Two Peasants And A President Part 5

"I called their hotel again," Maggie chimed in. "Spoke to the manager this time. He said they never came back, suggested I call the Consulate; we don't have an emba.s.sy there. They pa.s.sed me off to American Citizens Services who say there are no reports of arrests, hospitalizations, deaths or anything else for Ray and Holly. Oh, and I called Brett; he's on his way back from San Diego."

"The travel agency says they've used this cruise company for several years, but their name was changed a few months ago," said Jim. "I asked them if the people they've been dealing with changed too. He said yes."

"As I suspected," said Richard, "the State Department didn't exactly go into emergency mode when I told them that we have family missing in Hong Kong. They pointed me to a site online where I can make a report, but they admitted it doesn't really get revved up until someone's been missing for two weeks. While I was on the site, I checked on visas for Hong Kong and China. You don't need a visa for Hong Kong, but you do for mainland China. Their application process takes 4 days."

"Based on what we've uncovered so far, it's obvious I need to go to Hong Kong and check out the cruise company," said Richard.

"Why you?" asked Maggie.

"Because I'm retired and not needed at home; I'm the logical one to go."

"Richard," interjected Jim, "I don't think you should do this alone. If you go missing, then we'll really be looking for a paddle. I can get time off and let's face it, you're gonna be in hostile territory and you'll need backup. Besides, the love of my life is out there somewhere. I can't sit around back here doing nothing."

"Brett's on his way back," interjected Maggie. "He says to count him in on whatever we're doing."

"Sounds like I've been outvoted," said Richard. Let's start working up a list for what we'll need in Hong Kong. I think we should start the application process for visas to China too, in case this thing leads us across the border. What concerns me is our military background. That could be a red flag. If I were the guy who approves these things, I might wonder what three guys like us find so interesting in China."

"Not if we're traveling as three separate families," said Sally. "Two separate couples and a retiree wouldn't seem suspicious. Jim and Sally Petersen. Brett and Maggie Walker. Richard Davis. Different names, different towns, no obvious connection. Ray and Holly didn't need visas for Hong Kong, so China probably doesn't have much on them. If we're careful about the way we fill out the apps, I don't think anybody will be the wiser."

"Don't even go there," Richard and Jim looked at Sally as they waded in at the same time. "There's no way we're going to put you two in danger. We don't know where this is going to lead; it could be dangerous and last time I checked, you two never made it through boot camp."

"Yeah, but I know how to put a boot up your a.s.s," Sally said to her husband. "Look, Maggie and I won't be breaking down any doors, but we've got eyes, we've got cameras and we can call the consulate if you two get in over your heads."

"Sally," said Richard solemnly, "I don't think you understand. "The American Consulate isn't there for tourists, much less self-appointed private eyes. It's there to help big companies grease the wheels of commerce and give our 'diplomats' a place to hang their hats. If we get in too deep, the last thing we should expect is for them to come to the rescue."

"Daddy, d.a.m.n it! You don't understand!" Sally said, holding back tears, my baby's over there somewhere, and I'll blow the d.a.m.n consulate up if I that's what it takes to bring her home!"

There was silence for several minutes as the reality of what they were about to undertake sank in. Finally Richard broke the silence.

"I suspect that whatever happened, the cruise company knows something. That's where we'll start. Jim, why don't you start a list of what you think we should bring with us. We can edit it later. Focus on dual-use items that they'll allow us in with. Sally, you can make sure we have enough clothes, underwear and such."

"Gee, thanks Dad," replied Sally, wiping away the tears. "I just love all the exciting stuff. Boxers or briefs?"

"Maggie, how about you start downloading the applications and see if we can get those going. I'm a.s.suming everyone's pa.s.sport isn't expired . . . Check on flights and hotels too, separate hotels that are near each other. I'll start on a plan of action. When's Brett gonna be here?"

"Tomorrow noon," Maggie answered.

19.

The amba.s.sador stood at the gate, wearing his usual plaster smile. His top aide and one other from the emba.s.sy stood stiffly nearby. The 'personnel' were in the first cla.s.s cabin on the China Air flight and disembarked first. There were only two, as it turned out, and neither resembled a diplomat. One was quite tall for a Chinese man, probably from northern China where the males tend to be taller, thought the amba.s.sador. His bearing and build spoke of military training.

Following him out of the jet way, was a shorter man, one who might easily be pa.s.sed on the street without a second look, which was precisely what he preferred. But beneath the unpretentious exterior, a calm resolve and confidence seemed to permeate the s.p.a.ce around him, like a subtle, almost invisible force field. His name was Mr. Chen, but he was better known in certain circles as 'the piano tuner.' Unlike the taller man, the amba.s.sador recognized him immediately.

The amba.s.sador escorted the pair through abbreviated formalities, while his aide a.s.sured that their luggage went directly from the plane into the emba.s.sy cars. As the amba.s.sador and his charges made their way out of the concourse, a janitor pus.h.i.+ng his barrel and broom across the floor snapped pictures with a concealed camera, part of his custodial equipment. Within the hour, the photos were being examined for any hint of what might be afoot.

20.

Uncle Tom's Cabin arose from the dead. It was a bit worse for the wear, but its spine wasn't broken, and it would do. Sitting with her knees up, as if to provide a place to rest the book and read it, but in reality hiding her lap from the little window in the door, Holly retrieved the paper from her bra and carefully unrolled it. The paper, though it didn't seem old, was nonetheless brittle. Obviously not one of China's better knock-off's, she thought. She flattened it as best she could and then inserted it among the back pages of the book.

There was still the problem of something with which to write. Her make up kit provided the answer. The eye liner pencil was far from ideal but it could be made to work. The next part would be more dangerous. Although her visitors sometimes inadvertently alerted her when they opened the door at the end of the hall, she did not trust that they would necessarily always do so. She thought it likely that they also were spying on her.

With the eye liner in her lap, she opened the book again and pretended to read, her knees s.h.i.+elding her lap from the door. Carefully, she 'penned' her parent's name, address, phone number and email address. This took some time as the eye liner's point was not fine and the piece of paper was small. Finally she had squeezed it all onto the side opposite the message. She waited several minutes for the eye liner to dry and then closed the book, hoping the pages would absorb any excess without smearing it.

Holly sat thinking for some time about how she would get the piece of paper back to her angel, as she now thought of the cleaning lady. She was quite simply the closest thing Holly had ever had to an angel watching over her. Sometimes when she thought of her, she was reminded of her grandmother, who had pa.s.sed away several years ago. Since then there had been an enormous empty place in her heart. She knew her pa.s.sing had left huge hole in her grandfather's heart too, but the captain wasn't one to share such things.

The deep sense of sadness had returned. She missed Ray more than she could put into words; not knowing what had become of him tortured her constantly. She wondered what their families were doing now, there in their homes on the other side of the world. Had they realized something was wrong? Were they looking for her?

Suddenly there was a shot outside. It so startled her that the book fell off her lap onto the floor. The shot had been close, no more than two hundred feet from her cell it seemed. Her father and grandfather had taught her to shoot and she knew the difference between that and any other sound. She looked down and saw that her hands were trembling. Fear replaced sadness as she questioned why someone would be shooting nearby. Was that to be her fate? Surely not; they wouldn't have brought her all this way just to shoot her.

But why was she here? Dark imaginings paraded through her mind again as she struggled not to think about them. She forced herself to listen intently, focusing on any noise coming from outside her prison, as if some sound might provide a clue to her future.

It was some time later when she decided to turn her attention back to the message. She needed to get the piece of paper back to the cleaning lady somehow. Finally she settled on the same way she had received it, the sink. She would wait until they turned the light out tonight and then insert the rolled piece of paper in a hole in the sink drain, just as she had found it. She was certain that her angel would notice and retrieve it.

21.

It was an inviting little place. The music didn't sound like it had been hijacked from an elevator and it was spotlessly clean. The best part was that the patrons scarcely looked up when he walked in. He found an empty table in the corner and ordered a vodka gimlet. He normally enjoyed a drink or two at a watering hole on Pennsylvania Avenue, but tonight he was just hoping for a place where he wouldn't run into any friends . . . or enemies.

A little while later a couple in their thirties walked in and sat at the bar. The male's gestures and expression said that he was not happy with his girlfriend. Their drinks had scarcely been served when they began to argue openly. The argument had gone back and forth for about ten minutes when the male apparently decided they were leaving and grabbed her arm. She jerked it away and told him she was staying. When he attempted to take her arm again, the bartender stepped in.

"Sounds like the lady doesn't want to go, mister."

"Stay out of this," the man retorted.

"Here's the way it's gonna be, mister," replied the bartender, placing his six foot four inch frame squarely across the bar from the man. "You've been annoying my customers long enough, and now it's time to go." The man thought for a moment and turned to his companion.

"This ain't over, baby." He glared at the bartender, then headed for the door.

"Sorry," the woman said to the bartender.

"Nothin' to be sorry about," he replied. "Need another drink?"

The man in the corner found himself thinking it wasn't hard to understand why the guy hadn't wanted his girlfriend to stay. This lady turned heads. About five foot six and a tad over a hundred pounds, with natural red hair, she would have looked right at home on a movie set. He resolved not to stare, reminding himself that his recent history with women was part of the reason he came here to be alone tonight. Besides, he thought to himself, your looks aren't exactly in her neighborhood. But the look he had given her, however brief, hadn't gone unnoticed.

She c.o.c.ked her head just slightly as if wondering if his look had been as friendly as it seemed. Then she picked up her gla.s.s and coat and walked over to his table. He couldn't help but notice her legs.

"Feel like sharing a drink?" she asked, c.o.c.king her head again in a way that Virgil was already starting to like.

Virgil, you dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h, he thought to himself. You know d.a.m.n well this would be a good time to march yourself out to the car and get on home.

He motioned toward the chair.

"We pretty well stomped all over your tranquility," she said. "Sorry for that."

"It happens," Virgil replied. "Looks like your boyfriend picked the wrong bartender."

"Ex-boyfriend," she chuckled, adding: "He just can't seem to get that through his head."

Flas.h.i.+ng a smile that seemed to say that the unpleasantness of a few moments ago was hereby banished, she held out her hand.

"Molly, Molly Marshall,"

"Virgil," he replied, sensing he was already in trouble.

"Well, Virgil, a few moments ago your look said that the last thing you want tonight is to have someone unload all her woe on you, so how about we talk about the good things in life?"

"Works for me," he said.

"What do you like to do when you're not busy bringing the paycheck home?" she asked.

"Oh, I enjoy playing a little piano, walks in the park, picnics, reading, things like that. How 'bout you?"

"Piano, eh? I played until I went to college, then I just kinda drifted away, I guess. These days I write a bit, easier than lugging a piano around."

"Really," said Virgil, "what do you write?"

"Oh, a little poetry, and a novel that never seems to get finished," she answered.

"Expect you can find a lot to write about in Was.h.i.+ngton."

"Yeah, if you like seedy novels," she replied. "Oops, there I go. Sorry, just the good things." She smiled broadly and Virgil knew for sure then that he should have gone home.

He'd avoided asking her what she does, even though he was curious, since he was hoping she wouldn't ask him. So far, so good, he thought. But there was something bothering him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. She was just too easy to be with, like stumbling onto an empty lounge chair and a fruity rum drink on a secluded white beach surrounded by turquoise blue water You just told yourself it was OK, then sat down and enjoyed, even though you knew it shouldn't be there.

They both started to say something, then laughed. A uncomfortable silence told them that the conversation had reached the point where it either got personal or inane going forward. He knew why he'd avoided the personal, but wondered what her reasons were, aside from the good things and all that.

"Mind if I ask you what you do?" she said, at least asking permission of sorts before going there.

"I work for the government," he replied, hoping that would be enough but suspecting it wouldn't. She paused for a moment.

"That's OK," she said, "I can take a hint. I'll respect your privacy."

At least she's got cla.s.s, he thought. He knew he had to have at least ten years on her and he reminded himself that no one would likely confuse him with Brad Pitt. So why are we still sitting here having this conversation? he wondered to himself. He didn't want to admit to himself that at this point his little head had started doing more of the talking . . . and thinking.

"A silver dollar for your thoughts," she said.

"At least you're not cheap," he chuckled. After pausing for a moment, he replied: "O.K. I won't lie to you. I know I'm not too bad looking, but I've been around enough blocks to know I'm not exactly in your league. So I find myself wondering why we're sitting here." The truth or consequences moment had arrived. He didn't know if he was ready for it.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I happen to think you're very interesting or I wouldn't have wandered over here," she said.

O.K. so it's the consequences moment, his big head thought to itself. But his little head wasn't giving up. Sometimes people are just attracted to each other. It sounded hollow, but his little head was trying hard to sell it. And his big head wasn't trying hard enough not to buy.

Noticing his turmoil, she tried to come to the rescue. "The side of me that loves poetry tells me sometimes that I shouldn't always look for motives in everything, that my negative side tends to demean things."

She is good, he thought to himself. Very good. But his big head had recovered slightly. Maybe the booze is wearing off. Just when he thought it had things under control, the question popped out.

"If you don't have any plans for dinner Friday night . . . " he began. d.a.m.n it, man, sometimes you do the dumbest things, he thought, managing to keep the smile on his face while he kicked himself.

"I would enjoy that very much," she finished the sentence.

They chatted for several more minutes, during which time he managed not to sink any deeper into the fool's role and actually sounded a bit suave, he thought. Finally, after a pause in the conversation he said: "I a.s.sume your boyfriend didn't bother leaving you the car, do you need a lift home?"

"It's aways and I don't want to put you out," she replied.

"No bother," he said, reaching for her coat.

It had turned chilly outside and he pulled his top coat together at the neck. Then he felt her take his arm. It felt good, real good, and he didn't bother asking his big head what it thought.

As the Lincoln turned out of the parking lot and headed east, he noticed a car parked down the street with two men sitting in it. As he pa.s.sed by, he glanced over; neither was her boyfriend. Molly reached over and turned on the radio; then she leaned back against the headrest and began to hum softly to the music. Her voice was sweet.

He was already starting to get used to being with her, but the air in the parking lot had been cold enough to put his little head in its place for the moment, and he was now thinking with the other one.

A beautiful woman just happens into a bar where I seldom drink, she and her boyfriend have an argument and she ends up alone and at my table being very, very friendly. Coincidence? Perhaps, but the liquor had worn off and something didn't feel right.

"Where you from, Molly?" he tried to ask casually. She seemed to sense that the mood had changed but didn't want to go in that direction.

"Boston," she replied sweetly.

He laughed. "You do sound like Boston," he said, trying to continue to be disarming.

"Yeah, I get that a lot," she said. "How about you?"

"I was born in Minnesota, but we moved around a lot, so it's hard to call anyplace home."

A glance in the rearview told him that the parked car had pulled out and was now a block and a half or so behind them. He decided to do a little wandering. After cornering a few times, she asked: "Scenic route?"

"Not exactly. Probably my imagination, but I was curious about a car that's staying a block behind us. Comes from my days in the military, I guess. You know, watch your six 'n' all." He turned his head toward her, looking for any reaction, any reaction at all. She looked straight ahead. Funny, he thought. Most people would turn around.

"Not curious?" he said matter-of-factly.

"What do you mean?" she asked.