by Otho Eskin
“Excuse me?” I say to Arora in what I hope is a low, civilized voice. The minister is droning on about something, but I’m not really paying attention. “What’s this all about?” I ask.
“Let us pray, then, for our sister, Sandra,” the pastor or minister or whatever he is intones solemnly. It’s a desultory business. He’s obviously never heard of Sandra Wilcox, knows nothing about her, and knows no one he is facing in the chapel. And he doesn’t have a clue about what he’s gotten himself into. “May angels surround her …” he goes on.
“You told me you were in Hamburg,” Arora whispers in my ear, a little softer this time.
“What of it?”
“The State Department has never issued a passport for anyone named Marko Zorn.”
Several people turn and hush us. The minister glares at us, annoyed and unhappy, and then begins to read the Twenty-Third Psalm.
“Must have been a clerical error.”
“Bullshit, Marko!” Arora whispers through clenched teeth. “What’s going on?”
More disapproving looks in our direction.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Homeland Security has no record of you leaving or returning to the US in the last five years.” Arora’s voice rises and several more people turn to look at us again. “You fucking don’t exist.”
A middle-aged man in a blue suit and a trim beard, sitting across the aisle, turns in his seat and gives us the death stare. Arora settles back in her pew. Finished with me—for the moment.
The young minister is saying something about “I know that my Redeemer lives.” Somebody plays “Nearer My God to Thee” on an organ somewhere.
When the music stops, the minister asks: “Does anyone here today wish to say a few words in memory of our sister, Sandra?” He looks anxiously at those in the chapel, gazing suspiciously at Arora and me, praying, I suppose, that we don’t ruin the ceremony any more than we already have.
There is an embarrassed silence during which people study their programs intently and try not be noticed. I’m saved from having Arora launch into me again when Larry Talbot rises to his feet, turns, and faces those attending.
“Sandra was a beautiful soul,” Talbot begins. His voice is low. A bit uncertain. “She was my friend.” He stops and takes a deep breath. “We met during a Secret Service training exercise in Laurel, Maryland. At a shooting range. How romantic is that?” He stops again and tries to contort his face into a smile. It comes out a grimace. Talbot looks around at the small crowd as if searching for comfort from those watching him. I doubt he finds any. “We got to know each other well when we were both assigned to the Atlanta field office. We’d meet at a small coffeehouse called Sammy’s. I’m sure many of you know it.”
Talbot stops and studies those sitting in the pews. Suddenly his anger and bitterness boil up. “Sandra was a loyal and loving friend. Unlike those who are afraid to come here today. Friends who today deny her.” Talbot stops, at a loss for words. “Sorry. I don’t know what to say.” He swallows. “Sandy devoted her life to her country. She gave her life for her country. I only wish there was something I could do. Something to honor her memory; to honor her life and her name. Something that might make things better for somebody else.” He stops searching for words. “I can’t. Except to honor her here today.” He bows his head. “Thank you,” he murmurs and abruptly sits down.
“Why should I trust you if you lie to me?” Arora hisses at me, unable to contain herself any longer.
I decide not to answer. There is no good answer to that question. I feel bad about Arora. I was beginning to like her and was beginning to think we had a good relationship. That, after all this was over, we might see one another. Then everything falls apart.
There is an awkward silence in the chapel. I think, this is it. No one else is going to say anything. I even wonder whether I should stand up and say something. But what could I say? I know nothing about Sandra. I never met her; she’s a total stranger. And always will be. But I feel some notice of her passing must be made.
The people in the chapel stir as someone else stands up to speak. It is Valerie North. She clears her throat nervously. She holds a prayer book in her hands, not looking at the rest of us.
“I’ve never spoken in public before,” she says. “I don’t know what one is supposed to say. Except Sandy was my friend. She was loved by everyone who ever met her.”
Not everyone. At least one person who met her did not love her. Maybe the one in the poncho and hood on a day when there was no rain. Maybe someone who is here in the church today? Watching? As I am.
“That’s all I have to say.” Abruptly Valerie sits down and bows her head.
There is embarrassed silence. Then, of all people, Carla Lowry stands up, turns to the congregation and faces us. Her face is grim.
“My name is Carla Lowry. I didn’t know Sandra Wilcox. I never met her. She was not my friend. Until recently, I’d never even heard her name. I don’t know what she was doing in the last days and weeks of her life and I make no judgments but I do know she served her country with honor. I am here to pay my respects and to honor her for that service.”
With that Carla Lowry looks over the gathering defiantly, daring anyone to contradict her, then sits down.
There is another prolonged silence while the young minister waits anxiously for someone else to say something. Obviously, there was nothing in his seminary training to prepare him for a memorial service quite like this. When no one volunteers, he announces hurriedly: “Let us pray,” and recites the Lord’s Prayer, too fast, I think.
“Amen.” Collecting his notes, he leaves quickly by a door in the back of the chapel so he doesn’t have to speak to any of us attending the service.
Almost immediately Carla Lowry stands up and strides down the center aisle. She stops at the end of our pew. “Come with me, Agent Lovelace,” she says and makes her way out the chapel door.
Arora gets quickly to her feet. “We’re not finished, Marko.” With that she turns away, furious, and follows Carla. She leaves her program, crumpled, on the pew.
As quickly as they can, the remaining participants leave the chapel. They are silent and don’t look at one another while someone plays some dirgeful music on the organ I think is supposed to be “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound”.
I’m the last one to leave. At the back of the chapel there is a sign-in register. The only name is Larry Talbot’s. I add mine. I hesitate, trying to think of something appropriate, then write, “I will not forget you.” It’s not much, but I have to leave something for Rose’s sake. I go out through the front chapel doors. For a moment I stand on the outer steps in the sun and light a cigarette. I hear a voice behind me.
“An interesting service, don’t you think?” Miss Shaw stands a few paces from me. Obviously, she’s been waiting for me to leave the chapel.
“I thought it was the pits.”
“Memorial services are supposed to be the pits. That’s what they’re for.”
“I don’t see your security detail today, Miss Shaw.”
She nods toward a black SUV parked a few yards away. “It was a church service. I didn’t think their presence was called for.” She smiles enigmatically. “The young woman you were seated next to,” Miss Shaw asks. “Was that Agent Lovelace by any chance?”
“That was Agent Lovelace.”
“She seemed agitated.”
“Very.”
“Do you own a tuxedo?”
At first, I think I must have misheard her. “Excuse me?”
“You know. A tuxedo. Those outfits with cummerbunds and bow ties men wear. Do you own a tuxedo or are you one of those who must rent one for each occasion?”
“I own several.”
“Come to the White House this evening. The President wants to speak to you. Privately.”
“I’m busy.”
She pretends she doesn’t hear me. “There’s a reception. It’s black tie. The President will slip away
from his guests to speak to you. I will send a car to pick you up at your home at 7:20. Remember: black tie. Don’t forget to shine your shoes.”
She smiles pleasantly and walks to her waiting SUV.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MISS SHAW AND her SUV have disappeared, but I can’t shake her memory. The way she looks at me with her hazel eyes. Her confession—if that is what it was—what was that really all about? Was it all a lie or was she trying to make us coconspirators? But what kind of conspiracy?
There seem to be no cabs cruising Wisconsin Avenue at the moment so I start to walk toward Massachusetts Avenue when a black Lexus sedan comes to a stop in front of me and the back-passenger door is flung open. Inside is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Get in, Marko,” she says. “I’m in trouble.”
Her name is Mariana. The woman I’d first met while she stood in line waiting to get into a concert. The woman I lost my heart to. Briefly. The woman who I almost lost my life because of. I climb in and pull the door closed behind me. The Lexus is already in motion before the door is fully shut.
“I am in fearful danger, Marko. Help me.”
The man at the wheel is one of Mariana’s many cousins. Mariana squeezes my hand gently and a sweet erotic tremor surges through my arm. She is dressed in a stylish short skirt and designer jacket and she holds a beaded clutch purse in her hands. As always, her hair and makeup are perfect.
“What kind of danger?” The part of my brain I usually ignore is telling me I should stop now; I must not get involved with this woman. But my brain is outmatched by Mariana’s magic. Mariana is my narcotic of choice.
“It’s Cloud. He’s gone crazy. He’s going to kill me.”
“I told you to leave Cloud.”
“I know. I know. I should have listened. He’s going to kill me.”
“Can you hold out for another day?” I ask. I can’t tell Mariana what is about to happen and that her problems with Cloud may soon be permanently over. After last time, I can’t trust her. I haven’t completely lost my mind.
“I don’t have another day. Cloud believes Lamont wants me to become his woman.”
“Why would he think that?”
She looks away suddenly, staring out the car window.
“Why, Mariana? Why does he think that?”
“I may have said some things. Maybe I hinted I found Lamont attractive.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know. I wasn’t serious. I just wanted Cloud to be jealous. And now …”
“And now what?”
“Cloud says he’s going to kill me.”
“Then get out of town.”
“I would have left, but Cloud has my passport. My green card. Even my driver’s license. I have no money. I have nothing. This car. My clothes. My jewelry. My apartment. They all belong to Cloud.”
“I can get you money. I can get you a fake passport. Even a green card. But that would take almost a week.”
“I’ll be dead in a week.”
“Do you have someplace safe you can go? Some friends you can stay with?”
“Cloud knows my friends. He would find me and kill me and kill my friends.”
“What about your family and relatives?” I nod toward the driver.
She shakes her head. “I can’t put my family in danger. Help me, Marko. Are you going to let me die?”
“I’ll try and arrange protection for one night.”
“Will you stay with me? Will you protect me?”
“I can’t.”
Mariana looks stricken. “You must stay with me. Cloud will come after me. I know. He has ways of finding me. You’re the only one I know who can protect me from Cloud.” She squeezes my hand fiercely.
“There are things I have to do.”
“What things?” Her large, dark eyes glisten with tears. She leans close to me, so close I can feel the heat of her body. “Things more important than me?”
There’s no point in telling her I’m supposed to meet the President of the United States. That would cut no ice with Mariana.
“You must protect me,” she says. “You’re the only one.”
That’s what she’d said last time. I want to believe her. She must read my mind. Maybe she sees the doubt in my eyes. “I’m so sorry about the other time,” she whispers softly. “I know I made a terrible mistake. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I never meant for it to turn out that way. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Help me. Please.”
“I know a man who’s an expert in protecting people. He can take care of you.”
She looks doubtful. “This man, is he as nice and sweet as you are?”
“Much nicer. Much sweeter. You’ll like him. It will only be one day. He’ll protect you.”
I make the call. I have grave doubts about what I’m about to do but I don’t see I have much choice. I’m already too far in.
Larry Talbot is cautious when he answers his phone. I can tell from the background noise he’s in his car, presumably driving home from the memorial service.
“Thanks for coming to the service for Sandy. I needed a friendly face.”
“I’m going to ask you for a favor. A very big favor. Probably the biggest favor anyone has ever asked of you.”
“Go on,” he says, cautiously.
“I’m with a woman who’s in great danger. There is a very dangerous man who wants to kill her.”
“What’s this got to do with me?”
“She needs protection. For twenty-four hours.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Protection is your profession. You know how to use weapons. You know how to protect people. I’m asking you to stay with this woman for one night.”
“You’re asking me to protect a woman I don’t know.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m not a security guard.”
“I’d do this myself but, as you know, I’m deep into the investigation of Sandra’s murder. There are people I must see tonight who will lead me to her killer. It would just be for one night.”
“Who’s threatening this lady?”
“Her boyfriend. A local gangster. I have to warn you, he’s very dangerous.”
“That sounds like a standard police problem.”
“Not with this guy. I need someone with very special skills. You’re no longer on duty with the Secret Service. Take your free time and help this woman. I assure you the threat to her is very real.”
“In the Secret Service, protection is a team job. Four or five agents are always involved in a protection detail. What you want is something completely different from what I’m trained to do.”
“You’re a professional.”
“I’m not a professional bodyguard. You can hire those easily. There are people who do this kind of thing. I’m a government employee. What you’re asking me to do is probably illegal.”
“You have training no professional security guard has.”
“And why should I do this?”
“For Sandra.”
“What does that mean?”
“You said in your eulogy you wished there was something you could do to honor Sandra’s memory. I’m giving you the chance to save another woman’s life. I know it won’t bring Sandra back. I know it won’t take the pain away. But think of it as a gift for Sandy.”
There is silence at the other end of the phone line. I don’t push him. I feel Mariana watching me intently.
“How do I do this?”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“I turned in my official service weapon. But I have my personal Beretta.”
“The name of the lady is Mariana. She lives in an apartment on Upper 16th Street. I’m taking her there.” I give him the address. “Can you meet us there now?”
Larry Talbot is waiting for us at the entrance to Mariana’s apartment building. The driver lets us off and drives quickly away. I hustle Mariana across the sidewalk and through t
he front doors.
“This is my friend Larry,” I say to Mariana as we stand for a moment in the impressive front lobby of her building. “Larry will look after you tonight, Mariana. You’ll be in good hands.”
Mariana smiles her incandescent smile. “Marko didn’t tell me you were so good-looking. He said you were nice. Promise to be nice to me.”
“I’ll try,” Talbot says, clearly starstruck by Mariana.
“Marko is sometimes mean,” Mariana says. “He sometimes yells at me.”
“I’m sure he has good reasons.”
Mariana opens her eyes wide with feigned consternation.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say.
“See what I mean, Larry?” Mariana whispers confidentially.
I take Mariana firmly by her arm and guide her to the elevator bank. The front desk guy, who is probably called a concierge in a fancy place like this, watches us as we disappear into the elevator.
Mariana’s duplex is on the top two floors. When we enter, I direct Mariana to sit on a white, fur-covered sofa in the living room. Which she does, pretending to sulk. She places her purse on the floor at her feet. Her hands are clasped tightly together.
“Give me your keys.”
“I need them,” she tells me petulantly.
“Not tonight, you don’t. Give me the keys.” I hold out my hand. Mariana picks up her purse, removes a set of keys, and flings them at me.
“Give me your phone.”
She looks anxious. “I need my phone.”
“No phone. We don’t want you to call anybody. Or anybody to call you. Not your friends. Not your family. Do you understand? Nobody. Give me your phone.”
Reluctantly, she takes her cell phone from her purse and places it in my hand.
“Give me the other one.”
“That’s my only phone.”
“Give me your purse, Mariana.”
Her face flushes with anger. “No.”
“Your purse!”