Time to Lean, Time to Clean

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Epilogue

OTHER WORKS OF FICTION BY

VINCENZO SPIAGGI

The Natural Order Of Human Events*

A Tribute To His Heroes*

The Great Sicilian Rabbit Hunter*

Happiness is the Road*

Small Pebbles, Long Shadows*

Small-Town Weekly*

Ho Po Pinocchio Day

Thicker Than Water

* BOOKS OF THE JOHNNY SKULL SERIES

FOR GUNNY JARRE

1928 - 2012

HAPPY TRAILS TO A TRUE HERO

IF EVERYONE YOU’VE EVER KNOWN

PRECEDES YOU IN DEATH,

IT FOLLOWS THAT YOU WILL BE

THE ONLY ONE ATTENDING YOUR OWN FUNERAL.

SUBCHAPTERS DENOTED BY A TRIPLE ASTERISK (* * *)SIGNIFIES A CONTINUATION OF THE ONGOING TIME LINE.

SUBCHAPTERS DENOTED BY A SINGLE ASTERISK (*)

SIGNIFIES A FLASHBACK SEQUENCE OF EVENTS.

PROLOGUE

July 14, 2010

"F annie, is anything wrong? Jimmie asked her cousin. You look like you’ve see a ghost."

Fannie had been looking at her computer screen. Via the Internet, an article on a certain Italian newspaper’s English-language website told her that she was still alive.

Indeed, Fannie said to Jimmie, it seems that I have just been resurrected ...

*

Fanna Fannie Scalisi – whose birth name was Faniba Sqaloosh, an orphaned Afghan expatriate who grew up in Yemen – was a nurse who had escaped from her indentured servitude to the Yemeni government. She had been stationed at the Yemeni embassy in Rome when she was accosted by the oversexed teenage son of the Yemeni ambassador to Italy, which eventually resulted in her murdering the boy.

But it was not a true case of self-defense; indeed, she had provoked the situation with the boy, and had premeditated the murder and her subsequent escape from Italy to the United States. The boy had been forcing himself on several women at the embassy – indeed, he had raped and murdered one of them – and Fannie decided that she would put a stop to his anti-social, misogynistic, typical-Muslim-male behavior once and for all.

After she killed the boy, she successfully escaped detection by the Yemeni authorities and got herself a new identity from a friend who was a master forger – her new name was changed to Fanna Scalisi. She made her way to America, settling in with her cousin Jimila Jimmie Masroun, a coed at the University of Wyoming in Laramie, who, like Fannie, also was an Afghan orphan. Fannie worked with Jimmie as a waitress at The Grand Avenue Pizza Palace, an Italian restaurant just off campus.

While in Laramie, Fannie, using the Internet site of the Italian newspaper La Repubblica, had been following the stories of the death of the Yemeni boy and her own disappearance. To the Rome Municipal Police Department, the death of the boy was still a mystery; and, while at a dead end, the case was still being investigated, although without great zeal. But the case of the disappearance of the nurse, Faniba Sqaloosh, was thought to have been solved, because a woman’s body that had been found in the bay southwest of Rome, was thought to have been hers.

Then, on the newspaper’s website on July 14, 2010, Fannie read a story proving that the body that had been found in the bay was not hers. The proof was based on the testimony of a security guard at the Yemeni embassy, who said that he had witnessed the murder of the dead woman at the hands of the ambassador’s son some weeks earlier, and that the dead woman was not the missing nurse, but his own fiancée, a janitorial worker at the embassy. The man said that he subsequently murdered the ambassador because he had encouraged his now-dead son’s degenerate activity. It was then that the Yemenis said they would resume their search for the missing nurse.

The Rome police, while not too terribly interested in re-opening the case of the still-missing, foreign-national nurse, said they would provide only tepid assistance to the Yemenis’ renewed search for Faniba Sqaloosh.

* * *

After reading the article, Fannie knew she would never be safe from the Yemenis’ determination to find her. It will be just a matter of time before they track me down, no matter where I am in the world, she thought as she stared into the computer screen. However, I’ll be ready for them.

Jimmie walked over to Fannie and stood behind her; she quickly read the newspaper story that was still displayed on the screen. Uh oh, she said, as she placed her hands on Fannie’s shoulders, what will you do now?

Well, I was thinking of getting some green contact lenses … and maybe even becoming a blond … or a redhead. Whad‘ya think?

(Fannie was a lovely young woman. However, with a patchwork genetic heritage that included a wide range of ancient Mediterranean, East Indian, Moorish, and various modern Arab nationalities, her facial features favored a more cosmopolitan Mediterranean look, rather than a typical Arabic pose. She also sported ice-blue eyes, the legacy of a centuries-old, one-time dalliance between her long-ago, Portuguese tenth great-grandfather – a notorious pirate – and the kidnapped daughter of a Viking prince.

When she came to America, she cut her long, flowing, dark-brown hair and changed the color to a lighter brown. She needed to look American, mainly because she knew that the Yemenis would begin looking for her if, or when, they learned of her escape from their control. The Yemeni government had paid for her nursing education, and they weren’t about to let her get out of her remaining four years of indenture to them. She also knew that if they found her, they eventually would tie her to the death of the ambassador’s son.)

Well, how well did you get to know the people at the Yemeni embassy in Rome? asked Jimmie. I mean, you were there for only a couple of weeks before you left to come here, right? Other than your blue eyes, would they even remember you? And if not, then maybe you won’t have to drastically change your hair color, or even get green contact lenses.

Yeah, maybe you’re right. I mean, I didn’t socialize much with anyone at the embassy, especially the men. I pretty much kept my distance from them.

How about the women? Get chummy with any of them?

Uh uh. Most of them were Palestinians … real rabble. Not terribly smart.

Were there any other men who might have had a lecherous eye out for you? You know, like the ambassador’s assistants, or other members of his family?

Fannie thought for a moment, then said, "Well, I guess the only person I had any daily contact with was the ambassador’s security chief, a guy named Mustafa Qurafi, an Iranian security expert on loan to Yemen‘s Rome embassy. He’s related to officials in both the Iranian and Yemeni governments, so it was easy for him to get the assignment in Rome when the opportunity presented itself. He speaks Arabic, Farsi, Italian, and English fluently. Anyway, he would always be checking up on us girls. He ran the place like a prison; I mean, we were professionals, fercryinoutloud, and he treated us like inmates. He’s a smart man, but evil. Quite chatty, too. He was always bragging about how important he was in his former positions in Iran.

"However, I was able to slip out of the embassy undetected with the ambassador’s son the night I killed him. I know for sure that Qurafi didn’t see me leaving with the boy because I know he was away from the compound at the time. It happened on a Thursday night, and every Thursday night he and his buddies would go to one of the strip clubs in Rome, and they didn’t usually come back to the embassy until two or three in the morning. By that time, I was long gone.

"Anyway, I made sure that I kept my distance from him; but I did see him being a peeping Tom one night … actually, a lot of nights. He would stand on the balcony of his apartment and look through his binoculars into the women’s shower room that was across the courtyard at the embassy. I mean, the guy’s a perv, and I’m sure he must have seen me naked in the shower at one time or another. I’m sure he would have tried to put a move on me if I had stayed around there much longer. And I‘m also sure that Qurafi enabled the ambassador‘s son to harass the women at the embassy. I‘m telling you, that place was a zoo."

Just then, a ping sounded on the computer.

Looks like you’ve got an Email coming in, Fan, said Jimmie.

Fannie pulled up her Email page and read the SUBJECT line on the most recent message. Oh, my God! It’s from Cenzo …

(Cenzo Scazzofari was a good friend of Fannie’s. It was Cenzo who allowed her to hide out in his house in Rome immediately after she had killed the Yemeni ambassador’s son.

A master forger, a car thief, and a skilful fence of stolen property, Cenzo kept her safe while he created the new-identity documents that would allow her easy entry into the United States – Italian passport and birth certificate, American work visa, American driver’s license, etc. He also provided her with a gun and a switchblade knife for her own protection. In return for his help, she gave him the dead boy’s car she had stolen to make her getaway … a BMW.

Cenzo had met Fannie while he was in the hospital in Rome for an appendectomy. She was a nursing student, and one of her tasks was to care for patients during the evening and nighttime hours when the nurses were off duty at the hospital which was adjacent to the nursing school. They became fast friends. Indeed, it was Cenzo who was Fannie’s first client after she became a courtesan, she having the desire to accumulate enough wealth to eventually break the bonds of Islamic serfdom and live a freer life. Indeed, it was his idea for her to become a high-priced escort. She, of course, loved the idea – certainly because of the money, but also because she liked the sex, especially with older, generous Jewish men like Cenzo. They were kind and gentle with her; and, she having been a virgin, needed experienced, understanding gentlemen to mentor her. Whenever an older Jewish man would enter the hospital as a patient, she would make sure that they knew what she had to offer. In time, she branched out and serviced visiting businessmen in their hotel rooms. Her cell phone became an invaluable tool for her, and she often thanked God for inventing it.

Salvatore Scazzofari, Cenzo’s younger brother and Chief of Police at the Rome Municipal Police Department, also had been a client of hers ... a very good client, and a very good friend.)

… I haven’t heard from Cenzo in a while, said Fannie. I’m sure the Email has something to do with the newspaper story. Let’s see what he has to say. She looked at the screen and began reading aloud the message that was typed in English. "Dear Fan, I just read in the newspaper that you have returned from the dead. So, allow me to be the first to welcome you back to the world of the living. As per the news article, a Yemeni security guard said he was witness to the murder of the woman they had found in the bay – you know, the one they thought was you – so it seems that the Yemenis are re-opening their own investigation into your disappearance. However, it baffles me as to why they’re going to all this trouble. My brother, Salvatore, the Rome Chief of Police, said that Mustafa Qurafi will be leading the investigation for the Yemenis, and you know what a pain in the ass he can be. However, Sal said that the Rome police will not be going out of their way to help the Yemenis in their investigation, especially if they come up with any information that might lead them in your direction, or if they uncover any information that would tie you to the death of the former ambassador’s son. His help will be purely perfunctory, and he will give it only if asked. Anyway, I’m sure you are safe, and I hope you stay that way. Be careful, and God bless you, my dearest Fan. Regards, Cenzo."

Jimmie, who had brought two cups of tea to the kitchen table while Fannie read the Email, sat down across from her and said, Fan, do you think Cenzo will keep you up to date concerning this Qurafi fellow’s progress in his hunt for you?

Oh, I’m sure he will; but I’ll Email him back to remind him to do just that. She reached for the tea and took a sip.

"So, why do you think the Yemenis are so intent on bringing you back? I mean no offense, Fan, but you were just a nurse; you certainly could have been replaced easily enough."

Well, the only reason I can think of is that they want me to finish my four years of indentured servitude to them; you know, to pay them back for having paid my way through nursing school.

"Or, maybe Qurafi just has the hots for you. Didn’t you say that you thought he’d seen you naked through the window of the women’s shower room at the embassy? I mean, if I was him, I‘d certainly have the hots for you."

"Oh, puleeze. The guy’s a skank. Most voyeurs are skanks. And he was a stinky skank, at that. I don‘t know if he ever bathed."

Well, stinky skanks fall in love, too, y‘know.

Ugh! Barf me out, eh. Anyway, maybe they‘ll give up their search after a while when they realize that I‘m not to be found anywhere in Rome, or in Italy, for that matter.

"You hope that‘s what they‘ll do."

Yeah. I hope. Then she batted her eyes at Jimmie and said, So, how do you think I’ll look with green contact lenses?

Well, it’ll certainly suit you better than becoming a blond.

*

Ten days earlier, on July Fourth, a jihadist plot to kill Mikki Paarsalu, the pro-Western Secretary General of the United Nations, was foiled by a group of courageous people, including several operatives of World Interconnect, or WI-7, a secret international terrorist-tracking organization. The masterminds behind the assassination plot were Ali Ayadi Wadi, a powerful mullah at the Ibn Asir Meshkiri mosque in Boulder, Colorado, and Sheik Sadnan Harradi, Yemen’s now-deceased, former ambassador to the United Nations.

The leader of the operation that successfully foiled the assassination attempt was Greta Vogelein, the Denver-based, regional director of WI-7. She was assisted by a WI-7 informant inside the Ibn Asir Meshkiri mosque (Sharfiq Zebdahni), a United States Congressman (H. Mathias Neimark), an Israeli Mossad agent (Levi Ashkelon), two journalists (Paul Davidson and Saundra Jessup), Saundra’s friend at CNN in Atlanta (Della Casias), Saundra’s sister and new WI-7 recruit (Jenny Jessup), a pecan farmer (Johnny Skull), three sheriff’s deputies (Morty and Solomon Cohen in Sheridan County, Wyoming, and Julio Vargas in San Juan County, Arizona), a nun (Sister Hernanda Molina in Ignacio, Colorado), a London-based pizza maker (Xerxes Malouffi), WI-7’s executive director (Jack Davidson), and Fannie Scalisi and Jimmie Masroun.

The assassination of Paarsalu was to be carried out by three Islamic jihadists, and was supposed to have taken place during a celebrity deer hunt at the NX Bar Ranch in northern Wyoming. However, during the weeks leading up to the assassination attempt, all three jihadists were eliminated prior to the attempt on Paarsalu‘s life: one was taken out by Fannie; another by Jenny Jessup; and the third by Johnny Skull – a former U.S. Marine, former newspaper editor, and currently a pecan farmer in southern Arizona. (A fourth jihadist was killed at the site of the deer hunt as he attempted to shoot Paarsalu. He was shot in the head by Israeli Mossad agent Levi Ashkelon, Sheridan County Sheriff’s Deputy Solomon Cohen, and WI-7’s Jenny Jessup.)

And, while Greta knew that Johnny Skull had terminated the life of one of the three jihadists, she still had no idea concerning the disappearance of the other two.

Then, on Saturday, July 10, Greta drove up to Laramie to have lunch with Jenny Jessup, after her newest recruit requested that they get together to review the events leading up to the attempted assassination of Paarsalu on July Fourth.

*

Do you mean to tell me that Greta still doesn’t know how the other two jihadists disappeared? Saundra Jessup asked her twin sister, Jenny, as they drove into Laramie from their home in Story, Wyoming.

That’s right, said Jenny. "I mean, she hasn’t asked me about them, mainly because she has no idea that I actually know what happened to them. But I feel that I have to be honest with her. I just want her to know what happened. Hopefully, it will be the foundation of future trust between us."

So, how many people know?

Well, there’s you and me, and Johnny, and Fannie and Jimmie. I haven’t told Levi yet, nor have I told Paul. Paul Davidson was a journalist, who, along with Saundra, worked for The Sheridan County Sunrise, an award-winning weekly newspaper in Story, Wyoming. Paul’s father, Jack, was Greta’s boss and the executive director of WI-7, headquartered in New York City.

Well, if it’s okay with you, I’ll just keep my mouth shut and listen. That is, I‘ll just eat and stay mum and make sure everyone‘s beer glass stays full.

Sure. That’ll be alright with me. Fannie and I will do all the talking.

Fannie worked at the pizza place along with Jimmie; Fannie’s shift wouldn’t start until four o’clock; Jimmie was working the lunch shift.

Saundra and Jenny had been seated for no more than two minutes when Greta walked into The Palace. She saw them sitting in a booth at the back of the place, and she waived as she walked through the door. Saundra was the brunette twin, and Jenny was the blond; however, their faces were exact images of each other.

As Greta sat down in the booth across from the twins, she said, Good afternoon, ladies. I sure am hungry.

Just then, Fannie walked in through the front door, crossed the floor, and sat down next to Greta. Good afternoon, ladies, she said. I sure am hungry.

Jimmie approached the table and said, Howdy, ladies. Hungry?

Greta looked up from her menu and asked, How’s the veal?

Jimmie smiled and said, It’s the best in the city. Would you like it sliced thin and served on Italian bread with mozzarella cheese and a light butter-and-garlic-and-olive-oil sauce? or cut into chunks, sautéed in butter and garlic and olive oil and served over thinly sliced, roasted eggplant? They‘re both lunch specials today.

Greta thought for a moment, then she smiled and said, Why don’t you bring enough of both dishes for the four of us, and we’ll share.

Sounds good to me, said Saundra.

Me, too, said Jenny.

Well, it seems that we are of one mind, said Fannie. Oh, and don’t forget the beer.

Sure, said Jimmie. Back in a flash with the suds.

Greta smiled and said, Well, that was easy. Then she looked at Jenny. So, Jen, what did you want to talk to me about that couldn’t have waited until next week at our bi-monthly meeting in my Denver office?

Well, Johnny suggested that I tell you certain things about the events of the past few weeks. To come clean, as it were.

Greta furrowed her brow. Come clean? Are you telling me that you’ve been holding something back from me?

Well … yeah. I mean, what happened, happened. And … well, it all seems to have turned out okay. So, no harm done. And I don‘t want to get into the habit of keeping secrets from you.

I should hope not, Jen. So, does this have anything to do with the disappearance of the other two jihadists?

Jenny looked over at Fannie, surprised that Greta had guessed right on the first try. Well … Jenny hesitated.

Greta looked at Fannie, then back at Jenny. Are you telling me that Fannie is in on this, too?

"Greta, it was one of those inescapable situations, the outcome of which just couldn’t be helped. Actually, it was two of those situations."

Just then, Jimmie brought the beer and four glasses to the table. Here ya go, guys, she said. Food’ll be out in just a little bit. She turned and left the table, knowing that Fannie would fill her in on the details of the meeting later in the day.

Thanks, Jimmie. Greta turned to look at Jenny and said, Okay, let me have it, as Saundra lifted the pitcher and began pouring beer into the glasses.

Fannie chimed in. Greta, I was the one to take matters into my own hands first …

(Fannie and Jenny had been working a stakeout on the house in which the three jihadists were holed up in Boulder: Jenny as a new employee of WI-7, and Fannie as a private contractor for the organization. The house in which the jihadists were hiding was owned by Ali Ayadi Wadi. Ali was a mullah at the Ibn Asir Meshkiri mosque; he was also Jimmie’s uncle, or at least that’s what she called him, he having brought her to America when she was just a small child, fulfilling a promise he’d made to her dying father in Afghanistan. Then, when one of the jihadists wandered into the backyard of the house when Jenny was on a lunch run, Fannie recognized him as one of the two men who had raped her a few months earlier in Yemen. Acting out of revenge, she killed the man. Then, shortly thereafter, when she recognized one of the other jihadists as the other rapist, she and Jenny killed him, too. Actually, Jenny did the killing of the second jihadist. Then, on the morning of July Fourth, Johnny Skull killed the third jihadist, with Jenny as his helper.)

Greta listened intently to the girls’ colorful, back-and-forth, all-the-gory-details description of the elimination of the two jihadists. By the end of their narrative – which was made even more entertaining by their noisy chewing and beer slurping and giggling over the description of the disposal of the bodies – Greta was happy that the mystery of the disappearing jihadists had been explained to her. She knew that in the business of espionage, certain unexpected things would come to pass – things that, while departing from the larger plan, had to be overlooked when the final result of the plan worked out well in the end. In this case, the successful foiling of Paarsalu’s assassination meant that no harm had been done in the wake of Fannie’s and Jenny’s efforts to eliminate the jihadists long before the scheduled time had come for them to be eliminated.

Y’know, Greta said, "now that I know what you two are capable of, and that it all turned out okay, I guess I can say that I’m proud of you. I mean, at least now I know that you two novices are able to think on your feet and react in a manner befitting WI-7 operatives … that is, without screwing up the bigger plan. And I’m glad that you told me about it, rather than me learning about what you did from another source."

Jenny breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, satisfied that Greta would not discipline her for keeping the information concerning the disappearance of the jihadists from her. She looked at Fannie and smiled the smile of a conspirator; Fannie returned the same.

However, Jenny, said Greta, please keep me informed of these little incidents in a more timely fashion from now on … please.

Sure, Greta. I will. I promise. But she’d made the promise with her fingers crossed under the table.

*

Two days later, on July 12, while Saundra sat at her desk at the newspaper office, the intercom speaker on her phone came to life. Saundra, said Willow Prentiss, the newspaper’s receptionist and office manager, you’ve got a call on Line 3. It’s from the U.N. … Say, if it’s that Secretary General guy, put in a good word for me, okay? He came on to me last week when we all met with him over at Brian’s house. You might tell him that I think he’s cute.

Willow! You’ve already got a boyfriend. Indeed, Willow was semi-engaged to Mike Akmoudy, the brother of Farrah Davidson, Paul Davidson’s wife. On the downhill side of her thirties, Willow had been to the rodeo once or twice in her life, and her roving eye was always on the lookout for some new bronco-buster to ride. "Yeah, I guess. But even though we live together, we ain’t married yet," she said, winking into the phone.

Maybe I should tell him that you’d like to chat to him when I finish speaking with him?

You’d do that for li’l ol’ me?

I’ll think about it. Bye. Saundra smiled and punched the Line 3 button. Saundra Jessup, here.

Miss Jessup, this is the Secretary General’s executive assistant. I’ll get him on the line for you. Hold please.

(On July 4, Saundra had been at the scene of the attempted assassination of the U.N.’s Secretary General, Mikki Paarsalu, and she was the reporter who wrote the exclusive story of the attempt on his life for The Sheridan County Sunrise. The story was then publicized nationwide and worldwide via the Internet, and on American television by Nevada Congressman H. Mathias Neimark, an important player in the foiling of the assassination plot. Saundra’s story became an overnight sensation, and Secretary General Paarsalu showed his gratitude to Saundra by taking her and Jenny to brunch the following morning at the Piney Creek Store in Story. Paarsalu had also been a dinner guest on the night of The Fourth at the home of Brian Robbins, the newspaper’s owner/publisher.

It was at that dinner that Willow Prentiss met the romantically unencumbered Secretary General. Luckily for her, her boyfriend, Mike, was not at the dinner, he having been up in Billings, Montana, buying cattle for his employer, the Sheridan County Feed Lot. So, Willow, who had always been attracted to hunky men, glommed onto Paarsalu when she learned of his availability. They chatted for a while, flirted for a while, even shared a private glass of wine on the patio for a while. And when they parted company for the evening, both thought they were merely ships that had passed each other in the night and would never see each other again. However, later on, when they both went to their respective beds, they were definitely on each other’s minds as the land of nod welcomed them.

Of course, no one other than Willow and Mike knew that their own relationship was on the skids, and had been for a few months now. She knew that Mike had a girlfriend up in Billings, that being one of the reasons for his frequent trips up there of late. And, while she’d been faithful during their painfully slow, growing-apart period, she was getting the itch to return to the rodeo and check out the new livestock.)

Hello, Saundra? Mikki Paarsalu said.

Yes, sir. How are you doing after all the excitement? she said with a familiar tone. She had not spoken to him since the article had been published – an exposé of the assassination attempt that specifically targeted some of the key personalities behind the plot: Sheik Sadnan Harradi, the now-deceased, former Yemeni ambassador to the U.N. and the brains behind the plot; Ali Ayadi Wadi, the now-deceased middleman; Annie Jalaoui, a Palestinian CNN reporter now in jail for her part in the conspiracy; and Abu Zulu, one of the three terrorists chosen to kill Paarsalu. Abu Zulu was the jihadist who had died at the hands of Johnny Skull and Jenny Jessup on the morning of July Fourth.

I’m doing just fine, Saundra. I’ve been very busy; but I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the article. It created quite a stir.

Yes, sir, it sure did.

Anyway, I was just wondering if you might be able to do some writing for me in the future?

Saundra was nonplussed. Um … do you mean like being a ghost writer?

"Well, yes. There are certain things that go on here at the U.N. that I‘d like to have exposed, and since we see eye-to-eye on political issues, maybe you can be my alter ego in the press. I can give you ideas and facts and you can work your craft with them. It’ll be a boon to your little newspaper and to your career. I’ve already spoken to your boss, Brian Robbins, about it, and he agrees. Jack Davidson, Greta Vogelein, and Congressman Neimark also are on board with the concept."

"Do you think it’ll matter what I say … I mean, coming from a small-town weekly reporter in the nation’s least-populous state?"

Well, with the Internet being what it is, even the smallest voice can reach the largest audience. That’s especially true if the amplifier is the United Nations. Furthermore, your voice isn’t so small any longer, ever since that assassination-attempt article made such a splash. So, if you‘re interested, I‘d be happy to work with you.

Saundra’s face flushed with pride. Sir, when will you need me to start?

Oh, it may not be for a while. I just wanted to make sure that you were interested.

"Well, how can I say no?"

Good. We’ll stay in touch.

Of course, sir. Realizing that the business part of the conversation was over, Saundra said, Oh, by the way, do you remember a gal named Willow? You met her at Brian’s dinner party recently.

Yes, of course I do, Paarsalu said, smiling.

"Well, she asked me to say hello to you from her."

Really?

"Yeah. She said that she thought you were cute."

"Cute? Well, I’m six foot three and two hundred twenty pounds. No one has ever called me cute before."

"Well, there’s always a first time for everything, and if you knew Willow as I do … well, she’s very honest. I would take it as a compliment, sir. Not only that, but she‘s an expert on the concept of cute."

Interesting … Say, is she there? In the office, I mean.

Yes. She is.

Why don’t you let me chat with her for a moment … that is, if she’s not too busy.

Sure. Hold on a moment. Saundra pressed the hold button and punched Willow’s extension button.

Yes, Willow answered.

Willow, I’ve got Mr. Cutey on the phone for you.

"For me? The Secretary General of the United Nations wants to talk to li’l ol’ me?"

Uh huh. I think he’s hot for you.

Really?!

Well, I don’t know that for sure. He might be luke warm, or heated, or even boiling for all I know. But he remembers you and he asked to have a little chat with you … So, good luck, cowgirl. Saundra hung up, wondering where this little international escapade would lead.

*

That evening, when Mike Akmoudy returned from Montana, he told Willow that he was moving out. He said that he’d met a girl up in Billings, and he was moving up there to work for his present employer who also owned the Billings Stock Yard.

Sorry, Willow, he said, but it was just one of those things. We met at work, fell in love, and, well, I just don’t want to continue keeping it from you.

Willow felt as if she’d had the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders. She knew it was coming, but she didn’t know it would happen this soon. The old one-door-closes-and-another-door-opens sort of thing. She breathed out loudly, sat back on the kitchen-table chair and said, When will you move out, Mike?

Well, as soon as I can. Maybe tomorrow, maybe later this week.

"No, Mike … why don’t you move out tonight. It was not a question, it was a no-nonsense suggestion. I mean, this is my house, remember? I bought out your share six months ago when you needed the cash. And I can have you removed by force, if necessary. You don’t have that many things to pack, anyway. You can stay at your parents’ house tonight."

Tonight? But …

But … what? A roll in the hay for old-times’ sake? In your dreams, pal. She stared at him coldly. Mike, don’t forget that the sheriff is married to my cousin. Whose side do you think he’ll take if I ask him to remove you?

Mike didn’t say another word. He immediately began packing his things and was out of the house within the hour.

As soon as Mike was gone, Willow sent an Email message to Mikki Paarsalu’s private Internet account. The message read, He‘s gone for good. When can I see you?

Moments later, he returned her Email: I’ll make arrangements for you to fly to New York to spend the weekend. You can be back in Wyoming by midnight Sunday.

*

Then, just as the U.N. Secretary General was reaching for the OFF switch on his home computer, he heard a ping, signaling an incoming Email. He opened it and read a message from Jack Davidson, the chief executive officer of WI-7. The message read: MP, Meet me for breakfast tomorrow morning at Heshie’s Deli in Greenwich Village. 6 a.m. Important! Wear clothing that is inconspicuous. A hat, too. Don’t shave. JD.

Paarsalu smiled. He loved intrigue. He just had to figure out a way to sneak out of his apartment at that early hour without his bodyguards taking notice. But, then again, he’d done it before, so this time should be no problem, he figured.

(Mikki Paarsalu, who was an undercover agent for WI-7, became the U.N.’s boss earlier in the year when the then-Secretary General Choon Yool Pak committed suicide after his family was murdered by an Islamic jihadist cell while on vacation in Jerusalem.

Nine years earlier, Ilpo Paarsalu, Mikki’s father and present president of the Baltic nation of Estonia, had asked his American-educated son to clamp down on Estonia’s restless Muslim population immediately after 9/11/2001. Subsequently, and because of the respect he’d earned resulting from his successes in suppressing dissident Estonian Muslims, his father named him to the position of Estonia’s ambassador to the U.N. And, in April 2010, he was elected overwhelmingly to its top position ... mostly because his pro-Western political stances were not well known to the voting members of the U.N.

Then, after a his scathing acceptance speech to the U.N.’s General Assembly as its new Secretary General – in which he berated the organization for being a black hole of mediocrity and irresponsibility and American funding – he was targeted for execution by the Yemeni ambassador, simply because Paarsalu had publicly dressed him down during the speech. However, the July Fourth assassination attempt subsequently failed.)

At precisely six the next morning, a taxi pulled up in front of Heshie‘s Deli. The sidewalk-side passenger door opened and two hands raised a closed umbrella, snapping it opened. A well-disguised U.N. Secretary General emerged into the pouring rain. He wore a well-worn, but not-yet-ragged raincoat, dirty sneakers, faded jeans, a tennis hat that covered most of his almost-white blond hair, and a crumpled New York Giants t-shirt.

Watching him from inside Heshie’s Deli was Jack Davidson, who sat in a corner booth. He knew it was Paarsalu from the man’s size: an athletic six-foot-three; broad at the shoulders; positive gait; solid build, he having been an Estonian Olympic wrestler in his younger days. Indeed, he’d also been a member of the Hillsdale College wrestling team twenty years earlier.

Jack Davidson, thinking ahead, had ordered breakfast for two: pastrami and scrambled eggs, toasted bagels with pot cheese, fresh fruit, coffee with heavy cream, and tall glasses of orange juice.

As he sat down across from Jack, Paarsalu smiled as he looked at the table full of food and said, Ah, pastrami and eggs and pot cheese on a bagel, the ultimate Jewish gourmet breakfast … albeit unkosher. So, tell me, my friend, is this a great country, or what?

Happy that Paarsalu was in good spirits, Jack smiled and said, What do you mean?

Whispering, Paarsalu said, I mean … here we are, two Jews, one from Israel, one from Estonia, having breakfast in a hole-in-the-wall café in the United States in the rain at six o‘clock in the morning, and no one suspects who we are or what we’re up to. He grabbed a fork, poked at a gob of meat and eggs and delicately levitated it into