Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Keep walking. Forward," Scruffy Beard ordered. "Have to keep our star passenger healthy." She felt his slimy hand touch her back between her shoulder blades.

  She stepped forward, walking cautiously to avoid falling. Her mind strained for the mental image of a map of the Middle East. Where, where could this be?

  Then it hit her.

  The Suez Canal.

  That had to be it. Yes, what else would account for the narrow waterway and the mosques dotting the landscape? But were there cities along the Suez? Except for her trip to Jerusalem to defend Lieutenant Commander Quasay last year, she hadn't paid much attention to Middle Eastern geography. That meant this had to be Egypt. She just wasn't sure what city.

  Think, Jeanette. Think. What are the cities and towns along the Suez? I should know this. After all, the canal was designed and developed by a Frenchman.

  Port Said was at the mouth, near the Mediterranean. Could she be there? And didn't the Suez run near Cairo?

  No, not Cairo. What is the town midway down the canal? Think. Ismailia. Yes that's it.

  And if this is the Suez and I remember my geography correctly, then it flows south into the Gulf of Suez and then into the Red Sea, which borders Saudi Arabia.

  Not Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia is home of the Council of Ishmael.

  Dear Jesus, help me!

  This was the second prayer she had uttered -- albeit silently -- in the last two days. A strange tingling fluttered in her chest, as if someone, or something, deep in her soul prayed for her. It brought her a moment of peace.

  The feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come. She was in the Middle East, where women were treated like animals. She had seen the broadcasts. She knew what she might face. They would shove her to her knees and force her neck onto a block as the Al Jazeer cameras captured the image of the stainless-steel blade of the executioner's ax, then they would broadcast the footage around the world.

  Jesus, help me. There it was again. That strange sense of peace.

  "Move along!"

  She would die now or die later.

  But with shackles on? How could she survive in the water? The shackles weren't very tight. The chains gave her about twelve inches of leeway between her feet and maybe six inches between her wrists.

  Maybe that was enough.

  The side of the ship was about five feet away. Her chances if she jumped overboard were one in a million. Maybe a fisherman, maybe a boater, maybe someone would pull her out of the water. If she waited until they were in the Red Sea, jumping would mean automatic suicide.

  And in Saudi, if that's where they were taking her, her chances for survival dropped to one in a billion. Be decapitated by an ax -- or get mangled by a ship's massive propeller in a canal built by a Frenchman. That was her choice. If she died, at least dying in the Suez Canal would give her death a semblance of dignity.

  She would take her chances with the propeller.

  "Stop stalling." The Middle Easterner gave her a hard shove in the back, nearly knocking her off her feet. She caught her balance. She brought her hands together in front of her stomach, interlocking her fingers and thumbs, each hand squeezing the other.

  "La Salle de Bains," she said. "I must go now." She turned quickly, bringing her face so close to his that she felt his breath. "Vive la France!"

  She unleashed a sharp two-handed karate chop, striking the European man's groin area. Then her clasped hands clubbed the Middle Easterner's temple.

  The man fell back, and she lurched on the steel deck toward the side of the ship. But her leg shackles sent her tumbling to the deck. On her hands and knees, she pushed forward, forward. Her face was now over the side of the ship.

  Just a little farther.

  She looked down and saw water rushing by. She pushed a little farther. Now her shoulders were over the side.

  A hand gripped her hair, jerking her back to the deck. Two other hands grasped her ankles. They rolled her over on her back. The Middle Easterner stood over her again.

  "Trying to misbehave, are you?" A clenched fist flew from the starry skies, smashing against her temple. She felt a warm trickle of blood as the stars above began to spin.

  And then darkness.

  CHAPTER 20

  Office of Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer

  Building 73

  Navy Trial Command

  32nd Street Naval Station

  Zack turned his back to the panoramic view outside his office window. Behind him, San Diego Bay's blue waters rippled in the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. His spunky ever-present shadow sat in the corner of the office, her legs crossed. She sipped on a bottle of Dasani.

  "That guy didn't look like a terrorist." He finished his coffee, then cradled his hands behind his head and yawned.

  "Hardly," Shannon said. "But you never know." She placed the bottle on the corner of his desk. "I'm running a check on him just to be safe. Meantime, you stay out of public until we get a better read on all this."

  "Too bad. I was going to take you to dinner to thank you for saving my life."

  She smiled, and for a moment her face flushed a mild crimson. "We'll have to settle for steaks on the grill," she said, looking down and fumbling through papers.

  The buzz of his office telephone broke the silence. "Excuse me, Commander Brewer." Legalman First Class Pete Peterson, Zack's military paralegal, was on the speakerphone.

  "Yes, Pete?"

  "Lieutenant Commander Poole is on the line."

  He picked up the line.

  "Hi, Wendy. What's up?"

  "How's the case going?"

  "Think we've got it settled."

  "And they plucked us out of the ocean for that?"

  "Tell me about it."

  "So when do we finish our sailing trip?"

  Zack hesitated. Why did it seem as though Shannon could hear everything she was saying? "We'll see."

  Another slight pause. "Okay," she said. "Since it sounds like I might have to wait awhile, how about dinner at my place tonight? I make an awesome shrimp pasta, and I've got two bottles of vintage merlot, 1968. What do you say?"

  "Dinner? Ahm." Shannon looked up from her paperwork. Her green eyes narrowed. There was a rapping on the door.

  "Wendy, can you hang on for a second?"

  "Sure."

  "Come in."

  The door opened and in stepped a slightly potbellied petty officer with a graying mustache, wearing the dark blue working uniform of a navy enlisted man with red chevrons on his left sleeve. "Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but Lieutenant JG Jacoby is on the line," Peterson said. "She said it was urgent, and your line was busy."

  "What line?"

  "Line four, sir."

  "Thanks, Pete," Zack said. "Wendy, I've gotta take this call. Can I call you back?"

  "Sure, Zack." A hint of disappointment tinged her voice. "Just don't forget, okay?"

  "Okay."

  He hung up and punched line four. "Hi, Karen. What's up?"

  "Sorry to interrupt you, Commander, but there's a problem with our plea agreement."

  "A problem? What problem?"

  "I can't talk about it over the phone. But I can tell you this. None of this was my idea, and I'm opposed to it." Karen's voice wavered as if it were about to crack.

  "Okay. Okay. It's going to be all right, Karen. Where do you want to meet?"

  "Balboa Park, sir."

  "Balboa Park?"

  Shannon shook her head and mouthed, "No way."

  "Two hours give you enough time, Karen?"

  That sent Shannon's palms flying horizontally, like a baseball umpire signaling safe at a runner stealing second.

  "Two hours will be fine, sir."

  "Two hours would be fine, Karen." Shannon's pretty face contorted. "Ahm..."

  "No way," Shannon protested in a loud whisper.

  "Where did you want to meet in the park, Karen?"

  "Do you know where the Japanese Friendship Garden i
s?"

  "Yes, I do. Good suggestion. That's not too crowded."

  "All right. How about by the Buddhist temple?"

  "The Buddhist temple it is," Zack said. "See you in a couple of hours."

  "Oh, Zack?"

  "Yes."

  "I think it would be best if you came alone. I don't want to attract any attention."

  "Okay, I'll be there." He hung up the phone.

  "Excuse me, Zack?"

  Shannon's eyes pierced through him. "Shannon, something's wrong."

  "I don't have a background report on Reynolds yet. There's no reason you have to go to the park. Why can't Jacoby just come here to the office?"

  "I don't know, Shannon, but she sounded spooked about something. Look, I have to go."

  "I'm coming."

  "No. You can guard me later in the day if you want, but she thought it would be best if I came alone."

  "Zack, she's just a greenhorn JG out of justice school. What does she know?"

  "She's got enough savvy to know something's wrong. Look, I've gotta go." He stood, gave her an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and walked out of his office.

  CHAPTER 21

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  Flap, flap. Flap, flap.

  She opened her eyes, then realized that the wind blowing against the outside of her tent had awakened her from a shallow sleep. Sometimes a strong gust of wind meant a sharp drop in temperature would follow. Sometimes snow or ice pellets came after the wind.

  At first, the sound of the wind in the darkness of the night was frightening to her. But after a few weeks of being awakened by it, she became accustomed to praying silently as the wind blew. Flitting at the edges of her mind was the memory of something she had read about the wind. It took her weeks to realize it was something about the Day of Pentecost in the book of Acts -- the Holy Spirit rushing in the form of the wind. The image brought her peace.

  She so longed to have a Bible with her. The wind was just one of the images she had tucked away in her memory. She tried to recall verses from the Psalms her mother had read aloud to her at bedtime when she was a child. Soon snatches of words and phrases came to her: The Lord is my Shepherd... He is my rock, my fortress, my refuge... my place of safety... Do not be afraid of the terrors of the night nor fear the dangers of the day... I will rescue those who love me... I will protect those who trust in my name... They became her lifeline at night.

  She closed her eyes and listened. Flap, flap. Flap, flap.

  When she prayed for comfort, the wind blew. And the wind reminded her of the Holy Spirit. The beatings and mock executions happened in the day. The sound of the wind brought her comfort at night.

  And when the wind howled furiously and suddenly stopped, its power contrasted with peaceful silence, it was as if a lion had been roaring and had given way to a lamb.

  That reminded her of something she remembered from the Bible: one day, the lion will lie down with the lamb.

  She also remembered that Jesus was described as both a lion and a lamb. Flap, flap. Flap, flap. The thought of Jesus gave her a supernatural peace she could not understand.

  The flapping stopped. Eerie silence, and then a warm peace descended inside the tent.

  "Lord, I am a walking dead woman. They take me out and threaten to kill me. But they've not killed me yet. If you're there, give me comfort. Give me protection... as you have promised," she said into the dark. "Lord, in this forsaken place, send me a friend. Help me escape."

  The wind blew again, whistling through the top of her tent. She lay back down, closed her eyes, and prayed herself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 22

  Balboa Park

  Park Boulevard entrance

  San Diego, California

  The silver Mercedes 320 entered Balboa Park on northbound Park Boulevard, then swung left onto Presidente Way, just in front of the Veterans Memorial Center Museum. The driver glanced in his rearview to see if he had been followed.

  Nothing.

  At least not yet.

  A few yards down on the right of Presidente Way was one of several parking lots in the park. But this parking lot was one that Zack Brewer remembered well. The last time Zack had wheeled the Mercedes into this parking lot, Diane was with him. They were about to leave for their trip to Washington to meet the president. It was the last time he had been with her in San Diego.

  As he parked under a tall palm tree in the sun-drenched lot, he thought about that Sunday afternoon just a few weeks before Easter. The great organist Vickie McKibben was performing the "Widor Toccata" at the outdoor Spreckels Organ Pavilion that afternoon. Diane saw the notice in the San Diego Union-Tribune and remembered the "Widor" being played on the large pipe organ at the church she attended when she was growing up in Norfolk.

  Zack's mother had been a church organist in his hometown of Plymouth, North Carolina, and had herself tackled a watered-down version of the grand toccata -- at the close of Easter Sunday ser vices at the First Christian Church -- and done a decent job with it.

  Zack stepped out of the car and walked across the parking lot, his thoughts turning briefly to his meeting with Karen and the nagging sense that something had gone wrong in the Eckberg court-martial.

  But his memories pushed even that worry from his mind. Eckberg. Karen. Shannon. All were a million miles away.

  They first held hands in public that day. And as they walked into the large outdoor amphitheater, the rapid flurry of thirty-second notes, like a furious musical butterfly dancing through the palm trees and echoing off the pavilion itself, signified that McKibben had launched into the most majestic organ overture known to man.

  He had sat with Diane on an aluminum bleacher at the end of one of the back rows, still holding her hand, overwhelmed at the musical glory of the moment.

  The grand pavilion was empty now, he saw, as he walked along the sun-bathed path leading to the Friendship Garden. But the stillness, the emptiness, the memories -- they all beckoned him.

  He walked into the grand pavilion and took a seat on the same bleacher. He closed his eyes, felt her hand, heard the music...

  Gobi Desert

  Southeast of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  Flap, flap. Flap, flap.

  The wind was picking up again. She opened her eyes and wondered

  how long she had been asleep.

  But it wasn't the wind that had awakened her. Not this time anyway.

  The mighty sound of the pipe organ's bass pedals roared across her consciousness.

  Half note, half note, half note, half note, eight beats... Driving, driving toward the powerful climax of the toccata... Half note, half note, half note, half note, eight beats...

  Like furious wind chimes, dancing up and down the scale, thirty-second notes trumpeted over the top of the pulsating resonance of the mighty bass pedals.

  Glorious.

  Furious.

  Exhilarating.

  These emotions rushed through the air as the organist brought all the power of the organ's pipes to bear in a worshipful climax.

  He had grabbed her hand once more as the standing ovation began. She saw tears in his eyes, then realized the same emotion had overcome her too.

  They had slipped out the back as the ovation continued. They didn't say a word -- neither could speak -- as they walked, hand in hand, to the Japanese Friendship Garden.

  The garden was quiet. And empty. It was as if everyone else in the park had been drawn like magnets to the nearby organ pavilion, where sustained applause and cheering carried across the park. Then the accolades quieted, and the pipes in the distance rose once more, this time with McKibben's brilliant encore performance of Andrew Lloyd Webber's theme to Phantom of the Opera.

  She and Zack had stopped at the edge of the koi pond. The distant strains of the theme to the Phantom mixed with the musical chirp of songbirds darting among the fronds of sun-bathed palm trees.

  The brilliant sunlight illuminated the
fiery-colored fish as if they were electric. She had not known until that day that koi swim in pairs. Always. That fact, and the magnificent colors of the koi, was engraved in her memory.

  The koi pond that day was a fountain of magic.

  That day, at that moment, she knew she was falling in love.

  Russian freighter Alexander Popovich

  Entrance to the Black Sea

  20 miles north of Istanbul

  As the narrow straits of the Bosporus relinquished their tight watch over his ship, an unsuppressed grin crossed Captain Batsakov's face as the bow of his ship plowed into the limitless expanse of water. The moon-draped swells served as a glorious calling, almost an invitation to the Alexander Popovich to dance with the sea.

  "Chourney Morryeh," he said with satisfaction, Russian for "Black Sea." Then he said, seemingly to no one," Doma. The gates to the heart of the Russian sailor." He imbibed another gratifying sip of vodka. "Helmsman, all ahead half."

  "All ahead half, Capitan," the helmsman parroted in Russian.

  "Set course for Sochi. You know the coordinates."

  "With pleasure," the helmsman said. "Set course for Sochi. Aye, Capitan."

  "In just a few more days," he said, turning to the Arab, "I will be frolicking on the most beautiful beaches in all of Russia. The beaches visited by the czars and the presidents of the Russian Republic, and full of beautiful Russian women, who, as you know, are the most beautiful in the world. And you --"

  "I," Fadil said, "will have just begun my work."

  "Well, whatever your work is, my friend, I will drink to it," the captain said.

  "To Russia." Fadil raised his glass.

  "To the Council of" -- the captain could not remember the rest -- "to the Council of whoever you are and to your green American money."

  That brought an obligatory laugh, a clanking of glasses, and more swigs of vodka. The ship's engines revved to a whine, carrying the celebrants and their ship back into the rolling swells of the open sea.