by Ted Peters
“That’s not specific enough. What kind of work does Uncle Sam ask you to do?”
“Counterintelligence and counterterrorism.”
“What?!”
Graham reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. He unfolded it to show Leona the oval credential. Above the eagle’s head read, “Central Intelligence Agency.”
“No doubt you’ve seen one of these before.”
Leona remained expressionless. “More,” she demanded.
“Perhaps you’re not aware that the new CIA director, former Minnesota Senator Gerhart Holthusen, was a college friend of Justin Hurley. They’re both Saint Olaf grads. It was easy for Holthusen to simply call our Presiding Bishop on the phone and make the arrangements. The ELCA thinks it has a new director for Parish Listening. But what we actually have here is a new form of church and state partnership. This is confidential, as you can imagine.”
“So, why is a CIA operative here with me?”
“Trinity Church is the only church listed in my portfolio. You are the sole reason I have this appointment, and you are the sole reason for my ELCA job.”
“Just what is your job again?”
“To protect you. I’m your bodyguard, so to speak.”
“To protect my body? What about my soul?” Leona laughed at her own joke.
“That, too, if need be. I’m kind of an all-service spy.” It was Graham’s turn to laugh at his own humor.
“So, what is it you need to protect me from? I have no enemies.”
“You just got mugged. No enemies?”
“A random act of inner city violence. It’s Chicago, after all.”
“What happened in Tehran?”
A steel-like expression came over her already hardened face. She slowly turned her stare away from her conversation partner to gaze glassy-eyed through the front picture window into the parking lot. Her mind left the room. Once again, she found herself momentarily in another time and another place. Her nose rebelled at the smell of rancid yogurt. Her eyes closed at the sight of blood-covered corpses. An old familiar internal pain returned, grasping and clawing at her psyche. She forced her attention back to the present. She turned toward Graham. “I have nothing to say.”
“I know something,” he said.
“Then be satisfied with what you know.”
“It might be relevant to what’s before us.”
“You have not told me what’s before us. What do you count as a threat to me? Is anybody else involved? The CIA is supposed to work internationally, not locally. Unless, of course, it has to do with national security. So, again, why are you here?”
“I understand that you have a personal relationship with our president.”
“If you mean Bud Stevens, president of our congregation and chair of the church council, of course.”
“No, you know what I mean. The other president. The one in the oval office.”
“That I cannot confirm.”
“Can you deny it?”
“I neither confirm nor deny.”
“You sound like you’re on trial.”
“I feel like I’m on trial.”
“You were once a CIA agent, weren’t you?”
“I neither confirm nor deny.”
“Once an agent always an agent. You know that. There’s no quitting. As a baby, you were baptized into the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. That’s a life-long baptism, maybe even eternal. Then you were born again, baptized a second time. Only, this second baptism was not of the Holy Spirit. It was in the name of our country, the United States of America. You took an oath. Whether you like it or not, this is a commitment you cannot break. You are worshipping two gods, one in heaven and the other right here on earth. I represent your earthly god.”
Graham was baiting her. If she were a cat, the hair on her neck would have bristled. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” she said aggressively. “When I left the agency, I turned in everything and made a clean break. I have no relation whatsoever to the CIA or its mission. I went to seminary in Berkeley. Got a divinity education. And now I’m serving as pastor here in Chicago. I am doing everything in my power to forget or, if I have to, deny what happened when I was serving the insatiable lusts of the Whore of Babylon.”
“Ouch. That’s harsh.”
Leona paused. “It’s your turn.”
“Well, in time I plan to tell you more. You deserve it. But in the meantime, know just one thing. I’ll be hanging around. I’d like to visit, observe, comment, and most importantly, protect.”
“You’re not staying here!”
“No, of course not. I’ve got a hotel room in Hyde Park. I’m leaving, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Anything cooking?”
“In the early evening I do my role play. The court sends me teenage boys on probation. Sometimes their overloaded probation officers show up, but far too seldom. If you want to listen to some part of my ministry, come at 6:30 pm.”
“I’ve got paper work to do all day,” said Graham. “My day will also include a visit to our Churchwide Office—you know, to Higgins Road, as we affectionately call it—and our good bishop. I’ll drop into Trinity about 6:30. Can you stay out of trouble all day?”
Leona walked her guest down the porch steps into the parking lot.
“We’re being watched. Quiet.” His voice turned to a loud whisper. “Did you see that?”
“No, what?”
“Two eyes. When the light is just right it reflects off what looks like two eyes. There, behind the garage, in the shadows.”
They stopped to stare into the dark silence. For a second, the mysterious eyes turned toward them and shone in the reflected alley light. Bluish white. Both caught a fleeting glimpse.
“Looks like a wolf to me,” Graham said. “Who ever heard of a wolf in Chicago? I think maybe I should go investigate.”
“Probably a loose dog,” said Leona, turning back to look at her human visitor. “You run on. I’m going to be fine.”
Graham turned to walk away. Then, he turned back. “Do you remember the name of Orpah’s son?”
“Yes. It was Magnus Tinnen.”
“Mr. Tinnen did not die in Afghanistan He died in Iran. He was captured and beheaded.”
“Iran?”
“Right, Iran. No one in the military would want it known that a Navy Seal was in Iran let alone that he was executed. His body was irretrievable.”
“How do you know this?”
“I read the report on Magnus Tinnen at the conclusion of my previous assignment. It was a coincidence that I happened to meet his mother tonight.”
Leona was stupefied. “Beheaded, you say! So, the body’s ashes that I buried...?”
Graham shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe the ashes of a fireplace log? Fence post? Who knows?”
“Fence post!” Leona could control it no longer. She let out a wail. “I pronounced a holy benediction over a fence post! Over a lie!” Her two hands rose, palms up.
“No matter whose ashes they were, you, Pastor Lee, are not a lie. Good night.” Graham departed.
Leona recognized the compliment. but it did not assuage her rising anxiety. She returned to the house and quickly changed into her jogging suit. She rifled through her front closet and pulled out a jump rope. She returned to the parking lot. With a handle in each hand she began to jump. The muscles on her face tightened. The jumping speed increased. Her entire muscle system stiffened. Faster. Still faster. She grimaced. But she continued to jump. She did not notice anything, including the two shining eyes watching her from the shadows on the other side of the parking lot. For fifty-five minutes without interruption Leona jumped at an inhuman speed.
7 Monday, Chicago, 11:14 pm
This Monday, Leona’s evening bath would be a long one. She slipped into the steaming hot tub, enhanced with lavender bath salts. In the background, Bach’s Passacaglia in D Minor softly garnished the quiet. Leona played this whenever she was at her emotional edge
. The mournful, resonant tones reflected the foreboding mood moving over her like a dark cloud.
The bath would help soothe her wounds. Although the lesions and bruises were minor and likely to heal in only days, in principle any wound is a reminder of our physical fragility. An unattended infected cut could become gangrenous and could eventually spell death. A single drop of blood led Leona's mind into thoughts of death. She surrounded herself with warm bath water and entertained thoughts of her future grave.
“God.” She started a prayer. Her thoughts drifted. As if in a theater seat, she watched her life's past dramas. The faces of the three young men who put her life in peril at the Cheltenham station flashed on her mental stage. She relived the terrifying moment she saw the northbound train about to decapitate her. Then Orpah Tinnen walked into the scene. Leona thought of her son, Magnus, decapitated by the Iranian military. She remembered her moment in the church kitchen, her moment of remembrance of the blood-spattered chest of the executed prisoner.
“God,” she muttered. She paused. “God, you have got such a fucked up world. Why did you put me here like a pin cushion to feel every prick of its pain? Yes, I want to love your world as much as you do. But goddammit, it’s hard. I’d like to ask the Holy Spirit for the wisdom and strength to trust in what I cannot see. But goddammit, I’m too pissed off to think it’s worthwhile. I hope your grace covers me. Amen.”
Leona considered phoning Thora to come over to exercise her nurses’ skills and her nurse’s compassionate heart. A glance at her watch convinced her that it would be too late to call Thora. Her wounds would be her own to nurse. By taking this responsibility alone, she would have the additional benefit of avoiding questions. She had effectively shunned calling the police about the attempted robbery. Now, she was glad she had avoided police questioning. Could Graham be right: it was not just a mugging? She considered phoning Angie in Michigan, but it would be past midnight there.
The lengthy soak in the hot water eased her tension. Leona relaxed. Despite Passacaglia in her ears, death thoughts departed and a mixture of pleasantries swirled in her mind. She inhaled the wafting Essence of Lavender. The Sand Man was inviting her. She gladly accepted the invitation.
8 Tuesday, Afghanistan, 2:15 pm
The Toyota wound its way down the mountainside nearly as slowly as it had ascended. When flat and straight stretches of roadway opened up, the Hilux speeded up. About mid-afternoon the four turned into a small farmyard. An Afghani opened the wooden gate and allowed the pickup to pass through a club of wandering and now curious goats. He closed the gate behind the truck. Then he walked around to open the crudely constructed wooden door at the entrance of a heavy equipment shed. Jarrod drove his Hilux into the shed while the shed door closed from behind.
Ceiling lights popped on. The four riders exited the Toyota and headed for a just opened door at the building’s rear. This took them down a long flight of primitive stairs and into a modern subterranean room with electric lights and Western furniture.
One wall, covered with open cabinets, held an arsenal of automatic rifles, grenades, and hand-propelled rocketry. Three men in military clothing lounged, playing video games on their laptops and iPods.
The American in fatigues went immediately to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold Budweiser. Manuel and Abdullah looked at Jarrod with pleading expressions on their faces. “Yes, get yourselves some beer,” he told them. Then he spoke directly to Abdullah. “I believe that the boss and I will want a party this evening, Abby. You know the kind of party I mean. Can you provide us with the refreshments? You’ll be rewarded well.”
Abdullah sipped his brew. “Of course, Mr. Jarrod. In fact, I can offer you something special: two young girls, both sixteen and twin sisters. They live in a small village not far from here. I’ve watched them grow up. Both virgins, I’m sure. No STDs. Maybe I can make an arrangement. Shall we call it a ‘premium’ arrangement'?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll double my normal fee if you’ll add another one for Manuel. He’s ready to celebrate.”
Manuel smiled. Jarrod looked invitingly at the American who was about to grab his second beer. “Louie?”
“No, Jarrod,” Louie said. “I’m good for tonight.”
“Time to tell the boss what’s happened,” said Jarrod. He turned and walked toward the rear of the room. He stopped in front of a large reinforced metal door. He pressed a button and deliberately stood in front of a camera so he would be visible. “Ah, it’s you, Jarrod,” could be heard over the communications speaker. “Come in.”
With the sound of an electronic switch buzzing, the door popped ajar. Jarrod opened the door and entered. The large heavy door slammed behind him.
9 Tuesday, Chicago, 5:30 am
When the first rays of sunshine splintered her upstairs bedroom blinds, Leona awoke rested. Well, almost rested. As was her routine, the rising sleeper donned her vanilla fleece robe and staggered down the stairway to the kitchen to hit the “on” button on her Cuisinart coffee brewer. The pot huffed and puffed like a locomotive departing the station. Leona opened the refrigerator door and removed the orange juice. After pouring a six-ounce glass of the golden liquid, her morning mouth swallowed it in three rapid gulps. She turned to the cookie jar, a teddy bear with a removable head and seized a gingerbread man. She bit off the left leg. Then stood there, leaning against the drain board, waiting for the brewing process to conclude. Finally, she poured a cup—a green and white cup with a picture of Sparty, the Michigan State mascot, on it—to the brim with Peet’s Major Dickason’s Blend. With the steaming cup in hand, the MSU alumna stumbled up the stairs and staggered to her bedroom, mercifully avoiding spillage. Leona set the now disabled gingerbread man and coffee on the night table and snuggled again under the cover, a pink and blue mosaic comforter quilted many years prior by her grandmother for her mother.
Opening her Bible, she read Psalm 31 for Tuesday on her morning meditation list. She gave special attention to verses 13 and 14: “For I have heard the slander of many. Fear was on every side, while they took counsel together against me, they devised to take away my life. But I trusted in thee, O LORD. I said, Thou art my God.” That’s me, she thought to herself. Or, it’s what has become of me.
Grabbing the remote, she switched on CNN. Sipping coffee and cannibalizing the ginger man, she continued her morning liturgy.
After a half hour of waking up at the speed of a snail climbing a water drain, Leona swung both feet overboard and placed her soles squarely on the carpeted floor. The next stop would be her lavender-scented bathroom, a place where Leona could become her day-self again.
After pulling her hair back into a pony tail and dressing in her sweatsuit with New Balance 967s on her feet, Leona skipped down the stairs. She opened the heavy inside door. Then she pressed the screen door outward. At her feet on the porch something shocked her. Kneeling down she found the body of a dead squirrel. Looking closely, she saw that the squirrel’s neck was broken. Its body was not yet stiff, suggesting it had been placed there only a short time ago. Who? Why? What does this mean? Leona exited the front door and surveyed the parking lot, the church, the house and yard across the way, the alley. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. Yet, she was now plagued with an ominous feeling.
Leona located a shovel and ceremoniously buried the slain squirrel in her flower bed. She placed the still warm limp body gently in the dirt hole before covering it over. The pastor added a brief prayer, turning this burial into a funeral. If I can pray over the ashes of a fence post, she said to herself; certainly I can pray over one of God’s furry creatures.
10 Tuesday, Chicago, 6:30 am
Once the rite was completed, Leona took off jogging. At 79th Street she turned toward Lake Michigan. She ran across South Lakeshore Drive, heading toward Rocky Ledge Park. In only minutes she had turned to run north. At five foot eight, shoulder length auburn hair, long athletic legs, and running with a rhythmic gait, Leona added an ornamental beauty to the natural gree
n landscape.
Leona did not think of herself as an addition to the landscape and seascape. She felt she belonged to it and it belonged to her. Space, she thought. The land is green. The sky is blue or, better, bluish gray. The water is bluish green. I can’t see beyond the blurry boundary where the water merges with the sky. It’s all bigger than me. Yet, somehow it is me. Will all this be here when I’m gone? All this was here before I came. Does my being here now make a difference?
We think of Chicago as a place. But it is also a time. It was about twelve thousand years ago that a southern finger of the last great ice field began to curl and scrape the earth’s crust, leaving a massive gouge. The melting ice filled the evacuated cavern, giving birth to what our geologists tell us was the giant ancestor of today’s Lake Michigan. This behemoth body of water covered what is today metropolitan Chicago to a depth of sixty feet. After a few thousand years of evaporation, a mound of dry land emerged between the receding lake and the Des Plaines and Chicago rivers. Chicago’s potential rose, so to speak, as the chaotic waters receded. This primordial history has now slipped into the less than conscious memory of the rocks and sand which underlay square mile after square mile of asphalt and concrete. Such a deep past seems lost to the night of time. Yet, not completely. On many occasions Leona had asked questions about what might have taken place when picking the tiny crinoids from among the pebbles at the great lake’s edge.
Thoughts about our origin and destiny are never completely unconscious. They endure just on the edge of our awareness, framing our focus. Leona’s focus was on the disturbing drama of the dead squirrel on her front porch. Regardless of her mental focus, her flying feet were carrying her northward toward the Chicago skyline. Five miles north. Five miles back south. Both directions on the asphalt path laid out for joggers, walkers, and baby carriages.