Cyrus Twelve: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #2

by Ted Peters

  Graham was livid. “I could never afford Silver Oak on a spy’s salary, let alone on a clergyman’s salary.”

  “Have you thought about getting an honest job?” Leona stepped up, putting her toes on the top of Graham’s toes. She wrapped her arms around Graham’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He resisted, arching his head backward.

  “Now, we’re not a tad jealous, are we, Grammy?”

  Graham slowly put his arms around Leona and clasped them in the small of her back. He kissed her on the forehead, but he could not bring himself to express any affection beyond that.

  “The fax is from your mother. Evidently, you wanted some background on Miss Detroit. This is a poop sheet.”

  “Is the coffee hot?” Leona asked Graham.

  “No, but I’d be glad to warm up a cup for you. I’m ready for one too. It’s Peet’s, not Silver Oak. Will that be good enough?”

  Leona waved her hand in approval, while lifting her cell phone to check text messages. One was from Angie. Angie reported that she’d head from Tina Matsuoka that the semen DNA in Kelly did not match that of Doug Valentine. Valentine was no longer a suspect. “No match on the Valentine DNA,” she hollered toward the kitchen.

  “No surprise,” Graham shouted back.

  Leona then sat down on the Lazy-Boy to read her mother’s fax about Susan Elliott. Midnight leaped into her lap, causing, so Leona had to lift the paper to read.

  “Find anything?” asked Graham upon returning to the living room with two cups of coffee.

  “Nothing much.” Leona sipped with a slurping noise. “Hot,” she murmured. “Susan went to Cody High School. She did two years at Wayne State and was planning to transfer into her junior year to Michigan State. Go Spartans! She was planning to study art and architecture. She had just begun a summer job at Nipendo, a computer peripherals factory on Detroit’s west side. Nipendo has a Michigan Avenue address, actually. Mmmmmm. Well, that’s all. I had hoped to find some sort of connection with Kelly. Anything. But, nothing stands out here.”

  Graham nodded to indicate he was listening. “Did Kelly go to either Wayne State or MSU?”

  “No. She’s a U. of M. grad, a Wolverine. Even got her Ph.D. in Ann Arbor.”

  I thought you said Kelly had gone to that, whatever it is, that Transhumanist place near NASA.”

  “Yes, she did. But that was as a post-doc. She didn’t get a degree from TTU.”

  “Gotcha.” Graham coughed again.

  Leona looked up with a coy smile. “Now, Grammy, what’s on your mind?”

  “Are you going to have that dinner with Khalid?” he asked.

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  Shortly before six o’clock on the following Friday, Graham walked up the steps of Leona’s parsonage. He was sporting a blue blazer with an open-collar paisley short sleeve shirt. Leona, wearing a bright yellow sun dress with three inch heels, was surprised to see him at the door.

  “I’m here to walk you to the Metra,” he said. “Actually, I’ll ride to the Loop and walk you to the Palmer House.”

  “Thanks, Graham,” but I’m old enough to go on a date without an escort.”

  “I’m not your escort. It’s a coincidence. I got a message from Holthusen. He’s in town. I’ll meet him along with Hurley and another guy at the Berghof, only a block or so from the Palmer House. We’ll eat schnitzel, sausage, sauerkraut, and spätzle.”

  “Come on, Mister Washington. It’s not German cuisine that you’re after. It’s the beer and you know it.”

  Graham smiled as the two turned to walk out of the church parking lot and north on Burnham Avenue.

  “Actually,” Graham picked up the conversation, “Holthusen wanted you to come to dinner with us. But, I told him, the Rev. Dr. Leona Foxx has more important items on her schedule and could not be bothered dining with both of her bosses, both church and state.”

  “Why couldn’t they pick another time?”

  “Can you imagine the schedules that both Holthusen and Hurley must have? Imagine what they would have to cancel just to have high tea with the Queen. Holthusen’s taking a late flight back to Washington tonight. It’s either tonight or never, I think.”

  “It’ll have to be never for me then,” said Leona chuckling.

  Graham did not match her chuckle. He frowned.

  While waiting for the Metra on the 79th Street / Cheltenham platform, Graham lightly touched Leona’s left earring. It was a three quarter inch Latin cross. Silver. “Nice,” he said.

  “You should say that. You bought these earrings for me at Christmas. Remember?”

  “Of course, I remember. I’m just saying they become you.”

  “I wear them on special occasions, such as going to a Cubs game. Or, for this evening. I want to think of you.”

  “Come, on, Lee. You forget about me completely when Hank Greer steps into the batters box.”

  “But only for a moment, Grammy.”

  Graham said good-bye to Leona at the front door of the Palmer House. Then he continued to walk east on East Monroe. He crossed State Street and headed for the Berghof Restaurant. Soon he was seated with Gerhardt Holthusen, Director of the CIA, Justin Hurley, Presiding Bishop of the ELCA, and someone he was just meeting for the first time, Bernard Lee from Taipei. Once the beer was poured and the group ascertained that no one would hear the details of the conversation above the restaurant din, they tried to put some puzzle pieces together. Graham and the presiding bishop learned from Bernard Lee just what had happened when Leona was in Taipei and the value of the micro-chip they had secretly and successfully copied. Included in Lee’s story was the mysterious death of the two Chinese women. The four men attempted to wrap their minds around the teachings of Transhumanism, but with each mug of German beer the subtleties of esoteric doctrine became increasingly illusive.

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  Leona ascended the Palmer House stairs and found herself gazing and gaping at the magnificent renaissance hall that some would call a ‘lobby’. Built in Beaux Arts style in 1925, the Palmer House was always an aesthetic treat for Leona’s eyes.

  Khalid approached with a welcoming smile. Dressed in an off-white linen suit with a light blue Alfani shirt and tasteful Escher tie, he gripped each of Leona’s hands and placed a light kiss on each of her cheeks. With both of her hands in his grip, she was saved from the awkward ambiguity of deciding between offering a handshake, embrace, or kiss. She simply smiled and basked in Khalid’s charm.

  “Now, we could take our pre-dinner drinks here in one of the lounges,” he said. “But, I’ve got a lovely French Baroque suite upstairs. Much more private. And it’s all ready for us. Won’t you join me?”

  “Oh, yes,” responded Leona. “It sounds divine. And, thank you for the Silver Oak. You shouldn’t have...”

  “Oh. ’Twas nothing.”

  The corner elevator required a special room key to operate, and it lifted the couple to numbered floors that did not appear among the public elevator choices. Soon Leona found herself entering the spacious drawing room of Khalid’s suite. She noticed the bedroom and bathroom doors to the left of the fire place. Centered between two love seats, she noticed a low coffee table already laden with single bite hors d’oeuvres: celery sailboats, smoked salmon on cucumber slices, crab salad in phyllo cups, stuffed mushrooms, and cheese blocks with crackers. A small bouquet of spring flowers stood at one end of the coffee table, and an ice bucket with champagne at the other. On the lamp table Leona noticed an unopened bottle of Silver Oak.

  “With all of this I won’t need any dinner,” said the guest.

  “But, the lady doesn’t need to consume all of it,” responded her host. “Later we’ll decide which restaurant to go to or, if we prefer, we could ask room service to send something up.”

  Leona smiled with gratitude.

  Khalid poured champagne into each of two flutes and handed one to his guest, now seated across from him on one of the love seats. They t
oasted and drank and nibbled

  “May I?” asked Khalid, holding up a pack of cigarettes.

  Leona nodded.

  Khalid lit up.

  “You bolted out of the Hilton dining room the last time we were together,” said Khalid with a hint of drama in his voice. “I’m certainly glad you didn’t bolt out of my life.”

  “Oh, Khalid, I apologize for being so rude. I’d just received devastating news on my phone. After I left you I raced back to California, back to Mountain View, actually.” Leona then provided a brief recounting of the finding of Kelly’s body and Leona’s investigation.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear of this. I believe I met the woman....Kelly is it?....at the NASA reception. Delightful person. This is tragic.”

  Small talk was interspersed with serious matters. Khalid posed questions and sustained an interest in Leona’s answers. She in turn asked him about his professional interests and, of course, about Transhumanism.

  “Will the posthuman have a soul?” asked Leona, leaning forward with her champagne glass near her lips.

  “I don’t know what a soul is, Lee. I tend to doubt that there is such a thing as a human soul. If we don’t have souls, neither will our cyborg descendants.”

  “But, Khalid, I thought you were a Muslim, a Shiite Muslim. Certainly you should know what a soul is.”

  “I grew up in a Shia family and culture. But, I’ve had a secular education. I’ve learned to look at the world materialistically. No need for souls if it’s all just mass and energy, you know.” Khalid looked straight into Leona’s eyes. He puffed his cigarette and deliberately blew the exhaled smoke over his right shoulder. “So, my dear pastor, why would I need to have a soul?”

  Leona stared straight back and spoke with intensity. “You need to have a soul to have an essence. Your soul is who you truly are.”

  “Why bother with essence? Why not just be a body with epiphenomenal consciousness? That’s good enough for me.”

  “No, it’s not, Khalid. For the sake of Bristol, there’s much more. I believe your soul—like my soul—is like a castle. It’s surrounded by a high stone wall with an open gate. It’s filled with courtyards and gardens where your inner beauty flowers. There are many rooms within your soul, each dedicated to one or another of your favorite hopes and dreams and activities. Then, right in the center of this castle is a special chamber, a private and almost secret chamber. In this innermost chamber is where you and God share the deepest intimacy. It is here that God enjoys the treasure of the true Khalid, the true you.”

  Khalid looked away. Then, he turned back to make eye contact again. He smirked slightly. “I think I’ll keep my gate closed. God can stay outside, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Leona leaned back on the couch, keeping eye contact. She relaxed her arms but her face continued to show intensity. “A closed gate, huh? That’s like having a winning lottery ticket and tossing it into the trash without matching the numbers.”

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  Graham had ordered sauerbraten with spätzele. He was unsure whether it was the beer that made the spätzele taste good or the Spätzele that made the beer taste good. Regardless, being a spy has its delightful moments.

  Bernard Lee led the meeting. His basic task was to sound an alert, to ask his colleagues to keep their eyes peeled for connections. He walked his two confreres through the list of names of those meeting at TaiCom while speculating on what the future might bring. Each name was accompanied by a brief biographical sketch. Lionel Chang and Buzz Kidd were given the bulk of attention.

  When Lee came to the name, Khalid Neshat, Graham invested an extra measure of attention. “Tell me more about this guy, Neshat.”

  “Persian,” said Lee. “Physicist. Comes from a royal family. Way back. Sort of an international playboy. Runs his own business: Tehran Technologies Incorporated. He’s been linked to Iranian government espionage, though he doesn’t work for anybody now. He’s independently wealthy. Pays his own bills. He’s death on Mossad. Death on Israel. Death on Saudi Arabia. Death on all enemies of Iran. Fanatic, actually. Even though he’s given up the faith, he’s death on anyone who is not a Muslim, especially someone who is not a Shia Muslim. He oversaw the imprisonment and torture of Bahais, even though Bahai is indigenous to Iran. Rumor has it that he raped and murdered Bahai women, all in the name of government service.”

  “Given up the faith? Still Muslim?” asked Hurley.

  “Allah is the one and only! Even if you’re an atheist Muslim, I guess,” said Lee. “So, he believes everyone who doesn’t believe Allah is One is either an atheist or polytheist. And, both atheists and polytheists are infidels. Now, to pile on a crazy additional tenet in his confused belief system, Neshat holds that non-Muslims have no souls. This means he can murder non-Muslims without conscience. He’s an Iranian nationalist in the dress of a religious fanatic.”

  “Does he treat himself like an infidel?” asked Hurley.

  Both Lee and Holthusen laughed.

  “Sounds like a mean son-of-a-bitch,” commented the bishop somewhat out of character.

  “Yep, mean and dangerous,” Holthusen said. “He’s on everyone’s watch list. Even so, I don’t see how he could pledge loyalty to whatever TaiCom is planning. I bet he’s out to get whatever he can get for his own purposes. Just my hunch.”

  “So, he was at the TaiCom meeting in Taipei, right?” asked Graham.

  “Right.”

  “Where else have you tracked him? Did he show up at that NASA meeting with TTU?”

  “Yep.”

  Graham seemed to turn his attention back to the Sauerbraten. But, he did not exactly pick up a bite to eat. The gears in his brain seemed to be winding and spinning. When Hurley and Lee and Holthusen started a new conversation, Graham seemed to make a judgment. “Gentlemen, please excuse me!” He leaped up and headed for the exit.

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  After a long slow exhale creating a cloud of cigarette smoke above him, Khalid broke the temporary silence, “I don’t have to believe in God to hate Israel.”

  “The God of Israel, Mister Neshat, is a God of love, not hatred,” said the pastor firmly.

  “We’re not talking about God any more. We’re talking about Israel.”

  “Oh, for the sake of Bat Yam, why Israel?”

  “Because if it were not for protection from your White House, Israel would bomb Iran back to the stone age. The only reason Washington puts reigns on Israel is out of fear that Iran might make a dirty bomb. Iran needs to play the nuclear weapon card in order to persuade the US to persuade Israel to leave us in peace. We don’t want to give up that trump card easily.”

  “If Iran wants peace, why do you fund terrorists in Iraq and Syria?”

  “That’s simple,” said Khalid between cigarette puffs and champagne swallows. “You must understand what underlies the turmoil in my part of the world. What literally underlies the struggle is the South Pars/North Dome Condensate Gas Field. This is the world’s largest gas field. It underlies two countries, Qatar and Iran. Back in 2000 Qatar, along with its allies, the United States and Saudi Arabia, came up with a plan to exploit this resource. Qatar would build a pipeline running through Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Syria, and Turkey so that it could directly reach European markets. This would make the Sunni Muslims of Qatar very rich while the Americans would get to keep their massive military bases on the peninsula.”

  Leona leaned forward to listen.

  “As you know, I’m a Shia. So is almost everybody in Iran. We in Iran have decided to drill for the same gas, put it in our own pipeline, and send it through Iraq and Syria to a Mediterranean port. Then, on to Europe. Why should Sunni Qatar profit from what rightly belongs to us Iranian Shiites?”

  “Why not two pipelines?”

  “Are you really naive or just pretending?”

  Leona said nothing.

  “The ruling family in Damascus is Alawite Muslim, a close ally to us Shiit
es. So, Damascus prefers our Islamic Pipeline running through Syria, not the Qatari pipeline. This prompted the United States and Saudi Arabia to instigate a Sunni uprising in Syria to foment a regime change, to get a government in Damascus favorable to the Qatari plan. We in Iran gotta defend our market share, ya know. So, we fund anybody who’ll side with the Shiites. Oh, and Russia sides with Iran too, Did I mention this?”

  Leona leaned back and took a sip from her flute. “So, how does Israel fit into this?”

  “We fear that Israel will sabotage if not bomb our pipeline.”

  “Got any evidence?”

  “Circumstantial.”

  “Circumstantial evidence is not good enough. Any intelligence?”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got to protect our interests from Israel.”

  “Could you be paranoid, Khalid? Why would Israel care one way or the other?”

  “Israel will do anything to cripple Iran.”

  Leona nodded and sipped.

  “I can’t figure you out, Leona. For a pastor, or whatever you call yourself, you seem both naive and, well, knowledgeable. I’m finding it hard to peg you.”

  Leona only smiled.

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  Khalid’s cell phone sounded. He looked at his screen and recognized the caller. “I must take this call,” he said. “Dreadfully sorry.”

  “Of course,” responded Leona nodding.

  Neshat disappeared into the bedroom holding the phone to his ear. He slammed the door to emphasize his privacy demand. Leona stood and ambled around the living room, giving it a curious tourist’s inspection. She sniffed the fresh flowers. She leaned down to see whether the wood in the fireplace was genuine or fake. She refilled her champagne flute. She glanced at her wrist watch.