Russell Twyce

While I prepare for a possible release of my Philosopher’s Stone technology, I should spend some time getting you ready for the philosophy of the Philosopher’s Stone.  The substance of Philosopher Stone is only part of the equation.  You’ll note that it was named ‘philosopher’s’ stone and not something like ‘eternal youth’ stone because the philosophy is critical to the Philosopher’s Stone functioning correctly.

Face the Philosopher’s Stone Philosophy Facts
[private_Chevron]Face facts that soon eternal youth will be available with a Philosopher’s Stone.[/private_Chevron]

Human 2.0 – Infinite Longevity and Ultimate Freedom

really discover the rejuvenation secret of the Philosopher’s Stone in the 1300′s? From what history relates of Flamel’s life and beliefs, I surmise that Nicholas may well have actually achieved ultimate rejuvenation, longevity and eternal youth with the stone.

Is Nicholas Flamel alive today? Well, that is another matter. There were some awfully dangerous eras between then and now. Whether he is alive still  and young or not, the possibility of rejuvenation and infinite longevity from a philosopher’s stone lives on eternal.

The actual substance of the Philosopher’s Stone is important but the philosophy of it is the critical aspect.

Chapter 28 of Loki’s Trojan

Requiem for the Undead

“I won’t deliver a statement—per say.” Wall Soft’s acting CEO was at an outdoor podium, facing a throng of reporters. “I’ll just take questions.”

“What happened today on the Sound?” Though he hadn’t been pointed at, a senior wire representative took the honor.

“Bob Wall’s yacht,” Collin took a deep breath while thinking of a true but incomplete response: a full accounting could throw the nation into turmoil, “was attacked by a squad of armed fanatics: two major explosions breached the hull and the severely damaged ship sunk.”

“Was Sheik bin Omani involved?” The loudest of five voices asked.

“Ghazi was front and center. News coverage has followed the dealings of Wall Soft and Omani, but the key word here is ‘followed’ as in lagging behind the up-to-the-minute action.” The executive sipped his water. I’ll bet that line won’t be quoted. “You were aware of the sheik purchasing control of Wall Soft, but the situation drastically changed: an independent third party then bought out Omani Holdings. Ghazi became deranged: he quickly obtained some mercenaries, weapons and explosives.”

“How many casualties, and who are they,” an eager reporter jumped to the fore and tied four queries into one, “and did Wall live: or did Ghazi?’

“The Sheik and his soldiers stormed the ship: they were engaged by an internationally based private security contractor and a similar number of armed guards. All have been confirmed as killed, or missing and presumed dead. None have been positively identified as yet.” The asshole paused: nor are they ever likely to be. “Bob and the Squid’s crew prudently evaded the gunplay and they abandoned the ship to be rescued safely.”

“Was anyone else onboard,” the same journalist squirted in two more, “and were they noteworthy persons?”

“Isn’t this story juicy enough on true facts?” Collin’s mocking tone hid how pleased he was with the inane question. Now I can nip worse ones off in the bud. “I’ve heard that Vice-President Lon Clark passed away today, but I can assure you that he didn’t die within the Squid’s hull.” He met his demise in the water beside and Agent Wilkins’ next assignment will be in minding the American Embassy staff in the Maldives Archipelago. “I have it on reliable authority that Jimmy Hoffa was not there either.”

“Tell us about the new owner?” A correspondent noticed an omission. “The combined worth of those two major corporations is staggering.”

“At this juncture, I’m not at liberty to divulge anything on that issue. Obviously, she will face decisions between visibility and privacy but you must respect that the due consideration, will take some time.”

“The sinking of Bob Wall’s boat seems to be poignantly comparable,” though not stated as a question, the comment was stated loudly in the front, “to the failing fortunes and floundering public image of his corporation.”

“That’s a nifty analogy but entirely untrue.” The executive wanted to segue into that and he leaped on the remark. “You’re doubtlessly referring to the embarrassing glitch that occurred due to a code conflict in the name we assigned. Instead of Handshake Lite, the popular program will revert to its original title. Wall Soft verifiably owns legitimate rights to Low-Key. The remedy patch is now ready for full, and free distribution.”

“Will you tell us about yourself?” A youngish woman took the floor. “Has Collin Hersker overstepped Bob Wall and/or Ghazi bin Omani?”

“Bob sustained some minor injuries but after his convalescence,” and drug rehab, “he’ll be back at the Wall Soft reins. Similarly, the executive team at Omani Holdings will be retained and a suitable replacement for Ghazi may be found within the ranks there. Both heads will report to me as the CEO of the combined Wall Soft and bin Omani entities.”

“Gay pride!” An uninvited attendee shouted and raised a jubilant fist. “You rock-em girl—for all of us!”

Collin the asshole just smiled, but tacked up a mental note to phone his Mom and Dad—ASAP. Better still, I’ll bring Oksana home to meet them.

Chapter 27 of Loki’s Trojan

Games of Ring Around the Squid

[private_Chevron]The Iranian programmer tossed a jute rope around a metal bollard and cinched up the slack. While looping a half hitch, he saw Ghazi reach into his carryall: the hand stayed put. He’s got a ready thumb on the detonator.

“You are far too important to risk.” Tariq interposed, as it appeared bin Omani and his animated bomb intended to lead the way. “Allow me walk up the gangway with him. I’ll make sure it’s safe enough for you.”

“Of course I wasn’t going myself.” The sheik saw the good logic and covered his small error. “I’m ordering you to.”

“Move along!” Tariq jerked heavily on the meek prisoner and stepped onto the expanded metal of a waterline dock. Swaying stairs angled up.

“Wave me up within three minutes,” Ghazi warned, “or I’ll detonate.”

“I am not who I seem.” Midway in the climb, Tariq whispered tersely. “If you want to live, you’ll follow my every instruction.”

“Are you one of ours?” The influential but currently powerless man tried to spin his head for a better look at his potential rescuer.

“Never mind: just do as I say.” The Iranian hissed. He added a loud urging for the benefit of his audience. “Hurry it up—infidel!”

“What do you want?” Bob Wall’s voice was a squeaky falsetto: He was staring at, and seeming speaking to the bomb.

“I’ll try to save your life.” Tariq unbuckled the dynamite belt.

“If I’m killed the tape will automatically go into mass circulation.” As his fingers worked, Tariq’s eyes swung to Sergey. “Repel anyone trying to board us: they are armed with machine guns.”

“What’s he doing here?” The former CEO’s eyes finally traveled from the TNT vest to the very recognizable face above it.

“He is trying to survive.” As the explosive belt dropped free into one hand, Tariq shoved the relieved man at Bob with the other. “Both of you should take shelter in an interior cabin and stay together.”

Now what to do with this? The programmer hefted the bomb belt onto a shoulder like a bandolier of overly large red bullets.

[Give an offering to Poseidon, or to Neptune.] Loki seemed panicked.

“This bomb is a healthy slice of my limited resources.” Machine guns generally prevail over Smith and Wesson handguns: he needed better odds.

“This ship is bigger than a sea-going ferry.” The Iranian cast about for a way below decks. Ghazi said three minutes but I don’t want to hold onto this thing any longer than necessary. A hatch showed slightly amidships and he took the steps down three at a time.

[There were twenty-four steps up from the water.]

“That’s about two decks deep.” The saboteur paced to where Ghazi’s boat was approximately located and set the satchel charge against the outer bulkhead. “Just touching that thing,” while sprinting back up to the deck he shuddered, “gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

[Admiral Dash Away must’ve ordered the unfurling of a high tail sail.]

“That’s one stupid move!” Tariq’s voice was lost in the throaty snarl of the 400-foot yacht’s big diesel engines firing up. He again considered the second runabout’s probable mission. It’s not playing hide and go seek.

…

“Get up there.” Ghazi heard and actually felt a vibrating roar from the engines. Another jihad man scaled the boarding ramp. As the terrorist got to the top, a single shot rang out and he returned an automatic burst.

“Where is my hostage-handler?” The sheik wondered. The guns firing at the second man up the ladder was unimaginable. That jihad soldier was older than the rest, he turned up late when the squad commander failed to arrive, was inquisitive and he volunteered for the now failed escort duty.

Ghazi’s mind sifted quickly through his prior knowledge and results of his quest for information conducted on the jet trip west. His missing IT manager would be of about that age and he was of Iranian extraction.

“Tariq Awi!” The sheik saw his man on the top landing take fatal fire. “My gamble of his being here,” he keyed the detonator, “paid—.

…

[/private_Chevron]

Captain Dick Wadley slammed the transmission into forward gear and the Squid heaved ahead. In the same instant a blast sent the hull lurching to the side. Given his location on the ship, Tariq’s body was both pushed backwards by the inertia of the acceleration and forward from a concussion wave. The opposed forces balanced and he remained on his feet.

One Russian is critically wounded. Poking his head out the hatch, the Iranian saw a man clutching his midsection: his blood was a circular pool.

[Ring-around-the-rosy.] Loki sang the tune of a child’s game.

“Pocket-full-of-posy.” Tariq took up the chant. War is just immature leaders, handling grownup issues—with a kindergarten mentality. One has something the other wants, but the national identities don’t understand the concept of sharing. “Hush-ah, hush-ah, we all fall down.”

[An army’s casualties are not your soul’s responsibility.]

Commanders-in-chief must excuse themselves with that lie. The Iranian hadn’t considered liabilities to his conscience. The mobster and the sheik acted on their motives, but I steered some too.

…

[private_Chevron]“A clever gambit.” Ghazi Omani wiped gore off his cheek: he studied the blood smear on his hand. Was it his from a shrapnel wound or splatter from a victim nearer to the explosion? Anger-spawned adrenaline blocked his pain—but his cheek was severely gashed.

“Sink the infidel’s ship,” the enraged Saudi snarled into the handheld radio, “in the name of Allah.”

The sheik had no qualms about letting jihad pawns believe they dying for Islam when only his wrath demanded it. As impressed into him during his privileged upbringing, Ghazi believed his elevated status allowed him to freely spend the lives of underlings.

“Catch that boat!” He called out to the steersman but the man was no longer alive at his post.

“Fine,” he growled at the body, “I’ll do it myself.” Ghazi moved quickly to the helm wheel, as the larger ship’s hull was fast pulling passed. Now that the smoke and airborne clutter from blast had cleared, he could see the bomb had opened a yawning hole.

“There is my wide avenue for easy entry and this craft is faster.” The sheik pushed the throttles ahead and angled away from the Squid’s side: he piloted his collision course in a parabolic arc to strike as a homing torpedo.

“Brace for impact!” Like driving into a garage but at higher speed, the smaller launch nosed into the gaping rent in the Squid’s hull.

“Kill everyone aboard,” Sheik Ghazi leaped from the smaller boat into the flow of water inside the yacht: the remaining jihad troops surged like pirates over the side of a sloop, “for our Islamic jihad!”

…

[The sheik put a stopper in the drain.]

“That’ll slow the sink.” Tariq had been about to look though a broken porthole to check damage, when a crunch under his feet supplied a picture of how big the hole was. The programmer ran forward to a wide carpeted staircase. Presumably, the bridge was up this way: he readied his Uzi.

“We’re unarmed.” The captain turned from a console and hesitatingly raised his hands. Two additional crewmembers reached up as well.

“Where is Wall?” Tariq indicated with the gun’s muzzle that the man could lower his arms. “I am on your side.”

“How can I tell?” Wadley’s eyes were riveted on the weapon.

“I suppose my not shooting you will be a confirmation.” The Iranian turned his attention from the uniformed man to scan the horizon.

“Why are we under attack?” The captain asked.

“You see that?” The programmer ignored the question as another small speedboat was traveling fast towards the wounded Squid’s front quarter. “Do you recall what happened in Yemen to the USS Cole?”

“A small craft bearing a bomb,” the man answered and the vision of the event sprang to mind: his head snapped around, “blew a hole in her hull.”

“Cole was an armored warship,” Tariq’s voice was grim, “and outfitted with watertight compartments.”

“If we’re moving this fast when it hits,” Captain Dick Wadley grabbed for the helm, “the water could rip the keel out from under us.”

[You’ve seen that before—but not from onboard.]

“You’re the captain.” Tariq recalled watching Bob’s last yacht sink but he wasn’t convinced the same phenomena happen would be so in this case. Then, the hull was made weaker from my intentional damage.

“My previous vessel sunk under full power, but I need some speed to maneuver with.” The danger warning had convinced Dick that this Arab was an unlikely ally, as were the recently arrived Russians. “Mr. Wall and his cohort ran forward. That hatch opens down into the companionway.”

“The other Arabs,” Tariq handed over his Uzi, “are not friendly.” He was already moving to the indicated hatch whilst finishing his warning. “If you can’t or won’t hold them off, I suggest abandoning the ship.”

…

Emerging from a partly ruined amidships section, Ghazi found himself in the salon Tariq had recently left. Several Russians were in ambush and one jihad member took a chest wound finding that out. A second terrorist dropped under the single shot fire but his teammate took out the opposition with a rake of bullets into the two Russian goons.

“They were prepared to repel our boarding but in coming from below, we outflanked them.” The sheik laid a strategy that had his men fighting to the death. “Kill them or at least ensure they don’t head for the bow.”

“I’ll go forward.” He suspected his quarry would’ve gone to safer parts of the yacht. The sheik briefly considered going up but his killing the men steering the ship didn’t seem like a brilliant idea.

“I have another advantage.” Omani bolstered his courage as he moved around the ascending stair to one hidden behind: he knew it went down. “I’ve been aboard this yacht not long ago, as the previous owner’s guest.”

He took the steps carefully and held his Uzi in a ready grip. The ladder ended in a tiny alcove that opened onto a wide hallway running forward. He recalled that this aisle ran the interior length of the boat. Ghazi pressed his back against the bulkhead and prepared to spin, to fire downrange.

“These must be lesser staterooms on either side.” The hatch Tariq had taken down from the bridge led into the same aisle but the Iranian was substantively forward from the sheik’s current position. He jogged along and tried the handles of several rooms.

“They’re not locked but there are too many to check.” The boat was a floating hotel. Tariq left the remaining doors untried and sprinted ahead: he assumed Wall would’ve headed for his own cabin and the double doors at the corridor’s end seemed the most likely.

Sheik bin Omani rounded the wall and saw the figure running away. He pulled his machine gun up to the aim, and squeezed off a short burst.

“Ugh!” Tariq took one round in the lower right of his back and another about a palm’s width higher. The action hero is supposed to be shot at a zillion times without being hit—I took the very first two bullets. Now close to the companionway’s end, he ran faster but zigzagged several steps. If those are locked then I’m dead meat on the stampeding hoof.

“He’s hit at least twice.” Do I want to kill him? Ghazi’s mind worked furiously: first in the ‘energetically’ definition of the word. If I capture, I might force his relinquishing my shares. He then considered recent events and the applicable elucidation became ‘angrily’. The livid sheik fired a burst. “The winner has his king still standing at the end.”

“Again!” The programmer staggered as two small caliber rounds took him in the upper thigh, while a third deeply grazed his hip. Did any other slugs somehow manage to miss me? He took both doorknobs and turned them simultaneously: fortunately, they were unlatched.

[Only two from every three have hit you.]

Is taking only two thirds of the bullets even remotely optimistic?

“Dead men hire no lawyers.” Ghazi shouted and shot again.

Another wound! A round from a third rattle of the Uzi painfully ripped under the Iranian’s shoulder blade as he charged into the door.

[A crossbow quarrel does worse damage than these tiny lead pellets.]

That too, gives a warm fuzzy feeling of contentment. He slammed the doors and spun: the men he was looking for were where he had expected.

“You’re dead!” A shock of recognition slacked the hinge of the geek’s lower jaw and it gaped. Up on the deck, Wall’s eyes had been exclusively on the political man in the bomber jacket.

“Nah,” Tariq turned sharply and threw the deadbolt, “just winged.”

“What’s happening out—,” the software nerd noticed the programmer’s many wounds his panicky voice squeaked out the last word, “—there?”

“Bedlam and bullets,” the Iranian rounded on the speaker, “and if there isn’t another way out here—we can upgrade that to chaos and calamity.”

“I don’t know yet.” Bob hadn’t yet explored much of his new boat.

[My sundial says torpedo time.] Loki was mindful of the suicide boat’s speed and the last seen vector.

Tariq’s aside glance caught a movement outside the portal. He sprinted and as a blitzing linebacker on a confusing hand-off, he clothesline tackled with both arms. The larger explosion was very close: shrapnel told him so.

…

“There was nothing we could’ve done to prevent that.” Aboard the helicopter, Agent Wilkins lied to himself and into a radio. The two aircraft carrying the government men had arrived with plenty of time to fly in close enough to shoot the small craft’s occupants. They veered away on seeing that one jihad man held a machine gun while the other piloted.

Police methodology is to meekly hold back until certain that they have overwhelming force. They are not truly looking out for people: the law is all they care about and that really isn’t worth risking a life for. Statutes are often broken but it’s a concept that can’t feel harmed. Columbine School and the Virginia Tech shootings are examples where even one brave officer could’ve saved many—but didn’t. Federal enforcement agencies aren’t any bolder, as proved at Waco—and now again here.

“Should I land on the flight deck?” The pilot asked.

“We’ll circle to see if more bomb boats are coming.” Wilkins replied in a human voice, but a hen’s clucking would’ve been more appropriate.

…

“Am I alive?” The Wall Soft ex-mogul stirred first. Stretched flat on his back, he was covered by debris and half of an Iranian. He took a dust-laden breath and voiced his thoughts. “Is that tangy smell brimstone?”

“If you can breath to smell the cordite from an explosion, then you are not yet in hell,” Tariq was and bleeding from a few new back wounds, “but that’s a likely prediction of your eventual destination.”

“Get off of me.” The frail man issued a terse instruction: he comprised the other half of the linebacker’s cushion.

“I was about to,” the programmer rolled somewhat off Bob to allow him to stand but in doing so he pressed more of his weight onto the other pinned cushion, “but I won’t obey your orders.”

“You’re crushing me.” The retirement-aged man felt internal pain as his weak heart labored against the rib bars of his compressed rib cage.

“I’ll move in my own good time,” Tariq lifted his both hands off the floor to allow his full 225 lbs to squish the weakling, “but that is now.”

[The blast has produced a panoramic porthole.]

“The Wall-Dorf is ruined.” Bob Wall had also seen the ship’s wound.

“View it optimistically.” The man responsible for sinking one of Bob’s yachts couldn’t help but smile as he surveyed a ripped section that spanned several compartments and deck levels. “Your master cabin can be outfitted with a sunken living room and an open-water veranda.”

“Sinking?” The geek only fully appreciated two words in the quip and fixated negatively on them.
“We are taking water!”

That was an understatement of titanic proportions. Several staterooms adjacent to the premier suite had been obliterated. The companionway on the ship’s keel line now had an unobstructed view of the sea and the newly created porthole was as big as an industrial shop’s overhead door.

“Wear this.” When belly down on the floor, the Iranian had spotted life vests stored under bed. He fished two out and handed one to Bob.

“We need to get out of here.” The other man astutely realized a breach of this magnitude meant they would soon skim along under the waves.

“I agree.” Tariq coughed and spit up some blood. The exertions of the past few minutes had exacerbated his injuries and reminded him to feel the pain of them. I feel like I was backstop of a pistol range. His aches were too great to don his floatation jacket so he held it limply in his hand.

[Captain Sinkmore has throttled back but the Squid is still cruising.]

Seen from the brink of the wrecked deck, a wash of water was flooding in. The jagged edge of the sundered hull was like a spire rock jutting from a swift river: it split the stream, sending some in and the rest out.

“We need to get into the outbound current,” Tariq judged the distance from the closest solid flooring to the hull, “but that gap too wide to jump.”

“I’m going to die.” Bob Wall’s voice had grown steady as he resigned to his fate. He was even waffling about whether to be happy about death. His wealth had spoiled him and this decimated ship was his last asset.

“No you won’t!” The geek’s loosing hope, gave Tariq a renewed vigor in his conviction. “I’m here only to save you and I don’t intend to fail.”

…

“~I think there’s only one left.” At the Squid’s aft end, where the white wake trails even looked like the aquatic namesake’s tentacle feet, Sergey was down to his last spare thug. He was better armed though, with an Uzi taken from a dead jihad soldier.

For the Russians and Arabs, the firefight had just been a blood-shower. Neither side had committed to a defensive or an offensive campaign and no competent officers existed on either side to order a good strategy. The Obshina was classed as a general in Tariq’s analogy but his lack of tactical skill made his force as rudderless as the jihad unit: the Anaconda, were he still alive, would’ve made this battle all one-sided.

“~Should I rush him?” A young mafia goon asked tentatively. At the skirmish outset, the thug had fought mostly to prove himself in the eyes of his gang comrades. As they died, his tenacity became rooted in a desire to avenge the fallen. He and the Obshina were now the last and the ruffian was wavering for a good reason to risk his young life.

“~We should go together and double our chances.” Sergey was passed the necessity of motivation. The force he had gathered represented a final opportunity to recapture his underworld empire and now they were all but finished. “~If we succeed, you are my new lieutenant.”

“~Let’s go then.” The junior mobster led the final rush into no-man’s-land—and he took all the fatal bullets.

Sergey’s machine gun was rattling over the last mob goon’s shoulder when he fell and the final jihad trooper dropped overboard.

…

“That’s why we couldn’t land.” Wilkins pointed to the Arab’s dramatic plunge into the sea: a stuntman couldn’t have performed it better.

“That’s happening on the after deck,” the civilian pilot noted with a scoff in his voice, “the helicopter landing pad has seen no action at all.”

“It hasn’t—yet!” The agent’s lame excuse was in an indignant voice.

…

“That vine could make a good Tarzan swing.” After a moment spent in thought and in mentally pushing his agony aside, Tariq spotted a possible egress from the doomed boat. An insulated wire in a conduit hung from the shattered deck head. With a handy section of stiffening channel, used as a shepherd’s crook, he pulled the improvised rope to a start position.

“You’re first.” The Iranian handed the bar to Bob. He had to backhand the other man away. “Hold on tight until your arc takes you outside.”

“Then what?” The nerd’s brain-ware had a frenetic situation glitch.

[Need you remind him to keep breathing as well?]

“The instant you break the threshold of the hull’s goal line, you’re my touchdown.” The Iranian decided his task’s victory condition. “Whether or not you survive, is just an extra point after.”

“There’s at least one helicopter outside.” The grey-fringed man had seen shadows pass by the blast porthole.

“I’m sure the Captain called a Mayday too.” Tariq lifted the scrawny geek and pushed hard. “Now swing to safety.”

Bob’s hands were so firmly clenched, that his knucklebones were pale white knobs seen through a taut veneer of skin. He closed his eyes for the ride and released his grip when the fresh outside breeze told him he was clear. At least, that’s how he would later recall it: in fact, increased inertia at the pendulum’s outer point was too much for his hand strength.

“I’m next.” As the impromptu vine swung back, the slight bureaucrat stepped up to the launching pad.

“Not quite yet.” Tariq turned with sinister intent to the man seen from Bangkok’s Choa Phraya River. “We have unfinished business to settle.”

…

“There is the floundering ship.” From his seat next to the pilot, Collin spotted the Squid and pointed it out to the rear passengers. The sloughing vessel wobbled as a rubber band powered tub toy, sloshing liquid inside.

“There are people floating in the wake.” John added his observation.

“And the air cavalry are doing diddly-squat.” Hersker’s voice dripped with disgust. The two helicopters Collin had first requested were equipped with rescue gear—but the one they currently were in had none. “They are just hovering around the ship like blue-bottle flies over a fresh cow flop.”

“A Coast Guard cutter is only a few minutes away.” The pilot repeated some news from his frequency.

“Bob is bobbing just there.” The executive spotted the geek sweeping along the hull. “He appears to have emerged from that wide fissure.”

“Fly only where we can observe that area.” Jacqueline also recognized her former captor. If her man had succeeded in his primary mission, then he would’ve helped Wall to safety. “That’s where we’ll find Tariq.”

“We’ll get him out of there.” John sensed his sister’s deep concern and clasped her hand. “The pilot can drop me onto the deck if needs be.”

…

“This craft is going down.” The weasel-faced official’s eyes darted to the escape hole like it was a way in and out of a chicken coop.

“The American ship of state rides low in the water too,” Tariq’s eyes narrowed and his nose wrinkled as if suddenly subjected to an offensive odor, “and I’m staring at one termite that is gnawing on that hull.”

“I’m the vice-president of the United States,” the tiny man puffed his diminutive stature up to its unimpressive full, “and I hereby demand that you assist my escape.”

“I personally saw you standing and genially chatting with the terrorist your administration has supposedly waged war against.” Tariq set the wire swing under a hatch handle to enable him to use both hands if necessary. “I’m also to understand the CIA is still running Al Qaeda from above and before your political step up, you were that pernicious agency’s director.”

Vice-President Lon Clark’s eyes shifted like a cornered rodent’s. He knew there was no physical way he could best the larger Iranian man. Lon wasn’t in good health but even in his prime, he was the litter’s runt. Part of his yearning for administrative power was owed to his compensating for a pathetic bodily stature. While he was in an high office, Clark could order actions against people whom he wouldn’t dare to challenge in person.

“The other man at your Bangkok meeting proved his prior knowledge of nine-eleven,” the man robbed of his family continued, “by pilfering the valuables from his own vault, just before the strike.”

“Sheik Ghazi bin Omani,” Lon Clark wasn’t as good at face-to-face confrontations, as he was at stabbing in the back and the programmer had him rattled, “is now an enemy of the nation.”

“A logical supposition is that you also had pre-knowledge,” the Iranian ignored the obvious blame shifting and continued, “but I’m convinced that you even participated in the event’s planning.”

“I didn’t make the final decision.” Clark ducked the responsibility but in doing so, he had made another admission.

“I lost my wife and daughter when a plane hit a building.” The Iranian-Canadian stared at the second most powerful American politician. “I just want to know why.” He watched the vice-president’s face contorting.

[It looks like he’s concocting a lie.]

“I suggest you answer carefully.” Tariq warned. “If I detect falsehood I’ll throw you in and let you drown in the bowels of this sinking ship.”

“The election was indecisive.” Lon confessed. “Something major was needed to reestablish firm leadership. The weapons manufacturers wanted strife and other influential people wished to exert a stronger control on the oil supply. The decision was made for the citizen’s best interest.”

[Historic evil has often followed that self-righteous phrase.]

“That disgusting truth just paid for my not pushing you to your death. Now, you can earn my assistance in your traversing the chasm. Swear on the miniscule soul you have, that on being rescued you will promptly quit your position. The citizens probably don’t need full-disclosure scandal but you are personally not fit to hold the office.”

“I promise by my fervent faith in Jesus Christ,” the man added a mental snippet, ‘faked religiously every Sunday so it’s not binding.’ “I will retire from public life if you help me to escape.” The man spoke his lie but again added an unspoken bit. ‘When I feel like it—but you won’t live to see it.’

Tariq stared at the wretched little man who’s every facial expression and body language screamed at his already having reneged.

[Leave God to deal with a foul creature like that.]

The Iranian handed the wire conduit to the vile politician.

Lon Clark grabbed the rope representing his stolen bridge to safety.

“You’ll just have to work harder at it than Bob did.” The programmer lifted the loathsome bureaucrat. “If you hadn’t spouted complete bullshit about your willingness to do the decent thing, I might’ve reminded you,” he shoved hard, “to put on a life jacket.”

“Wait!” The vice-president yelled but it was already too late. He flew out the opening and his weakling arms also couldn’t hold when the whip snapped. Lon hit the water and the current carried him away from the boat.

“I’m drown—.” Water splashed into his mouth. “My—shoes.” Clark kicked away the expensive loafers hampering his swimming. With his legs and arms wildly churning, Lon felt the first stabbing pain in his chest.

“Must—swim.” The politician worked frantically, but treading water while wearing heavy wet clothing is a strenuous exercise. Another spasm of agony ripped through his chest and traveled on down his right arm.

“I’ll—have—that—man—killed.” Despite his erratically beating heart, the frail pen pusher needed his under-conditioned muscles to work at the maximum. His lungs heaved as forge bellows and his pulse pounded like a stamping press. My heart is weak. His thought was confirmed by another cleaving ache deep in his ribcage—that echoed resoundingly to his wrist.

“Do something!” The agent saw his charge gamely trying.

“The gear is right beside you,” the pilot banked close over the stricken victim, “if you had bothered to even take it out from stowage.”

“Hand me a life jacket.” Wilkins moved a foot to the strut and grinned. This kind of heroics would earn a commendation even if the man croaked and it would look great on TV too. The Secret Service agent jumped.

“I—can’t.” Lon’s right arm could scarcely paddle, as agony curled it. Suddenly, a pair of shoes, filled with feet and powered by a plunging body, crushed the VP’s neck. The collarbone-fracturing impact drove him under the surface and his eardrums railed from the increased pressure.

Wilkins fumbled under the waves like a springboard diver searching for a lost swimsuit: he took off the floatation device and held it by one hand to explore with the other. Aha! The agent hero pulled with all his might.

“Ayeee!” While underwater, Lon Clark screamed with his last lungful, as a hand gripped the grey horseshoe fringe of fur around the skin dome of his head. This new pain in a fresh place was nearly as intense as the ones already in his chest, right arm, left shoulder and strained muscles.

He yearned for a breath and he took a deep one of saltwater—that hurt too. The vice-president’s cardiac muscle then fibrillated: a coroner would be able to check more than one box on the cause-of-death form. Tariq had enjoyed a post death experience at this stage of life but Lon’s soul had too many mortgage leans against it. His spirit was simply extinguished.

…

Tariq snatched the wire again on its return pendulum arc but he set it back on the hook. The Iranian didn’t intend making the same fatal error as the last swinger. Instead, he staggered to the fetch the other flotation vest.

“Do I have enough heavy lead in my body to require two?” Movement had again brought his attention to the numerous shots he had received.

[Let’s go out with a chest-thumping yee-haw.]

“I’ll be satisfied with just having the strength to hold on.” He gripped, swung his weight back and jumped. Three more bullets stitched his side from shoulder to hip. Am I a base metal magnet?

“Ahhh!” His scream sounded nothing like the ape-man’s jungle call. Tariq swung but his newly injured arm couldn’t hold on. His body twisted in the air but instead of landing as a dropped cat, his dive was a back flop. The airborne time seemed to slow and yet remain constant. This instant of fully alive sensationalism is what thrill-seekers aspire to: a body is utterly consigned to fate’s mercy and the essence is geared-up to leave the corpse.

[You didn’t make it far enough.]

Tariq didn’t need the comment to realize that fact: the current threw his belly against the torn hull’s jagged metal. Steel shards pierced his skin as the rushing tide tried to send his halves in forked directions. Two more bullets hit the side of his jaw. I’ve totally lost count of them.

[I haven’t but you don’t want to know that score.]

“He may as well riddle me with rounds,” raising his head, the Iranian saw Omani inserting a fresh clip. “I’m not likely to survive anyways.”

“No!” The Russian appeared in the hallway and his mind replayed the words. ‘If I’m killed the tape will automatically go into mass circulation.’

The surprised sheik spun as four slugs dotted exclamation points on his rib bones. Ghazi squeezed his trigger and held it depressed to empty the complete magazine. Sergey Yanderiev did the same and the two doomed men stood screaming while unloading their weapons at pointblank range, as a final clause in a mutual suicide pact.

That bought me what? Tariq mental tone of voice was cynical.

[Use the bear’s sacrifice for more than a pelt rug.]

The Iranian noticed the ship was carrying a lot more water now and the speed was slower. Using a final draught of strength, Tariq arched his back against the flood and his hands pushed out. He only gained six inches but that overbalanced the body’s seesaw between the in and outgoing flows.

“It’s up to the science of hydraulics.” The programmer tightened his legs together to create drag on the outbound side. The current took and his belly ripped on the hull’s fangs: lacerating from abdomen to armpits. His mass was battered several times by the passing ship’s hulk: he floated free. A doctor will need an industrial sewing machine for the required stitching.

Is that a bird? His blurry eyes couldn’t focus on a helicopter passing over, or the girl leaping. Is a true Valkyrie coming for us this time?

Jacqueline’s dress lifted, as her abaya had in Quetta, but this time her upraised arms allowed it to fly off. The nude female plunged into the chop and her red silk dress fluttered above, like a parachute with severed strings.

“I nearly met a first end under the waters of the Puget Sound.” Tariq’s expelled breath was insufficient to flutter his vocal cords. My final chapter is now being written on the surface of the same Pacific Ocean inlet.

[Your plot’s twist is a solemn pledge made to your soul mate.]

When I spoke that vow, I expected I might not have a choice of keeping it. He had been peppered with bullets, battered, sliced by assorted shrapnel and rent by jagged metal. He was now expecting sharks to be drawn by his blood. Requests precluding my demise have all been stamped as rejected.

[Your body is a gift and your spirit has the ultimate freewill over it.]

Jacqueline? The programmer found her eyes but as a blur. A woman’s arms were around him but couldn’t determine if they were living ones or if Mother Death was embracing him to her nurturing bosoms.

[Don’t give up your ghost!] The Norse trickster had been resident in the programmer’s head as if his skull was a Trojan horse. [Remember this: you gave Freya your oath.] Loki executed his one other hidden function.

The vessel had now swallowed its bellyful and forward momentum was expended. The stern dipped and the ship lazily turned turtle to show off her decimated hull. The war’s starting gun was another yacht’s sinking. The Squid squirmed under and the fight was over. Huge bubbles surfaced and popped to make white circles on the water: they seemed as calamari rings sizzling in a cauldron of boiling oil—it was apropos.[/private_Chevron]

Chapter 26 of Loki’s Trojan

The General Quintet and an Absconder

[private_Chevron]“I’ll trudge the rest of the way.” Tariq had his beautiful chauffer stop a block from the warehouse. As he walked, the Iranian recalled the poignant promise he made referencing Tolkien’s Bilbo and the battle of five armies. ‘I don’t know who the other four combatants are yet, but I’ll be one.’

“Ghazi is two, Bob is three and Sergey is four.”

[You’re one rampaging force shy.]

“I’m also the only one without armed troops behind me.” By coming from the West, the programmer failed to see the motorcade parked to the East. They on the other hand, were observing and noted the new arrival.

Entering the long-abandoned structure, the tardy comrade waved to his squad mates. He progressed further into the room with his heels echoing on the concrete floor.

“Where were you?” The sheik emerged from the back room

“My flight was deplaned for some ridiculous security protocol.”

Ghazi spun back towards the structure’s rear section, as if the answer didn’t interest him—which it really didn’t. The late arrival followed the retreating Arab to the rear deck of the abandoned freight terminal.

This does make the situation interesting. Tariq grinned at the sight of a small ashen-faced man seated in a chair. The well-known person was easy to recognize but the costume he was wearing was entirely unexpected: a dozen sticks of dynamite were strapped to his torso.

[Army number five is a turnabout.]

A dictionary definition of ‘ironic’ should feature this illustration. In a room full of Islamic terrorists, the white Anglo Saxon protestant man was rigged up as the suicide bomb.

“Bring my prisoner to the boat.” Again, bin Omani simply shouted the instruction without targeting it to an individual.

“Come along.” Tariq was nearest to the trussed up captive: he took the shoulder of his suit jacket and abruptly tugged the man upright.

“Did you see your captain at the airport?” Ghazi offhandedly inquired.

“I didn’t bump into Kareem.” The programmer spoke the truth but his fingers gripped into the prisoner’s soft arm hard enough to make the man squeak. I assumed that I was the final arrival.

“I’ll deal with his punctuality later.” The sheik spoke to no one person in particular. “I will simply lead this unit as I would have done even were your commander was in attendance. Our guest of honor is comfortably restrained, so I know of no further reason to wait any longer.”

Kareem’s absence is disconcerting but I see a chance to establish myself as a lieutenant. Ghazi wouldn’t know the current rank structure. The men in the unit didn’t know exactly where the Iranian fit in either.

“Call the guards to join us.” The Arabic-Canadian barked a loud order. He scooped up one of two Uzi machine guns that remained on the floor: each of the jihad men and Ghazi were now similarly armed.

Two men are already on the speedboat. Tariq performed a quick tally. Two were guards and two others were attending to the prisoner. Kareem would be seven and Tariq was number eight. That left still two members short but Ghazi hadn’t mentioned any other absentees.

[Sheik bin Nasty might have sent some on a sub-assignment.]

Our commander’s absence worries me. Was it possible that he spotted Jacqueline somewhere? Seattle a populous city but there was still a chance of a coincidental sighting. Jacqueline, be careful and be safe. With a roar from the powerful twin engines, the boat surged into Puget Sound.

“You won the Wall Soft takeover bid.” The grey-fringed man in the TNT waistcoat shrilled. “Why are you doing this now?”

“I suffered a small Awi.” The sheik cracked a wordplay joke that the captive couldn’t possibly understand—but one of his squad members did.

[Was Tariq Awi the ouch that Ghazi felt?]

The sheik has astutely deduced what happened to him—and who did it.

“If you needed my help,” the human hand grenade whimpered, “all you had to do was ask. You should’ve known that.”

“To force an opponent into moving a key piece, a chess player may use a power piece to threaten. It’s then up to the other whether to peacefully relocate the offending unit,” Ghazi’s hand stroked the frightened man’s bomber jacket, “or accept a mutual destruction in the next turns.”

“I’m too important,” the tiny man’s weak voice didn’t quite match his grandiose assertion, “to be used as a mere pawn.”

“Bishops, rooks, castles, queens and even kings are expendable pawns for the master.” The sheik enigmatically smiled. “Play this endgame with me and when I’ve achieved my victory, you’ll be amply rewarded.”

“What if your plan isn’t successful?”

“Only the contents of your shoes will attend your state funeral.”

…

“I’m can’t make out the occupants from this distance.” Agent Wilkins, of the troop tasked with caring for and occasionally buffing those shoes, watched the boat pull away from the warehouse. He didn’t like it but was under direct orders to stay out. “I’ll give him ten more minutes to call.”

After the elapsed time, four dark suited men jogged to the door. Each drew a weapon and adopted the academy-approved stance.

“Now!” The leader entered swiftly and shouted. “Clear!”

There was only one other exit and Wilkins signaled his men to move to it. They employed similar entry procedure.

The end of the derelict building was open at the harbor side and outfitted for dockage. It was deserted but ominous evidence remained.

“This is not an encouraging sign.” The agent scuffed his patent leather toe on the remaining Uzi that would’ve been Kareem’s. The nick it put on his black footwear wasn’t attractive and loosing his charge wouldn’t look appealing on his service record either.

…

“Give me at least two hours.” As she parked in the hotel lot, Jacqueline impatiently quoted her boyfriend. Walking to the door, she added her own sentiment. “But it only takes two seconds to get killed.”

‘You’ve risked enough,’ the young woman recalled her argument from the drive from Wall Soft to the warehouse, ‘and we’ve won. Don’t go in.’

‘We’ve trekked this ground before.’ Tariq had stood firm. ‘The man I saw him with in Bangkok means that until people know he is a washed-up has-been, Ghazi is still a major-leaguer. His current limbo status has made him even more unpredictable. For example, he must know Wall didn’t bring him down, but he has summoned my Jihad unit to Seattle anyways.’

‘And you’re supposed to owe Bob personal protection because a Thai monk said you have karma.’ She had oversimplified for effect.

‘I can’t be certain if a busy holy man spoke with me in Phenom Rung, any more than I can confirm the reality of my pesky Norse spirit.’ Tariq had set a comforting hand on hers, as it rested on the shifter knob. ‘How thoughts arrived in my mind doesn’t matter: the crux issue is that they are there and I believe in what I need do. Correcting a wrong by committing another is like paying a debt off with a credit card.’

“An honorable man is exasperating,” in the present Jacqueline entered the lobby, “even when his morals are part of what is endearing about him.”

“Has a package arrived for me?” The girl quoted her room number and wondered again about the mysterious item Sam was sending.

“There’s nothing yet.” The clerk checked the in basket.

“I’ll inquire again later.” She planned to kill some waiting time in the shower and changing. “If it shows up: send it to my room.”

“How critical is that two hour delay?” Jacqueline paused and she held the door slightly ajar while deciding. “I’ll honor that and maybe Sam’s gift will be handy.” Behind her, the door swung almost shut.

…

[/private_Chevron]

Bob and Sergey both know what I look like and Ghazi is now aware of his previously presumed dead computer expert’s involvement. Those two snippets of information are like nitro and glycerin—soon to combine.

[You could explode before the other human bomb does.]

Thanks, I needed that. Tariq’s mental tongue was in his mind’s cheek. In the distance, the Seattle cityscape dwindled into the omnipresent haze and looking back towards the bow, he saw Ghazi consulting a map.

The sheik certainly had political wherewithal to get him here so fast. Tariq saw where the explosive politician sat shivering from the chill wind, and his fear of detonation. I’m not an expert on manufacturing bombs but I do know one needs a way of triggering them. He looked closer and saw that the blasting caps were wired into a small black device with an antenna.

[That metal matchstick is an awfully short fuse.]

Since I don’t see any bulky pockets in Ghazi’s robe, I can surmise he has a remote transmitter in his shoulder bag. Although he couldn’t see the back of the dynamite belt now, the programmer recalled it was buckled at the rear. I didn’t see that it was locked in place either.

Several minutes later, the sheik took a two-way radio out of his shoulder bag and carried out a brief but unheard conversation.

I’ll assume he’s talking with my two unaccounted-for squad mates.

[There was another boat slip at the warehouse but it was empty.]

Presumably, the others could be on a vessel that left earlier.

[Forewarned is forearmed.]

Foreknowledge is only my opportunity to panic ahead of time. [private_Chevron]It was also a chance to think and the programmer used it. Why would the sheik want a second boat? Was it his getaway craft?

He expects to succeed and not to need an escape—or to die inflicting maximum damage. That’s why the highly recognizable prisoner is rigged for a poignant blast and it suggests what the other vessel is intended for.

Satisfied that he’d fathomed the sheik’s plan, Tariq relaxed and patted the comfortable weight of the Uzi machine gun on his lap. I’m forearmed but seven other jihad members also have one like it. Sergey’s men all have revolvers. I’m not a Hollywood star to single handedly take on an army—or four. The Iranian fretted on how ridiculously outnumbered he was. I’m more likely to be as the villain in a typical action film, unable to hit with one bullet—while expending a clip of ammo from close range.

[I’ll modify my trite phrase to forethought is foreboding.]

…

“My dearest left the welcome mat for me,” Kareem cautiously tried the door and it fractionally moved, “or should it be the strumpet’s red light?” While awaiting her return, and in fact since the day of her flyaway clothes, the fat Arab’s mind had envisioned many scenarios of his ravishing this girl. From his window, he had watched her approach the lobby and then lingered for several moments to allow her to get settled in.

To gain the element of surprise if she was in the main room, the ex-cop pushed the door quickly and stepped with it. Was she in the shower? He could hear the water running in the washroom. Kareem held the door and eased it closed behind. He was about to latch a security chain, when the female emerged from the bathroom: she had only been washing her face.

“Get out!” Jacqueline’s voice was high-pitched from shock, and then she recognized the intruder. “My dad will be right back.”

“No he won’t.” The jihad deserter stepped threateningly ahead.

“I’ll scream.” The girl faked her eyes to the right then shot her body quickly the other way in an attempt to gain the door.

“This is a hotel.” The man’s reflexes were fast and his arm arrested her progress. “Females are expected to yodel, in the throws of ecstasy.”

“I thought you were my father’s friend.” Her ploy was to invoke guilt. The slight girl now regretted her failed bolt for the exit, as she was trapped in the grasp of someone far more physically powerful than she.

“And I wrongly presumed you were things that apparently you are not.” Kareem pressed his face down suddenly and he fiercely kissed her mouth. The girl fought to pull away and then she savagely bit his lip. With his full might, the Arab boxed the side of her head. “Be nice or I’ll be bad.”

Jacqueline’s knees became watery as her head surfed a breaking swell of near unconsciousness. She felt his free arm take her weight. Her body was held so close, that she could smell the stale sweat on his shirt. Her eyelids fluttered on the verge of a blackout and she was unaware of his lowering the two of them onto the bed.

Kareem licked away the tangy blood from his lip and sought hers again. This time she offered no resistance but her mouth lacked the fervor that his daydreams had often predicted.

“Where are your traditional clothes?” The man grabbed the one side of her silky blouse and ripped it aside. The buttons popped and a breast under a black lacy bra was now visible. Her skin tone was paler than Tariq’s and her hair was a lighter shade of brown. “Are you even an Islamic girl?”

Jacqueline didn’t respond to either query: she hadn’t even heard them. Then the pain from her badly bruised cheekbone served as a splashing of ice water. Tears ran from her freshly reopened eyes.

“I know you and Tariq are infiltrators.” This angle had featured in his most recent fantasies of her and it seemed the best theme for him to act out. He could also self-pardon his lustful motives by hiding them behind the auspices of his organization. He tore away the other half of her shirt and tugged her bra to her bellybutton. “I’ll find out your true affiliations.”

“By raping me,” Jacqueline read his rationalization and discounted it, “to satisfy your own base desires?” She felt a strong hand on her breast.

“Is Tariq your father,” Kareem recalled the intimate butt pinch he had witnessed, “or is he really a lover?” His hand left off groping to search out the waistband of her jeans.

Again Jacqueline didn’t answer but this time due to her watching for an opening. As soon as he exposes his tender genital area, I’ll kick it hard.

“I think you’re his whore?” Surely, such an attractive female wouldn’t be romantic with a man so much older. “He likes prostitutes.” The Arab’s fingers fumbled at her belt. “What’s your rate for a night or for a month?”

He’s only partially on top of me. Her dizziness from the solid cuff had now subsided. If I can distract him with pain, I might make it to the exit. The desperate woman grabbed at his exposed ear and twisted it with all her strength. Move now! She squirmed frantically towards the edge of the bed to the sound of his tortured howl. Releasing her grip on the tender flap of skin, Jacqueline tried another break for freedom.

“Aargh!” Kareem’s senses reeled at his pain and his hand shot up to fight away the attack on his ear. Suddenly, the initial hurt was gone but his victim was rising quickly. His arm flailed out and his fingers caught her blouse. The fat man jerked her back violently.

The material tightened on her shoulders: she wiggled to let the blouse tug free but wasn’t fast enough. Her arms caught in the sleeves and the inertia of his hard yank toppled the female backwards onto the mattress.

“No—more—struggles.” Kareem spaced his words to emphasize his ire. He threw a meaty leg over to straddle her hips. He had a new strategy.

“Please let me go!” With her spirits dampened by the failed attempt, Jacqueline tried appealing to his unseen sympathetic side.

“If you perform exquisitely for me,” Kareem pulled the ripped blouse from her arms and tied a sleeve around her wrist: after looping the shirt’s body over the bed’s head rail, he secured her other hand with the second cuff, “then I’ll consider letting you live.”

My situation is almost hopeless. The young woman tested the give in her restraints. My hands can’t reach down to protect my body.

“Let me see,” the rapist shifted his bulk off of her lower body, “what other treats you have in store for me.” He unzipped her jeans and tugged them together with her panties.

Jacqueline bucked and squirmed but Kareem’s superior arm strength overwhelmed her opposition. He slid the denim down her limbs. The pant leg came free of her right foot but remained bunched at the ankle of her left: he tied that to the footboard. She was now effectively defenseless.

“Is this the only way,” she spit caustic, “a swine like you can get laid?”

Kareem had completed his task on her ankle and his eyes traveled up her exposed flesh: this female had entranced him from a glimpse under her garments. The jihad captain stood to remove his western style clothing.

After stripping off his shirt, the Arab pulled a hunting knife from the back his belt. He had surmised he might need a weapon if Tariq had come back and a pained amble across the street had found a sporting goods shop.

“Now, you are mine.” He leaned over the woman’s body and wickedly grinned. “After I’ve been satisfied, you’ll belong to my blade.” Then as menacingly as a spider’s tongue might lick its trussed up insect prey, he drew the knife’s edge down a line connecting her one nipple to her navel.

…

“I have a possible kidnapping scenario in Seattle,” Wilkins put in an emergency call to his supervisor, “and a colossal national security issue.” The agent described the situation and told of the man’s final instructions.

“That precludes commandeering the local law enforcement resources.” The agent in Washington said to the agent in Washington. The state and the city are both called after the first president but the right gear and people were located in the DC namesake—where they were of no use here.

“I’m not absolutely sure we have a problem yet.” Agent Wilkins let his mind discount the machine gun. “My charge was confident of his safety and I witnessed no spurious activity on the boat.”

“A fairly important person in the Pacific Northwest has been trying to contact your charge,” the senior man confided, “but he hasn’t yet said what he wants to talk about. Could this be related?”

“Hello?” Collin’s voice traveled through a twilight zone in a series of circuit clicks. “Bureaucracy!” The asshole said it as a cuss word. He had talked to twelve people in a circle before being sent back to the first one—who still couldn’t or wouldn’t respond. “Nine tenths of the civil service is just a gargantuan government make pointless exasperation project.”

“That many are required to prevent the public’s nattering,” the agent in Seattle retorted, “from annoying the ten percent doing the critical work.”

“Touché.” Hersker chuckled. They two obviously weren’t destined to agree on much but he had found an outlet from the jig and reel. “I’ll assume the critical work closely involves the man I’m trying to reach.”

“Who are you,” in standard law enforcement style, Wilkins demanded the information as if the respondent was a strapped into an interrogation chair—and fitted with testicle electrodes, “and why do you want him?”

“Who are you,” the executive wasn’t that easily cowed, “and why do you feel qualified to hear my answer?”

“Agent Wilkins commands a Secret Service protective detail,” the DC bureaucrat averted the standoff, “for the man that Collin Hersker, a senior executive of Wall Soft Systems in Seattle, wants to speak to.”

“At this precise moment he’s beyond contact.” Wilkins offered.

“Wall Soft’s new owner wants to meet with him.” Collin reciprocated.

“Perhaps,” the agent’s mind scrolled quickly through the known facts: the man into the warehouse appeared of Arabic decent: the Saudi sheik had the means to compel a clandestine meeting, “that talk is already occurring.”

“I strenuously doubt that but it begs me to ask why you think so.”

“Because Ghazi bin Omani successfully took over Wall Soft.” Agent Withers used a tone of voice that would’ve fit talking down to an idiot and he had to consciously refrain from adding ‘duh!’

“No—he did not.” Hersker pulled the conversational grenade’s pin. “The press and obviously you too, aren’t party the latest news.”

“He might not have known,” the befuddled agent unguardedly voiced his inner mental workings, “when he agreed to the private summons.”

“Agent Wilkins, did you just let slip,” akin to his Lamborghini Diablo’s gearbox, Collin’s mind shifted and grey matter wheels chirped on the walls of his cranial highway, “that your charge is missing, after having taken a clandestine meeting with Sheik Ghazi bin Omani?”

“They left in a speedboat.”

“I suggest you need my corporate resources,” the executive surmised that keeping an exposure cap was a high priority, “as urgently as I want your up-to-the-moment information.”

…

Powered by twin Caterpillar engines, the Atlantis 55 speedboat cruised north through the Puget Sound. The jihad man doing the steering had an easy job, but for the rest there was only a tense waiting.

“Did I miss some instructions,” Tariq stepped between the dynamite carrier and the sheik, “while I was unavoidably delayed?”

“Before the guest arrived,” Ghazi bin Omani was semi-seated on the boat’s instrument console, “I told your teammates this mission serves our holy cause. I’m sure the situation of our hostage bears witness to that.”

“I overheard your conversation with him.” Tariq made the word sound as if it had a vile taste and indicated his chin at the captive. “Is Bob Wall the key piece we are looking for?”

“I’m convinced,” the Arab slipped briefly from an insanity of rage he’d been living in, “that Bob Wall has the man I’m seeking.”

“I’m sure you know more than I,” this chat made the programmer feel he was climbing Mount Everest wearing roller-skates, “but it seems like we’re sailing into a major international incident with no visible upside.”

“You will do your duty to Islam!” The sheik’s response bristled but he reflected on it for a second. Men about to die needed a valid, or at least a seemly rational reason. He could provide one, albeit slightly twisted from the actual truth. “Our glorious jihad is polluted at the top.”

[The high-rolling dervish has all his dinars on a roulette wheel.]

Ghazi knows Bob doesn’t own Omani Holdings but he’s betting on long odds that Wall’s connected with Tariq Awi. The programmer leaned closer as bin Omani had whispered. He hopes if his lucky number comes up, Bob and the real owner of the company will both be on the boat. If not, then his motivation will be all in retaliation against the one foe he can find—Wall.

“Many people are aware of the CIA having funded Osama’s Al Qaeda during Afghanistan’s resistance to Soviet occupation, but there are very few who know that linkage was never severed. Langley, Virginia is still his major sponsor.” Ghazi bin Omani smiled at the stunned look on his listener’s face. “Our prisoner’s first use is getting us on the yacht but any person strapped to a bomb would do. The second will cleanse the jihad.”

[That is a crock of festering whale blubber.]

Eskimos tell of that being a delicacy even tastier than ice cream and Ghazi presented a well crafted and partially true bucketful of ‘muk tuk’.

“Wall’s key piece will become your puppet,” Tariq extrapolated, “you will replace Osama and your prisoner’s being here provides a blackmail the Capitalists have no choice but to pay.”

“Precisely.” The sheik resumed his viewing ahead.

…

“I’ll take my captured booty,” Kareem’s fantasy veered into a different delusion, “like a Nubian swashbuckler.” He took the knife away from her tan skin and put it in his mouth. As Sinbad the Sailor after a seventh quest, he clenched the blade in his teeth whilst undressing.

“Special package.” A muffled male voice and a sharp knock sounded.

“HEL—.” The girl began, but her attacker clamped her mouth before it became a full plea: it was also uttered while the deliveryman was speaking.

“Leave it in the hallway.” The Arab’s one hand drew the knife from a dental scabbard and the other held her jaw. He heard a scuff near the door: it sounded as a box nudged against the outer wall. Then footfalls retreated.

“Where were we?” Kareem’s whispered breath in her nostrils was sour from his long flight and a day spent without his toothbrush. He stuck his dirk back into his teeth, roughly shoved her unsecured leg to the side and insinuated his hips between her thighs.

“You’re fat like a walrus,” the fleeting chance of her rescue was gone and Jacqueline had naught to loose from a taunt, “but hung like a scrimp.”

“You have to sign my receipt.” A male voice clearly rent the air.

The single-tusked walrus leapt off the bed and his blubber jiggled as he landed on his hind flippers.

Jacqueline’s eyes went wide. “John!” Her twin brother stepped inside and the door swung shut behind.

“Free.” The sibling’s eyes weren’t on his sister but concentrated on the nude-but-for-socks assailant—spitting a hunting knife into his right hand.

“Leave and live,” the jihad commander blustered, “or stay and die.”

“I’ll remain.” The young man spoke without a flinch in his fixed gaze. He recalled his father’s instruction on hand-to-hand fighting. ‘Fingers are deceptive but eyes can’t lie.’ John took several deep breaths and allowed his primordial self to step to the front. His vision became sharper and his awareness expanded to absorb ambient sensations. He tasted a salt tang in the air that was in part from the sea breeze and the rest, perspiration odor.

“That was a dumb decision.” The former policeman switched the blade from one hand to the other. The showy tactic was intended to install fear, of facing an experienced knife wielder. Kareem Kareem’s eyes flicked down and back once to assess his opponent: the heavy man outweighed the youth by sixty pounds and he expected to have the advantage of strength.

“We’ll see.” John stood poised, on the balls of his feet. Again, the internal voice of his mentor offered a suggestion. ‘One may hold a weapon but both might use it.’ The younger man saw the flashy blade work with his lower peripheral vision but he intently sought the eye movement.

The rapist’s mind was too busy to compose another quip. Should he stab or switch grip to slash? The weapon came to rest in his right hand: using his left had been for show but it apparently didn’t impart much awe.

“You can walk away alive.” Jacqueline’s words were primarily for the Saudi but they would’ve applied to her brother too.

Shiva’s Messenger was deep in his state of peak alacrity and the words sounded to him as if in slow motion. Without breaking direct eye contact, the young assassin noted a fleshy shoulder was slowly moving.

The knife-wielding man hoped his sweeping blade motions would lure the eyes but this ploy, like his others, failed dismally. He had also heard Fatima’s offer but his response was predictable. The ex-cop had shown in the gym, restaurant, on Bangkok’s waterfront quay and once again on the parking lot headlong dash, that proving himself was paramount, over even his own safety. Kareem Kareem was committed to the attack.

John watched the man’s pupils expand slightly and that brought another of his teacher’s maxims. ‘Instincts ready the eyes for improved vision.’ A natural function of physiology had pre-warned of impending action.

The portly Arab man dropped his eyes to his knife and thrust his hand forward, to pierce the heart. Looking up again, he was shocked to find the target was no longer in the onrushing tip’s trajectory. How did he move so inhumanly fast? Kareem frantically tried to adjust the dirk’s error.

John only seemed to react super swiftly because he was moving before the knife hand did. Utilizing his father’s tutelage, the well-trained youth had moved to the outside of the thrust. ‘Back and triceps are weaker than the corresponding chest and bicep muscles. Their speed is slower as they must work harder to oppose.’ In addition to sidestepping, the boy swiveled to present a smaller target: his front was facing the Arab’s side. Kareem had taken his shot and now it was the messenger’s turn.

The boy is good at this! With his blade hand now extended out too far, Kareem’s attempted repositioning had only slapped the back of his hand against the young man’s chest. Now the rapist had a dilemma: if he turned to face, his arm could be wedged between the two bodies. The Arabic man tried to swiftly retract his elbow for a second thrust. No! He willed his muscles to cease his motion but the nerves couldn’t react quickly enough.

‘Don’t fight a bigger man’s strength: use his own power against him.’ These remembered instructions were the last John required in this fight. As the jihad commander had pulled, the youth had pushed up on the arm. John’s hand cupped the pommel and guided the sharp point.

Kareem Kareem saw the blade tip rushing towards his face but his arm was powerless to stop it. Could this be construed as dying in a holy jihad? His conscious mind couldn’t formulate an answer to his question as seven inches of steel sunk into his left eye socket and delved deep into his brain.

“Thanks again.” Jacqueline gasped at the rapid action that was almost a blur. The first move was too fast for her eyes to focus on. Then John’s turned back obscured her vision: suddenly Kareem had a knife embedded in his skull. The corpse still hadn’t dropped to the carpeting yet.

John smiled, and with a snakelike quickness, he stepped and snatched a pillow out from under her. He bent and set the dead man’s head on it.

“That’s quite noble of you,” the girl bemused at his seemingly pointless act of kindness, “but I don’t think he felt any discomfiture.”

“The hotel can bill you for a stolen pillow after we dump the evidence.” Still calm after the killing deed, John set to work at the knot on her ankle. “Ripping up a bloodstained carpet would be more troublesome.”

“You’re the package Sam sent to help.” The deadly scene’s unfolding had left her little time to think. Now, the forger’s cryptic message made sense. “The post couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune time.”

“You have to go shopping more.” John chuckled at his memory of the last encounter. “Each time we meet, you’re dressed exactly the same.

“Let’s go.” Jacqueline shucked her loosened bonds as another urgent thought came to mind. She hurriedly threw her silky dress over her head and didn’t bother with any undergarments. “We’ll talk on the way.”

“Corpses,” he glanced back on the way out, “have the patience to wait.”

…

“G-man equals A-hole.” Hersker composed an algebraic formula while two helicopters banked away to the North. “That ignorant Secret Services twerp stuck a gun in my face and hijacked my resources.”

“Send me another helicopter.” The Wall Soft executive spoke into his handheld radio and looked at the lot where three abandoned limousines sat with doors ajar. “Where is a car thief when you really need one?”

“Less than two minutes away.” The reply crackled. Transporting the mobsters had taken some time and this was that flight’s return trip.

“That was timed as nicely a fine Swiss chronometer.” Collin wistfully recalled his stolen Breitling: the Russian replacement just wasn’t the same.

“Last time those Russian goons showed up,” an American bodyguard explained, “we were as welcome as head lice in a daycare center.”

“Give me your guns and then go ditch those limos somewhere.” Collin sent the men away and smiled down on a blonde head: Oksana’s ear was crazy-glued to his chest. “I suppose our closely-guarded secret is blown.”

…

“Stop the car!” Jacqueline was already halfway over the convertible’s door, before the vehicle skidded to a halt. “That’s my friend Oksana.”

“Lyra?” The previous junky girl’s face was joy and puzzlement.

“~Later—please.” Jacqueline had more pressing concerns. She tapped her brother’s wrist: now wasn’t an opportune moment for disclosing her English fluency. “~Ask him what’s happening on Bob’s yacht?”

“~I don’t know the situation there.” The executive’s use of his recently learned linguistics preempted the interpretation. “~I’m not entirely certain of what’s going on here either.”

“~Were you the man Tariq spoke with?” She fished.

“~You must be Jacqueline.” Collin broke into a wicked grin. “~Bob is really not going to appreciate the same humorous irony that I do.”

“~I’m more concerned about Tariq and circumstances on the yacht.”

“~Our coach awaits.” The asshole gestured a welcoming hand at the helicopter. “~I was headed out there alone—but you are the new boss.”

“Do you prefer communicating in English or Russian?” Jacqueline had made her decision while watching the man’s manner in affectionately but firmly refusing to allow Oksana back onboard the flight.

“How long have you spoken English?”

“Since I was about two.”

“This just gets better,” he chuckled: his sexual preference would be just another candle on Bob’s mortification cake, “and better.”

“Unless it suddenly,” Jacqueline’s concern was that mortality issues needed resolving, before situations could be funny again, “gets worse.”

…

Tariq’s gaze rested behind on the speedboat’s wake: the churned white contrasted sharply on the dark navy blue surrounding a razor straight track: it could’ve been the contrail of an airliner—like one that struck a tower.

[Now is a good time to go there.]

His eyes remained open but his thoughts peered into a memory space.

Without warning, the elevator slid another half a foot and she flopped out like a beanbag: the woman’s bulk collapsed her rescuer to the floor.

The Iranian partially caught his fall with his hand on the bottom sill. The overweight woman was across him, on her back.

The elevator cab made a grinding groan: the lady attempted sitting up and she grunted as loudly. As her body began to cantilever, her flabby butt on his hip pressured his lower body towards the elevator opening.

‘You’re shoving me.’ He yelled and the lift gave a metal scream.

‘I want to live.’ She kept straining to sit up and her hands flailed for a purchase to assist. Tariq’s lower half was forced still further into the shaft.

‘You think this is just about you.’ His hand shot to the side in hopes of grabbing some carpet but his palm landed on the axe haft: it began to slide with him. The Canadian man looked up and saw that the elevator cab was beginning to move too: this time, there would be no stopping for it.

[You passed sentence on her.] Loki was onboard for this memory ride.

If she just would’ve rolled onto her damned hip before trying to bend.

[You can’t drive forward using hindsight.] The Norse trickster said.

‘A world of people doesn’t exist only to enable you to accumulate more affluence.’ The Iranian’s hand closed tightly around the axe handle. ‘I’m not dying so that you can selfishly live on.’ Tariq swung the weapon. The tail bit on a fireman’s axe is a spike, and that drove into the woman’s right breast. She didn’t scream but her straining slackened and he kept pushing. Her upper body fell back and the programmer’s legs scrambled aside.

‘My sweet lord.’ The woman’s voice was musical as the lift dropped.

[It was over when the fat lady sang.]

Abruptly, she stopped her song: jerked sharply and then went limp. Agony shot up Tariq’s wrist and warm wetness flowed into his lap. The elevator clattered away like an empty steel drum, dropped into a mineshaft.

Tariq’s outside two fingers had been in the path of the upper doorframe and the resulting amputation was done as neatly as by a bookbinder’s trimming press. The woman had lost substantially more: the torso’s lower part, from one breast and in an angle to her collarbone was on this floor: the rest was below, with the programmer’s pinky and ring fingers.

[Booty from the vault and stripped from her corpse has financed you.]

I looted her body of valuables and then drenched in her blood, I calmly descended from the 88th floor by a usable stairway. Tariq clearly recalled the rest of his escape. I repressed the incident: not because of what I did, but rather due to my absence of guilty feelings—my judgment was just.

“If more people used wealth for selfless purposes,” his mind snapped to the present and he looked at Ghazi, “this world might be worth living in.”

[Judging the Sheik wouldn’t take a lengthy celestial trial.]

“That’s one big boat!” Tariq’s eyes followed Ghazi’s finger to where he was pointing the steersman. The vessel glimmered white as a snow-covered mountain in the clear sunshine. Seattle is often a city of perpetual rain but the weather today was beautiful. The afternoon sun was high but descending and Bob’s yacht grew larger as the powerboat closed the gap.

The Squid. He read the gold lettering on the bow. With eyes traversing further astern, the programmer noted the waterline disparity.

We can’t board over the rear transom but Ghazi has seen that. The sheik made a circling hand motion and the helmsman obeyed with a course correction to swing a wide circle to the port beam.

There is a gangway. Now on the other side, Tariq saw where a platform was slung on the hull.
In the elevator, he had felt an odd sensation in the fingers he lost later on. He performed an internal check: there was no foreshadowing this time or at least, it wasn’t exactly specific. His entire body was scattered with a slight tingling in places. Were each of those amputated like my fingers, I would look like a human slab of Swiss cheese. The boats bumped hulls.

[The generals from the five sides collide.]
[/private_Chevron]

Chapter 25 of Loki’s Trojan

Heiress of the Dog that Bites

[private_Chevron]“I’ve nothing left!” Locked in an executive washroom, Bob had just taken a strong dosage of heroin but it had yet to fix his gloomy mood. His pronouncement wasn’t entirely accurate either. Much of his wealth was in limbo: his personal money had bought Omani shares at the extremely high proxy war price but they were tied into the company to facilitate the take over. Doubtlessly, the shares would soon be trading at much less.

“I still have a boat,” the Wall-Dorf had finally been delivered, “and I have a Russian slave girl too. I almost killed her with my passions once.” In truth, she had taken too much heroin to combat her depression: her pale white spirit had gone to vomit. “That’s the way I would like to go too.”

“Has Ghazi called in to gloat yet?” The former CEO peeked into his defeated general’s office and wondered how the employee could continue to work as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“No.” Collin appraised the train wreck of a man and his ego: the geek hadn’t changed clothes or even showered. Rip van Wall is like a college senior woken up with a hangover—thirty years after the frat bash.

“Call me if he does.” Wall’s eyes blinked several times behind his wire frames. He seemed as a prairie dog on the lookout for danger: he ducked from the doorway like it was his gopher hole.

“The asshole is protective of his roommate,” Bob had made the brief visit only to see if Hersker was occupied: he had already arranged for a phalanx of bodyguards to meet him in his office and to bring along a locksmith, “but I need her more than he does, and for normal reasons.”

“The Squid!” As the helicopter banked to land, the dethroned software king saw black lettering prominently on the flight deck and across the face of the gleaming white bridge. “What were they doing for the past weeks?”

“You look even better than the last time I saw you,” the semi-sane man admired a blonde captive, she appeared as the millions of dollars he didn’t have anymore, “and from now on, you’ll be partying with a real man.”

“~No matter how bad it gets,” the Russian girl hadn’t enough English to translate his statement but the visuals were telltales: Bob had gestured shooting a needle in his arm on the word partying, “~I won’t do drugs.”

…

“There is an exciting sight.” The Iranian quietly uttered: the software ex-mogul had marveled at the one Russian woman’s beauty and here was another in the Sea-Tac terminal to rival and excel Oksana’s allure.

[Every man capable of walking erect would follow Freya home.]

Though the girl noted many eyes turned to watch her red skirt swishing, she only concentrated on one set of male orbs. Those, Jacqueline glanced behind to find on every turn. Outside at the parking structure, she looked over her shoulder to watch him leave the terminal then strode to her rented Porsche Carrera GT convertible and settled her bottom into the driver seat.

“Is this your translation of a covert rendezvous?” Tariq hopped into the passenger side and performed closer survey: a snug sweater accentuated her forward-pointing attributes as temptingly as the silky dress had done for her back view. “I doubt if anyone in there didn’t take notice of you.”

“I drew attention away from your action of trailing me.” She backed out of the short-term parking stall and the rearview mirror reminded her of her burkha’s outlook point. “None of your jihad buddies have seen me as anything but a black toadstool, with eyes in a rectangular window.”

“I suppose even policeman Kareem couldn’t pick your dainty derrière from a lineup of pert posteriors.” As they left SeaTac airport, Tariq’s gaze was drawn to Mount Rainier and a vision of Lawyer Smyth briefly flashed. Lauren’s personality was a snow flurry on a sultry afternoon: Jacqueline’s was a constant temperate zephyr off a tropical sea.

[A hot-cold lawyer doesn’t simmer on the same burner as Freya.]

While the woman navigated the car to the interstate, the programmer’s mind recapped the past week. After leaving Kareem in Denver, Tariq and Jacqueline had hooked in Detroit. This visit was much different than our first, when we were there separately and she was in the box of a delivery van. This time, the pair had done business from a hired stretched limo.

‘The staff thought they were satisfying a frivolous girl’s passing fancy and humored me,’ Jacqueline had giggled at the recall of the flabbergasted faces, ‘until I dropped three billion in bearer bonds onto the counter.’

The brokerage manager had eagerly vacated his plush office to sit at his secretary’s desk for three days. Masseuses, beauticians and some esthetic technicians were brought in to make her wait more pleasurable. The goal was eleven, but Jacqueline had kept buying until her money was almost all gone and had finished up at 11.2 percent.

The work Sam and his apprentice did was obviously first rate. Tariq recalled the expression of delight on the forger’s mug when the job was described. After the success in Detroit, the old man had driven his pickup truck in from Toronto to celebrate with them.

‘A counterfeiter’s most fervent goal,” Sam Levy’s eyes misted when he toasted with his prune juice, “is that his work can pass intensive scrutiny.’ Having samples of the originals, that Tariq had carried away from 911 and with the correct serial numbers gleaned after Jericho fell, gave a rare opportunity to prove his forging skills—to the utmost. ‘My copies are now the genuine articles because the real originals were destroyed.’

The programmer had busied his days with his laptop computer on any available wireless network. He monitored Kareem and Bijan’s emails and half expected a recall when the first bonds were cashed. Obviously, Ghazi had other important matters on his mind and couldn’t have known where those were really coming from anyways.

After the bonds were cashed and the shares purchased, the two split up. Jacqueline had flown on to Washington State, while Tariq went to Denver. Kareem’s urgent recall, along with an electronic ticket to Seattle, had come shortly after the share certificates were presented.

“Did you have any foreknowledge of how complete our takeover bid would be?” Jacqueline still had difficulty grasping how successful it was. “I can’t believe I now own the control of two gigantic corporations.”

“It’s beyond my wildest imaginings. I’m not even sure what to do with them now. My initial intent was to cripple Ghazi financially and see what happened. Then I hacked his system and I surmised the buy was possible.”

“Who could’ve predicted Wall would attempt and nearly succeed at a proxy war? It was similarly unforeseeable that Sheik bin Omani had the cash wherewithal to chew down a giant—before falling to a gnat bite?”

“I was told The King stayed here.” Jacqueline drove to her downtown hotel and commented as they pulled into the lot. “So, who is this Elvis and over which nation was he the monarch?”

“I’m all shook up that you don’t know.” The hotel wasn’t large: it was limited to three floors owing to it’s being built on pilings. By ironic happenstance, Jacqueline was in the exact suite he and Lauren had used. “Many women might be put off by her lover telling about other flings.”

“Let’s discuss your previous tryst here.” Jacqueline was tired of talk. “Demonstrate exactly what happened in this room—in intimate details.”

As had happened once to Tariq and Pun, a cell tone sounded at the most inopportune time. Stylishly attired in a snug-fitting nature-designed skin suit, Jacqueline zipped to her purse, to nab her phone.

“Where are you?” Sam Levy asked without preamble.

“I’m in Seattle,” her voice showed puzzlement, “as you already know.”

“I mean exactly where.” The forger spoke guardedly on the unsecured line. “I have a special delivery package to post.”

“What are you sending?” She asked after telling her room number. I don’t know anything I’ve forgotten or need. She gazed out at the harbor.

“I won’t talk about it on the phone.” The counterfeiter didn’t even dare to hint. Sam cackled. “Sell your uncouth nomad my warm regards.”

“Are you enjoying a scintillating view?” Jacqueline disconnected and turned away from the window: then grinned adopted a model’s pose.

“I’m the world’s most fortunate gigolo.” It was satirical that she had begun the adventure as a prostitute, and was now the one with all the cash. The Iranian held covers open to illustrate his invitation but an unpleasant eerie sensation crept under the sheet along with a welcome young woman. A premonition warns me this could be our last time together. If either of us must be killed—let me be the one.

[Those kind of prayers are generally answered as asked for.]

“Whatever you do today,” the girl warned, “don’t let yourself die.” By coincidence or an esoteric functioning, the train of his thoughts was on one rail, while hers was rumbling down the parallel, but from the opposite direction. “Swear to me that you won’t let go.”

“I promise.” Tariq looked into her blue eyes and spoke the words: his mind added a condition, but someone else might make my vow moot.

“You look the part of a Saudi Arabian prince.” Jacqueline had retrieved the costume from the apartment, as per earlier instructions and had gone the extra step of having it laundered and pressed.

“The gold rings and expensive watch are the perfect finishing touch.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to wear those black burlap sacks anymore. I like my clothing to make my attributes inviting to the intimate touches.”

“It certainly does that.” The Iranian’s words hadn’t been his only mark of approval: his fingers had been drawn into tweaking her wiggling butt in the hotel’s hallway. “If Kareem saw you in these tight pants he’d quit his jihad gig and take up the fulltime job of stalking you.”

…

“Was the pinch familial teasing or foreplay?” A seething rage filled the observer in his stairwell stakeout. Tariq’s hand had been seen, and his jest was a statement of the non-jovial real life situation.

After watching the suspects walk away, Kareem left his enclosure. He checked the number and tried the handle: the room was not secure. The captain tried letting the door swing and found it had a weak closer unit.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this.” He stormed to the front desk for a street facing room: his mind replayed his airport shock. A commanding officer’s privilege was to arrange details and his flight was booked to land in time to watch Tariq’s deplaning. The older man was easy to spot even dressed in western style clothes to blend in.

“Fatima could’ve walked up from the front and tapped me on my nose, and I still wouldn’t have recognized her.” His eyes, along with many other testosterone-lubricated eyeball-bearings had lingered on her and Tariq only seemed to be walking coincidentally in the same direction.

“Pardon me?” The desk clerk looked up from her paperwork but the Arab she was checking in had, a far-away gaze.

“When they converged on the same car in the garage and as she turned her face to him over the roof of it,” the captain recalled standing stunned for a moment while some picture wheels in his mind turned: as a match puzzle he equated the pleasingly dressed western woman with the decorous girl last seen in Quetta in her traditional garb, “I just knew it.”

In the present moment, Kareem accepted his key and went to his room. His memory though, continued a replay. ‘Follow that car.’ He had budged into the front of the taxi queue and used a tired old line from innumerable detective movies but his drama wasn’t script reading.

“Why did they employ subterfuge at the airport?” Kareem wondered. A daughter reunited with her dad after an absence should be unrestrainedly affectionate. His mental imagery shifted to Fatima’s clothing style: there was nothing chaste or traditional about her appearance. “I don’t like what is springing to my mind’s eye—and his hallway ass fondle supports it.”

“That bastard writer pulled another fast-one in Denver too.” The ex-policeman gingerly walked the hallway’s length: his crotch was hurt and he needed to look at it. “He was supposed to be close by and bring Fatima to him but instead, he up and vanished.” The Saudi entered his room.

Kareem shoved the easy chair into a spot facing the window and spread the curtains. After dropping his pants to his knees, he sat and set his heels on the sill to examine his latest wound: his groin skin was badly enflamed.

“The girl gunned her fancy sports car and zipped across the railroad.” Two cars ahead of his taxi had stopped to wait for the train. The jihad man had thrown money at the driver and then bolted on foot. His headlong run had nearly collided with the Amtrack scenic-cruiser: then he sprinted over the busy road and across the hotel’s parking lot. The stout Arab’s inner thighs were chafed from the chase and his nipples were similarly irritated from his fat-boobs bouncing braless under a rough woolen shirt.

Through the glass, he’d seen the pair enter the ground floor corridor but his traversing the lobby was too slow to see which room. Casting about, the overweight Arab had spied the exit at the far end of the wing. The fire door had a pane of wired safety glass: he had watched from there.

“I’m fat.” The Arab man’s eyes rested on the vast expanse of his belly. The exalted position he held usually allowed his ego to shunt aside this imperfection. Mirrors and moments like now brought his low self-image back. “That’s why I wanted Fatima as I first thought she was.”

His mind reviewed the sight of her butt when the fan lifted her garb. In her traditional attire, the girl’s great beauty would be hidden from all eyes but his. In his possessing her according to his tradition, Fatima would have to adore him and her blue eyes would counteract all other mirrors.

“Plus, I thought she would be a virgin.” He stared out the window and saw a couple strolling to the lobby. They weren’t the two he was waiting for, but the pair inspired a worry. “Tariq is older but not a lightweight. I could handle the girl alone but if they’re together, I’ll need a weapon.”

…

“I’m here to see Bob Wall.” Tariq’s voice was purposefully very soft for two reasons. The best way of dealing with desk clerks is to force them to listen closely. The second was the Iranian’s spotting the squat mobster who had assisted in the attempted, and presumed successful murder.

[All the ruffians have come to roost in Seattle.]

“He’s not here today.” The receptionist’s voice was louder to hint that visiting Arabic man should elevate his timbre.

“Then may I speak to whomever is left in charge?” The programmer’s tone grew inversely quieter.

“May I tell Mr. Hersker,” she was annoyed, “who wants to see him?”

“This corporation’s new owner.” Tariq whispered a slight fib.

“Please come this way.” Suddenly, the clerk didn’t need to check any schedules. “I’m sure he will see you right away.”

The Iranian seeming as a Saudi smiled and followed her bustling lead.

“Sir,” the flustered woman ushered her charge into Hersker’s office, “Mr. bin Omani, wants to speak with you.” She quickly closed the door as she backed out: the sheik’s fearsome reputation had already hit Seattle.

“Perhaps Ghazi might,” Collin wove his fingers together and rested his elbows on his desk, “but you’re not bin Omani.”

“Are you the person,” the Iranian grinned, “affectionately known as the asshole?” I’ve lurked over this man’s working—and I couldn’t resist.

“Some just call me Colon.” The executive scrutinized the ballsy Arab. If just a stunt, he would have security toss him out—on his ring hole.

“As the front line officer, you were doubtlessly aware of a third army in the war. You simply didn’t know that we already possessed certificates for forty percent of Omani’s stock.” Tariq explained.

“That’s not surprising, since the sheik was not aware of that pertinent fact either.

“I bet Ghazi loved that!” Collin laughed but he was too stuffed with questions for the mirth to linger. “So pardon me boss, but who are you?”

“If you have aspirations of retaining your current employment, what I’m about to tell you isn’t going to leave this room.” The Iranian waited for an accepting nod. “I wrote the program your previous employer stole.”

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

“The newspapers will be thrilled.” Tariq chuckled. “They seldom get to run any retractions from the obituary section.”

“Do you have any solid proofs?” The executive’s eyes narrowed.

“Would my fixing your defective program suffice as evidence?” While speaking, the programmer walked around Collin’s desk and entered a code. The application instantly revived and the incriminating message vanished.

“You purposely circulated a virus,” Collin was unsure whether to shake his hand or call the FBI, “and used a Trojan to cripple this corporation.

“I wrote an application that worked perfectly for each registered user. Bob Wall stole it and sold it as his own. Instead of acquiring the rights and having my security features removed, he threatened me with murder.”

“How did you survive?”

“One day maybe I’ll tell that story but just now, I have other pressing issues.” Cool as icicles in his adopted country, the Canadian appraisingly stared at the acting CEO. “My first is learning where you stand now?”

Normally, Hersker could make a decision in a heart’s beat, but this one had vastly more variables. Bob Wall wasn’t only ancient history he was a junky who kidnapped Collin’s girlfriend: this man though, had doubtlessly committed numerous serious crimes too—like the costly vandalisms.

“What are your orders?” As always, Collin’s duty was to the company.

“Where is the geek?”

“He’s hiding on his new boat.”

“Where’s Bob’s sex slave?”

“She’s on the boat.” Collin shot the answer back as he had the previous rapidly fired one but this touched a nerve. “How do you know about her?”

“Put that one into the maybe you’ll know someday file as well.”

“You’re going to be far more interesting than working for Bob was.”

“A man shaped like a furry fireplug is in the lobby.”

“He’s a Russian rodent.” The executive answered what he thought was a question. “I haven’t figured out yet, what pesticide will work on him.”

“Have him brought in here.” Tariq rounded the desk. “Do you mind if I use your office for a few minutes?”

“Not if I can sit in on this meeting?” Having made the call to the front counter, the asshole stepped back against his file cabinet.

…

“~My mind pictured this coming off differently.” Sergey Yanderiev sat grumbling in the corporate reception area. His reality though, had a recent history of not meshing with his optimistic imagination. His Internet porn empire had fizzled, the starring stud role in smut was a flaccid flop and an expected flood of revenues from dealings with Wall Soft had turned out as a wet floor as from a leaky roof. Why should his extortion ploy be better?

“~I’m not even sure Bob is in charge anymore.” When Sergey and his few troops left Kiev, Wall’s banners were surging forward on the proxy battleground but his travel arrangements weren’t quite as effortless as they were when the client footed the bills.

The mafia man glimpsed the distinguished Arabic one sweeping his robes through the reception but paid him little heed.

“~Why does he get to traipse straight in?” The Obshina growled like a circus bear, forced to wear a silly hat: he patted the toy gun in his pocket. “~When I manage to get a real one, a desk clerk won’t bar in my path.”

“The owner will see you now.”

The gangster jerked upright after being caught fingering his squirt gun. He had been sitting still so long that his back didn’t straighten well and his walk was like a big-top bear, riding a too-small bicycle.

“Where’s Bob?” The mafia man snarled.

“We meet again my murderer.” From a casual seated position behind the desk, Tariq stared impassively at the mobster from that eventful day.

“You’re dead!” Sergey fumbled for his weapon but stopped when he remembered that the gun wasn’t even loaded with liquid.

[It has a cork in the back to hold the water in.] Loki supplied a detail.

“People keep telling me that.” The Iranian quipped.

“I wanted to talk to Bob.” Sergey’s head craned to the man behind but he wasn’t the software geek either.

“Why?” Tariq had to strain to keep his face expressionless.

“To offer protection.” Utterly flustered, Yanderiev was unable to think up another viable excuse for being here.

“That’s timely. Bob does need some defensive services.”

“I’m not a hired bodyguard.”

“You just said you were one,” Tariq extracted the memory stick and a reader: he plugged it into a USB port and swiveled the monitor so Sergey could view it as well, “and I was about to scan your video résumé.”

The scene opened to a low budget porn flick with a pudgy male star.

“I could release it for worldwide distribution.” The programmer turned from the screen test to lock eyes on the mortified porn actor. “I’ll title this film, Limp Dick of the Thieves in Law: isn’t that catchy?”

“I’ll see you really dead this time!”

“You had no lead in your pencil,” the Iranian-Canadian blustered, “and I’m not fearful of any water in your squirt gun either.”

“How much do you want not to release copies?” He was almost broke but Sergey Yanderiev would pay everything he had left.

“Money means nothing to me but you came here offering protection. If you and your men spend the next week on Bob’s yacht as his bodyguards,” he ejected the stick, “I’ll lock this away with my life insurance policies.”

“It’s a deal.” The bear was tamed.

“I have rules that you’ll obey.” Tariq outlined conditions that included not accosting the CEO and not disclosing who sent him.

“You’re not to even look at Oksana!” Collin tacked on an addendum.

“In fact,” Tariq scanned the executive’s obvious concern and suspected Jacqueline may approve of what he interpreted, “she is not to stay on the yacht. Send her back with the helicopter you arrive on.”

“Tell Bob the immigration service is looking for her.” Hersker had a plausible excuse to offer.
“Housekeeping turned to whistle-blowing.”

“Go wait in the lobby.” Tariq rattled a chain and a furry beast obeyed. “I’ll have someone collect your men and get you guns that squirt bullets.”

“Does Bob really need the extra protection?” After the now muzzled omnivore left, Collin stepped from the wings.

“Wall is in very real danger from a well-connected and pissed off sheik. I would bring him out too but I don’t know Ghazi’s intelligence gathering capability. Anywhere is unsafe but his yacht is the most containable.”

“The sheik has contacts in the rough part of town and he’s not above using them.” Collin knew this firsthand. “What are my marching orders?” The Wall Soft general was tempted to salute and he would’ve handed over a ceremonial sword—if he had one.

“Arm the Russian mafia and put them onboard Bob’s boat.”

“Consider it done.” Collin didn’t need a notepad. “What else?”

[I still like this asshole—now spin his mind even further.]

“Contact him,” Tariq’s finger stabbed the photo on the front page of Collin’s newspaper, “and get me a private meeting for later this evening.”

“I can’t have him here on such a short notice,” Hersker’s thoughts went for the whirligig ride that Loki had requested, “on a whim!”

“You’re second in command of one of the nation’s great corporations.” The programmer was playfully condescending. “Surely you can muster up sufficient clout to demand the attendance of one paltry official.”

“Paltry?” The school of Collin’s brain synapses swam upstream to the task. He surmised it be like the sockeye salmon swimming up waterfalls to spawn. Some do make it or those fish would be extinct. “I’ll get it done.”

“Then were finished here and I have to run.” Tariq started towards the door but a friendly hand restrained him.

“I’m guessing you’re going out to the boat too. Please be careful.”

“I felt I would like you if only because of your nickname.” The Iranian said. “When a congregation of butt holes believes one of their number is a rectum, it’s more likely that colon is the least anal of the whole lot.”

“Up until this very moment I’ve been annoyed by the handle.”

“One last item.” Tariq wrote a name on Collin’s desk blotter. “I fibbed slightly about my ownership: it’s all in her name.”

Jacqueline Antenenko, Hersker watched his new boss leave, is empress of two corporate empires—I wonder if she is also the heiress to a third?

…

[/private_Chevron]

The long black limousine looked as out of place as a white one that had earlier pulled up in front of the decrepit warehouse. This one was more so due to American flags fluttering at the corners of the hood. A pair of dark sedans had accompanied, in front and again at the rear. The doors of those vehicles were the first to open and men in sunglasses exited.

“I’m going in alone,” the lone occupant of the stretched limo emerged and waved his entourage away, “and you’re to leave.”

“This was all very sudden.” The detachment commander didn’t like it.

“Tasks like going to a toilet and this, I prefer doing on my own.” He clapped a hand on his minder’s arm. “I’m as safe here as on my crapper.”

“Call me when you need picked up.”

“This meeting is of higher than top-secret classification,” the man held up a warning finger, “and it’s not to be disturbed for any reason.”

“We’ll be on an adjacent block.” The lead bodyguard circled a hand over his head: the signal originated in the cavalry. Mount up and ride.

Chapter 24 of Loki’s Trojan

Two Companies and Three is Torturous

[private_Chevron]“Sheik Omani?” A light rap on the door accompanied the voice.

“Enter.” Ghazi swung his legs off the office sofa and sat upright.

“A brokerage house in Detroit,” a junior executive held a fax print out in an unsteady hand, “just tendered some of your long-term bonds.”

“How many?” The sheik rubbed at his eyes after his brief nap.

“Seven hundred million dollars.”

“What!” The jolt brought him fully awake. “Who tendered them?”

“We don’t know. The brokerage invoked confidentiality.”

“They must’ve listed serial numbers.” Ghazi growled: was he hiring kindergarten graduates?
“Whom did we issue them to?”

“That information hasn’t been retrieved from the lost data yet.”

The Saudi sheik held his hand up flat to warn the man to shut up and let him think. Who would dump his bonds now?

“Wall would obviously want to draw down my treasury,” Ghazi stood to pace, “but when could he have acquired my financial instruments?”

“Will we cash them?” The executive asked tentatively.

“My taking a moment to reflect on that won’t affect my bond ratings.” The Arab shot back and his angry fingers itched to rip out the underling’s Adam’s apple—and eat it. “The relatively short time since Bob hired his queen wasn’t sufficient to quietly collect so many bonds.”

“Maybe a mutual fund got the jitters?” The voice was mutually jittery.

“Why would a fund manager want to remain anonymous?” The sheik suddenly had an inspiration but he wouldn’t utter it aloud. Stryker is the master at clandestine business dealings. I’ve been selling Stryker shares and he’s doubtlessly been buying them. My financing his purchases would well suit Bernard’s perverse sense of humor and doing so when it hurts the worst fits profile too. “This chessboard now seems to have a third side.”

“Pay out the bonds.” Ghazi shooed the man with a hand gesture that was reminiscent of two fingers pushing a pawn forward.

“Bernard’s political manipulations didn’t succeed and he lost leverage.” The sheik had waited for privacy to continue a lonely conversation. Ghazi was privy to more than the public was, regarding the failed assassination. “Stryker was weakened and wants to hinder me while he re-establishes.”

“I’ve already made my move to step ahead of Bernard and a few bonds won’t affect my scheme.” The Arab grinned. “In fact, an ineffectual move even adds some savory spice. When ready, I can turn to him with a smile that shows that his backstab was no more painful to me than a tick bite.”

…

“I see bin Omani’s share price is down.” Bob felt better this afternoon and he hadn’t taken an injection yet today. He had held off on the drug in hopes of slipping into the apartment for some hey-diddle-diddle but found some cat had fiddled with the door lock. “How many shares did we buy?”

“None.”

“Why not?”

“Because—,” Collin took a deep breath, “we’re flat out of money.”

“The treasury was a reservoir filled to the spillways.”

“The sluice has gleaned many shares in a major corporation since and the cash flood from operations has choked to a trickle. Ghazi’s exercising his warrants would pour in gold by the bucketful, but he’s far to cagy to do that until his coup de grâce stroke—when it’s too late for us to use it.”

Bob inwardly wished he hadn’t used his dam analogy because now his mind saw fish flopping and gasping on a dry lake bottom. His mental vista included an Arab walking in sandals while he gaffed the fish.

“How much are we short?”

“The sold sticker on your opulent barge might’ve been the difference.”

I should can this asshole. Bob stared rusty daggers at his impertinent subordinate. He’s even locked me away from my slave girl.

Oksana’s expressive face has taught me how to interpret slightly more subtle ones too. Collin Hersker held his gaze firm while anger and then impotent lust flashed over Bob’s face. His firing me right now might be my best possible résumé reference—to land a position with bin Omani.

“I see the apartment lock has been changed.” Bob allowed his ire pass. No matter how badly he occasionally hated the gay prick, Collin was still the best he had at doing the job—and usually the CEO’s work too.

“You gave me the key but I felt finicky about living in a place with the deadbolt only lockable from the outside.” Hersker gave inward thanks to the boss. He couldn’t have picked a more opportune time to slide that into a conversation. “I’ll have another key cut for you.”

“Don’t bother.” The CEO could call a locksmith if needs or wants be. “Do I dare ask how Ghazi did today on gobbling up my shares?”[/private_Chevron]

“I don’t have the exact figures.” Collin felt like a cancer doctor being asked for a lifespan prediction. “I can only surmise from the buying and selling trends. I really thought we had a big war chest heading into this but the money Ghazi bin Omani has spent in the past days is mindboggling. He still needs to have a massive amount in reserve to pay out what he’ll owe when he converts the options.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s ironic.” The proxy general laced his fingers on the desk. “Last week we had him in the same position that we are facing now. If the virus hadn’t struck that night, we would’ve finished him on the very next day.”

“Are you saying that tomorrow is my last?”

“I can’t predict it with that much certainty.” Hersker heaved a sigh. “Ghazi bin Omani is probably the only person in his entire organization or in the world that knows exactly how many shares he now owns. He’s not going to let that information leak out, but we’ll be the first to know when he’s hit the target. That will be when he presents his warrants.”

“I’m to simply bend over towards Mecca and pray the Arab isn’t so big that it hurts too badly when he steps up behind?” Again Bob regretted his analogy as he nearly felt his butt stretch as he spoke it. The parallel was especially unnerving as he was currently with a gay man who might even be turned on by the flippant comment.

“The sheik was doubtlessly in that position and waiting for you until a Trojan spared him.” The asshole fought back a snicker at a line that came out funnier than he intended. Condoms, like the brand names Sheik and Trojan, protect against sexually transmitted diseases during the gay anal sex that this discussion is alluding to. “His prayer to Allah was answered. Maybe you should try one too.”

“I’ll do that at sunset.” Bob’s mind added a safety precaution. But I won’t be bending at the waist with Collin in the same room.[private_Chevron]

…

“How many this time?” The Sheik gritted his teeth: Stryker’s fleabite was quickly turning into a wasp sting.

“One point four billion.” The executive shied back as he delivered the figure on the latest bond redemption in Michigan.

That’s double the last one! Ghazi felt a snap and a real pain in his jaw matched the hurt of the monetary hit. My extra money from Riyadh is still my warrant redemption reserve—they want it back quickly and it will be in Wall Soft’s treasury when I take over. His tongue found the broken tooth. I’ll have to sell more of my stock. He spit the dental fragment on the table. But I’ll retain my own company with shares that Wall Soft has bought.

“Are we cashing the bonds?” After a lengthy delay, the minion asked.

“Of course we’re paying them.” Sheik bin Omani’s voice and visage was as a timber wolf growling at a leg-hold trap on his bloody paw. The financial underling jerked the door handle, and ran for his very life—he collided head-on with Rajah Fakir entering: both wobbled but neither fell.

“After I’ve secured my hold on the software giant,” bin Omani dropped onto a chair and he put his feet onto the table beside his tooth, “I’m turning my attention onto the Stryker Group—and it won’t be pretty.”

“Are you certain that it’s Bernard?” Rajah took a seat facing.

“I can’t just up and ask him.”

“Two point one billion dollars!” Fakir added the bond payout amounts and spoke to wrap his mind around the staggering sum. “How many of the debt notes do you still have outstanding?”

“My computer system was supposed to keep track of that.” The sheik thought back to the start of the corporate fight. Just these two bond tenders amounted more than the lost boat and the network hack combined.

“The culprit could be Collin Hersker with the backing of every gay on the west coast.” Fakir grasped at a slender straw. “Wall Soft has at least one traitor who sabotaged that shipment with porn.”

“Zip your lips. You’re trying to make me think in circles.”

With the talk in a momentarily strained silence, bin Omani had a rare regret. I should’ve cultivated a few friendships while times were good. Now when he most needed people he could rely on, all he had was some sycophants and one occasionally gutsy sounding board.

“There’s only the one strategy left: keep trading blows until one drops.” Ghazi demonstrated continued good rapport by pouring Rajah a glass of water when he refilled his own. “This race will be a photo finish.”

“The taut end wire will decapitate the looser.” Fakir noted.

“One point two billion more.” A voice came from the door’s crack.

“Pay it.” Ghazi took the information without a grimace but it felt like a canine bite. I’m pushed to sell all my Stryker group shares and my Omani holdings down to my base minimum forty percent. “As a savaging hyena, Bernard has his slavering jaws locked into the lion’s share of my kill.”

…

“The sheik is dumping even more shares of Omani Holdings.” In the mausoleum quiet boardroom, Collin only needed to raise his voice a few decibels to convey the news. “His stock’s price is tumbling.”

“We don’t have cash to take advantage of that.” The opiate in Bob’s bloodstream allowed him to absorb his poverty. Dope carries an addict through times of no cash, but money doesn’t help in days with of no dope.

“Ours have leveled out on the downside and Ghazi is still buying.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Wall kicked off the solid table leg and his chair scooted backwards across the room like a kid at rambunctious play: it was the only fun he had enjoyed all day.

“I’ll give you the options as I see them.” Hersker lowered his voice as the boss zoomed closer.

“Shoot.” The CEO’s feet pushed his seat into a clockwise spin.

“First, you could start selling your personal shares and use the cash to buy his.” Collin found the antics slightly annoying but it wasn’t worth mentioning. “The downside is you’ll force our stock lower and send his up. He makes more and buys us out quicker—if we can’t get him first.”

“I don’t like that one.” Bob abruptly stopped his turning.

“Second, we start dumping bin Omani shares—to push his even lower. He needs the money so we’ve found the depths of his pockets. If we cut what he gets for his shares then maybe he won’t have enough to finish us.”

“I’m not sure if I care too much for that one either.”

“Third, you do both. It puts cash into our brokerage accounts. With our shares as low as they are, his will drop by the bigger percentage. If we can survive out the day then we can switch tactics sometime tomorrow.”

“Is there any chance we can still win?” The childishly behaving CEO kicked dug his heels into the carpeting. He curled his legs to drag his chair toy closer to his only playmate. “Which alternative would you choose?”

“I would pick number three. As to your question on the possibility for success—I can’t give odds but it is still possible. He must have something happening that we’re not aware of. Ghazi’s selling his shares now doesn’t make sense on it’s own. He’s had better opportunities to unload them.”

“Are those the only three?”

“Option four is to try to beg and borrow but I don’t envision any profit flowing from operations until we can solve the virus problem.”

“Make it number three then.”

“Someone else is the game.” Somewhat later, Collin stroked a whisker stubble jaw. “Omani shares have dropped but with Ghazi and I flooding the market—they should be going much lower.”

“Is it the day-traders?” Wall asked.

“Not likely.” Hersker speculated. “They got burned several times and are aware that both giants are nearly out of cash. Those piranha won’t feed again until they know which one will be the corpse.”

“Have we any idea who it might be or why?”

“No and it is odd.” The takeover tactician brought up a market display and his finger pointed at a column of transactions. “The buys are mostly from one Detroit brokerage so it’s likely all one buyer. Someone seems to be trying to take over Omani Holdings but it’s not even remotely feasible.”

“Both Ghazi and I are weakened,” Bob had long since given up trying to appear astute in front of his champion: he asked questions even if they made him seem dumb, “why couldn’t another big player take advantage?”

“In this case a rogue white knight is numerically impossible. We have over forty-five percent of Omani Holding’s shares. Ghazi will doubtlessly have at least forty percent or thirty at the very minimum. Together, that accounts for seventy-five or even eighty-five percent. At the theoretical maximum, the third player can only obtain a quarter.”

“Is it possible we have a friend?”

“If they had our interests at heart they would’ve contacted us already.” Collin turned away and rested a scratchy chin in his cupped left palm. “No—this development is just nothing but bizarre.”

“~You’ll shave first before getting into bed with me.” Oksana put her flat hand against Hersker’s chest to stave off a whisker burn kiss.

“Too much of this has been wacky.” Collin spoke to a lathered mirror image. His mind, as Ghazi’s in New York had earlier, drifted to the start. “Like fighting cocks, Bob and Sheik bin Omani were goaded into a battle to the death. Suddenly a new combatant struts in where a tertiary victory is seemingly not possible. Did this mystery buyer engineer this scenario?”

…

“Argh matey!” Software Pirate Bob speed-wheeled his chair in a path that was nearly worn through the expensive loop carpeting. “I should fire the whole scurvy lot. I’m paying out too many bucks-an-ear.”

“That’ll help the payroll treasure chest.” Wall had joked but Collin was serious. “Personnel here are comparable to perforations on toilet paper: there are four times as many as are ever needed or used.”

“What’s the view—?” An overstressed caster in the geek’s chair broke and the sharp metal snagged. Bob’s forward inertia would’ve thrown him to the floor but Collin’s quick reflexes intervened.

“Our uninvited third honeymooner is still snapping up most of Omani’s dumped units.” Proxy General Hersker steadied Bob’s shoulders, while he got his feet back under himself. “Another stock is seeing an extraordinary sell off. Have you heard of the Stryker Group?”

“Bernard is old money from out east,” if Bob wasn’t being held upright he might’ve toppled over on mention of the name: Stryker was the model Bob had in mind when he hired Collin to help him build a power empire, “and very well established in the influence game.”

“Is it possible,” the young executive surmised, “that Stryker is selling his own shares to raise capital for buying bin Omani?”

“The head of Stryker Group is ultra-shrewd,” Wall chucked his broken chair aside and grabbed another, “so if it’s impossible for a third party, he wouldn’t buy. Unless he already owned a piece of Ghazi’s corporation.”

“I had the current list of shareholders and Stryker wasn’t on it.”

“From what I know of Bernard, any name could’ve been his by proxy. If he is my white knight, I should make contact.”

“If he is white, the color is only so from Ghazi’s viewpoint.”

“Can we buy him over?”

“With shiny buttons?” Collin felt this was as a useful to the situation as a merry-go-round is as a means of transportation. “Our purchases are more expensive—because this white knight is buying. Conversely, Ghazi gets more money from his sales—that he uses to purchase extra units of ours.”

“Maybe we could talk him into forming a coalition?”

“Or perhaps you could start using your junk with an intravenous bottle instead of turning your elbow into a pin-cushion.” Hersker had seen the arm when he caught Bob. “You are George Custer at the Little Big Horn and the hoofs you hear coming over the hill are not the friendly cavalry.”

…

“May he live in interesting times.” Stryker said the Chinese curse in the misquoted words Robert Kennedy used. Two years after that speech, my uncle had Sirhan Sirhan end the eventful span of Bobby’s life too.

“I’ve finally regained the controlling interest in my corporation.” Back from the sold boat, the venerated head of the Stryker Group swiveled from his desk. “That’s one big bonus to offset my recent annoyances.”

“I trust I’m not one of those?” An exceedingly attractive blonde female only heard the words annoyances and recent: a television had commanded her full attention before that.

“You’re in my recent acquisitions classification. Annoyances aren’t on the inventory for long enough to merit a file class.”

“Share these recent annoyances with me.” She skipped over and sat on his knee: Amy really didn’t care about them but she liked the word share.

“If I tell you,” he wrapped his arms around her slender waist and spun in the chair, “then I’d have to kill you afterwards.” That trite quip hasn’t ever been so truthfully spoken. Stryker had lent his support by omission to the failed assassination attempt. During the botched killing, he lost his link to the president and Larry Weeds hadn’t sought to reestablish the contact.

“You wouldn’t hurt one hair on my head.” She placed a tress of blond curls under his nose like a mustache and then giggled.

“Should I shave this beard off?” The spun chair had stopped where he could observe his mirrored reflection in an antique hutch. He stroked the trimmed facial hair that was salt with only a few scattered grains of pepper.

“I suppose it depends on why you grew it.”

“I initially wanted it as a subtle way of eliciting kinship with my Arab contemporary but my situation with the Sheik has become complicated.”

“I’ll make you forget all about him.” The young woman put a hand to his flat belly and her fingers wormed between two shirt buttons.

“Ghazi chafed at being my understudy.” Bernard held his gaze on the combed beard and turned to admire his profile. “I’ll keep the beard.”

“I was an understudy.” Amy recalled a show business goal that soured as cream in the midday sun.
“My mind played with a gazillion ways that I could sabotage the headliner and earn my big break.”

“My apprentice entertains the same aspirations,” Stryker tightened his abdominal muscles in response to Amy’s nails on his skin, “but his master wasn’t foolish enough to pass on all the trade skills.”

“I’d be good in movies,” the fire of dreams is hard to douse and Amy still hadn’t given up, “and then you would have a big star on your arm.”

“The proxy fight has been more entertaining than movies: especially with my unique position in a sideline director’s seat.”

“You can direct my movies,” the girl purred, “and produce them too.”

“Would you do a porn movie about a Russian slave and a man whose boss thinks he is gay, when he definitely isn’t?”

“It would need to be soft-core with only tasteful nudity or it might be tough for me to get serious parts later on—but sure. Do I play the slave?”

“Yes,” to the slave question, “and tonight is the first rehearsal.”

“You mean that? I’ll make you so very proud,” the aspiring starlet’s hand angled sharply downwards, “and so very, very, very happy.”

…

“Well boss?” Collin added extra emphasis, as this might be one of the final times he could call Bob by that title. Hersker’s smile was warm but the room’s temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees when the despondent man entered. According to recent theories of quantum physics, thoughts people project creates reality. If true, Wall is broadcasting for his own demise—on all the cable’s channels.

“What’s doing on the markets?” The seemingly doomed CEO plunked listlessly down in a chair. In his mind, the geek imagined his current life as standing on a scaffold with a black bag over his head and a noose on his neck. He was simply waiting for the trapdoor to spring and this question’s answer might be the fatal toggle.

“I started selling bin Omani shares but Ghazi was dumping so fast that the price tanked.” Collin interjected some cheery news. “It’s been a bit like playing arbitrage.”

“Give that to me in English please.”

“Arbitrage is buying on one market to immediately sell on another and profiting on tiny price variances.” Collin explained. “With our problem being a lack of cash, I’ve had to get creative and frugal. Sometimes I sell to help push prices down but as it reaches a low, I buy again.”

Bob looked quizzical but that was better than his gloom.

“Think of the process in terms of short selling.” Hersker tried again. “I sell higher and replace the shares lower. The money made can be used to buy more shares. Even without extra cash, I may hit our target.”

“But since Ghazi is likely the only person buying my stock,” Bob’s view was glass-half-empty, “he and I are essentially trading shares.”

“Under all the maneuvering, it does renders down to that—but he’s in a cash pinch like we are. You know the story of the hare and the tortoise?”

“I know which one we are.”

“You and Ghazi both started off as running like rabbits but it’s been a long marathon and you’ve both turned into turtles.”

“One will crawl over the finish first.”

“We’re only three laps from the checkered flag.”

“Percent? I’ll cross three fingers.” Bob childishly started playing with his digits to achieve the desired configuration.

“In some cultures, crossing fingers is bad luck.” Collin glanced from the CEO’s hand to the clocks on his office wall. “It’s three PM in New York.” The phone on his desk rang and both men looked at it.

“Let it ring three times.” Wall ordered.

“Hello.” Collin Hersker listened to the voice on the other end. He cradled the handset without uttering even a closing salutation. “Ghazi bin Omani has issued a request to satisfy his warrants.”
“It’s—.” The ex-CEO couldn’t bring himself to say the word—over.

…

“I haven’t slept that well,” Sheik Ghazi bin Omani woke at ten and his luxurious stretch disturbed the slumbers of his three favorite wives, “since before the proxy fight began.”

“I dreamed of caravans of wealth streaming to my opulent tent,” the Arab expansively grinned at his bathroom mirror as he leisurely performed morning ablutions, “but I’ve awakened to a reality that outstrips even my most lavish night visions.”

“I can send my jihad men back to Bangkok.” He took his place in the back of his stretched limo and folded his hands behind his head.

“There’s no rush.” Ghazi shouted to the driver in a friendly voice. The chauffeur had been jerkily trying to make time in the traffic.

“I’ll invite most existing management of bin Omani Software to stay on.” His thoughts drifted to the work of restructuring his vast corporations into profitability again and he laughed. “Before I found what it was like to be nearly friendless in crisis, I would’ve terminated every one of them and wished it was by the fatal definition.”

“I’ll need to expand these offices to accommodate an amalgamation of the administration.” The sheik looked about at the relatively tiny corporate area. He entered a boardroom that was converted into his command center.

My troops have turned white with anticipation of the expanded duties ahead. I would expect to see some jovial faces considering the success we had yesterday. This place is like a morgue!

“What’s happened?” Ghazi grabbed Rajah Fakir by his shirt’s front.

“A Detroit brokerage firm just registered forty percent of your stock. It wasn’t the shares Wall Soft bought—physical certificates were presented. We’re certain that they used to belong to—.” The pale man dipped into his well of courage but the rope was too short to bring up a bucket of bravado.

“My shares.” I walked all over those papers when robbing myself of the gold and diamonds. Sheik Ghazi bin Omani blanched to a whiter shade than his laundered thobe, as his mind tumbled to the only possibility. They were destroyed in the tower collapse and reprinting wasn’t a top priority.

My base forty percent in bin Omani is gone. The realization stabbed into Ghazi’s vitals like the jeweled twisted dagger he kept in his belt. The sheik released his clench on the executive and he staggered back a pace. The third party buying will have at least the other needed eleven percent. He bought me out with my own money by cashing in non-issued bonds that were stored in my destroyed safe. I’ve financed my own destruction!

“I’m not done.” As a dervish, he whirled on a heel. The sheik blew as a sandstorm from the headquarters—that was now owned by someone else.

“This Saudi grandmaster does NOT sedately tip over his king.”

The kinder and gentler Sheik Ghazi bin Omani was utterly gone.[/private_Chevron]

Chapter 23 of Loki’s Trojan

Low Key Sings the High Notes

[private_Chevron]“This is like standing on a high springboard and waiting to execute a twisting gainer.” The CEO hadn’t ever done one, and would’ve been antsy about standing on a brink—even with a bracer of drugs to blunt the edge.

“We can’t take the plunge until something distracting occurs.” Hersker had explained this already.
“Otherwise, vultures will interject profit taking and it will make the acquisition more expensive than we can afford.”

“We can manufacture news with a scintillating product launch or juicy tidbit.” Bob’s eyes strayed to the TV where the president’s motorcade was seen moving though Spokane. The CEO had a meeting arranged with him: in fact, the leader’s junket to the Pacific Northwest was mostly for that.

“It has to be way bigger than corporate bologna. I wish a couple of big counties would declare a war.” With those words, Collin caught a quick motion in the corner of his eye: Bob had raced to turn up the sound.

“This is live footage of unfolding drama in Spokane. Once again, gun shots have been fired at President Weeds.” The anchorman spoke in front of the screen image of a banner fluttering over a burning motorcycle. Writing stood out crisp and bright—‘Shiva’s Messenger says Stryke Two’.

“Yes!” Colon, ‘the asshole’ slapped is thigh.

“Even if you vote Democrat, that’s still the American president!”

“If he’s dead, I’ll wear a black armband while buying Omani shares.” Collin smirked: the limo’s amour plating might’ve been even thicker than you. “The cross-hairs of every network scope will zoom onto the shooting and few will even take a peep-sight view of stock exchange doings.”

“Let’s lock and load!” The fickle CEO switched off the office TV.

“After this week, people will believe Wall Street is named after you.” Field Marshal Hersker of the boardroom battle sounded a bugle call—in the form of phone calls. His legions of brokers swarmed to the trenches.

“Won’t this run Ghazi’s shares up to astronomical prices?” Bob Wall could almost feel his wallet shrinking to the thickness of a molecule strand.

With Collin as his professional stock market gunfighter, the CEO hadn’t concentrated on fully understanding the process. The asshole had explained several times but Wall had his mind focused on his next steps of garnering political influence. The meeting he arranged with the president, now probably scrubbed, was part of that. His thoughts of slave girls and the brain-numbing drug had rounded out his inattention span.

“The stock exchange isn’t our primary skirmish: is just the diversion.” Collin patiently went over it yet again. “We buy and sell at the same time to manipulate the fluctuations where we want them to go.”

“We’ll be using the stock warrants that you had me authorize.”

“Yes, with the shareholders list I procured.” Hersker outlined. “We’ll contact them to offer quick profits by rolling over Omani shares to ours.”

“I know that’s not quite ethical.” Bob guessed his corrupting effect had rubbed off on the gay paragon of virtue. “I wouldn’t expect that from you—and Ghazi doubtlessly hasn’t either.”

“You didn’t say my fisticuffs needed to be by Marquis of Queensbury rules,” Collin neither felt guilt nor could he credit Bob’s lack of honor with being the corruptive spur, “if one fighter throws an under-the-belt blow, as Ghazi did in his assaulting me, the other can similarly punch back.”

“I feel like I have a box seat,” the CEO plunked down on a padded wooden crate that held audio-visual gear, “for the D-day invasion.”

“The call options we’re issuing as deal sweeteners represent a potential risk.” The asshole threw a splash of ice water onto the CEO’s glee. “If our beachhead doesn’t work as D-day, with waves of troops landing behind, there’s a slim chance that it could recreate Dunkirk instead.”

“I’ll hold up my end.” Bob Wall promised. “You’ll have all the cash you need to gain VG day.”

“Operation Victory Ghazi has to be your final decision.” The proxy general allowed the warning to settle in before asking the fateful question. “Do I proceed forward and fully commit or hold back a reserve?”

“I’ve never had a more well-stocked larder or arsenal and our share price is unassailably strong. My order is to attack with all guns blazing.”

“Aye aye sir.” Collin embellished it with a crisp salute.

“I’m as General Robert E. Lee witnessing Pickett’s heroic charge up Cemetery Ridge.” Robert Wall viewed the frenetic action while enjoying his name’s similarity with Robert Lee and StoneWall Jackson. Wait! His history knowledge surfaced. Gettysburg was defeat for Lee! “Old Granny Lee didn’t commit his full strength though, as I have today at Wallsburg.”

…

“We haven’t met in person,” Collin Hersker had the managing director of a major brokerage house on the phone, “but I trust you are aware of my current role at Wall Soft Systems.”

“Certainly Mr. Hersker,” Sydney Walsh schmoozed, “few people in the business world haven’t followed your impressive career with interest.”

“I’ll come straight to the point. I want all of your interns and brokers contacting bin Omani shareholders. I can forward you a list.”

“How could you come by those names and phone numbers?”

“Ghazi magnanimously delivered up a goodwill gesture,” the asshole offered an obvious lie that couldn’t be proven as false, “but how I obtained a list is immaterial. Your staff should convince the shareholders to convert the bin Omani stock they have into Wall Soft Shares with warrants.”

“That isn’t exactly our business model.” Sydney balked. “We will of course be happy to process the share transactions.”

“I’m sure I’ve caught you in a bad moment so I’ll clarify.” Collin was expecting the reaction but he needed all the assistance he could wrangle. “My request is what your business model should be. Instead of cold calls in hope of a nibble, your staff will be fishing in a well-stocked pond. Your firm will gain the commission on the shares your people convert.”

“While ones they don’t,” Walsh guessed, “will go to another house.”

“I have a lot of shares to buy and that’s an equitable distribution.”

“Fax over the list.”

…

Some curses in Arabic defy interpretation into any other languages. As blood in the form of red ink on his shareholder tally filled the gutters of his ledger board, Ghazi bin Omani’s tongue issued a string of them.

“Like half the world, I was caught with my imprudent eyes glued to the set. Wall’s queer was behind me and busy tugging my pants to my knees.” The staunchly heterosexual Arab rued his analogy as soon as it left his lips. “He’s more likely a eunuch putting his sexual energy into other purposes. Seemingly, he has artificial intelligence dedicated to the single-minded job of bringing me down—but an inspired grandmaster can beat a computer.”

“It’s fortunate that a shareholder friend alerted me to the ploy.” Rajah Fakir cemented the new footing he had poured: it was a much safer tack than his telling his unstable boss that his rant was rambling.

“I want gibbets in the main boardroom.” Ghazi glared at Rajah as if he wanted him to personally oversee the installation. The sheik had expected a protracted game of trading blows on the market but Hersker’s clever ploy gave him a seemingly insurmountable advantage. “If I find out who leaked secure information, there will soon be a corpse or three dangling there!”

“Bob’s queen has your king one move from checkmate,” Rajah paused: his helping put up those medieval castle meat-hooks, would be as if he was nailing together the gallows that he might be hung on, “but he’s left open an avenue of last desperation—if you tip over your own king.”

“I’ll stick my dagger in Bob’s entrails before I accept defeat.” Ghazi’s face darkened as he thought about loosing his company. “I should run you through too for suggesting it.” The talk of deadly force reminded the Sheik of his dagger that was now drawn from its Bangkok scabbard—and ready.

“The deal sweeteners Wall issued present an exploitable opportunity.” Fakir chose to push his luck: he had quailed once before and it hadn’t been opportune. “Those options are exercisable from the corporation’s holdings and so they reduce Bob’s controlling interest. Every purchased warrant is the equivalent of buying two Wall Soft shares from the stock market.”

“What difference does that make if I’m bought out?” Ghazi bin Omani took his new friend’s show of guts as being worth hearing him out.

“If Wall buys 51% then your 49% becomes subservient to him. If you sell your personally held bin Omani shares in favor of buying his warrants, you may gain enough to swing a Wall Soft Systems shareholder’s vote.”

“I won’t topple my own king,” the sheik growled, “and a hand reaching to do it will pull sharply back with missing fingers.” He stroked his beard. The underling didn’t know just how much money Ghazi was holding. “I have new orders. We are buying those Wall Soft Systems stock options.”

“If Wall falls one share shy of control you could reverse the colors.”

“Bob’s asshole will know the threat and he wouldn’t take such a chance if he weren’t certain of his victory.” Despite his cursing the gay opponent, Ghazi had come to respect him. “Except for one slip on an insignificant trading day, the queen has been an inhuman opponent.”

“Any rectum can fart at a particularly embarrassing moment.”

“If he passes wind, I want to be the first one to smell it.”

“It’s an odd turn,” Rajah broke the moment’s tension with some ironic humor, “when one’s nose yearns for the savory aroma of bowel methane.”

“I need a bigger cork to wedge into the fuming butt hole.” With having made the decision to risk everything, Ghazi knew he had to take the long beyond step. “My entire stake in Stryker’s Group resides within my main holdings. Were Wall to take over, he would be getting those for free.”

“You want to start offloading those shares?” Rajah inquired and inside he rejoiced: for this tidbit, Lauren Smyth should make another visitation.

“Anyone taking ground from me—gains only scorched earth.”

…

“Mr. Zimmerman,” Collin had farmed out much of the shareholder list work but some large stakeholders merited his personal attention, “I’m a vice-president at Wall Soft Systems.”

“If this a marketing call, I’ll jump to answering the final question. Yes, I have your software on my computer—and I frigging hate it.”

“That’s not what I’m calling about.” Hersker had taken more than a few complaints along the way.

“I wonder if you’ve heard Omani Holdings and Wall Soft are exploring the possibility of a merger.”

“Is that how you’re spinning it?” Walter Zimmerman laughed.

“You’re portfolio has some bin Omani stock. I want to make an offer.”

“How do you know that? Is your calling me like this legal?”

“There’s oodles of information available if a person knows where to look for it and my offer is in accordance with prevailing laws.”

“Ghazi has done well for me.”

“In today’s dollars, past money isn’t really worth much anymore.”

“That is true. So tell me about the present and future of my funds.”

“We’ll buy your block of shares and pay you in Wall Soft Stock, along with warrants for a matching amount at the same strike price.”

“I’ve heard that when a company is the target of a take-over, the price rises.” Walter countered.

“Why don’t I wait until it does and then sell?”

“Omani stock would have to rise substantially before it matches the value of the offer we’re making today.”

“It could go much higher than that.”

“But it also might not and our reason for calling shareholders is to keep the stock value within our optimum price range. Personally, I believe a dollar in the nebulous future is as valueless as one in a memory.”

“You sold me.” Walter Zimmerman decided to take a profit now.

“I’ll transfer you over to our brokerage.” Collin put a tick on his list and then glanced at his wristwatch. “Eleven hours is plenty for the day.”

…

“~I’m proud of you.” As he held the shaking girl, Collin Hersker was neither genderless nor robotic as Ghazi described. Instead, he felt fragile and fallible as a tightrope walker on a windy wire. The vision of his office tote board loomed in his mind with the dreaded numbers climbing steadily. “When we win; I’ll lose: Bob will evict me from this apartment. Were we even to inconceivably fail: the Sheik would doubtlessly fire me.”

“~I’m only strong when you’re here.” Oksana turned her elbow over to expose a mark. “~I took an injection but the tablets made it worthless.”

“~It just prolongs your addiction.” Hersker knew she was still taking the pills so the shot wouldn’t help her—or really hurt either. Collin gave her a supporting hug and felt her spasm from an internal pain. “~I know your heart. You will beat the drug.”

“~Take me somewhere tonight.” The girl needed to get away from her prison for a while. “~I just want to go walking with you.”

“~Why not.”

“~Give me a few minutes.” The Russian woman leapt to her feet. “~I can’t go out looking like a farmer.” Her few minutes stretched to an hour.

“~You look fabulous!” Collin gushed: Oksana must’ve self tailored the slightly larger girl’s clothes to fit her so snuggly. The compliment had the blonde woman beaming as brightly as halogen headlamps as the ultra-sleek Lamborghini Diablo zipped into the night.

“~This car,” as he took fast corners, the junky girl squealed louder than rubber tires on the asphalt, “~is like a fighter jet on wheels.”

Soon, they came to the trendy Bell Town district and found parking off the main street. As they walked, the svelte female gripped his elbow: her withdrawal symptoms were superfluous to the thrilling moment.

“~Should we stop in somewhere for a drink?” Collin offered: on this weeknight, there wouldn’t be any admission lineups.

“~I just want to walk.” She also wanted to see and be seen. Strolling on the busy street, Oksana compared her image against the other females. In her eyes, the girls here seemed to shop only for comfortable clothing.

By contrast, the young Russian woman could be a fashion supermodel. In her peripheral vision, she saw heads turning as she passed. Male eyes then fixed on her bottom as it shimmied under her thigh-length dress.

“~Oksana makes you feel proud,” the girl glanced up at her tall escort: his eyes were meeting the passersby, “of jealous looks from other men.”

“~I was just noticing that.” Collin reached his free hand to stroke hers, as it rested on the crook of his elbow. His mind’s eye went back to a badly beaten and anorexic female he collected from the helicopter. Her bruises were long gone and she had filled out with some healthy weight: she was making strides on the drug issue. “~To me, you’ve come from the cinders of heroin and physical abuse, to your now being the belle of the ball.”

“~I like stories with happily-ever-after endings.” She dared to hope.

“~My part in this Cinderella tale is set to end tomorrow.” He muttered: despite the pleasant mood, the numbers on the tally had intruded. By the next market day’s close, Wall Soft Systems would probably have control of bin Omani and Collin Hersker’s non-monetary good fortunes would fall. “~When Rumpelstiltskin Wall comes demanding the babe he is owed.”

They meandered for another hour and conversed on minor topics. The time was near to midnight: when pumpkin coaches fail. Unbeknownst, the American Prince Charming and his Russian cinder girl were adjacent to the programmer’s apartment. A computer server isn’t a fairy godmother, but it was ready to show which foot didn’t fit in the glass slipper.

…

[/private_Chevron]

‘Low-Key saves it output to my Seattle server but you’ll need to sort the data.’ Tariq’s instructions were in her mind but the protégé hacker also had jotted notes to jog her memory. Jacqueline used the Internet to reach the Bell Town apartment’s computer and found the file. It’s in order of when installed: I want to sort it into where it is located.

‘We want the Trojan running by time zones,’ the programmer had said, ‘so it will look as if it was preset, instead of triggered.’

Jacqueline had waited until three AM in Toronto.

‘It’s apropos to start in Wall’s time zone,’ she recalled his conversation, ‘but the better reason is it will happen while most of the U.S. is asleep.’

“Have some sweet nightmares Bob.” Jacqueline spoke with venom.

‘Set the infiltration routine for a three-hour delay.’ She carried out the task. Then, her right hand’s ring finger hovered above the enter key. ‘A deactivation code sequence will transmit out to all pirated replications.’

“All Greeks away!” Bob Wall’s former slave giggled at her keyboard, as she pushed the Trojan’s final button. “My ex-owner will awake to find his stock market stakes race has skidded into some wooden horse poop.”

…

[private_Chevron]“Wall Soft rubbish.” Passing a convenience store, the young executive caught a vehement reference to his company’s products.

“~Let’s go in here,” Collin tugged his date into a shop where the clerk was slapping the side of his monitor, “~for a minute.”

“~I don’t suppose it’s occurred to him that the video display unit isn’t the culprit.” Oksana was proficient with electronics and the shopkeeper’s trouble-shooting was senseless. “~He should kick the processor box.”

“What’s the matter with it?” Collin’s query in English was overtop the girl’s Russian muttering. “I’m pretty good with computers.”

“The stupid thing suddenly went to this funny screen.” The frustrated man swiveled the monitor—with his fist. “I didn’t even touch it.”

“Shit!” The executive who rarely used any x-rated words couldn’t bite back the impromptu utterance. The monitor was locked in blue screen and emblazoned with a hash-marked border, ‘THIS SOFTWARE IS CODED AND OWNED BY LOW-KEY SYSTEMS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.’

“Try rebooting.” Hersker suggested. Oksana’s suggestion was close.

“I don’t know how.” The employee broke his store manager’s rules by inviting a customer behind the counter. “You do it.”

“Sure.” The asshole raced around and tried a soft reboot as triggered by a keystroke combination.

“The message is back again!”

“~I have to go to the office.” The Wall Soft executive didn’t bother to walk around. He hopped his butt onto the counter and swung his legs over.

“Hey!” The clerk shouted. “I thought you were going to fix this.”

“~Is there a problem?” The girl scurried as quickly as she could on her high heels but it still wasn’t fast enough.

“~Problem is an understatement.” Collin had a cell phone to his ear as they climbed into his car: he dialed Bob’s private number as they drove.

“Hello.” A sleepy voice answered.

“The code you stole has taken full control of the operating software!” The young exec pinched the cell phone in his neck briefly as he had to use both hands to navigate a tight corner onto a freeway ramp.

“Who is this?” The CEO smacked his dry lips.

“Collin the asshole.” Hersker used the nickname in hopes of shocking his boss into alertness. “I just knew that thing was worrisome and it waited until the worst imaginable moment to exact the programmer’s revenge.”

“I’m awake now,” Bob was at least standing, “so tell me again.”

“Handshake Lite is a virus embedded in a Trojan and it went active at midnight.” Now on the expressway, Collin put his gas pedal to the carpet: the horses in the Lamborghini’s precision engine responded to the whip.

“How bad is it?” Wall staggered to his bathroom and drank from the coldwater faucet. “Is it attacking any stored data files?”

“It’s a complete system lock.” The executive steered onto the Alaskan Way Viaduct. An earthquake damaged this traffic monstrosity and a virus may well shake the digital landscape enough to collapse ours. “I couldn’t tell what it was doing behind the message screen.”

“Shit, Shit, double-shit, triple-shit!”

“Fecal matter to the n’th power.” Collin supplied a higher multiplier.

“Call in our specialists and don’t be such a brainy asshole.” The CEO tried to think passed his grogginess. “What message screen?”

“Would those be the same experts that still haven’t cracked the code?” Collin had already begun the sentence and Bob’s next question had spoken over part. “It’s the visual activated by the keystroke combo. Nobody has know the sequence to see it’s stolen: the world will get the accusation—delivered automatically with their morning coffee.”

“What will this do to our takeover bid?”

“I haven’t thought passed the current crisis. It sure isn’t beneficial.” Hersker juggled the phone as he closed rapidly on a pair of busses in front. “Just now, I have my hands full driving. I’ll meet you at the office.”

“~What’re you grinning at?” Collin looked at his delighted passenger.

“~Your fast driving excites me.” Oksana braced herself as he swerved onto the shoulder to swoop past the busses taking up both driving lanes.

“~Bus drivers think they own the road,” he steered back onto the road, “~but their vehicle size makes few people doubt that ownership claim.”

“~The roads in the Ukraine,” she giggled, “~would have us rattling and bouncing like on a square-wheeled roller-coaster.”

“~This isn’t even top gear yet~.” Collin up-shifted and the automobile took full flight. I wish I could do this more but police are party-poopers.

…

While Hersker was driving in Seattle, Jacqueline poured a cup of tea.

“Get one for me too.” Sam Levy shuffled from his bedroom in a robe that seen better decades. His slippers also had his toes poking through.

“It’s early afternoon in Kiev.” The young woman observed. “I wonder what my brother is up to? Do you suppose our Trojan will affect him?”

“Both are questions that I can’t answer.”

“I remember one summer,” the thoughts of her brother and a father she didn’t know had stirred a memory, “when Mom and I lived in Spain.”

“A boy and his dad,” Sam continued the narration for her, arrived in Alicante for an extended vacation. You became like part of their family.”

“I knew it!” Jacqueline set the tea out: she had fixed Sam’s as he liked. “We two were inseparable while they were there: like a brother and sister.”

“If you remember,” Sam sipped, “your mother was in a bad patch.”

“I was angry at her,” Jacqueline chuckled ironically, “but I have mom to thank for letting me to make childhood memories with my brother.”

“I believe that time was very good for all four of you.”

“I’ll never forget my brother’s birthday. My adoptive dad treated it as mine too, even though my ID didn’t show that date. We went to the Paseo de la Explanada and had an awesome day—even my Mom came along and she enjoyed it too. After the wonderful gesture, I used him as my mind’s vision of what I wanted my father to be like.”

“He knew the truth—it really was your birthday too.”

“I wrote letters after they left but I never got an answer.”

“I kept those unopened,” the forger confessed, “and his to you too.”

“I think I’ll wait to look at those until John is here with me.”

…

“This is just weird.” Collin took his fingers from the keyboard. “After over two hours of getting nowhere with the virus, it unlocked itself.”

“What did I do?” Bob also found his program access regained.

“Nothing!” About five voices answered at once.

“The system is usable but the piracy notice is prominent on the screen.” Collin tried some applications. “Programs run but that stays resident.”

“What do we know so far?” The head geek was in his element.

“The virus appeared to have progressed westward around the globe.” A man that had been on the phones spoke up. “An hour ago, computers on the Eastern seaboard were unaffected. Then they suddenly locked as well.”

“If it struck by time zones,” Hersker spotted a discrepancy, “the effects should’ve taken 24 hours instead of three?”

“Maybe the trigger was a Boolean function,” Bob offered a possibility thereby discounted the relevance, “factoring time zones as divisible by 8.”

George Boole’s algebraic system emerged out of his study of cognitive reasoning but your dismissing a pertinent clue is illogical. For once, Hersker the asshole held his cutting tongue.

“Computers in other time regions unlocked,” a second team member on the phones offered a fresh tidbit, “at the same instant ours just did.”

“The effect of the virus,” Bob jumped on the encouraging revelation, “might be just a PR nightmare instead of digitally devastating.”

“I’m really not certain,” Collin spoke but five other people speaking at once almost drowned it out, “if this was an automatic occurrence.”

“What if we legally change Wall Soft’s name,” instead of tackling the problem, the CEO tossed a ridiculous suggestion, “to Low Key Systems?”

“It seems you were short of tokens at reality’s tollbooth.” Collin said quietly and was unheard: he had recalled Bob’s ludicrous theory. “Or just snoozing.” That and his close call on the freeway reminded him of a joke. As my uncle did, I’d like to peacefully die in my sleep: not screaming in terror like the passengers on his bus. “I’m in a clumsy vehicle and being outmaneuvered at each turning but I wasn’t hired to drive a bus.”

“I’m out of my technical depth here. Collin gripped his employer by the shoulder and turned him: the CEO’s ashen face hinted that he was also treading in water too deep. “I’ll assess whether our takeover is bankrupt.”

“Bankrupt!” Bob Wall gasped on the word implying his ruination was immanent. All of my wealth! His personal fortune was in the offing as was his corporation’s. By a primal fear response, the software thief’s sphincter spontaneously opened and his morning defecation occurred. “Shit!”

Collin became instantly aware of Bob’s major gaffe by the muffled wet noise and a ghastly stench. But they were separated from the others by the length of a desk and the programming team remained unaware. The CEO scrambled away to belatedly find a washroom.

…

“This the breaking of wind I’ve been sniffing for.” Sheik bin Omani switched on the computer at his penthouse suite to check overnight email and his day’s schedules. Then without stopping to even shower, the Arab threw on his thobe. He called for his driver while riding the elevator and his trip in the back of the limousine was a flurry of phone calls.

“Wall Soft will plummet when the market opens.” Ghazi gathered his troops before Wall Street’s opening bell. “We’ll collect shares but not so fast that our purchasing prevents the price slide.”

“It smells pretty stinky,” Rajah pinched his nose as the software giant’s stock took a whopping tumble, “and it’s as fragrant as blooming fig trees.”

“It’s funny,” Ghazi was reflective, “people claim to know contrarians make the real money on the market, yet they can’t help acting on instincts to cut-and-run on a sign of trouble. A savvy investor like me would buy Wall Soft now, even if I didn’t have conquest as my motivation.”

“Who wants to hold ownership in a company run by a proven thief,” the sheik’s flunky glowered: the hot lawyer would doubtlessly be giving a cold shoulder now, “and one in for a lawsuit of gargantuan proportions?”

“Buy faster.” By mid-morning the beleaguered stock’s collapse was in free-fall mode. The rapid price drop coupled with a public gaffe on half of the computer screens in the civilized world had shaken loose institutional share holds. “My ravenous demand isn’t offsetting the glut of supply.”

“If we hold off,” Fakir murmured: Lauren would arrive here but his hot new information was now old and cold, “we can fish them from a toilet.”

“My bin Omani Holdings stock is at a record highs.” Pacing behind his staff at their monitors, like an instructor of computer literacy, Ghazi barked instructions and sought screen changes to stay up on every detail. “Wall is close to his magic share number but now has to get them from the market.”

“Nobody is dumb enough,” Rajah bemoaned: Ms. Smyth had paid him very well for the list—and then swiftly helped him to spend an awful lot of it with her, and on her, “to take the options on that lead sinker anymore.”

“The damage from that masterful ploy,” this time, Ghazi had heard the snide remark and he rounded sharply to address it, “was already done.”

“Will Bob even have the cash to make his payroll?” Fakir disparaged the opposition again but he rued it when blistered by a venomous look.

“In case you’re blind,” Ghazi pointed a finger at the board, “that wily asshole is still buying my shares and the margin is getting narrowly close.”

Rajah’s throat constricted and he crept to a sideline chair. If his spine were a tail, it would’ve been tucked between his legs like a kicked cur.

Ghazi bin Omani stood in place and pirouetted slowly to take in every scrap of data he could glean. His mind found the snags in his next moves. I need my stock information down to single shares. I may have to sell off much of my own stock to raise the cash required to buy enough of Bob’s. I must know exactly how many I can afford to drop and retain my control.

“I want exact figures on shares I control,” the Sheik’s bellow wasn’t aimed at any specific recipient, “and where they’re stored.”

“That data hasn’t been recovered.” A junior exec delivered the news.

“That hacker continues to make my life miserable.” Ghazi pointed a manicured finger at the man who had spoken up. “Physically gather every certificate from my sub-unit’s vaults. In fact, get all the subordinate entity shares too. I want everything here in my safe where I can look at it. I want it done by tomorrow morning—even if you have to work all night.”

“With the shares here,” Rajah interjected, “you’re vulnerable to lose all. I assumed that was one major reason why the stocks are separate.”

“I don’t cringe from danger,” Ghazi’s remark was partially to chastise his recent confidant’s uncharacteristically caustic and timorous display, but Rajah had just earned another chance, “and the situation is different now.”

…

Across the country, a boardroom was twice as busy as Omani’s: two task groups worked feverishly. The one was under Collin Hersker and it was trying to conclude the devastating war. A second, under the CEO in his new pair of pants, had hit an impenetrable obstacle.

“I hate this freaking program!” Bob grumbled: he had been originally confounded by inability to remove the nag screen. Now, it was seemingly able to write itself onto a freshly compiled version of their old bundle.

“The incriminating message shows,” a techie gave the news that Bob didn’t want, “unless Handshake Lite is removed from the install disks.”

“I can’t take it out.” The geek transcribed the crux into dollar sense. “That feature is the only thing people have bought my upgrade to get.”

All faces in the virus task force were focused on the boss.

“Keep working!” Bob swore and wished he had a bullwhip handy to spur on production. “I want results!” He stormed from his own group.

“Please,” the stressed out CEO found his proxy war general similarly inundated—but handling it better, “give me some positive news.”

“That’s a rare commodity just now.” Hersker pinched at a headache in the bridge of his nose: he was running on zero sleep. “We were very close to taking over bin Omani Holdings. I’m sure we would’ve had it today but the program glitch killed that chance. Omani shareholders are unwilling to accept our freefalling stock even with an offer of double warrants.”

“Buy the final shares off the market.”

“That’s where our last ones have to come from but even gaining a one-percent stake in a company requires a huge number of shares. The market float has dried to a trickle and the price is now in the stratosphere.”

“Buy them anyways. I need that take over or I’m bankrupt.” Tears formed in the CEO’s eyes and he whined. “Don’t let me fail.”

“We don’t know if the Sheik has the funds to pull it off.” Collin tried not to see the pathetic performance. “With his shares at record levels, for every one he sells, Ghazi can purchase almost three of yours. I’ll bet he is counting each certificate: it’s a game of balance for him.”

“Balance?” The chief executive officer blinked at the moisture.

“Fifty-one percent is the magic number to gain control but it isn’t the same one to retain possession.” Collin put a hand gingerly on the CEO’s shoulder: last time this action had brought a nasty physiological result. I’m teaching realistic corporate economics to a CEO. “If we could force a shareholders meeting for bin Omani’s corporation, we could probably elect you CEO with the voting units we control right now. But we can’t do that in time, so the sheik has the leeway to reduce his holdings, as long as he can regain control before the next election of officers. If he can buy us out, he’ll regain possession of the portion of his company that is in our vault.”

“We can’t let our holdings drop below the fifty percent.”

“You’ve never held fifty percent and maybe you’ve forgotten all the warrants attached to our purchase of Omani shares.” He must know all this already. It must be his recent shock and drug use causing slowness in the thought processes. “Ghazi can use those to reduce your controlling interest while he is increasing his. I firmly told you those were a calculated risk.”

“What can we do?”

“We wait and see how deep his well of money is.” Hersker felt like grabbing the man and physically shaking him. Doesn’t he realize just how staggeringly much coin Ghazi would have to flip out on the table? “Along the way, I’ll try to procure the final percentage points.”

“What should I be doing to help?”

“Finding an inoculation against the virus is the only sure cure.”

“I’ll work on that and leave the rest to you.” Bob sat moping instead, in a chair in the center of the room. From there he could watch both of the groups without having to participate in either.

“I need something to cheer me up.” Wall’s voice was barely a whisper. “My slave girl must be horny to the point of frantic by now, for the lack of a real man.” Bob rolled his casters towards the task group nearest the exit.

“Megaman went into the superhero’s clubhouse, where Dynobabe was naked on the floor with her legs spread.” One programmer was pretending to work but he was actually telling a joke. “Megaman unzipped and rushed in to take sexual advantage. Inviso-boy received one super-duper shock.”

“This inane bantering why nothing is being accomplished.” Bob raged. He didn’t find the story particularly funny. Moreover, it put him off his plan to visit the Russian girl. That could place Wallet-man in Inviso-boy’s vulnerable position, if Homo-guy suddenly appeared.

“You,” the CEO pointed a finger at the joke teller, “are fired. The rest of you can do some real work on curing this virus!” The software geek then opted for his plan ‘B’ and he slipped into the executive washroom for a quick pick-me-up shot-in-the-arm.

…

“Walter Zimmerman?” Ghazi bin Omani asked but the call’s recipient wasn’t the only one that heard it. The sheik had ordered the partition walls stripped from a huge work area. The employee’s desks were arranged like sewing machine tables in a sweatshop and this call was a training tool.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from bin Omani Holdings.”

“You’re too late,” Walter chuckled at the call: a company whose shares he owned had never contacted him before but now this was the second, “I’ve traded away my bin Omani shares.”

“It was a wise decision.” Ghazi bit his lip: complementing the man’s jumping his ship took a conscious strain. “You made money on paper but the stock you received is swiftly falling in value.”

“It’s dropping faster than a goose full of buckshot.” Zimmerman had seen the news. “You’ll buy my Wall Soft shares?”

“We’ll take them at market value but we’re much more interested in the attached warrants.” The sheik’s eyes scanned the room to see that all were paying close attention. Ghazi was handling the bigger accounts personally but he needed his people to call the rest of the shareholders. “We’ll pay you twenty percent of Wall Soft’s share price for those option coupons.”

“If you want those shares so badly,” Walter really didn’t know much about investing: he’d become a big shareholder when he won a lottery, “then why are you only offering twenty beans on the buck?”

“Mr. Zimmerman,” Ghazi’s Oxford English accent was as honey on a warm crumpet when he wanted it to be, “I’m speaking to many people with a wide range of market knowledge so if my explanation is far below your level of savvy, I apologize in advance. Many of our previous shareholder’s are uncertain of exactly what these warrants are and Wall Soft didn’t carefully explain when they sold them.”

“The warrants are shares at a certain price?” Walter conjectured.

“Not quite. You were given one share of Wall Soft in return for every one of the Omani shares you traded: that was a share. The warrant allows you to buy one additional share of Wall Soft at the specified price. With shares currently trading below that strike price—the option is worthless. It’s like a coupon to buy an item for two bucks—when it’s selling for one.”

“The man from Wall Soft cheated me?”

“No, he didn’t.” For a second time the sheik had to suppress his strong urge to say what he really felt. “When you made the trade, the shares were at a higher price than the warrant’s face: they were worth the difference between the market price and the option’s amount.”

“The situation changed when Wall Soft tanked.”

“Yes, but don’t worry about that because we’ll buy them for cash and you still have a profit—albeit less than Software Bob suggested.”

“You’ve said those things are worthless,” Walter Zimmerman smelled a possible muskrat, “so you’re willingness to buy them is a bit fishy.”

“Do you mind my asking what kind of work you do?”

“I’m a retired carpenter.”

“If the economy were based on hammers instead of dollars, then the worth of hammers could fluctuate in financial circles, but a hammer would still be worth a hammer to a carpenter.”

“Okay?”

“Just now, Wall’s warrant isn’t worth much money,” Ghazi continued, “but my journey trade is company shares and I need it as a hammer. With a warranty, Bob Wall is nailed: he has to sell me those shares.”

“I’ll sell mine.” Walter chuckled. “An apprentice needs a tool belt.”

“You see how simple that was?” Sheik bin Omani transferred the call over to the brokerage and then spoke firmly to his telemarketers. “You have a good deal to sell to these people—I expect none to decline it.”

…

[When a marine screams ‘HUAW’: does he mean hurry up and wait?]

“Tell me about it.” Currently in a semi-rural Denver subdivision, Tariq paced the acreage. The jihad squad had met up in Miami after flying from Bangkok. In a seeming panic, they had been shipped to here. The Denver airport was a hub and flights connected to anywhere they might be needed.

“What are you up to?” Kareem stepped around the bole of a tree and the two men surprised each other.

[HUAW! This time it means Hello Ugly Ass Wipe.]

“I’m just taking a morning walk for my constitution.” The programmer feigned a smile. I can’t get even a few minutes of solitude.

“I’m instructed to keep the team together and ready for an assignment.”

“Being trapped in a house for days on end is stifling.” After the halt, Tariq resumed his walk and the captain changed directions to go with him. “The squad is chafing like ten prickly porcupines in an apple crate.”

“How is Fatima?” The commander intended to switch the conversation to a more amicable one but found another bristle instead.

“How could I know?” The Iranian snapped. “We’re incommunicado.”

“I’m sure we’ll know what our mission is soon.”

“If you don’t know what it is,” Tariq stopped walking and squared off on the bigger man, “then you’re the only moron who hasn’t deduced it.”

“What is it then?” Kareem glowered as if he was facing a mutiny.

“We were brought here to dish out a retaliation over Ghazi bin Omani’s defeat. The western media made that simple enough to spot.” I’ve also just seen an opportunity to topple the tyrant’s tight restrictions. The Iranian backpedaled from his earlier surliness. “Now, the Islamic Sheik’s fight is on the attack—so we won’t be needed for awhile. In your own words, my job as one of your elite troops was to be when dire circumstances arise.”

“Would you like to bring Fatima here?” Kareem’s bluster dissolved in a bubbling cauldron of his lust’s brewing. “I can arrange for that.”

“I won’t bring her here to live with all these frustrated men,” Tariq had chain-sawed a cut in the Arab’s trunk and he hammered in a further wedge to fell him in the chosen direction, “but I would like to see her close-by.”

“I’m not supposed to tell but you’ve guessed it right anyways.”

“Fatima and I could remain handy.” The Iranian tapped the shim again.

“Alright.” Kareem felt a tickle near his zipper. Tariq didn’t matter: he was just a bug to bring the Venus to a flytrap.

…

“It’s been another surrealistic day.” Collin Hersker pulled up a chair to sit in front of Bob’s desk.

“The infamous Shiva’s Messenger missed his third assassination attempt but killed the White House Chief of Staff. Our corporation is being bought out from under us.” My boss is also spaced out on drugs, while I’m shacked up with his mistress.

“What’s that?” The CEO lifted his glassy eyes from the blotter.

“Never mind.” Man! He really is whacked out.

“How much did we have to pay today in product returns?” Wall’s face was an oxymoronic mixture of deep concern and heroin’s ‘I-don’t-care’.

“None yet. I issued a press statement for you promising a patch to fix the problem. That’s just a stopgap. When people learn the repair bandage will eliminate the favorite feature program, we can expect the worst.”

“How much ground did I loose to Ghazi today?”[/private_Chevron]

“It was substantial.” Hersker couldn’t bring himself to be an asshole about telling him. The man could be declared a national disaster area! “Bob, why don’t you go and spend some time on your new yacht?”

“It’s not been delivered yet. I asked them to change the name,” Bob wondered why they couldn’t paint it on while cruising: he hoped the broker hadn’t just squeezed extra by leasing it out, “from Squid to the Wall-Dorf.”

“The Wall-Dorf?” Collin almost choked. Didn’t he realize how many folk would be calling it the Wall-Dork? That’s just begging for ridicule.

“Like the fancy hotel.” Bob explained. “Except mine is floating.”

Too bad your solvency isn’t. Collin wasn’t an asshole enough to say it.

Chapter 22 of Loki’s Trojan

A Monk’s Key and Some Prime Mates

[private_Chevron]“You’re not coming out?” Kareem’s voice betrayed his offence.

“I’ve spent weeks with you and the squad.” Chances to get away were rare and Tariq preferred not wasting this one by watching more whoring.

[Warriors with no futures must live in the present—excessively.]

“Fine.” The captain’s voice didn’t ring as it being fine. He regretted handing out the airline tickets: his Bangkok levers were already pulled.

“What should we do?” Tariq asked out of politeness only.

“Up to you.” Pun’s answer was as predicted.

The taxi driver threaded his way though some alleys to avoid the worst traffic and they arrived at the downtown riverbank. A short walk along the cement quay took them to a wharf where a long narrow riverboat waited.

The boatman keyed the engine: it was an automotive slant six mounted and balanced on a steerable drive shaft. The propeller spun in the air eight feet behind the stern. Then, he dipped the prop into the murky water and the boat shot away, like fired from a spear gun.

“Happy girl!” The female shouted against the wind and tried uselessly to protect her hairstyle with her hands. “Pun never Bangkok boat.”

The rat-tailed launch toured around many small canals and far into the suburban areas of the water city. At the upper terminus of the water safari, they docked. From here, a converted rice barge would take over for the trip back. However, that larger craft held more passengers and would wait until several smaller boats arrived to fill it.

“I have a debt to pay off and you’ll enjoy this too.” Tariq bought some loaves of bread from a vendor and led Pun onto a secondary pier. Within seconds of some bread striking the murky surface, a catfish gulped it.

“Eek!” Pun squealed and she tore a chunk off her loaf. Tossing morsel after morsel had the water teeming with fish. They twisted in the roiling surface and ones underneath almost pushed others out of the river.

“Get more.” The girl flung her last crust into the feeding frenzy.

I wonder how they detect food though the river’s brown suspended silt.

[Repayment for the meat meal that you took away from one?]

“I knew she would enjoy it.” A squad mate had told the Iranian about this tour: it was bemoaning disappointment that it wasn’t a floating brothel. “Pun’s kept me sane and I wanted to give her an extraordinary memory.”

[I’m sure that was heard.]

Tariq swiveled quickly around: Pun was over a dozen paces away.

[The finest offerings aren’t burnt on an alter.]

“That does hold some truth.” Tariq carried the renewed supply of fish chow back. Tiny acts of kindness pay off compound interest. The recipient appreciates and reciprocates to others. It’s like the ripples out from one pebble dropped into a pond. Extrapolated, it’s casting a handful of gravel.

[A sword reflects in still water: just as a bouquet of wildflowers does.]

“I know that.” Tariq grumbled. That’s really why I’m here. “I threw that heavy stone already, but now I’m dreading the splash.” Any advice?

[Emotional counseling isn’t quite my horn of mead.]

Then are there any substitute delusions available? The programmer and the Thai lady wended their way to the polished teak rice barge.

[He’s usually too busy.]

“Eat eat.” Pun had filled two heaping plates from a shipboard buffet.

“How do Thai girls stay slim?” The Iranian watched her chow down. “You eat as much as a sumo wrestler does—and are soon hungry again.”

“Today in Pun’s think forever.” She curled under his arm to munch.

[You mistakenly thought one of those snack platters was for you?]

“Memory forever.” He corrected her English.

“We go back?” Pun asked as the barge docked at the city center jetty.

“We could stay there.” He pointed to the luxury hotel on the riverfront.

…

[/private_Chevron]

“She’s a whore.” In the corridor of a shopping center, a solitary Arab watched the revolving door where the mismatched couple had entered an expensive hotel. “Why does he choose to be in public with her?”

“My vigil was fruitful but it still hasn’t answered my questions.” It was his growing bemusement that caused Kareem to have his driver trail the Iranian’s car. The jihad commander had inquired on the boat tour’s details, to find that it would terminate back at this spot. He had then selected the mall’s tinted windows to provide a superb concealment.

“An Islamic male,” he turned from the window, “should feel contrite about being seen next to an obviously hired sex partner.”

“I suppose so?” A young tourist answered in an Australian accented voice, flavored with uncertainty. She had been browsing a swimsuits rack of when this Arabic man turned and seemed to ask her a direct question.

“You have a problem mate?” A man wearing shorts and a singlet put a tribal-tattooed arm protectively around the female.

“You’re satisfied with only the one doxie,” the fat lieutenant talked as if to the object man on his mind, though he was vacantly staring straight at the honeymooning couple, “when there’s plenty of others available.”

“He seriously gives me the creeps.” The Australian prom queen tried to step a pace back but her bottom bumped into a display bin.

“Is she long-term slut too?” The captain’s mental imagery conjured a picture of Fatima with the older man, in a non-familial pose.

“Don’t talk to us that way.” The tourist man from down-under brought his arm up over his wife’s head and adopted an aggressive stance.

“Lust clouded my mind.” Kareem’s rectum involuntarily tightened on a memory of the excruciating excrement that resulted from his spicy meal. He breathed in sharply and his nostrils flared wide like an angry gorilla’s

“Hit the freaky sheik.” The bride urged and her trepidation agitated the groom’s testosterone—in a decanter that already held five beers.

From the dim recesses of his present moment’s foreground, a flying fist connected solidly with the point of the Arabic man’s nose. He grabbed at his pummeled face and slumped onto the swimsuit bin.

“Let’s shop somewhere else.” The Australian pair scurried off.

[private_Chevron]“I’ve been lax in my scrutiny.” After a moment, Kareem stood from the bloodied clothing to see a clerk glancing concernedly from his face to the soiled sale articles. The Arab’s hand extracted a wad of currency and without comment or counting, he tossed it onto the stained goods.

“I’ll redouble my vigilance.” The portly Arab left the mall and walked along the waterfront while his nose bled unchecked down the front of his white garb. With his decision fixed, the glowering man finally noticed his wounded proboscis and he wiped his sleeve across it.

“That hurt!” Now Kareem owed Tariq and Fatima for the pain brought to arms, tongue, anus and snout. The jihad officer with wavering loyalty returned to his car. “But I’ll not waste my final two nights in Bangkok.”

…

“Not stay here.” Pun’s eyes swept around the lobby, it was tastefully appointed to a designer’s specification—and sterile.

“Your passport?” The receptionist reached for the registration card.

“One moment.” Tariq stalled and turned. “What’s wrong?”

“Spirits not happy.” The Thai lady fidgeted. “Not good feel.”

“I see what you mean.” The girl’s uncomfortable vibes had transferred to him as well. The programmer’s eyes fell on an ornate shrine set in a prominent corner of the lobby. He’d seen these spirit houses in or around almost every building in Thailand but this one was unusual. An antiseptic version of a tradition is just a plastic bastardization.

Obviously, the hotel’s international management felt the item was cultural to the area and part of the decoration, but the employees weren’t allowed to decorate it with gifts. Each other one the Iranian had seen was strewn with plates of food, flower garlands, glasses of whiskey or soda, sticks of incense both smoking and burnt out—and great swarms of flies.

“We’ll go stay somewhere real.”

“There is one up on the roof for the staff to use.” The counter clerk had experienced the same reaction from a few previous guests.

“I’m sorry but that’s just a visible iceberg’s tip that suggests there will be many more things that I’ll intensely dislike here.”

“This is a five-star hotel.” The uniformed man bristled.

“Then perhaps I’m two-star person and this is three units from my taste range.” Tariq tore the registration card in halves. Save my room for some ostentatious sort who can brag of visiting Bangkok—without really having experienced being in Thailand. They went the revolving glass doors less than ten minutes after entering and were in a meter taxi just in time to miss seeing a blood-covered Kareem walking onto the quay.

“Where should we stay then?” Tariq anticipated her standard answer.

“Go my village?” Pun asked tentatively.

The taxi headed east and girl gave instructions in Thai. After several hours on highways, the road became increasingly worse. Turnings in small towns led to even tinier ones. The last two kilometers were across a paved road with enough craters to fit on a lunar landscape. Finally, they entered a cluster of twenty dwellings at the bottom of a jungle-covered mountain.

“Mother Pun.” She introduced a woman even shorter than her with a light dusting of grey hairs. Pun nudged. “Sawatdee kup her.”

“Sawatdee krap.” Tariq parroted the girl’s action by putting his hands into a wei in front. He could see Pun’s features echoed in her mother, and especially in the jutting lower jaw structure. Many Issan female’s mouths are at rest in a seeming frown. When Pun smiled though—it was dazzling. Her mother’s grins, showed teeth and gums stained reddish-orange from habitually chewing Bezel nuts.

“Father Pun.” The ritual greeting process was repeated when a shirtless man came from his work in the garden out back.

[A five-star can’t ape and pervert earth salt.]

I suspect the accommodations are zero stars—unless one peeks through a hole in the tin roof. Tariq’s eyes roamed the unpainted wood structure on stilts. Nearly half of the lower area was taken up by a brick bathroom and kitchen: the rest was open with a dirt floor.

“I market get food.” Pun left on a 100cc scooter.

A hammock of woven bamboo was strung between two support pillars. Complete with a pillow and tied with automotive fan belts, it looked both inviting and capable of taking his weight.

“This is utterly tranquil.” The programmer set his heel onto a ceramic rain barrel: it gave his foot an anchor point for pushing the swing. As a fan in reverse, the cooling breeze was created as he moved through still air.

Tariq dialed a Canadian number. He had bought the taxi driver’s cell phone—likely paying too much and purchased minutes at a gas station.

“Hello.” A familiar female responded.

“Fatima.”

[Hearing Freya’s voice again completes this bliss.]

“My name is Jacqueline now.” She briefly explained.

“That’s a good idea. On the other hand, maybe I’ll miss having a brand new enchantress every time you changed your moniker.”

“Did I just hear a rooster crowing in the background?”

“Live chickens are as relaxing as cooked ones are tasty.” Tariq took a moment to describe his current location and frame of mind. “I feel like we have connected all the clues, but still I’m leery of leaving the jihad unit.”

“Are you worried that Kareem might later come looking for us?”

“That’s only a distant possibility.” The programmer didn’t quite know what the problem was in his own mind so describing it was much tougher. “Since there’s nothing pressing for me to do elsewhere, I’ll stay on.”

“Am I not urgent enough?”

“You’re of utmost importance to me,” Tariq said sincerely, “but I need be sure I’m finished with the jihad.” He felt his hammock jiggle. His eyes flicked aside and three heads ducked down.

“Does Kareem suspect anything?”

“He’s enthralled by my method acting.” Tariq boasted in a chuckling voice as three very young spies had eyes peeking over his bamboo bed.

“I thought that about Bob,” she warned, “until suddenly he wasn’t.”

“I’ve just now come under some close scrutiny.” He described the two young boys and one small girl with eyes as round as ten-baht coins. At least he assumed one was a female. All three had heads shaved to bristle stubble but the one had a single patch of hair grown out long enough to be braided to the shoulder. “I don’t expect they see many farangs in this tiny village. I must seem to them as a big orangutan.”

…

“~I learned of drug.” The executive held a pill bottle in one hand and a Russian phrase book in the other. Collin set the medicine on the coffee table to concentrate on thumbing pages for the words. “~Experimental.”

“~It eases withdrawal pains?” Oksana picked up the small container. She looked at the label though it was incomprehensible to her.

“~No. You take one pill.” He gestured swallowing a caplet. “~Makes the heroin not work.” Even if she later takes an injection it won’t help as the substance grants immunity from heroin’s effects.

“~Withdrawal is horrible.” The documentary of the woman’s animated features described her trepidation. “~I’ll be like a rabid baboon.”

“~I’ll help fight the addiction.” His face registered his stalwart offer of full assistance. “Kick, punch or bite me and I’ll try to absorb your hurt.”

…

“Kin cow.” They had invited him to partake, with a phrase implying that dinner is ready, but it translated literally to eat rice.

“I should shave my head and be a monk.” Tariq commented as he sat on a bamboo mat, eating with Pun’s family. They had another guest too.

“Must shave brow eyes too.” She tapped a finger on her eyebrow, then glanced down and frowned.
“Not polite have feet point at monk.”

“Sorry.” Tariq nodded apologetically at the man in the orange robes. He moved his offending feet but failed to find a comfortable leg position.

[Western furniture isn’t conducive to preserving limberness.]

“Why you want be monk?” Pun inquired.

“It seems like an uncomplicated lifestyle.” The Arabic Canadian felt a Charlie-horse developing in his calf muscle. “Is it socially acceptable for me to leave the meal now?” He went outside after her affirmative nod.

“Phenom Rung.” The monk had followed Tariq. The elderly holy man grasped the Iranian’s wrist with warm hands and nodded at the mountain.

“Fen Om Roong?” The programmer pronounced it: he didn’t know it, but Phenom Rung is an Angkor Wat like ancient temple near Buri Ram in Issan Province and he was at the foot of it. He felt a strange draw to know what was on top: he looked at the monk. “Should I walk up there?”

“Phenom Rung.” Pun’s uncle aimed a gnarled finger up the mountain.

“Am I an idiot?” By the time he was halfway up, Tariq was drenched in sweat and puffing. I thought I was in better condition. At the top, his legs were quivering from over exertion and he sat on the weathered stone steps to regain his wind. This rock is lava that bubbled up from the earth’s center. The Iranian put his bare palms on the hardened magma and leaned his shoulders against a stone Naga’s body that doubled as a low handrail.

He closed his eyes: then after a minute, stood refreshed and continued.

…

“I didn’t really want to sell this ship.” Bernard strolled the deck and he ran his hand along the polished mahogany rail. “I suppose that’s why I’ve delayed giving it up to the new owner.” He chuckled dryly. “I haven’t let the painters come onboard to change the name while I’m still here either.”

“You don’t strike me as someone ruled by nostalgia,” the smaller man in a charcoal suit walked a step behind, “but why did you sell it then?”

“I’m ruled by nothing and nobody,” Stryker spun sharply, “and if you ever feel you understand me: I’ll assure you that you are wrong. As to the reason for selling, it’s what it always is—I need the cash for something I deem more important.” The ultra-powerful business-man stepped into his guest’s space and draped a friendly arm around his emaciated shoulder.

“I’m—uh—I’ve told Ghazi’s you all—um—.” The affable gesture put the man into a state of abject fear—as intended.

“Yes,” Bernard assisted the frightened man over to a table piled high with file-folders, “you’ve told me all about your recent dealings—as well you should’ve. Have a glass of water. I want you to see something.”

“Okay.” He gulped a mouthful only.

“I’ve been reviewing what I own,” Bernard scooped a handful of paper, “to determine what else I can safely sell and it’s just on the off-chance that certain things currently beyond my control—will come about favorably.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much that you can’t dictate.”

“Ah,” Stryker sighed, “but never all. Zafira Abdi was quite lovely,” a glossy photo of Bernard and the Pakistani politician was amid the scattered files and Stryker tugged it to prominence, “and her death was a sad event.”

“The American government,” he had said this line a hundred times, “is supporting local efforts to find out who killed her and why.”

“They won’t ever determine why I murdered Zafira,” Bernard laughed, “nor will they be able to locate any evidence of my complicity. As usual, I have prepared for another to take the blame—if needs be or if I choose.”

“You said you wanted me to see something?” The nervous man urged.

“I’ve already shown you.”

“The picture?” Fumbling like a trained chimpanzee in a suit, the man guzzled his water down but awkward hands slopped out as much as hit his mouth. “Am I your—?”

“Patsy?” Stryker offered a word. “I can see why you might suppose so but that wasn’t my wish.”

“Thanks.” The man still had no clue of whether he was in the clear or not. “What am I to do if Sheik bin Omani contacts me again?”

“Do whatever he asks. Ghazi is my protégé and he’s also my heir.”

…

“I didn’t know any Khmer temples existed outside of Cambodia.” The structure couldn’t be anything else though. It was somber and lavishly decorated with weathered bas-relief sculptures. Tariq entered the grassy inner sanctum—it was deserted. He went to the alter building and looked through an ornately carved square window.

“If you were here on the morning of April 4th,” from behind, a monk set hand on the Iranian’s shoulder, “you would see the sunrise through there.”

Tariq spun and stared. The old man seemed as the Buddha himself.

“You carry too much karma.” The monk spoke in unaccented English.

“I think I’m a bad kismet magnet.” Tariq joked. Who is this bizarre guy and how did he sneak up on me like that?

“My name is unimportant but you may call me Vune,” the strange man sat down before the stone window, “and you’ve taken me by surprise too.”

“Vune.” The programmer squatted—and his knees joints popped like cracked knuckles, as through an amplifier. He forgot what he was saying.

“The word means busy in Thai.” The monk chuckled, “In my youth, I could seldom stay still for long—and I suppose some of that trait remains.”

“Did you know what I was thinking about?” The Iranian referred to the mental questions that Vune had seemingly answered.

“Set your two hands on the monolith.” Vune stood and went to a pillar situated in the very center of the sanctum: he placed his palms on the North and South facets of the pyramid shaped top. “You’ll find this can help.”

“It might help more if you answer some I verbally ask.” Tariq rested his hands on the East and West. “There—now what?”

“What do you sense?”

“It feels strongly, and oddly, like the lava rock of the stairs coming up.” It was strange too, because this was smoother like granite: he didn’t know geology that well, but it certainly wasn’t as magma suddenly solidified.

“How powerful is it?”

“Incredibly so.” The programmer often felt akin with nature. The rock was infinitely more calming and he felt the stress shooting from his body like lightning bolts through a ground rod.

“If we turn this key hard enough,” the monk’s hands put torque on the standing square stone, “do you think it would unlock the dormant lava?”

“We’re standing on top of a volcano!” Tariq had twisted his wrists like Vune had done—but his action was to humor the monk. Now, he snatched his shocked fingers back. “I knew it was: I felt molten rock underneath.”

“This temple was 400 years in the building,” Vune pulled back too, and he walked outside, “but the library still isn’t done. Why would people risk all that effort in placing their work on a volcano—albeit an extinct one?”

“Dinosaurs went extinct.” The programmer recalled his turbulent time with Lauren and the dormant magma she stirred in him. “These suckers,” he stamped his foot on the ground, “are just biding their own sweet time.”

“You want me to answer your questions, but you’ve ignored mine.”

“Why?” The Iranian reminded himself of the query. “They believed it was a worthwhile undertaking—regardless of how long it would endure.” Maybe the real reason was even for the strong energetic effect that I felt.

“I think so too.” The monk sat cross-legged in the grass pavilion where he could view the carvings, guarding statues and high domed roof.

“You said I carried too much karma.”

“You did, but it left when you allowed the stone to take it. I imagine it may build up again: as you suggested, you make yourself a magnet for it.”

“Stress isn’t karma. What kind of Buddhist monk are you anyways?”

“Vune.” The monk laughed. “I’m a busy one, but not for Buddha.”

Loki! Tariq mentally called. I think I could use a hand out here.

Vune turned one palm up and then the other, as if giving them for aid.

“I’m not comfortable when Loki does that shit in my head,” Tariq sat on the grass facing the monk,
“but you doing it in my real world is worse.”

“In your real world, Phenom Rung isn’t a Buddhist temple. It’s a 12th century shrine to Shiva and Vishnu: you can see those deities depicted in the etchings.” The monk brought his helpful hands into a prayer position with fingertips at his chin. “Now let’s discuss your problems.”

“The prominent god in my girlfriend’s upbringing was Shiva.” Tariq suddenly remembered Loki’s odd quip about a replacement able to provide guidance being generally busy. “I suppose Jacqueline is one of my greatest concerns. I want to run back to her but am hesitant: for what reason I don’t quite know.” Actions with Pun factored in. “Maybe I don’t feel worthy.”

“That’s one place you needlessly drag your karma overload from. It’s not up to you to decide what she wants and needs, or if you’re that for her.”

“No,” the programmer breathed deeply, “that’s hers to do.” His worry seemed to utterly evaporate: as if he’d let the stone take that too. “Another possibility is a feeling I’ve endangered someone or something else.”

“Forget about the some thing.” Vune said. “Only another soul brings effects onto yours. Who might you have wrongfully imperiled?”

“Bob Wall is the one who springs to mind,” Tariq chuckled, “but he is unredeemable already. He stole my program, tried to drown me, held my girlfriend as a sex slave and God only knows what else.”

“If God only knows,” Vune parroted back his phrase, “then those are up to God to deal with. Retribution for his acts toward the girl is also not your business—that is hers. That leaves theft and attempted murder. Did you use, lure or provoke him? Did you leave viable options open for him?”

“Yes, yes, yes and no.” The programmer pursed his lips and stared into the monk’s saffron robe for a thoughtful pause. “I baited him on purpose because I wanted the widespread access Wall Soft could give my Trojan. I started it and Bob is now threatened by the one I was really gunning for.”

“Can you protect the victim from the harms you’ve exposed him to?”

“My best chance is staying with those most likely to attack him.” The Iranian raked his fingers in the grass. “That’s why I’m dragging my feet.”

“Is there anything else?” Vune reached into his bag and removed a tiny bottle: he unscrewed the cap and sprinkled some water onto Tariq’s head.

“There was my experience at the 9/11 elevator.”

“Maybe you should explore it, but I told you that I am Vune—busy.”

“Thank you,” Tariq put his palms together and bowed, “for one other relief too. I finally have my personal proof that you and Loki do exist.”

“Have you?” Vune stood. “Nagas are the multi-headed snakes you’ll find around this and other temples. They are emplaced to signify crossings between your real world, and the realm of heaven.” He clapped his hands.

“Taaleek!” Pun slapped his face and shook his arm. “You okay?”

“Vune?” The Iranian sat up: he was on the step where he had rested after his climb. His fingers found dampness in his hair—but was it sweat?

“Much vune to look look you.” She giggled and helped him to his feet. “Monk uncle say he point say is Phenom Rung—vune—off go you.”

“I want to take a quick peek,” the programmer glanced at the rock Naga he seemingly slept beside then headed for the gate, “before it’s too dark.” Inside the walls, the temple looked as he had seen it in the déjà vu dream.

…

“There’s something making a noise,” after she showed him upstairs to a bedroom, Tariq heard an odd call, “that I can’t place.”

“It man chicken.” The girl offered.

“I know what a rooster sounds like,” he laughed, “unless chickens that are speaking Thai sound differently.”

“That tuukaw.” Pun identified it after the lizard had spoken again: she didn’t know the English equivalent. “Make sound if will rain soon. If not sing five times is bad luck and must kill.”

“Seven.” The programmer noted after counting kuk-ow chirps.

‘Kuk-ow.’ The Iranian heard the lizard’s call again as he drifted off to sleep: it vaguely sounded as the elevator cable did when his axe bumped it.

‘Are you a fireman?’ A hopeful female voice sounded in response to a shuffle of his feet on the cab’s slightly tilted roof.

‘No,’ he brandished his tool from his belt and accidentally hit a cable, ‘but I have a fire axe. Sit facing a corner and cover your head.’

The executive programmer took several axe-whacks at the hatch. The latch was on the inside but the flimsy roof panel gave easily when struck squarely. He knelt and looked in at the cowering woman. She didn’t heed my warning to duck but the lady is so short that it probably didn’t matter.

‘Pull me up.’ The woman dressed in fine clothes begged. She was of a squat build and her extended fingertips couldn’t touch the ceiling.

‘I’ll try.’ It was a magnanimous offer but Tariq had serious doubts about his ability to tow her obese body to the top of the elevator. From this downward angle, her diameter appeared to equal to her height.

Can she even fit through the opening? The mental query was moot, as her wrists were too slick to securely hold. She was sweating profusely from fear, and the heat in the elevator car.

‘Why is it so hot in there?’ The straining man asked.

‘Hold my arms tighter,’ the woman ignored his question: she stood on tiptoes to facilitate his gaining a purchase, ‘but be mindful of damaging my bracelet.’ Then she slipped from his grip for the third time.

‘I’m sorry.’ Why was he apologizing? She is perspiring so profusely that a world-ranked bodybuilder couldn’t lift her weight without talc.

‘The elevator is wedged partially between floors.’ The stymied rescuer looked for another option. Heat wafted up the outside of the cab: peering down the side, he could see a moderate dancing of flames. I hope that’s not emergency brakes burning away. A glance up showed the cables were neither tight nor straight. Those are likely broken somewhere above.
‘I’m coming down there. I’ll pry the doors and we can crawl out.’

‘I told a 911 operator where I was and tried to find out what happened. She told me to just stay put here, then she rudely hung up on me.’

You were also being discourteous in trying to hold an emergency dispatcher in a useless conversation at the expense of other callers. Tariq held his retort internally and set his axe to work jimmying the inner doors.

‘My tax pays her salary,’ the readjusted her clothes and gaudy jewelry after the failed efforts of climbing out, ‘and that of her supervisors too.’

That sounded as an implied threat to have the 911 operator disciplined. Whereas previously, the Iranian thought she might’ve been a highly paid employee, her last several comments caused him to reevaluate. She’s more likely a wealthy investor or even a principle in one of the businesses here.

With some effort, the metal plates were split and he could insert the axe into the crack far enough to spring the latch mechanism.

‘We’re stuck between floors!’ The short woman stated the fact that was fully obvious to both. She lifted the hem of her billowing ankle-length skirt and used the material to wipe away some facial sweat.

‘I can open the doors under us,’ Tariq wished he hadn’t seen her fleshy legs and the lingerie she had on underneath: it was especially nasty from a prone perspective, ‘but climbing out will be difficult.’ The Iranian omitted the more pressing fact. We’ll also have to pass very close to the fire.
Tariq transferred the axe to his left hand and sprawled prone on the floor. As he reached down to nudge the lock mechanism for the exterior door, an eager tendril of flame licked from under the car to singe the hair on his left arm. An unusual tingling ran through his ring and pinky fingers.

‘Hold onto my ankles while I climb out.’ His belly fat was suspended uncomfortably in an inverted position as his hands walked the doorframe. Of course she didn’t action that request, any more my others. It had been more than a few years since he last performed a handstand.

After propping his axe against the wall, Tariq now had the options of doing a face-plant on the carpet while burning his feet—or a somersault. The flipping maneuver caused a painful bruise where in the tumble a sharp corner of satchel in his belt had chafed against his lower rib cage.

‘Push the call button!’ She squealed excitedly.

‘We’ll have to summon maintenance staff.’ The Iranian axe-whacked the button and smashed it.

‘Now, are you coming out head or feet first?’

She puffed an incomprehensible reply but the answer was visual in a pair of hands extended through the crack. The fire in the brake mechanism was intensifying and greasy smoke rolled into the corridor like a black fog.

Tariq pulled her wrists and a voluptuous chest squeaked along the tiles. He repositioned his hands to her armpits and heaved again. As her upper body emerged, a large gem bobble on a gold chain swung free and hit him in the right eye. She could’ve removed some of those hindrances?[/private_Chevron]

The lady bear-hugged her rescuer: her dangling bulk threatened to topple him over. The elevator cab dropped a foot. The gap was widener: she was able slide free but in fright, she curled her calves around the wall.

‘Let your legs go!’ The programmer watched her rump undulating like two under-inflated beach balls trapped in a plaid-patterned sarong.

The elevator slid another inch. The emergency braking mechanisms were failing in the fire. The woman flopped out like a beanbag: her body dropped onto her rescuer and collapsed him to the floor.

Felling suddenly trapped, as he had during 9/11, Tariq awoke abruptly. Pun wasn’t as heavy as the elevator woman, but in her sleep the Thai girl had draped herself over his chest. He extricated himself and got up.

“I feel as a Hawaiian sacrificial virgin,” the programmer looked out the window to where Phenom Rung’s volcano pedestal blotted out a soon to be rising sun, “standing on the lip of a volcano’s molten maw.”

Chapter 21 of Loki’s Trojan

Smoking Catfish in Spider Silk Nets

The Programmer bit into an oral-incinerating tidbit: it was tough like gnawing on a smoldering stick of fish-flavored chewing gum.

“My food is fiery so yours must be a five-alarm blaze.” Tariq spit the bite in a napkin and took a gulp of water—but it didn’t quench the burning. He and Kareem had dropped the others at a hotel then went to a floating restaurant on a Bangkok canal. The menu was written in five languages and the color of ink used for each entrée indicated its level of spiciness.

“It’s mild.” The larger Arab answered quickly in strained voice.

[A fish lives in water,] Loki replayed a clip, [how spicy can it be?]

It was a poorly thought out rationalization. Tariq had brazenly ordered a dried catfish starter printed in reddish-brown ink as opposed to the safer looking tan writing. He lolled his tongue out and he fanned it with a hand.

[Duh! A breeze can’t cool a spice burn.]

It did help in this instance: a giggling waitress spotted his distress and rushed to his aid with a sliced loaf of bread, to sponge away the pepper.

“It’s not bad.” The officer’s face was ruddy and his voice, breathless.

“I’m glad I didn’t order from the crimson ink column like you did?” Tariq chuckled as he saw Kareem sweating profusely. He paid in pain for his foolishness with the weights and now his mouth has to foot the bill.

[Jihad Joe’s whole life is an ongoing masculinity challenge.]

“I like my food hot.” The captain pushed the words over scorched lips: he really meant that he liked it to be cooked. But when Tariq selected an item lettered in orange then Kareem had to better the bravery by choosing his from the scarlet letters. He chewed gingerly and swallowed quickly.

“I haven’t developed your constitution’s immunity to chili.” The older man pushed his fish dish away and opted for fruit and sticky rice.

“Taking another bite,” Kareem sped up the tempo of his mouthfuls and almost swallowed the food whole, “slows the afterburning effect.”

“My biggest fear with ultra-spicy food isn’t the heat on my palette.” Tariq waited until the red-faced man was nearly finished his entrée before divulging the worst bit. “The nastier part comes after it passes through the internals and reaches the exit orifice. There, the burn is excruciating.”

“Really?” The beet color of Kareem’s cheeks paled to a pastel.

“I plan on taking a carbon dioxide fire extinguisher to the toilet to cool my ring of fire.” The Iranian plastered on an envious expression. “That’s just me though. You appear orally accustomed to the spices, so your entire digestive tract has doubtlessly built up the same tolerance.”

“Yah.” Allah! Why did I eat this? “I can take it.” Kareem had a bitter recollection of how badly his muscles hurt after lifting weights. Now, he was seemingly due to suffer anal agony for his one-upmanship.

“Well, this has been an interesting meal and the dining establishment is similarly memorable.” Tariq appreciatively cast about at the collection of wooden islands tied together with a series of footbridges. The Thai staff, both male and female, were attired in traditional costumes and stood ready to serve. “Still, the riveting question is why are we here?”

[private_Chevron]“We’re here staying at the Mercy Hotel,” Kareem Kareem set aside his apprehension of a next bowel movement, “because it’s located in an Arabic part of Bangkok and it’s an easy walk from gogo bars in the Nana Plaza.”

[That answers where but not why.]

“And is this a holiday inside of a vacation?”

“It’s something like that.” Kareem declined on elaboration and even the topic seemed to irritate him almost as stormily as the repast had. Since Tariq’s agreeing to join his squad, the captain had taken the older man on as almost a best friend—but remained closed-mouthed on many things.

“What are the ground rules of this excursion?” Tariq asked, but he was willing to break any to make contact with Fatima again. Two weeks had now gone by since they arrived from Pakistan and this was the first time the programmer had left the compound.

“There are none really,” the jihad commander said, “but as this is your first time in Bangkok, you may wish to stay close to me.”

“These conveyances alone must account for a full quarter of the air pollution.” Tariq remarked as they took a tok-tok taxi towards the hotel. It was a tricycle with a roof and a padded bench seat for passengers: powered by a lawn mower’s two-stroke engine, burning an oil-gas blend.

“Massage?” The driver handed back a postcard-sized leaflet.

“Is it a soapy?” The younger Arabic man asked.

“What you like.” The driver didn’t have a certainty about what he was touting. He just had to usher farangs to the door to get his commission.

“You’ll find this enjoyable.” The squad leader tapped his finger on the color picture of many Asian women seated on a three-tired bench. Inset, were photos of room’s amenities. The difference between this and a fancy hotel’s flyer was the models reclined on the beds, were fully unclothed.

“This is only a three block walk from the Mercy.” Tariq mentioned as the tok-tok blue-smoked into a parking garage off Rama II Road.

“This will be quite an experience for you.” Kareem described. “First you choose a lady or several. You’ll go to a room where you’ll recline on an air mattress. Instead of the masseuse using oil or powder, she will cover your body with hot soapsuds—and then take it from there.”

“It sounds like you’ve experienced a few.”

“Uh,” Kareem suddenly remembered the line of crap he was feeding Fatima’s father and backtracked, “other guys have told me all about them.”

Inside the lavish vestibule, females sitting behind windows matched the dog-eared brochure from the taxi. The women each wore a circular plastic tag with a number printed on it.

“Is there a lovelier fishbowl anywhere in Asia?” A grinning pimp with a gold tooth asked as he showed the Arabic men to some plush furniture. Sofas were set as if the selection of prospective masseuses was the wide screen at a VIP movie theater. “Would you take some drinks?”

“No,” Tariq quickly chose a forlorn looking Asian lady in a sequined ball gown, “I’ll take girl number seventy two.”

“She’s a very good choice.” The tout began to extol her virtues.

“I imagine I’ll determine her skills for myself.” The programmer cut off the spiel. “I only want to know if she shares a language with me.”

“Tiem speaks good English.” The host hurried off to fetch her.

“I’ll wait here for you.” Kareem peeled cash from a large pocket roll.

“That’s two boring hours for you.” After a stop at an ATM, Tariq now had money of his own. Sam’s amazing ID even came with a working bank account. “I’ll just walk back to the hotel and meet up with you later.”

“Handsome man,” Tiem opened with a stock line, “what your name?” She took his arm and walked towards the back corner of the foyer.

“I’m here to ditch my buddy.” Tariq said as they entered an elevator. He pulled a thousand baht note from his pocket. “You can snooze while I sneak away.” He handed her the cash. “Here’s your tip.”

“San-noose?” Her lips didn’t do the English diphthong easily.

“It means sleep or be lazy.”

[Sheik Romeo bin Sneaky stays pure by only taking three at a shot.]

While slipping away through the exit corridor, Tariq spied the captain headed to the elevators with a trio and his mind tried picturing what might happen in the soapy massage. That is one female sponge for each sidewall and a third to lather the roof. “Puke!” He recalled whose corpulent body they would be scrubbing. “My mind didn’t need to see Kareem like that!”

…

“We haven’t chatted since 9/11.” A real sheik in his traditional robes reclined on a divan aboard his Grumman Gulfstream IV. “The unexpected attack on the President is a wild joker in an otherwise well-stacked deck.”

The other passenger nodded and he blinked several times.

“Is that topic tender just now?” Ghazi needled his guest’s nervousness.

“I’m not sure what to think about it.”

“Of course you’re not. You haven’t been advised of your opinion yet.” The Arab scoffed, but then stroked with the other side of his sharp tongue. “That is one of your fine qualities and it’s precisely why I’ve brought you along on this trip. I want you to meet some influential people with me.”

“In Riyadh and then in Bangkok.” The diminutive guest presumed the true purpose had more to do with the recent stock market fight, than with the recently failed presidential assassination attempt.

“The first destination makes sense but I’m unsure of who we’ll be in contact with in the second.”

“You’ll find the Thailand visit especially enlightening.” Ghazi snapped his fingers for the air steward to set up a chessboard. “You surprised me in our first game. I wonder if you’ve practiced since. I will warn you that if I suspect you’re trying to let me win,” bin Omani chuckled, “I’ll eject you from my plane without landing first to do so.”

The small man didn’t answer but focused instead on the onyx and white marble set being positioned on a walnut and ash wood board.

“King’s pawn.” Ghazi ordered the steward to move the piece.

“I expected an easy game in my share fight after my contractor sent word of an attitude adjustment on Bob’s queen,” Sheik bin Omani changed the subject while his mute opponent considered a counter to the opening, “but my threat had precisely the opposite effect.”

“I shouldn’t know about that.” The man’s eyes were as furtive as a rat in a floodlighted alley. He moved his own piece—it was queen’s pawn.

“After our brief stop in Riyadh I’ll have far more cash available to me, than the software geek and his gay asshole surmise.” Ghazi ignored the comment. “Gaining the use of that money will simply cost me some power chips. I need show I can replace the markers—and that brings me to you.”

As the flight continued eastward to Saudi Arabia, the white side of the board won six consecutive games but the guest offered enough challenge to arrive intact and land along with the aircraft.

…

“A rooftop sniper shot at the president.” The programmer read part of an Internet story on his search portal’s home page. That was an interesting development but it didn’t impact on his scheme. His reason for being in the Internet café was to make a phone call and he preferred it on landline.

Four pm in Bangkok is four am in Toronto but Fatima awoke easily.

‘The fight between Wall Soft and bin Omani is turning nasty.’ Tariq looked at more world news while waiting for an answer.

“Is that you?” The girl asked on her hopes.

“That depends on if it was me you were expecting.” The programmer briefly described his situation. “Have I missed anything important?”

“Bob Wall bought a bigger boat.” Fatima reported her findings. When not working with, and learning from, Sam or listening to his fascinating stories, the hacker’s apprentice was delving into Low-Key’s backdoors.

“That’s only pivotal if I have a chance to sink it.” Tariq then listened as his protégé told of more of the doings at Wall Soft.

“Its too bad Ghazi is still in the digital bronze-age.”

“His company is,” Fatima bragged, “but I hacked his home computer.”

“Tell me everything!”

“He might there now so you can ask him yourself.” She continued. “He’s booked into an entire floor of suites in the Royal Bangkok Orchid Hotel.” She supplied the details. “It sounds like an awfully big party.”

“It’s more likely he’s traveling with only a few shy people.”

“I was expecting your call after Bijan’s recent email, telling Kareem to stay clear of the compound.”

“His feeling slighted could explain his sudden mood swing to grumpy.”

“That’s all I have. What it like on your end?”

“This is my first time off the site.” He described it as similar to a free trip to Florida, as won from an advertising flyer. The associated cost is a requirement of sitting through innumerable time-share condo sales pitches. “The amoral lifestyle in a jihad resort is complete with zealous diatribes.”

“Be careful.” Fatima warned.

“You didn’t say be good.” He surmised she had already guessed from his description of the compound, but Tariq confessed about Pun anyways.

“Do what you have to and don’t fret about it. Besides, I’m cuckolding you with Sam: after the crotchety ignition finally cranks over, his sex drive has the torque of a diesel tractor.” She fibbed and then said goodbye.

…

“We’re headed to the Nana Plaza.” Kareem spoke at the hotel room.

“My butt is spewing napalm after today’s chili peppers.” Tariq held the door as a shield, as if he wasn’t wearing clothes behind it. He held back a smile at the jihad leader’s suddenly ashen complexion.

“Come on over later if you start feeling better.” The commander left.

[Is debauchery the only activity in this city?]

“I’m sure there’s much more,” it was a commentary that the squad left a hedonistic compound only to traipse from one sex venue to the next, “a good example might be the unguided motorcycle tour we’ll be taking.”

[We should reconsider taking a guided boat.]

“It’s too late,” Tariq had bought a map at a convenience store and plotted the roads to his destination, “so clam up and memorize the route.” A shop near the hotel offered a motorbike and he had rented it for the day.

Cars and trucks on Bangkok roads are like square links in long chains that move when a traffic light sprocket turns green. The many motorcycles are as ball bearings rolling along in the channel whenever the chain moves, and surging between when the wider vehicle links, need to stop.

[Turn right but stay wrongly on the left—right here—left.]

“Fortunately, I see what you’re talking about.” In Thailand, cars drive on the left side but the right turn they were to take had a ramp that cut left to an overpass that swung right. To make the corner on short notice, Tariq had to change through four lanes of traffic. Doing so was navigating a jagged maze with car bumpers on the zigs, and fenders on the zags.

[You’re surprised I remembered the route.]

“I am actually.” Without the instructions from his back-brain driver, Tariq would’ve needed to pull over a dozen times already to consult a map.

[Does it mean that I’m real or that you’re an autistic savant?]

“I’ve given up on trying to decide that question.” The Iranian had other things to occupy his mind. He was arriving at the Al Qaeda compound’s access road. “Look for a handy spot to hide the bike.”
After walking the motorbike through a shallow ditch, the programmer leaned it against a tree. I hope there are no spiders, snakes or scorpions.

[Or eels, leeches and tropical piranhas in the river.]

“This isn’t the Amazon: I’ve seen loads of kids swimming in the river.” The Iranian switched on a waterproof flashlight he had purchased from a sidewalk shop and ploughed into dense foliage.
“The younger ones even dive in wearing only their birthday swimsuits.”

Tariq had worried about jungle creatures and Loki had warned of the aquatic ones but in actuality, slapping the mosquitoes and brushing aside tangled branches kept him too busy to think about the other potential dangers. Finally, he reached the river: it was the same approximate time as it was on the evening when he had spied Osama alone in his courtyard.

The Arabic-Canadian switched off his flashlight and slipped it into his pocket. Clouds obscured the moon and stars but the sparse lights of the city’s edge sparkled the wavelets. He put his wrist through the carry-strap of a diver’s digital camera and stripped to his silk boxer shorts. Then Tariq waited motionless for a mass of water hyacinth to drift by.

[Like transit busses they are everywhere—until you want one.]

…

“I would wear only a pink pouch g-string and dance mariachi in a gay pride parade if it meant I could stay with her continuously.” Oksana didn’t think of Collin as an asshole and she was now well aware of his real sexual preference. “What anyone else thinks doesn’t matter to me.”

Since moving in with the Russian junky, Collin Hersker had felt he was walking on air. But then, he needed that cushion, because he was sure that fragile eggshells and glass were beneath. Bob’s mouth hadn’t broached the subject of the temporary living arrangements and as if it were a bubble of soap, his asshole’s lips hadn’t dared touching it yet either.

“Your daily report?” Bob Wall arrived in the afternoon but this time he had a valid excuse. Big customers had consumed his earlier schedule.

“Tediously slow gains, but I’m working on an idea.”

“That sounds good.” The CEO nodded sagely then he closely regarded his adjutant and pensively held his chin.

“Is there anything else?” The executive feared his enjoyable tryst in the adjoining suite was now coming under the hatchet.

“There is one other thing.” Wall braced for confrontation. “I pressured you into an uncomfortable situation. I was worried for your safety and I felt your staying there was the best solution.”

“I fully understand that and I’m not offended in the slightest.”

“If you want to move somewhere else,” Bob offered, “I’ll arrange tight security for you, despite whatever it costs.”

“Had you offered yesterday,” the master asshole saw an open avenue and he angled to it, “my answer might’ve been different. Just now though, the company has to suck every financial belt to a tighter notch.”

“I appreciate your devotion.” Bob grinned as a wallet pinch eased up. “You’re living above the store, as it were—is quite handy.”

“You set an example in dedication by giving up the apartment in this trying interim.” Collin wracked his brain for a subtle way to ask Bob not to peek in unannounced, but he drew a blank. There are many times when his barging in would be exceedingly difficult for a ‘gay’ man to explain.

“My schedule over the next few weeks is hectic anyways.” Truthfully, Bob had been also using Collin’s continued stay with the girl for a sideline reason: a period of abstinence, with her only contact being of no physical use to her, may cause his sex slave to appreciate her manly master more.

“Don’t undertake any large expenditures.” The asshole targeted the one outstanding cash problem. “I’ll need liquid funds in our accounts.”

“I’ll be frugal.” For the fib, Wall crossed his fingers behind his back. He would spend as little as possible but the president would be visiting Spokane and Bob needed to grease the influential axel.
“Buying the yacht drastically sliced away our margin for error.”

“I promise that I won’t get another until you give me a thumbs up.”

“That give me the impetus,” as his boss left, Collin fingered his black eye: after a few days of healing, it no longer hurt and the color had faded to greenish grey, “to take my efforts to the next level. I’m not the one who started using grimy tactics but I can fight as foul as Ghazi does.”

He consulted his Rolodex and dialed Dumont, Bach and Ratzler.

“This is Collin Hersker at Wall Soft Systems. I want Jonathon Dumont and Lauren Smyth in my office—pronto.”

“I’ll check if they’re available. May I put you on hold.”

“No, you may not. I didn’t inquire as to their schedules. I told you to send them here: please inform them of my requirements.”

“Yes sir.” The receptionist spoke only to a click and silence.

“A few weeks!” Collin hooted after hanging up. “I would smooch homophobic Bob right on his lips to positively prove my flaming gayness.”

…

Plenty of the smaller stems passed and then one clump that was as big as a putting green drifted in. It would provide good cover but was far too massive to control. The following one is perfect though. The leafy cluster was about the size and shape of a four-person Jacuzzi tub. The Iranian took two steps and was now up to his waist in the murky water.

He grasped the plants carefully to avoid breaking up the clump. With a further stride, he was up to his chest and the sluggish flow began to pull his feet into a slide along the mud. He briefly ducked underwater and surfaced in the center of the plants, as if the Hyacinth were foam in a bathtub.

[When you can see out then someone can also see in.]

“I’m presuming nobody will closely examine the passing clusters.”

“Was that a long root?” Tariq felt something suddenly brush his thigh. At the same instant, he spied the compound lights ahead. He used a hand to search around his legs but without a hold, the plants began to separate.

[Stop fidgeting and cover up!]

The programmer regained his grip on the Hyacinth root ball but felt more submerged contacts. The Iranian kicked out a foot and it hit a slimy object. Fish are nibbling at my skin. Another slithered up his chest and he dropped his eyes to see a whiskered snout near the surface. It’s a catfish.

[Luckily, your privates aren’t dangling like a wiggling worm.]

There’s someone on the bank ahead. Tariq went stiff as a stump in the water. The dim light showed he would soon be at the outer wall—and that a roving sentry was about to urinate into the river.

[He’s fly-fishing.]

The guard’s finger tackle didn’t hook into the codpiece in time. The programmer in the plants had passed by before he heard the trickle behind.

Tariq’s drift brought him to the upstream deck buttress and a swirling eddy threatened to turn his chin’s raft. The man dug his toes into the mud in an attempt to stay positioned. He was soon to pass a critical juncture at the wing of the house and moved to prepare his diver’s camera. Suddenly though, a fish the size of his foot squiggled up the leg of his boxer shorts.

“I don’t have enough hands!” The Iranian hissed: his one was holding the camera and the other wasn’t enough on its own, to hold the Hyacinth. Loki, chase the damned fish from the net of my underpants! The spy in the watery hedge found a view of the gazebo. But in that instant, the catfish in his shorts discovered a mouse that fit in its mouth.

[The pussy-fish is a man-eater. If it has teeth you’ll be a eunuch.]

The underwater maw took a larger purchase. I’m swallowed up to its fluttering gills. The suckling fish flipped upside-down and thrashed in an attempt to get free of the silk shorts net—while keeping an intended meal.

This is unnerving: I can’t take it much longer. He pulled the camera underwater and batted his crotch with it—that just annoyed the fish.

[There are three men on the patio.] Loki called for his attention.

Gamely, Tariq tore his mind away from the interspecies oral sex he was unintentionally engaged in. The figures were arranged in a shallow ‘V’, all facing the water. I’m drifting into view and my camouflage is shifting. He sacrificed the camera and held the hyacinth with both hands.

[The man in the upstream position is Osama.]

Yes, the programmer saw the rangy tall Arab in a turban and a beard, and the downstream one in the Saudi headgear is Sheik Ghazi bin Omani.

The impatient catfish redoubled its efforts and tried to gulp the tender morsel whole. Don’t eat it! At this crucial instant, Tariq floated by and was a five pace distance from the Caucasian man in a charcoal suit.

[There’s a Pulitzer winning tabloid shot—by an unready photographer.]

I can’t believe he is standing here with those two men! The submerged Arabic-Canadian knew the third man’s identity: who didn’t. As the current whisked him by, Tariq ducked under and shooed the lusty fish away.

[The press wouldn’t buy the photos from your paparazzi eyes.]

“Buy as in believe, or as in they wouldn’t dare to buy and print?” Both applications fit perfectly. A pun is a play-on-words and Pun had told him the Thai word for smoking, as in puffing on a cigarette, also means fellatio.

“My smoking gum was fishy,” as he found the deserted road and his motorbike, Tariq laughed aloud, “and the fishy gums were smoking.”

…

“Send them in.” Collin answered the Wall Soft receptionist.

The barristers entered awkwardly, as truants reporting to the principal’s office. The two stopped and stood through a long uncomfortable silence.

“You both look more fully-clothed in person, than you appear on TV.” The line was quite funny but Hersker’s countenance held no mirth. His better amusement was in seeing the lawyers both livid at the remark but with no comeback for the cutting quip. To let them squirm a bit longer, he looked at his new Russian chronograph—as if checking their punctuality.

“Today,” Collin abruptly spoke, “you can start earning your retainer.”

“Gladly.” Jonathon breathed sigh of relief. He had only expected this to be another brow beating over the public gaffe. Dumont was under dire orders from his named partner father to stoically accept any chastisement.

“What do you want us to do?” Lauren shared a feeling of respite. The very public humiliation had made her and Jonathon into office pariahs.

“I want you in New York gathering some information. Contact brokers or anyone necessary to obtain a list of bin Omani shareholders. You can offer bribes to the administrative staff in Ghazi’s employ and I’ll see that they are paid.” Hersker continued for a few minutes to outline the mission details to the pair of flabbergasted attorneys.

“That,” Lauren was first to find a faltering voice, “isn’t strictly ethical.”

“Is rolling over on someone you represent and disclosing privileged info to land a bigger client, a display of lofty principles?” After rebuking the woman, the executive shifted his gaze to the male half of the tag team. “Lawyers specialize in different aspects of practice. You two have clearly demonstrated your turpitude. In fact, your perfidy is the only qualification that makes you uniquely suitable for this assignment.”

The two ruby-faced lawyers glanced at each other and the brief eye contact confirmed that both were desperate enough.

“I’ll do it.” The pair answered in unison.

“You’ll report only to me.” Collin handed over a card with his private number. “Take the next flight out.” The words served as a dismissal and the lawyers departed as if frog-marched out by a bailiff.

…

“I wish I could weave a web to trap Sam Levy.” It was mid-afternoon and Katya stared at a spider walking on the stippled plaster ceiling. “After wrapping him in my silk, I could suck out information like his vital fluids.”

‘The sheik and geek are just dancing in the ring and exchanging jabs.’ The Iranian had called last night and the hacker’s protégé gave her take.

‘A soapbox derby is the better sporting analogy.’ Tariq had suggested. ‘We gave strong shoves: gravity will send the carts to a break-neck pace.’

“Thinking of neck-breaking, I’d enjoy snapping Sam’s stiff vertebras.” In the present, Katya heard the phone rang. “His vow can be damned.”

“I’ll get it.” She spoke quietly but doubted Sam would hear even if she had shouted. Not in any particular hurry, she was on her feet and across the room on the third tone. She lazily pulled the door and it moved without sound: her stocking feet made no noise as she stepped into the doorframe.

“Sam?” Scratchy words emanated from the telephone’s receiver. “Do you know who this is calling?”

The oblivious forger’s back was turned.

“Yes, I do young son of my very good friend.”

Young son of my very good friend? The girl replayed his words in her mind. She made her breathing shallow to remain absolutely quiet.

“I need some more of your fine work.” A male voice quickly outlined a procedure and a pre-determined time for another conversation. It would be over disposable cell-phones and to give a complete description of a job.

“How much did you hear?” Sam’s cheeks went flour-paste white.

“I caught it all and both sides too. Which old friend has a young son?”

“I—uh—I.” His mind’s flywheel lost synch with his mouth’s gearbox.

“Do I have a half-brother?” The young woman’s hands were on hips as if she were a mother scolding a five-year-old. “I don’t care beans about a stale-dated life-debt promise to a dead man.”
“Katya—.“ The counterfeiter withered under the fuming girl’s glare.

“This secret you’re desperately clinging to,” he was studying his shoes, so she softened, “is like a girl dressed only in a wet silk negligee. I already see almost everything—and you’re tearing us apart over the rest.”

“You just think it’s all that transparent.” Sam defended but the promise he made was becoming far too complicated. “You heard the part about the untraceable phones.” He looked up again. “You can go pick them up.”

“I want you to tell me everything.” The female didn’t budge.

“I’ve wanted to do that right from the start,” Sam paused, “and not just with you either. Your errand will let me think through my thorny issues.”

“We’re going to have an honest and complete discussion when I get back.” She was tempted to wag a finger but that might be overdoing it.

“My dear old friend,” Sam watched out the window for the pickup to drive away. “I hope you’ll forgive my blabbing, but we didn’t foresee this predicament.” He peeled back the living room rug to reveal a loose board. After rummaging, he set the cigar box out of sight beside the couch.

“I’ll tell you all,” the counterfeiter spoke his terms after Katya returned, “but only if you clam up until I’ve finished the phone call.”

…

“If one dips an oasis too deeply it stops filling the bucket.” A recently promoted Rajah Fakir ladled the favorable opinion out. Being close to the Arabic CEO held increased pay and elevated status, but it came with a steep price tag—as his fellow executives recently advised. “At this turtle’s pace, we’ll all be dead of old age by the time Wall takes us over.”

“My sons,” with an unreadable expression, the sheik regarded the man standing by the desk, “would then be underlings to his.”

“And,” the unexpected look gave Rajah a sudden inspiration—it was speaking his mind that got the junior man elevated. Ghazi had scads of yes men but they weren’t promoted, “that worries me more than if Hersker was buying shares hand over fist.”

“The queen opened with some good gambits,” Ghazi’s thick eyebrows arched upwards and his lips curled up into a repressed smile, “but in this mid-game stage he’s holding his power pieces in behind the pawn shield.”

“He’s waiting for an error.” The assistant tested his bond with the boss by pulling up a chair: since the action didn’t result in an instant death, he sat in it. “Could the board be turned on him instead?”

“I do prefer attacking over defending.” Emboldened by the success of his trip overseas, Ghazi considered a now possible alternate strategy. His mind wandered to the related subject.

The Stryker Group controlled a vast political influence and Ghazi had inherited a large stake in that entity. The bin Omani family had ready cash to bail Stryker out of a long ago situation. With the units under his indirect control, Ghazi had enough voting stock to actually usurp leadership.

“Taking the Stryker Group,” the sheik thought aloud, “would be akin to swallowing a poisoned apple while it’s gripped in the coils of rattlesnake.” Bernard had held the power reins for long enough to have installed many corporate cyanide pills for his protection.

“That man doesn’t just have skeletons in his closet.” Rajah Fakir had a distinct impression Ghazi wasn’t speaking to him and he wanted the boss to have the opportunity to stop before he said too much. “Stryker’s whole basement is full of the bones of his previous enemies.”

“Wresting the Stryker group from Bernard,” the sheik’s eyes focused on his employee, “would easily enable me to buy out Wall Soft Systems.”

“You would also reap the benefits of Styker’s political connections.” Fakir offered a bold snippet and was rewarded with a smile.

“You know that,” Ghazi chuckled grimly, “and Stryker is aware of it. Maybe Bob and his queen are fretting it too.” He shooed his man away.

“But with Wall Soft merged into my company, I don’t need Stryker or his group.” The sheik could now speak freely and he did. “Bangkok was a deft stroke in the art of manipulation. Both those men are now under my influence and Bernard was unknowingly cropped from the big picture.”

…

At the appropriate moment, Sam dialed his new cell phone and waited for the rings. He took a very deep breath in anticipation of a conversation he had been both dreading and eagerly anticipating.

“Hello,” After establishing connection and confirmation of identities, the boy outlined his requirements—and the words froze in the pit of Sam’s stomach like liquid hydrogen. Why there? Cruel history repeats itself.

“Sam?” The young man took the dead air in his ear as a disconnection.

“I’m still here.” Sam confirmed his continued presence—then paused. Breaking the letter of my oath might in fact be keeping the spirit of it.

“John, when you used that name that I won’t say on a cell phone, so publicly, I began to worry. You threw open a door that’s been shut for a very long time. It might’ve been something your father wanted but I know it’s not what he expected. If you had completed your task in that city, the name would’ve been a capstone to it. You didn’t finish and that word has complicated things. You have exposed yourself to certain people.”

“You know my real name and what I’m doing!”

“I know that and much more but I also made a promise to your father and I’m not going to tell you until I can. You’ll understand when I do but until you fulfill your oath, I can’t. The name you used has now involved dangerous people who could possibly expect you to go to Ukraine because of something your father did. Don’t go there unless you can find a way to indicate that you aren’t. Your father taught how to use misdirection and now you really need it.”

“Join me,” after finishing the call’s business, Sam disconnected and looked to the silent girl: she had kept her end of the pact, “on the sofa.”

“Okay.” Her voice was meek.

“This is John.” Sam opened the box and withdrew a photo that he had secreted from the last set used for false identification.

“He was my brother!” Katya recognized the face and put her fingers across her mouth. John was the young gunman in the Windsor strip club. He saved her life by killing Anaconda and the gangsters. My lack of sexual response to him is now understandable—but how did my glands know it?

“Look closer.” Sam wondered if her use of past tense was due to her shock. “He is your fraternal twin brother.”

“He grew up alone without me too.” Katya’s mind raced to times in her life when the pre-birth memories of him swimming together with her in the womb had sustained her in periods of loneliness.

“He matured in many ways more lonely than you.” Sam Levy hugged her shoulders to quell the shuddering. “Still he wasn’t alone either because he had your father from his birth to the instant of the man’s death.”

“Why were we separated?”

“For good motives, your father killed Kennedy from the Dallas grassy knoll. He only learned afterwards that he was betrayed and the true reason wasn’t honorable. John is on a mission to correct that error.”

“He’s going to the Ukraine and I can help him.”

“John has to be completely focused. He doesn’t know about you and he won’t find out until he’s finished.”

“I met my brother in Windsor.” Katya continued after no words issued from his agape mouth. “I didn’t tell you exactly how Tariq and I finally hooked up.” She gave a brief accounting.

“Your family’s fate has more twists than a licorice factory!”

…

“The raisins may prove out sweet,” Rajah quoted old Arabic lore and the nubs straining at the material of her tight gown were as plump raisins, “but the juicy grapes are already ripe.” The lady was offering him a bowl of green grapes, but Fakir’s eyes were feasting on the fruits above the dish: those were more like halved pomegranates with thick puckered stems.

“The taste is just to roll over,” Lauren Smyth seductively put one to her mouth: caressed the skin with her lips and then bit it in half, “and die for.”

“The roll-over part is easy,” his enhanced statue at bin Omani gave him access, “but I’m certain Ghazi could make the dying slow and painful.”

“That’s the pessimistic projection.” The lawyer pointed her tongue and with it, she scooped the pulpy insides from the remaining half grape skin. “You should focus instead on the positives. They are before your eyes.”

“They are?” Rajah had stopped breathing while the lady performed the erotic act of eating: he had to gasp for air. The enticing female wore a pale jade evening dress that encased her figure snugly from her chest to the knees and from there it flared to her shapely mid-calves. She had invited him up to her hotel suite, on a pretense of not being ready for dinner yet.

“Those could certainly be yours.” By not specifying what those were, Lauren had deliberately implied that her succulent body parts, that his eyes were in the process of devouring, were definitely included in the deal. “As I see it, Wall could buy bin Omani—and you would loose. Or, a take-over might fail and Sheik Ghazi would no longer need his trusted advisor. But, you are currently in a perfect position to hedge a bet for either eventuality.”

“How so?” Rajah recalled a drop of grape juice that had dribbled down her chin and he wiped his face to ensure he wasn’t drooling too.

“If you provide me with I really want,” she squatted down between his knees and rested her elbows on his thighs, “my employer will handsomely reward you and you’ll earn his favor. If Wall isn’t successful, you will still have the cash and you can further impress Sheik bin Omani with a timely detection of an almost unforeseeable ploy.”

“I could report it to him right now and prevent the action.”

“Will Ghazi pat your back,” her hand tapped his leg to simulate, but the fingertips were also high enough to stimulate, “and say attaboy Rajah?”

“I brought the disk.” The bin Omani corporation executive made his decision: his eyes hungrily flicked to an invitingly ajar bedroom door. “I’ll hand it over to you—afterwards.”

“I’ll call my assistant now.” Lauren stood. “So that—later,” her hands smoothed the wrinkles from the slinky gown: it was snug as spandex and left none of her curves to the imagination, “your money will be here too.”

…

“Jacqueline Antenenko.” Katya fanned out a passport, driver’s license, birth certificate and credit cards. “Don’t I get a choice of given names this time? Jacqueline has too many syllables. I’ll have to shorten it to Jackie or something. The middle name is abnormal too.”

“Do whatever you like with it.” Sam smiled wryly.

“What’s so special about this ID set?” The young woman squinted to figure out what Sam was up to: he had an odd look about his wrinkled face.

“This and one other I made for your brother, represent the best sets I’ve ever created.” The forger let her absorb that for a pause before explaining. “Your parents never registered your birth but I did—well, sort of.”

“This can’t be my true name,” Katya looked with renewed vigor at the lettering, “because I don’t have one.”

“Your parents initially called you Jacqueline, just as they called your brother, John. The middle one is your mom’s maiden name and your dad’s surname was Antenenko. After you were born, I submitted paperwork and over the years, I’ve kept up a legacy on them. Each year children illegally in Canada have gone to school under those identities.” Sam’s expression was as prideful as William Shakespeare’s must’ve been at the premier performance of Macbeth. “The ID set you’re holding is as good as the real McCoy because it actually is: this is government issued—for you.”

“I have a name!” Katya’s mind waffled. “What if I don’t want one?”

“Then toss it away. This was a labor of love so my godchildren would have a choice. I’ll still make as many false sets as you want.”

“I know what I’ll do with in identity.” Jacqueline had assumed the new persona already. “It should be done in this bulletproof manner.”[/private_Chevron]

…

“Make yourself at home.” Bernard waved his guest to a den adjoining his office. Two easy chairs sat semi-facing a blazing fireplace. “I brought you here because Mr. Dumont is an acquaintance of mine.”

“Jonathon has gone back to Seattle.” Lauren Smyth apologized. Even the limo driver sent to pick her up had seemed surprised he wasn’t there.

“While your travel ticket was inexplicably and accidentally cancelled.” Stryker sat then took up a poker to rearrange the burning logs. “That was nightmarish service from my airline. Should I fire someone over it?”

“They were nice enough and gave me some compensation frills.”

“I’m sure we haven’t offered nearly enough.” He put the poker down.

“Ah,” Lauren brightened, “Gerald Dumont is who you referred to.”

“Why should I need the son, when his father is already on my payroll.” Bernard clasped his hands together and made a finger steeple. “You on the other hand,” he pointed his two digits at her,
“have shown some interesting aspects of yourself—and not just your pink on the links either.”

“I suspect the reason I’m here,” the lady lawyer blushed on the topic of her public shame, “involves information on Bob Wall and Ghazi Omani.”

“I could easily get that from Gerald.” Stryker reclined further back into his chair and crossed his knee: as if in preparation for a lengthy discussion. “I much more eager to learn what really happened to Ethan Smyth.”