Captain Bashir climbed into the hot cab of the old, rickety truck with his first officer and navigator for the long ride back to Bandar Abbas. It could have been worse. He could be in the back with the fourteen members of his crew that shared the truck bed with thirty goats. So much for the elite of the Iranian Navy!
As they drove, bouncing along the coastal road in the ancient truck, the driver turned on the radio.
The announcer was reading the headlines, “Last night a Singapore passenger jet, the same jet missing from a hijacked flight from Kuala Lumpur two months ago, landed unexpectedly at military airfield in Israel.
“Rumor has it that it was being flown by the captain of the hijacked flight who was himself involved in the plot. Unfortunately all the passengers are now feared dead. In a strange twist, the flight reportedly had on board the missing three tons of Iranian Uranium that was being transported under United Nations auspices for quarantine in Abu Dhabi.
How the Uranium got on board the aircraft and why it suddenly appeared in Israel is unknown. The Israelis have taken possession of the Uranium purportedly for safe keeping. Iran is thus far silent on the matter. The captain is in Israeli custody and awaiting extradition to Malaysia, where he has been convicted in absentia for the murder of hundreds of innocent civilians. He has been sentenced to hang.”
Captain Bashir was struck dumb. The navigator shook his head in wonder. The first officer blinked and asked, “Do you mean to tell me we went through all of this just to give the Israelis our Uranium; couldn’t we have just flown it there to begin with?”
CHAPTER 44: McLaren
Slade was tired, sore, and grumpy from a semi-circular shark bite that wasn’t even going to leave scars. Already the neat row of tooth marks had faded to pink. The doctors steadfastly refused to make them look presentable or even to waste stitches on them.
The Israeli surgeon told the American, “We’re at war here in Israel. I can’t waste the thread; I’ve got real casualties. Really, I thought you Americans were made of tougher stuff.”
Now he was home — almost.
Helen and the kids were back. The danger wasn’t completely over but it was manageable. They’d never again be able to lead the carefree life they once did, but that was the price the world had to pay to wage war against the jihad. It was a burden shared by everyone, whether they knew it or not.
Slade had only his rollaboard. He wore dark slacks with his black boots, a gray shirt with no tie, and a charcoal herringbone coat. September in D.C. wasn’t cold, it was cool, and the leaves were just giving a hint of turning. He waited at the curb of Dulles International, waiting for Helen to drive up in his old silver Jaguar to pick him up and take him home.
He looked for the Jag, but it didn’t come. Slade checked his watch. As he did another silver coupe pulled up. It wasn’t a Jaguar. It was long and lean, with a huge hood and a growling giant beneath the bonnet. The driver’s side door lifted up in its trademark gullwing. Slade peeked beneath the door to see Helen grinning from ear to ear.
“I had no idea driving could be so much fun! Get in!”
He tossed his bag in the back and got into the car, stammering, “Do you know what this is? It’s an SLR, A Mercedes-McLaren. What’s wrong with the Jag; don’t tell me they gave you this as a loaner? We can’t even afford the insurance!”
The door closed and Helen pulled back out into traffic. “I should be mad at you, or at least a little jealous,” she said. “You must have made that woman very happy, very happy indeed!”
“What woman?”
“Eva! She left you a letter in the glove compartment!”
“Slade opened the opened the door and took out a purple envelope with gold leaf edging. Inside was lavender stationary. The note read,
Dear Jeremiah, it may be cliché, but words cannot express my appreciation for everything you did. My father is even more appreciative, and he hopes you will accept this token of his thanks — don’t worry, everything’s taken care of — enjoy!
Eva
P.S. Give Helen a big kiss for me. I hope she puts out, LOL!
P.P.S Christian sends Skol!
There was a big lipstick kiss below the note.
“Who is Eva?”
“A bored heiress who got herself mixed up the wrong crowd and needed rescuing,” he said simply.
“I see she expects me to put out. What did you tell her about us?”
“Not that!” he assured Helen. “We made small talk during dinner in Paris. I wanted her to know I wasn’t available so that we could get down to business.”
“I see,” Helen remarked, ignoring most of his answer. “You saw her in Paris?”
“We had dinner on one of the river boats — business — I have to take you one of these days.”
“Is that what this car is for?”
“No, the Iranians hijacked her husband’s freighter,” he started to say.
“Not the one from the news? The one with the Uranium on it?”
“That’s the one.”
“You were there Jeremiah?”
He sighed and said simply, “Now you know what I do for a living.”
“No wonder she was appreciative!”
“By the price tag of this car, I suppose so.”
“This is from her dad,” Helen noted. “How did she show her appreciation to you?”
He shrugged, admitting, “She did flash me.”
“She flashed you?” Helen started.
“Kind of like you did when you were seventeen,” he reminded her.
“I was sixteen,” she corrected. Then a scathing look came across her face. “You’re trying to change the subject!”
“I was in her shower. It was the only way I could communicate with her and her husband without the Iranians catching on. Don’t worry, I was in a wetsuit. Nothing happened.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t have any right to be jealous after all you’ve done for me and the kids. It’s not like we’re really married; you’re free Jeremiah.”
There was a long silence.
“Did she look good naked,” she asked, coloring.
“Not as good as you.”
“At sixteen maybe. I was pretty hot.”
“I meant now.”
“You don’t have to say that Jeremiah.”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “But you wanted to know the truth — didn’t you?”
Helen smiled, trying to appear like she didn’t care when she did — a lot.
He patted her knee.
“Do you want to go to dinner? We’re in a nice car and you’re all dressed up.”
“Tomorrow,” Slade said. “Let’s get some pizza and head home to the kids. We’ll make it a movie night.”
Helen hit the gas and the SLR leapt forward, heading home.
Back Cover: The Ghost of Malaysian Flight 666
An airliner disappears over the ocean without a trace.
Three tons of Iranian enriched Uranium disappears in the Straits of Hormuz.
A CIA agent on the edge.
A father desperately trying to reconcile with his son.
A son trying to reclaim the honor of his name.
A woman trying to salvage a future for her children.
A president watching his world fall prey to reality.
An exotic Heiress held hostage by maniacal killers.
The fate of all these things, and the course of the world, depends on the Ghost of Malaysian Flight 666.