I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  “From what we can ascertain, you overheard the mother talking when the daddy had demanded the son to come home. We don’t think the kid was into a drug crowd at all. We think the old man was getting uneasy about the direction Kazen was leaning to. Racquel promised we’d get him to England. He had friends there, thought he’d be safer there. Not antagonize the old man as much. ”

  “Does Kazen know the plan?”

  “He does. He, of course won’t be useful anymore. He’s lost to us now. Maybe to the Brits MI6 as an agent. If he’s a good actor and can return to Iran and be ‘loyal’ to the mullahs, but work with the West. Or he can defect. Make a big newsy thing so he can’t be killed too obviously. Right now it’s up to him. He’ll be out of our hands as soon as he reaches England. Maybe MI6 can turn him into something they can use.” Clausen reached for a pen and scribbled on a sheet of paper. He tore it off a pad and handed it to India. “Call this number. You’ll get your instructions. The plans are being made as we speak.”

  India took the paper. “Being on my own for this is making me nervous.”

  “Look. You’ll be practically babysitting. Just keep this Kazen calm until we can hand him over to the Brits.”

  “Babysitting! Haha! Kazen is in his late twenties? I’m twenty six.”

  “A mere figure of speech, my dear. Mother him, vamp him, incite him to vengeance for Racquel’s death. I don’t care. Just keep him from getting home to Daddy.”

  “That’s pretty straightforward. I’ll do my best.”

  She turned at the door. “Would Mother really have come after you, if, you know…”

  “Brandishing scimitars, bombs, nooses. They’d scrape me off the floor.”

  India shook her head. “I’ll be damned.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Boston, four days later

  INDIA HAD, FOR the last twenty four hours, made her way from Washington to Boston’s Logan Airport. Now she hurried down the Logan terminal to the Cape Air departure lounge for that feeder airline to Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and Long Island. The past hours had been spent in the care of a silver-haired gentleman, a retired Company man she knew only as Jenner. The former CIA officer told her he kept his hand in by doing little chores, like making sure she was “black,” in other words not followed, before she started on the odyssey to take the Iranian student to London.

  She and Marcus Shawn would then accompany Kazen Masoud on a convoluted route to England’s Heathrow Airport.

  After Jenner, her CIA Washington escort gave her the free and clear, she’d flown from Washington Dulles to Boston‘s Logan, where Cape Air was to take her, Marcus and Kazen to MacArthur Airport in Islip, Long Island. Islip had a US Air flight to Phoenix, Arizona. From Phoenix the three would fly British Air over the North Pole to London’s Heathrow, where she would drop Marcus and pick up the MI6 man, who would take them to a safe house. Her job would end there when she turned Kazen over to the British secret service.

  Her head ran over the stops: Boston Logan to Cape Air to Islip, Long Island to Phoenix to London. Boston, Islip, Phoenix, London. I hope this Kazen won’t be difficult. That’s a long trip.

  Now, in the small Cape Air lounge, she was exhausted and her feet were killing her. She rummaged for a pair of ballet flats in her carry on. Her leopard patterned Jimmy Choos may have looked glamorous for CIA-ing, but so impractical. Old boy Jenner in Washington eyed them skeptically, saying he hoped they wouldn’t be required to run anywhere. She had laughed, but he didn’t. Jenner also warned her to avoid women’s airport bathrooms as extremely dangerous. Not long ago in a Cairo airport bathroom, one of their female operatives had been stabbed to death by a mysterious veiled woman.

  A chill settled over her.

  To hell with that. Little India has to pee even if she has to fight someone to do it. Somehow, I doubt scary assassins lurk in Cape Cod commuter plane bathrooms. She pushed open the door to the Ladies’. After this assignment is over, maybe I’ll get a shot at a vacation in Paris. I won’t even ask. I’ll just go. Earnhardt didn’t mention me doing anything else so I just won’t bring it up. Maybe I can connect with Jack in London. I miss him, dammit.

  SHE SPOTTED MARCUS Shawn at the end of a row of waiting passengers, his blond hair contrasting with the young man slouching next to him. That must be Kazen, she thought—tallish for an Iranian, dark, dressed in jeans and gray hoodie he’d pulled up over his hair. He wore dark glasses, but India thought she’d tell him they made him stand out more than hide him.

  Well, Marcus is certainly as good-looking as I remembered. We did have a good time in Beirut. Especially on the Ferris wheel. Funny I’d end up with him in this crazy adventure. India smiled to herself.

  Marcus Shawn spotted her as they were calling the flight. She hurried across the waiting room as passengers began moving toward the gate.

  “India, good to see you. Great timing. You haven’t met Kazen.”

  India held out her hand and the young Iranian touched it briefly. His hand was cold, but dry. He ducked his head back into his hoodie. His tone was chilly with sarcasm. “How do you do, Miss Fox. I understand you’ve been hired to babysit me and all this cloak and dagger stuff will get me safe and sound to England without Puh-pah spiriting me off to ayatollah-land.”

  Uh-oh. Sonny boy is a little touchy. Puh-pah? Daddy? “We’ll do our best. Happy to help you out.” India had learned the best way to handle this kind of thing was to just ignore it. If you didn’t push it, the recalcitrance would ease off. The kid knew why she and Marcus were there. He didn’t have to be grateful. He was also grieving for Racquel, and a bit scared. She was, too, remembering the attack in Vienna.

  She’d picked up a few pointers from Jenner, the veteran CIA officer, who’d scooted her around a few corners and dodged into a few stores and nondescript cars as he “darkened” her. It was really kind of fun, until she remembered why she was doing it. Somehow there was a thrilling unreality to her being a CIA asset, something she knew she’d be wise to get over on this trip.

  Marcus sat in the aisle seat across from India and Kazen, who she directed into the window seat. He crouched against the glass. The small plane was full, and glancing around, the passengers all looked legit—maybe businessmen and women going home from Boston to Long Island after a tiring day of moving and shaking.

  At Islip the three would connect to the US Air flight to Phoenix, a four and a half to five hour flight, depending on the winds out of the Pacific and across the plains. They’d pick up three hours, time-wise, going west, so would get into Phoenix about eight o’clock. British Air didn’t have daily flights to London and didn’t leave Phoenix Sky Harbor until 12:30 A.M. the next night. They would have to lie low at a safe house arranged by the local FBI. Would there be any danger? Their route was screwy enough. Anybody looking to pick up somebody going to London wouldn’t think they’d go the other way. Would they? She glanced over at Marcus. He gave her a thumb’s up and that made her feel better.

  India left Kazen to his thoughts for the short flight to Islip. She wondered what they were. He wasn’t happy about his two escorts. What did he think? That he’d be able to get to England on his own? With his father’s goons plotting to spirit him back to Iran, or worse, kill him to prevent him from defecting to the West?

  Obviously the Company thought he was worth its effort. If he was “turned” he could be an invaluable resource. Inside information from Iran was rare. Maybe MI6 could finish Racquel’s job.

  At Phoenix Sky Harbor, their FBI contact man Jonathan spotted them, herded them down to Baggage Claim, then out to a waiting SUV.

  PHOENIX AIRPORT WAS still crowded at eight o’clock and when they got outside, India found the mid-October weather still warm, even in the evening. She peeled off her wool jacket. Kasen insisted on keeping his hoodie up over his head, so she just shrugged, wondering if she’d be able to make a connection to the young Iranian. It looked like Earnhardt’s “mothering” or “vamping” were not going to be options
. Could she at least be a friend? He looked like he could use one.

  Jonathan drove north out of the maze of Sky Harbor roads to Forty-Fourth Street and eventually turned into a street that began to climb up the side of the Phoenix landmark Camelback Mountain.

  “It’s my sister’s house. She and her husband are traveling, so I’m staying here to watch the dog.” Jonathan popped the trunk and began unloading their luggage. Kasen only had two suitcases with him. India wondered what he’d left behind.

  Jonathan pointed up the mountain. “There’ll be a couple of guys up on Camelback keeping an eye on the house. I’ll be one of them after I get you all settled. There’s a good comfort food-type restaurant we just passed, down Forty-Fourth Street. Tell me what you’d like and I’ll run down there. Food’s real good.”

  He swung the front door open and a large golden retriever bounded through the hallway, his tail swishing in excitement. The dog skidded straight at Kazen. The Iranian dropped to his knees and embraced the dog, murmuring endearments in French.

  India observed the two, making the note that Kazen wasn’t speaking Farsi. Was he so embittered toward his country that he rejected the language of his childhood? Perhaps the MI6 guys could get him after all.

  Jonathan went around the house, opening the French doors to the patio. “It’s great to sit out these nights when the weather’s so great. So just relax here. TV’s over there. I’ll be back with some food after I feed Barkis. There are five bedrooms. I take the one at the back of the house by the pool. Take your pick of the others. Now, what can I bring back to eat?”

  India said, “Bring me a pasta and a salad. You choose.”

  Kazen appeared more relaxed after his greeting with the golden. “Can I get a cheeseburger and chips? I guess I mean French fries.”

  “Make that two,” Marcus said. “Medium, with bleu cheese.”

  The young FBI man disappeared into the kitchen where the sound of the can opener and the excited barking of the dog indicated his dinnertime had arrived. Jonathan reappeared. “Bar’s over there. It’s got everything. Have a drink while I’m gone.”

  Marcus looked through the bar. “Think I’ll mix up some martinis. India? There’s anything you want here.”

  “Martini sounds perfect. But we’re on duty, Marcus, dear.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sighed deeply. “I was trying to forget.” He studied the array of bottles. “Got all kinds of drinks here, Kazen…beer?”

  “I would like a single malt Scotch, please. No ice.” He moved to go outside.

  England had rubbed off on Kazen, India thought.

  After the Iranian had gone through the open glass doors, Marcus asked, “How do you think we’re doing? Kid’s not real friendly, is he?”

  The big retriever trotted out of the kitchen. India took her martini. “Give me a few minutes with him. I’ll take Barkis out with me. He finally melted a little with the dog.”

  Outside, Jonathan had turned the light on in the swimming pool and the crystalline water cast a soft greenish light over the patio. Flower beds glowed with autumn reds and golds chrysanthemums, casting a spicy scent over the patio. India handed Kazen his Scotch and sat down on the chaise next to him. “Do you have a dog back in Iran? Barkis seems to know that. He ran right to you.”

  “Yeah. Looks a lot like this one.” She made her voice wistful. “I used to have a golden retriever as a child. Then we moved around too much. I miss dogs.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Sensing a small opening less hostile, India decided she needed to acknowledge the Iranian’s grief.

  In a lull, she began, “Kazen, I don’t want to be insensitive by bringing it up, but I wanted you to know how saddened I am over Racquel’s death, too. We worked together in Vienna. She was beautiful. I didn’t know her long, but we liked each other and hoped our paths would cross again. I can understand why you want to leave America now. I hope you find what you’re looking for in England.”

  There was a long silence. Then, though she could barely hear his low voice, “Thank you,” drifted on the soft autumn air.

  AFTER THEY HAD dinner, Jonathan cleared up the kitchen and left them with the admonition, “You’re under our watchful eyes, just don’t go anywhere. If we see anything funny, there’s a guy in an SUV two houses down. Click the front hall light.” He grinned. “You’re in good hands. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you spooks on our watch.”

  Kazen left to go to bed and India stretched out on the chaise. Marcus came out and sat on the chaise beside her. She looked at the sky. “Can’t see but a few stars. Too much light from the city.”

  “I can remember,” Marcus began, “a night in Beirut where we couldn’t see many stars from a gondola on a Ferris wheel. This takes me back.”

  India laughed. “Come on, Marcus. We weren’t looking at stars.”

  He grinned. “Truly one of the highlights of my life.”

  “Well it was high. And low, then high, then low.”

  “Alas, I must content myself with the memories. How do you think we should pass the time until the London flight?”

  “Eat, Watch TV movies, read, play cards, look at the mountain. I thought you CIA guys were good at killing time.”

  “We are, we are. If I had a possum I’d cook the dinner I promised you.”

  “No possum. The Lord has smiled on me.” She stood and patted his cheek. “It’s after midnight. I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll take the master bedroom, since I’m the girl here.”

  “That great big king-size bed going to waste with one gorgeous blonde all by herself.”

  “Sounds divine.” She picked up their glasses. “It’s an international flight so we have to be at the airport about four hours ahead of time.” She paused. “I think Kazen is warming a bit.”

  He caught her arm. “Thanks to you. You’re doing a good job with him. He’d be a fantastic asset if the Brits can figure it out. Sorry we have to turn him over to them.”

  “I hope they’ll put somebody really persuasive on him. Racquel could have gotten him for us.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  British Air flight to London

  THE DRONE OF the plane’s engines was lulling, but India couldn’t sleep. She was aware of Kazen, restless beside her. Her mind flitted from scene to scene of the last two days. This had been a strange assignment, but the end would be in a few hours. What would returning to England bring for this young Iranian, which, she was sure, occupied his thoughts as well?

  It took her a moment to register that the voice coming out of the dark and hum of the plane’s engines.

  “Your name is India? It is India, is it not?”

  “Yes, Kazen. Do you need anything?

  “You are in American Intelligence, yes?”

  “American Intelligence has asked me to help you get to England. Yes.”

  “Did you talk to Racquel about me? What she wanted me to do?”

  “No. I knew nothing about your relationship until I was back in the States. Careful, India. Don’t say the wrong thing. “Racquel hoped you might be helpful in…giving her information.”

  “Becoming a spy, you mean.”

  “I’m not familiar with what you discussed. But I would guess something like that.”

  “I have decided I want to do it. My country was so afraid…of…” His voice broke. “…of me knowing that beautiful woman. And they viciously killed her. What kind of country would do that? Is Iran a country that would let me grow? Think for myself? Love who I wanted to love?”

  India sensed that Kazen had begun to talk to himself. Convincing himself. She stayed quiet.

  “I have had no direction to my life,” he went on. “I believe I now have a direction. I will make them pay for Racquel. What do you think, India? Is that a good goal for my life?”

  “I think it may be a good beginning for you. But only you can know that.”

  “You are putting me in the care of British Intelligence, no?”


  “It’s what you asked for, Kazen.”

  “Will they be able to help me?”

  “I think they will answer anything you want to know.”

  “Yes. You have been most helpful.” He turned toward the window and pulled his hoodie over his head.

  Kazen cocooned himself in the airline blanket and slept, moments after their conversation. India began to drowse finally feeling more optimistic about her “mission.” Her eyes struggled open when fingers on her arm roused her. Marcus knelt by her seat.

  “Shh.” His fingers to his lips, he motioned her to go back toward the galley.

  She moved through the rows of Coach seats through the darkened plane to the back. You’d think the U.S. could have sprung for First Class. “What’s up?” she whispered, fighting a feeling of dread.

  “I’ve been watching a burly guy five or six seats ahead of you. Harmless looking type, but I saw him in the Islip airport. He took the same US Air flight we did. But that makes no sense to find him going to London on British Air. No sense at all. Wish I could be sure my suspicion antenna’s right. We’ve got five more hours until we land. Kazen’s asleep, but I don’t want you to let him go to the john unless I follow him. Guard the door. If you want to doze off, let me know. I’ll be keeping an eye on burly guy. Alert me if you want to leave your seat.”

  “What do we do when we land?”

  “You hang back with Kazen. Let me get ahead of you and behind that guy. MI6 will be at the gate to escort you both. As soon as we land, I’ll alert them that we’re being watched. If anything changes that worries me, I can let the pilot know so we can get on top of this.” He patted her hand. “Be natural, kid. Everything’ll be okay.”

  “I think I’ll find out if he’s following us.”

  Marcus chuckled. “That’d be good. You just go ask him.”

  India touched his cheek, then glided back to her seat.

  Fifteen minutes later India tugged her cashmere wrap across her shoulders and made her way back to the galley. One of the flight attendants was on duty, reading a magazine. “Could I have a coffee, please? Trying to ward off jet lag. They say to get on your destination’s time zone.”