunned by the speed with which Robinson had arranged things.
~~~
“He can’t be alive. He couldn’t have escaped.” Speaking to the head of the Egyptian Embassy in the United States, the vizier’s voice failed to convey his usual confidence. “How could he have eluded the entire American search effort?”
“The Falcon is most resourceful, Lord Vizier. Perhaps more so than anyone could have anticipated. A tribute, no doubt, to the years of intensive training you provided.”
“I am doomed,” the vizier muttered.
Realizing his reply had been bitterly received, Nazir acted as though he had not heard. “What’s that, Lord Vizier?”
“Nothing, Nazir. I spoke to one of the lab technicians. You are sure he did not take the chartered flight we scheduled?”
“He told me he would take a helicopter to another destination and would then return to Egypt on a jet originating from an as yet undecided location. He said by making multiple stops and changing flights, he would become almost impossible to track.”
“Would you know which transatlantic flight, or perhaps which airline he is taking, Nazir?”
Nazir answered, “I have no idea.”
“I see.”
Thirty seconds of silence ensued, finally broken by Nazir’s voice. “Lord Vizier, are you still there? Hello? Lord Vizier?” Instead of a reply, he heard a click.
At that moment, high above the Atlantic, cruising at 43,000 feet and a velocity approaching the speed of sound, a Cessna Citation carried the cause of the vizier’s concern. Maria Villarreal, the flight attendant, handed Horus a finely cut, crystal goblet of wine, and asked, “Are you sure the senorita ees okay?” She seemed genuinely concerned about the young lady that had been brought onto the plane who, in her semi-comatose state, occasionally mumbled a few mostly incoherent words. The concerned young man accompanying her, besides being handsome, appeared to be exceedingly wealthy. He had retained the services of a private nurse and had chartered the private ten hour flight from Mexico City to Heathrow Airport in London.
When asked about his traveling companion’s condition, he revealed that she suffered from an uncommon and particularly drug-resistant form of encephalitis, which rendered her unable to separate dreams from reality during her rare waking moments.
Horus gazed at the flight attendant and explained, “We were in Mexico City on government business and although the doctors there did their best, they were unable to help her. They recommended that I take her to a special clinic in London. I was assured that with a professional caregiver in attendance,” he nodded towards the nurse, “to attend to her personal and medical needs, she would be able to withstand the long flight, so she is okay for now, but I can only pray that the physicians in London will be able to cure her. Her lucid moments have become more infrequent. Unless the experimental drugs work, which are not yet available in the United States, we have been warned that she will slip into an irreversible coma.”
The Hispanic flight attendant turned her attention to the nurse, who’s excessive makeup and naughty nurses’ uniform painted a less than professional image. Maria entertained the notion that the woman might be some kind of caregiver, but not the kind of care that most would associate with a nurse.
Tending to her manicure with a nail file, the alleged nurse smiled smugly, crossed her legs, and nodded in agreement with what Horus had said.
Maria shook her head and asked, “I don’t mean to pry, señor, but how are you related? I mean, ees she your sister, or…”
“She is my fiancée; my queen to be. If the Gods are kind and she recovers, we are to be wed. I shall never love another.” Horus leaned over and planted a tender kiss on Jeanne’s cheek.
Jeanne reacted by mumbling and raising her head. Her eyes fluttered as she brought her hands to her face and pawed at the air as if attempting to push something undesirable away. Horus and the flight attendant stared as she managed a few intelligible words, “Siegfried, stop that,” and then slumped back into her former posture, hands in her lap, head resting on her right shoulder.
The supposed nurse looked up from doing her nails and asked, “Who’s Siegfried?”
Horus shrugged.
Although still skeptical as to the authenticity of the caregiver, Maria seemed convinced of, and touched by, this rich man’s devotion. The flight attendant placed her hand on her chest and sighed, “Porfavor, yust let us know eef we can do anytheeng; anytheeng at all. Vaya con dios.”
Chapter Twenty
A floppy straw hat prevented sympathetic or curious onlookers from getting more than a brief glimpse at the face of the sleeping, or perhaps unconscious, young woman in the wheelchair. A tall, clean-shaven black man pushed the wheel-chair, accompanied by the Cessna’s captain and a female dressed in a tawdry facsimile of a nurses uniform. Wearing red, five-inch heels, she minced across the tarmac from the private terminal at Heathrow Airport to the burgundy and black Bentley limousine.
The privately owned airline company, which charged exorbitant prices for its “on-call,” transatlantic services, ran the service primarily for anonymity seeking celebrities wishing to avoid the paparazzi. They also excelled in assisting those who, for personal reasons, might wish to avoid the impersonal scrutiny of the British customs officials stationed at the airport’s main terminal. Sometimes, contraband was involved, but more often than not it was simply a desire of the very wealthy to avoid being lumped in with the rest of the world and treated as an equal.
After all, what if some oaf opened up a suitcase and your undergarments were suddenly put on display? What if one of those degenerate commoner’s grubby fingers were actually allowed to rummage about at will, thrilling to the silky smooth texture of a refined lady’s unmentionables; perish the thought! Sizable bribes, such as this one of 10,000 pounds, assured clamped lips and the utmost in cooperation and special treatment.
The roar of a 747’s engines accelerating towards takeoff on a nearby runway forced Horus to shout, “Mukhtar, this day you have served Egypt well. The flight was fast and smooth.”
“I am proud to serve, my Lord.” The pilot bowed, showing his respect, “May fortune smile upon Egypt and upon you in all your endeavors.”
Horus turned away from the captain and bent down to look into the opened door of the limousine. Jeanne had been buckled into her seat and propped against the rear pas
senger side door. The nurse, who sat in the center, patted the seat, inviting Horus to slide in next to her. As soon as he did, the limo driver accelerated quickly for the airport exit and began weaving the long, black vehicle through the venerable city’s crowded streets and traffic snarls.
~~~
Glancing up at the framed image of his passengers in the rearview mirror while waiting for a green light, Wilfred Claxton, the chauffeur, recalled the time, years earlier, when he drove for that crazy rock band, The Winchesters. He prayed that the passed out woman wouldn’t awaken from her slumber, lean forward, and projectile vomit, coating the back of his head, shoulders and the leather seats with whatever drugs, alcohol and hors de oeuvres lined her digestive system. That had happened back in 1977, after which, the woman had stopped breathing, forcing him to perform mouth to mouth on the skank. He grimaced at the unsavory recollection and shot another glance at the unconscious female. This woman wasn’t a skank. Quite the opposite actually, she favored a young Elizabeth Taylor, and he had a hunch that she wasn’t intoxicated. He couldn’t be sure of the reason for her current state, but felt certain she wasn’t a passed out drunk. Before raising the Plexiglas privacy divider, he inquired, “Begging your pardon, sir, if you don’t mind me inquiring, what manner of infirmity afflicts your female companion? I am well versed in paramedical techniques. If there is any—”
“She has a rare form of sleeping sickness,” Horus interrupted. Strong and calm, his voice revealed no anxiety. “I appreciate your concern, but as you can see we have a medical professional here with us.”
Claxton’s eyebrows rose. Reflected in the rearview mirror he saw what he categorized as a hooker in a nurses’ getup. Her left hand had strayed to the upper thigh of the man with whom she sat.
Her farcical ensemble revealed a copious amount of cleavage, achieved, he assumed, via plastic surgery and augmented further by means of her visible, straining pink Wonder Bra. Adding to the scene, which would have been perfect for some cheap, pornographic film, was the display of more leg and thigh than he had ever witnessed on any medical professional in pursuit of her duties.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 17