Episode 1 Stella

She met me at the airport in her new car, a red Porsche convertible. Stella and I had been lovers when she first ran for Congress, so it couldn’t have been easy for her to ask for help. I'd heard her storefront office had been replaced by an elegant brownstone. I’d followed her career and her rising fame in the newspapers. Even I could see that her clothes were no longer picked from Macy's sales rack. According to the gossip columns, her makeover had been complete: Hermes handbag, Ferragamo shoes, and Gucci scarf to match her Chanel suit. The renegade said what she thought, but she was a successful politician anyway. A defiant mix of Italian and Puerto Rican, she was still a street-smart kid. For a junior congresswoman, she had established unprecedented influence, both in Congress, and throughout the country.

I found I was having trouble keeping my hands off her. I thought about her first campaign for Congress. Her supporters had responded to her speeches, cheering and blowing kisses. Triumphant, intense, she had led me into a supply closet. I remembered the cobwebs, the sharp smell of freshly printed leaflets and bumper stickers, my hand under her hips pulling her towards me, her fingers on my belt, her breath in my ear. She remembered too.

Neither of us mentioned our intense time together or my abrupt disappearance when I was tapped for the 9/11 investigation. Instead, we talked about her suspicions. Amy Chen, district attorney who was a friend had been upset about an illegal immigrant arrested on charges of smuggling aliens into the country. Word had come down from above to release him, despite the fact that several immigrants were ready to testify to abuse at his hands. His name was Kip Yu and he was to be freed that afternoon. Stella didn’t know who had ordered his release, but she was curious enough about who was protecting him to track me down in Santa Fe. She knew I'd been on leave from government work, but in the current political climate, that could be an advantage.

"I hate to tear you away from your research, Blake, but you are the only one with the credentials for this. You'll be able to eavesdrop without a translator and you understand the mindset of both criminals and terrorists.

The precinct released Kip Yu at 5:00 in the evening and I followed him. As dusk fell, he crossed Times Square. Workers spilled on to the sidewalks. Car horns blared and vendors hawked their hot watches, knock-offs of Gucci bags, falafel sandwiches. I listened to fragments of conversations in Arabic, Vietnamese, Spanish, Chinese, Russian.

At first Kip had the demeanor of a vagrant, a tentative meandering gait and downcast eyes. He pulled his baseball cap over his face and picked up a smoldering cigarette from the curb. But when he straightened up he was not a vagrant at all but a young thug. He strode across the street, whistling. What was it? A Chinese lullaby! He exhibited an unselfconscious, animal energy, as he walked toward the riverfront. I followed.

At 42nd Street, Kip stopped and unlocked a battered truck that said Lucky Eight Hauling in Chinese. He tossed his cap on the seat and a long, thick black braid fell down his back. I caught sight of his face It was sliced by a scar across his eyebrow and cheek. He started the truck, then paused to roll a joint, expertly licking it closed, and lighting it.

I spotted a battered Chevy van, idling at the curb. The owner was at a newsstand on the corner, buying cigarettes. I jumped in. As I did, Kip's truck pulled out, the joint dangling from the his lips. I followed.

We took the Lincoln Tunnel to New Jersey. By the time we pulled into a narrow dirt path, it was dark. The truck strayed slowly through an empty industrial park, skirting decrepit, faceless buildings. We passed abandoned warehous­es, perched near the waterfront. From a vantage point, I turned off my van and watched Kip pull up to a dilapidated warehouse. I found a worn black sweater on the seat and pulled it over my white shirt, then got out of the van, crouching behind a pile of rubble.

Kip effortlessly unloaded boxes and large bottles of water, still whistling, then took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the sliding door of an industrial building.

I was unprepared for what happened next.

Two screaming women, a young girl, and four men spilled out of the factory. Kip quietly uncorked a bottle of water and handed it to one of the men. The older man picked up a stick and with two of the others, started to circle Kip. They were grim and quiet. I took out my cell phone and took pictures, emailing them to the HQ Database for ID.

One of the men, who was not Chinese, but perhaps Indonesian, made a futile gesture to stop the attack, changed his mind, and putting his hand on the girl’s shoulder, started backing away.

Kip gave an ear splitting yell and kicked the stick out of the older man's hands. He kicked again and the older man was down, his head bleeding. Methodically, Kip propped him up against the truck and handcuffed him to the door handle. Then he reached into his pocket and unfolded a long thin boning knife.

"Coward" said one of the men, crouching near the ground. “You've starved him and now you're going to hurt him."

"No," said the thug, "I'm not going to hurt him. You're going to do it for me."

He pulled the crouching figure roughly to his feet and put the knife in his hand. He patted his pocket.

"This one has a bigger blade." He stood back and suddenly he laughed.

"Now skin him," he said.

There was silence on the waterfront. The water lapped the shore. In the distance, a horn sounded. The handcuffed man gurgled slightly.

"Didn't you hear me?" Kip's voice abruptly flattened. "Skin him or I'll skin you."

I stooped and picked up a rock and threw it, hitting Kip on the shoulder. The captives sensed an opportunity and closed in on him.

Kip reacted quietly. He reached down for his knife and leaned over the chained man. I lobbed another rock, grazing his arm. He raised his head and sniffed the air. Then he straightened, and methodically tripped each of the others, tying their hands behind their backs. He did the men first, then the older women, then he came to the man who had backed away from the fight.

"Inform your village. Tell them what the Imani does to those who betray them," he said in Indonesian. He tied the girls hands and easily loaded the bound immigrants into the warehouse, leaving the man outside.

Kip swung himself into the truck, starting it up and dragging the handcuffed man as he drove away. I followed. The truck stopped near a rotting pier. Kip got out, looked at the bloody pulp that had been a man and grunted. He reached into the front seat and pulled out a ragged blanket. He unlocked the cuffs and wrapped the body in the blanket. Easily, he dragged it to the river and threw it in.

He shuffled dirt over the bloody spots, went to the river and dipped his hands in. He started to whistle, turning his collar up. Knowing he was being watched. Then he got in the truck and drove away.

I followed Kip to the Upper East Side. I stayed at a distance until he reached his destination, an elegant East side mansion. It was a graceful building of limestone squares, with a Mediterranean air that managed to fit Manhattan. Next to it stood a smaller, darker stone mansion with front columns and a discreet plaque: The Wilson Foundation.

An angry wind blew past me as I stood across the street, in the shadow of a doorway, watching Kip lean against the wall, again the vagrant, his hat covering his braid. I've met other men like Kip in my work. Young, with chaotic pasts and nothing to lose, they are impulsive and brutal. They act without regard for consequences and they often die young. Tonight I saw that Kip could also be patient, a trait that didn't quite fit his personality profile. He waited and so did I.

As the night wore on, I saw thin older women who worked too hard at their look, in carefully chosen designer clothes, young renegades in ungainly combinations, teenagers whose grunge was practically indistinguishable from the clothes on the homeless beggar on the corner. Kip watched the mansion and I watched Kip. An hour passed. Then Kip's posture changed, almost imperceptibly. I stepped back into the shadows.

A stretch limousine stopped under a street lamp. The door opened, and a long, long leg was thrown out, clad in impossibly high heels and a short skirt. Inside there were kisses, shrieks, giggles, murmurs, a caress. The long leg was followed by a slim body. Sequins reflected the streetlamp, a lamé jacket opened to reveal a slim figure and ropes of pearls. A blond leaned into the car for goodnights, plans, more giggles. Then she emerged, followed by my old friend Periwinkle! That was a break for me. Periwinkle would make it easy to get to the blond.

She pulled herself away from the car, tossed back her long hair, slung her tiny beaded bag over her shoulder and saw Kip. Her eyes registered recognition and something else – fear? desire? Periwinkle, who misses nothing, saw it too. Then she pulled herself together, and skimmed up the steps. Periwinkle followed a few steps behind, laughing and talking quietly. As they approached the door it opened, revealing a warm, light interior. The door closed. When I looked, Kip was gone.




Episode 2 Treachery

I ditched the van I’d stolen and went to a garage I knew on 54th Street, where I checked out a Dodge truck, customized as an APV, All Purpose Vehicle. It was equipped with weapons, night vision glass, explosives detectors, a GPS, and a remote. In the glove compartment was a Scope. The size of a credit card, it is a computer, a weapon, and a communications device. I entered a code and it was instantly programmed to my needs. I used it to notify HQ that I was following up on suspicious activity and I would call for support, if needed.

At 2:00 AM, I was back in New Jersey, to revisit the warehouse. I found the Indonesian leaning against the building. He looked strangely serene, or perhaps it was shock.

"A group of men in ski masks showed up after you left,” he said. “I tried to get to my daughter, but they knocked me down and took them all away. She is my only child, Sayyid. Melati – in English she is called Jasmine. A brilliant girl, but marked by Allah. I was ready to do what Kip wanted so she could go to university in America. And have the mark fixed."

"What mark?"

"On her lip, it was sliced." Ah, a cleft palate.

"I'm not young anymore, Sayyid."

"Who is?" I sighed. I felt ancient, after a day that started out at the jail and culminated in a murder. With a footnote for the blond in the limousine.

Using my Scope I registered the location of the site and entered the code for an ISS, Intercept, Search and Seizure, as well as a thorough investigation of all the warehouses in the area. I expected a team to be there within the hour. In an office in the back, I found what I was looking for: remote devices, maps with symbols, unassembled pistols and semi automatics, ski masks, microphones, earphones, toy pistols, and a tool box. One crate had been turned into a desk, with papers in Chinese, German, Arabic and English.

I glanced at the papers: printouts from gelignite.org; semetex.com and annihilation.com. I knew them. They gave directions for assembling bombs in books, mailboxes, tennis balls. They supplied information on igniters, silencers, and propellants.

Kip was no loner. No doubt about it: he was part of a terrorist organization with a big agenda. In one corner, a dilapidated file cabinet contained documents in Chinese, Arabic and Farsi. I skimmed them. They described upcoming bombings, highjackings, and missile attacks. Were these fantasies? Ideas? Or an actual plot? There was a list: Dragon, Dog, Pig. On another page, the words The Club, but I couldn't tell whether it was a weapon, a group, or a code.

The Indonesian’s name was Barat and he seemed to know about Kip’s plans.

"This is just the beginning. Kip wants to destroy whatever he can. He said he'd blow things to pieces. He talked about bombing buildings and blowing up diplomats."

The sun was rising. I took Barat to Sumatra, a 24 hour Indonesian dive in the Bowery. Over corn fritters and fish steamed in banana leaves, he traced the events that had brought him to New York. He had been a teacher in Jakarta, and had picked up extra money driving a cab, where he had learned English and a smattering of French, Arabic, and other languages. His wife had died in childbirth. Jasmine was his beloved only child. He hadn't thought of her cleft palate as a problem until she was ostracized at school.

"She just wanted to be like the other girls." A tear rolled down Barat's cheek and he lay his fork on his plate. "And she was. Except for one thing. She was the child other kids taunted. Because of her lip. I would have done anything for her. Anything.

"We left Jakarta, because I knew she'd be better treated in the village where I was born. I took a job at the next village teaching, but the money was very little and I started to plant a few vegetables, bought a chicken."

And then he got into trouble for diverting water to his tiny vegetable garden from the irrigation ditches of a larger farmer. Only later did he realize Kip must have reported him.

"For a while nothing happened, then I was arrested. Kip Yu showed up out of nowhere and paid the bribe. I didn't know him. I was mystified, but I felt I deserved a little luck. So, I went home to Jasmine and covered the vegetable seedlings with dirt and looked for another way to make a few rupiahs."

One night Kip came to visit and he made Barat an offer. If Barat would confess to a crime in America, a murder, Kip would take them both to New York.

"I knew I would go to prison. But I was told Jasmine would have the operation, go to university, become an American. There was no greater gift I could give her. And there was nothing I could do to stop the murder. Kip would do it no matter what. I knew I was innocent. Kip will still want me to confess to the crime, I think.”

"Here's the big question, Barat,” I said. “Will you help me expose Kip’s plan.?"

He looked up at me.

"Kip planned to use me and now you want to use me too, sir."

"Yes I do."

"If you help me find Jasmine, I am yours."

"I will, but I want to know more about Kip."

"I know more."

"You do?"

"Kip spoke to me only in Indonesian. He didn't know I spoke other languages. But on the cell phone to others, he spoke Arabic and German. And I understood. He thought I was a stupid farmer from a village. He never knew about Jakarta, the cab. He thought I was just a peasant."

"And you let him think that."

"Yes, Sayyid."

"What did you learn from Kip?"

"Kip is part of a gang. The Imani."

"The Imani? There was a tribe by that name in ancient Sanskrit scrolls. They were slaveholders, thousands of years ago."

"Well, this Imani sells weapons."

"Weapons? You mean guns?"

"Car bombs for Al Queda. Uzis for Sudan. Rocker launchers for the Tamil Tigers; radar and artillery systems for the Salafists."

"For rebel groups,” I said. “Over a huge area… from Algeria to Sri Lanka!

I paid the bill and checked the street, before we left. It was quiet, those predawn moments when even thieves sleep. We walked a few blocks to a bleak hotel where I knew Barat could stay unnoticed. There was a streak of light in the east. Barat was beginning to wear out and I wanted to get him settled.

"Barat, do you know where Kip lives?"

"No, Sayyid, we stayed at the warehouse on the river. He wouldn't want us to know where he lived, because he would be afraid all the time."

"Well, I know where to watch for him now. Stay in this hotel for a few days. Kip will surface, and when he does we'll make our move."





Episode 3 Cosmos

After two hours of sleep, I checked in to see the results of my ISS, Intercept, Search and Seizure, but there was nothing. I traced the order back and it was nowhere to be found.

I should have been flying back to New Mexico. Instead I took the shuttle to Washington. The intelligence community is a group of thirteen government agencies. We’re the fourteenth - the one that isn’t mentioned, isn't investigated and can't be blamed for anything. HQ is the only name we use. Our function? Counterintelligence and counter terrorism. How do we do it? Psychological Operations. You could call it psychological warfare.

The four floors under HQ’s offices are a maze of tunnels and dead ends. There are classified archives, seized narcotics, stolen jewels, smuggled art work, and a refrigerator holding unidentified bodies. I’d been told where to find my boss. I let myself into what had been, before the advent of digital photography, the photographic section. I slipped through the negative room, and entered a long corridor, lit eerily by red lights. This tunnel had been a collective darkroom, where technicians worked round the clock. There had never been individual darkrooms. It would be too easy to slip out classified material. Instead silent figures worked in a series of cubicles, along an open hall.

Cosmos wasn’t happy to see me here. He would have met me cheerfully in Khartoum or Ashkhabad, if he arranged it. He loved hauling his bulk into tiny airplanes; rural trains packed with people, livestock and cooking pots; rental cars - anything that moved. He had been known to commandeer a rebel truck in the midst of fighting in Afghanistan and to borrow a bicycle when traffic came to a standstill in Karachi. An early heart attack had not slowed him down at all, and here he was thirty years later, having survived younger, thinner men who had exercised and avoided the foods he loved. He limped from an injury sustained years before. The story was almost legendary. He pulled a young girl out of the line of fire in Cambodia. He almost lost his leg in the process but he gained a mythological presence in Washington.

I found him in seated at a computer, touching up a photo of two men. He was humming to himself as he worked, his belly comfortably pressed against the desk. He switched to a new screen. I ignored the lack of a reception.

“I’ve stumbled on to something, Cosmos. A terrorist gang: the Imani. With a thug called Kip Yu, a murderer. I’ve seen him in action.”

Cosmos took his time answering.

"Blake, if you want an assignment there’s a Pakistani Mosque in New Jersey I’d like you to check out - I want to know if they have contact with a group in Kashmir.”

I ignored his offer. “Stella De Loria called me about an odd prisoner release and I discovered more than I expected. Stella feels there’s a government cover-up here. And I think she may be right.”

“I wish you would stay out of this, Blake,” Cosmos said.

“I ordered an ISS on a warehouse full of evidence. I checked the database to see the result but there was nothing. I couldn’t even locate a copy of my Order.”

“I aborted it,” he said. Before I could object, he’d changed the subject. “You know, Blake, things aren’t as clear cut as they once were. And our budgets are way down. But of course, there is always money for you. You know eastern languages and understand the people who speak them. You have a way of finessing conflict, allowing all sides to save face and to walk away feeling that they’ve won. This stuff that Stella’s worried about isn’t worthy of your interest.”

Cosmos had never, ever said anything nice about my work, at least not to my face. What game were we playing? And what were the stakes? I thought about the warehouse, wishing I’d taken the papers or stayed long enough to find out more.

“You’re on sabbatical, Blake. Dammit, I thought you wanted to concentrate on your academic career. Just duck – we’ve got plenty of talent here. After your last job you agreed to lie low.”

It was the strategic thing to do. My part in the 9/11 investigation had taken me to Kabul, Peshawar, Frankfurt, Tripoli, and various Mediterranean islands. I had found, in my investigation, three Pakistani terrorists who were willing to identify some of the perpetrators in exchange for new identities in the United States. I was in a position to know that the men they fingered were the right ones: I had followed the trail, resuscitating it when it threatened to die, examining every lead, checking every fact.

“You surpassed yourself, Blake. The country and the department owe you.” Cosmos overdid it that time. The compliment made me sick.

“Cut it out, Cosmos. It was luck and contacts, not brains that did it.”

A Tunisian rug merchant had been my connection to the terrorist pipeline for years. He set me up with a meeting in Peshawar with three men who claimed to have information worth millions. Only I knew their identities.

I worked undercover, negotiating with the defectors, until we struck a deal. I had helped create their new identities in the States and arranged for transport of their immediate families.

I had also staged their deaths. I had debriefed them: spending days hearing about their roles in atrocities of all kinds. No one had heard of Middle Eastern defectors before and the press never picked up a whiff of this affair.
It had been enervating to work with men who had committed evil acts and were now willing to reveal them in exchange for the personal freedom they had always scorned. Such men could tidily kill a man and go home to play with their children. Men who felt no qualms about keeping a hostage in chains for months would now volunteer for the Little League, or show up for PTA meetings. Three men who knew all there was to know about plastic explosives were now delivering Fed Ex packages, selling cellular phones, and teaching karate. Well, that was all right - as long as that was all they were doing. The thought that I might have been duped - that these men were planted to carry out another operation in the US nagged at me

And I knew it was time to drop out of the game. I was always looking over my shoulder, wondering who might have eavesdropped, recorded, known. Only I knew the identities of the defectors. Cosmos and I had decided I should stay within U.S. borders, where it would be harder to trap me and extract any information from me. I took refuge in my books. I liked to locate a mystery - tantalizing, seductive, and ancient. I tracked down clues, pursuing every lead. And I could have stayed in the archives forever.

But this situation demanded my attention. And what concerned me even more was Cosmos’s evasiveness. I couldn’t just walk away and leave it at that. It would be there to haunt me.

“What about explosives in the warehouse, the plans for bombings and highjackings?” I asked.

“We’ll follow up on it, of course. We always do.” I could tell he wouldn’t.

“I need to know if the department has run a series of probes on the Imani. Do we know the historic references?

Cosmos shrugged. “I guess they’ve surfaced here and there,” he acknowledged. “But they’re just not significant.”

“I want to trace their lineage,” I said. “I’d like the file.”

“There isn’t a file,” he said.

“Never mind,” I said. I’d start one.

“I left you a voice mail that I needed information on the blond. Did you find out who she is?” I asked. He sighed and handed me a dossier. I think he knew I’d find what I needed with or without him.

“Olivia Bell. You’ve never heard of her? She sings with a rock band, has a kind of permanent house party going on at her house, and models for Vogue.”

I settled back in my chair. There she was, on Vogue’s cover, no less. If I were an anthropologist from another culture, I would have identified on these pages a string of mating and grooming rituals in a society that had become ingrown, overripe, and narcissistic.

On the inside pages, I had trouble differentiating her from the other models at first. When I did, I noticed she was not only wearing different clothes, but assuming different roles. Career woman in a gray gabardine suit, too easily carrying a gray lizard briefcase. No blouse under the suit - that and the swell of her breast negated any attempt to replicate the fashion politics of the Boardroom. Here she was wearing a white sequined gown, covered by a black leather motorcycle jacket.

I turned the page. She was straddling the motorcycle, looking frankly into the camera, daring. There was a touch of sleaze somewhere, and I analyzed the picture to find it, finally locating it in her slightly smeared lipstick. It gave a dangerous aroma to the shot and made me pause and turn back to it.

In one spread, wearing a tight, short black dress, she stared into the lady's room mirror, a series of silver stalls behind her. She looked at herself appraisingly, one eyebrow arched. Had she just vomited into the toilet? Was that how she stayed so thin? Had she laid out a line of cocaine on the marble wash stand? Who was this woman? Was she the key to the Imani?

“I saw the house,” I told Cosmos.

“It’s the old Horn Mansion, built in the 1920's by Macintosh Horn, director of vaudeville and silent films. Back then a movie cost a dime.”

“Where did she get the money?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She inherited it - family money. She’s from one of those powerful New York families: her father was Gregory Bell, an international economist, married to a ballerina; they were part of the Democratic Ivy League elite. She’s not earning it illegally. Forget this, Blake.”

Cosmos was more uncomfortable than I’d seen him.

“Why the hell are they tailing her?” I asked. “She’s pretty high profile - it would be a mess if anything happened to her. Is she involved in something? Has she had a love affair with someone in power?”

“She has a weakness for men in power.” He seemed at a loss for words.

" The question is: why is Kip tailing her?”

“It’s not your problem.”

Maybe not. But Cosmos’s attitude was my problem.

“I want to move out of my hotel. Is anyone staying in the apartment on 57th?”

“Find your own damn place to stay.”

“What else do you know about this Olivia?”

"She runs with that gossip columnist, Griffon Thorndike. And she’s close to Stella.”

“I don’t believe it. Stella’s no lightweight.”

“They didn’t come from the same circles, that’s for sure. But they’ve been friends for years.”

“I want you to give me a cover, Cosmos.”

He sighed. “Just say you are staying in New York to plan a fundraising campaign for the Antiquities Museum. Maybe you'll pick up a donation along the way."

"Fund raising? I hate the idea of asking for money." Cosmos knew how to make it hard for me.

"You don't have to ask for it. You don't have to even take it. It's just a cover. I'll work it out with the museum hierarchy," Cosmos pushed back his chair as he rose. The meeting was over.

“One more thing, Blake.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re close.”

“Who?”

“Olivia and I. We have a relationship.”

Aha.




Episode 4 The Inside Man

It was obvious I couldn’t initiate a search or operation without an intercept from Cosmos. There was no one in my department who wouldn’t be placed at risk by knowing what I knew. I needed one person I could trust in the intelligence community, so I called Steven Shroeder, a Director of Operations Research at the CIA, a colleague with an academic background, like mine, as a linguist. He saved my life years ago in Cuba, in defiance of orders. I’d been trapped by a network of Albanian agents, whose existence in Cuba wasn’t even acknowledged. I sweated it out blindfolded, in a tent in the mountains, thinking I’d been abandoned. I didn’t know Shroeder was negotiating, tapping into the numbered Swiss bank accounts of Colombian drug lords to pay my ransom. I remember having the bandana removed from my eyes, the blinding light, and walking toward me, Steven Shroeder, his backpack over his shoulder. He handed me his sunglasses, put his arm around my shoulder, and took me to the airport. He knew I couldn’t get out of Cuba fast enough.

Shroeder arranged a private room at Citronelle. Shroeder inspired glances and conversation wherever he went and he had to deflect the attention of women constantly. It wasn’t simply good features, it was a certain grace and ease in every gesture. He did things effortlessly - whether it was breaking a code, skiing down a slope, or picking up Mandarin Chinese. He learned languages the way the Victorian explorer Richard Burton did: picking up 10 words a day until he was fluent and dreaming in the tongue.

I was the guy in the field. He was an inside man. I could go places and see for myself. He could find out anything. He had the authority to initiate investigations: my role would be invisible.

Although we ate alone, Shroeder put a tiny red plastic portable radio on the mahogany table and tuned it to a hard rock station. The sound was tinny, but it covered our voices.

“I want you to reinstate the Intercept, Search and Seizure on the warehouse,” I told him. Silently, he handed me a printout. There had been an explosion and fire at an abandoned warehouse along the wharfs of New Jersey. The contents of the Imani’s file cabinet and the crates of weapons were now beyond my reach.

“I can’t believe I didn’t slip any papers into my pocket, Steven. How could I have been so stupid?”

“Forget it, Blake. You didn’t know Cosmos would undermine any move you made.”

“I’m determined to unravel Kip’s operation, starting with Cosmos’ reason for covering up,” I said. “Do you think he’s doing it for money?

“No I don’t. But I have to admit it is easy in this administration to cash in on your work. Obviously, this isn't the only cover up in Washington. I'll check his finances. If he’s on the take, it will show up”

“And the warehouse - I know it’s gone, but can we find anything out about it?”

“I found the rescinding order for the warehouse search,” said Shroeder. “It said the search was being taken over by the FBI, but there’s no record of it in FBI files.”

“There’s got to be some kind of trail,” I said.

“After Hanssen’s spying was uncovered at the FBI, we developed a new protocol to probe agents’ computer files. I’m one of the few people approved to use it. I reconstructed deleted files from Cosmos’ computer. There wasn’t much, but something. The Imani is a gang, weapons dealers, led by a Jo Muktani. He was first detected in Hong Kong, where he met Po, the Madame of a brothel. She covered up when he got carried away, murdering one of her girls, no less. Then, they went into business together, picking up girls and boys and setting them up in brothels.”

“So the head of the Imani is a psychopath and a pimp?”

“Looks that way.”

“How did they get into the international arena?”

“Typically, we were their first client. I bet they needed dollars and the CIA pays well. The job involved destroying Taliban arms. After that they disappeared.

“How can we find out more?” I asked.

“There’s a new protocol, GC/24,” said Shroeder. He explained that GC/24 meant Global Contact Twenty-Four hours. “It's a form of electronic reconnaissance, a high priority way to gather information quickly. A Request for Informa­tion is emailed, faxed or IM’d to every embassy in the world, as well as to field agents. When the message is labeled GC/24, the recipient knows to respond with every bit of information on the topic within 24 hours. It's a quick and dirty survey of available intelligence on an undercover topic, hitting Interpol, major embassies, and files containing classified information, as well as the agents who have access to facts on the ground."

We drafted our Request: GC/24 Request all available information on: The Imani, originating in China, selling weapons, individuals: Jo Muktani, Madame Po, Kip Yu. GC/24

The message would travel over email, fax, and IM to Afghanistan, Borneo, Senegal. It would reach embassy officials, counter-terrorists, double agents, librarians. I could picture our message in the hands of an Ambassador in Pakistan, a Chinese messenger on a bicycle, an Iraqi guerilla fighter, a Libyan civil servant. It would even get to Cosmos, but by then the results would be in.

We discussed surveillance of Olivia Bell. I would start by talking to Periwinkle and Stella. Shroeder agreed to set up a Probes on Bell and Kip Yu. A Probe is an electronic file that gathers information by itself. Its extensive protocol keeps it going independently, electronically scanning the web, researching places and associates, recording phone calls, gathering newspaper and media references, scanning passport use and charge account activity, initiating random trash checks, recording the history of real estate, stock and investment purchases, checking for criminal associations and creating computer models to follow up.

We agreed on our goal: to use all techniques and approaches necessary to stop the Imani. We would locate them, and keep track of every move they made. I’d also watch Cosmos and meet Olivia Bell. But first, I needed to find an unofficial base in NY. Shroeder was a formidable partner. Still I had to wonder: what mayhem could I commit with just one colleague, my guts, and my wits?




Episode 5 PalmPrint

If I wanted to meet Olivia Bell, I needed Periwinkle. For years, the artist had asked me be part of his famous series of palmprints. Now I needed a public reason to be in New York and a place to stay and work – and the palmprint was the easiest cover.

Periwinkle's secretary, Marcus, had told me I could join the artist at two in the afternoon, when he arose, for morning tea. I was on time. Periwinkle kept me waiting. Free to wander, I walked down the long narrow corridor leading to the artist's salon. Periwinkle had created a new art form by blowing up the palmprints of celebrities, accompanied by the insights of a palm reader in English and Tibetan. I looked at the names under each palmprint. George Clooney. Oprah Winfrey. Caroline Kennedy. Chelsea Clinton. David Becham. Amy Winehouse. Michelle Obama. Jon Stewart. Thich Nhat Hanh. The celebrity palmprints were priceless. But even the anonymous palms brought in a fortune. I bet my own would go for a cool half million.

The artist was a phenomenon. He had reshaped American thinking about the definitions of art. He was secretive, cruelly cutting toward his friends, disdainful of his own art and art in general. He dressed as if he lived in another time. The period of the moment was Shakespearean.

We’d met on a job and become good friends. The international art market and the world of surveillance often intersect. Art dealers can be diverted by smuggling, tempted by drug sales, attracted by so-called investments in paintings ostensibly by Picasso, Miro, or Rembrandt, really done by a clever copyist in the East Village. In such cases, Periwinkle was invaluable to HQ. He didn't have to go undercover. He was fearless, could say the most outrageous things in public, could recognize a fake at the other end of a football field.

When I needed to get things out of Tibet or China, Periwinkle set it up for me as an international art shipment. I would federal express the piece to him and as our Curator Emeritus, he’d pass it on to the Antiquities Museum, where I would retrieve it.

I looked around. For years, Architectural Digest had wanted to do a spread on this place. The house was filled with treasures, objects we would proudly display at the Antiquities Museum: gold statues from Egyptian tombs, frescoes from Renaissance Italy, a frieze from ancient Greece. Periwinkle hadn't bothered to arrange them carefully, but everything landed in just the right place.

"Blake, you're here at last!" Periwinkle was dressed in a rose velvet Elizabethan jacket and white tights, with soft suede boots. "I've been waiting years to decipher your palm. I’m convinced that the palmprint of someone who has led a second, hidden life will be especially revealing.”

"I've been admiring your collection," I said, picking up a jeweled Tibetan prayer wheel and giving it a turn. "I'd love to know where you got all this."

"Wouldn't you though?" Periwinkle smiled, passing me a plate of fruit and cakes, pouring espresso into a demitasse. "You'd like to divest them of their powers and put them on display."

I winced. I didn't like to discuss this aspect of my job, and I wished Periwinkle didn't know about it. The Antiquities Museum had a dramatic display of Tibetan Buddhas and other sculptures. In Tibet, each sculptor had placed mantra scrolls into each statue as it was created, to give the image life and power. It was part of my job to break the seal at the bottom and remove the consecrated prayers, divesting the image of its power.

This task went to the heart of my uneasiness about my academic research. I loved it all - the travel to the East, communicating in other languages, living in places untouched by modern conveniences. I didn't mind the long hours of research, even if they ended in a blind alley.

I minded only one thing. I had the suspicion that I was involved in a delicate carnage, destroying what I treasured most. I could see the connection between my work and the vulnerability of the ancient cultures I loved. As a western scholar, wasn't I robbing the ancient lands of all spirit, of the very magic and wonder that had drawn me to that world? It was like the dissection of a exquisite flower - at the end, the flower which had lured the viewer was gone and the scientist was left with facts where there had been inscrutable beauty.

"Seriously, Periwinkle, you didn't get this from the Chinese, did you? You know the Chinese have stripped the Tibetan monasteries of their treasures."

"I rescued it. It's that simple." said Periwinkle, taking the prayer wheel out of my hand, and placing it tenderly on the shelf. He looked at it for a moment, and turned back to me.

"Now let's talk about your palm. Let me see it darling. I can't wait to make a print and give it to Sukha. She's the best - the only palm reader in the world who can read from a palmprint, rather than the person's hand.

"Tell me about Sukha. Where did you find her?" We sank into Periwinkle’s comfortable overstuffed chairs.

"It's quite a story. Her father was a Swedish count who was a Tibetan scholar, Eric Anderson." He peeled an orange, arranged the sections on a plate, sprinkled it with powdered sugar, and passed it to me.

“Anderson? I've read his books!"

"Well, Sukha has taken her mother's surname, Chensal. She was Tibetan of noble birth. Most of her family was persecuted by the Chinese after they invaded Tibet, and Sukha and her father went into exile in Stockholm."

I nodded. "They'd be safe there."

"You would have thought so," said Periwinkle. "But an officer in the Chinese army was tracking the family. After Eric died, this officer came to look for Sukha. She went to Africa, where she hid for a number of years, and when the Chinese officer tracked her down there, too, she was a stow-away on a ship bringing coffee from Kenya. She reasoned, rightly, that she'd be safer here in the United States than anywhere else."

"How did you meet her?"

"She was rescued by my friend Olivia years ago. She lives in her carriage house.” Olivia! This was going to be easier than I expected.

“What’s Olivia like? Blows coke? Shops? Hops from bed to bed?”

"You don't know her. Consider this." He picked up an inlaid Chinese puzzle and pushed a button. It opened to reveal a tiny pearl.

“What are you saying, Periwinkle?”

"I'll give this to you." Periwinkle put the puzzle in my hand. "You can figure it out. Tell me, Blake, how long are you staying?

“I’m not sure but I need a place to stay, a place with limited access - the less people, the less likelihood of being detected.”

“You can use my atelier on 56th Street. It’s a secret: no one goes there but me. It’s where I sew.”

“I never knew you sewed,” I said.

“Neither does anyone else. But I do. I collect antique fabrics and I take them to the atelier. And then I just sit there with the television on, whipping out outfits. You know Blake," Periwinkle confided, helping himself to a small, shell-shaped cake, "I've gotten reclusive over the years, just like you."

"You?! Why, you're out every night. I read about you in the gossip columns every morning."

"Well, it isn't really me. It's my double."

"Your what?"

"My double - his name is Andy, actually. He goes to the balls and the openings. He does the outrageous things. He brings home the commissions for art work from all the society women. And I'm free to haunt the downtown antique shops, and rearrange my treasures, and turn out outrageous outfits, deconstructed antique clothes remade into a new incarnation that sell for thousands in Bergdorf’s. Under another name of course. It wouldn’t do to have the public know it was made by the infamous Periwinkle.”

“You’re serious?” I asked.
“It’s my other life, Blake. It’s a concept that Olivia and I have talked about. Each of us has another, contrasting life, whether we live it out or not, and it is often a contradiction to the obvious life that is seen and known. You, for example, live a public life of study, locked in a museum, and a private life of action. I live a public life of celebrity, status and acquisition and the private life of a seamstress.”

“And Olivia?” I asked cautiously.

“Well obviously she lives the public life of an icon, of a mannequin, a life of status and fame.”

“And her other life?”

“Isn’t that what you’re here to find out?"

I didn’t like it when others knew more than I did. I thought of myself as knowing the undercurrents behind the facades, divining what others could never see.

“Let’s talk about the atelier. No housekeeper, repair people?” I asked.

“No one. Here’s a key. But now, let's get down to business."

He led me through the house to his workroom. It was a huge open room, once a glove factory, built a century ago, in back of Periwinkle's town house. I was surprised to find a half dozen assistants to help Periwinkle in his work, but he insisted on printing my palm himself. He took out a giant stamp pad, cut out a circle of paper, and fit it around my wrist.

"Your palm is so interesting, Blake," Periwinkle gushed. "Will it reveal why you hide away in the archives, doing research, never speaking to anyone for days?”

"I don't need to speak to anyone," I said. "Everyone has hidden agendas, ulterior motives. People use each other, even those they pretend to love. I'm past the point of looking for anything good in people. Languages and cultures interest me, not individuals."

As we parted, Periwinkle promised, "I'm going to take you to meet Olivia - and Sukha. I'll call you. It’s a good thing you’re here, Blake. This visit may give you the opportunity to do something more important than you’ve ever done before.”

“And what might that be?”

“I know that you can find your way across the Gobi Desert without a compass. You know the ancient globe as well as today’s. You’ve traveled the world, Blake. But there’s one thing you’ve never really located.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“You’ve never located yourself.”




Episode 6 Seeking Olivia

That night, I was drawn to Olivia’s mansion. I watched for an hour, then walked to the back of the building. There were garages and double doors to another section of the house.

As I returned to the front I saw a slight figure in soft black leather emerge from the mansion. It took me a moment to realize it was she. She slipped on a helmet, mounted a BMW motorcycle and nosed it out into the street. From the corner, I flagged a cab.

"Follow the bike," I said tersely. I noted the driver's name, Ahmed. I placed his accent as Syrian Arab, probably from north of Aleppo near the Turkish border. I guessed the driver was not armed, that he was honest, very tired, probably from working twenty-four hours at a time, in order to send money home to his extended family. He probably slept in a two-room apartment shared with seven other drivers, sleeping and working in shifts.

Despite his fatigue, Ahmed was alert. We kept the blond in sight. She went around the block, but the cab kept up with her.

"The biker wants to shake us," Ahmed murmured. I had noticed. We turned another corner and she was gone. She'd lost us.

Then she came across the street behind the cab. I smiled and relaxed. Ahmed knew what he was doing and if he lost her, she would come back to tease us.

The blond led us to Chinatown. I saw the businesses, the restaurants, the signs for the illegal gambling house. Her bike stopped in front of a Chinese grocery and she left it on the sidewalk. My cab waited at the end of the street. She emerged a few minutes later with some packages which she popped into her tankbag. Then she took off again.

She stopped at the corner and signaled to a young Chinese boy who was lounging at the curb. He approached her and took a package, and a tip.

What was she delivering? Drugs? Money?

The boy trudged to my end of the street. He stopped when he reached the cab, opened the door and handed the package to me.

I opened the bag gingerly. Inside was takeout Chinese food and a note.

"There are easier ways to order take-out Chinese, my curious friend. Hope you get a good fortune, Cookie."

The next day, at home in Periwinkle’s atelier, I reviewed Olivia’s file. In it, was the cover of Newsweek, twenty years ago. A blonde child of five was standing up in a carriage, the reins tight in her hands, driving a team of horses across Central Park. Her sleek pants were tucked into white leather skates, and out of every pocket peeped a tiny stuffed animal. Her hair streamed out behind her, her expression was ecstatic. Kids - The New Breed of Consumer read the banner headline. It was Olivia's first known media exposure.

The reporter claimed the shot was unstaged, a case of serendipity on the part of the photographer given the assignment. The little girl had just come out of FAO Schwartz, exhilarated by her purchases and her parents had allowed her to commandeer the carriage. The beginning of a career.

I tossed the magazine on the floor next to the brocade chaise lounge where I’d stretched out. Periwinkle’s atelier, the fifth floor of a renovated tenement, was a series of rooms, each with a stairway going up or down into it. The main room, which became my office, was his sewing room. Fabric swatches studded one wall behind three sewing machines. On the wall, a giant screen showed moving scenes projected of models on runways. In another room, stood five mannequins, with clothes in various stages of completion, pinned on them.

The room which became my bedroom had a an overstuffed chaise, fringed lampshades, and a fire escape that Periwinkle had transformed into a little balcony, with plants, and a wicker chair. Here, I took my morning coffee. I looked at the condoms pinned up on the wall, filled with beads, appliqués, sequins, and buttons. With satisfaction, I saw it as the last place anyone would look for me. I’d get used to the fabric samples, the leather aprons, the bits of lace, the bobbins of silk thread. This will do perfectly, I thought, imagining Cosmos here, admiring the manikin, draped with black lace and rubber.

I created an electronic shield around the place, then lay my own alternative wireless connections for the phone lines, and a scrambler for messages. Anyone with a soldering iron can install an electronic eavesdropping system, but not here. My system would detect any anomalies and would start a process of identifying the assailant. I set up a computer model to collate incoming intelligence.

Shroeder had sent me hardware and software, including global satellite communications, surveillance equipment, a computer hook-up to Headquarters’ database, a fax, and a magnificent program that surveyed and reordered research. I collected printouts, surveillance notes, magazine pages, miles of voluminous material, adding up to nothing at all. I looked at the puzzle given to me by Periwinkle, reviewed my research, thought about the way Olivia relished being followed on her bike. I looked at her picture in Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, and Talk. And I wondered again if she’d been seduced by the glamour of spying and then gotten in over her head.

I realized the phone was ringing.

"Blake," said a penetrating, velvety voice. "Your palm print is superb." It was Periwinkle. "You've made me so happy. I think we both deserve to celebrate. I'll pick you up in an hour. Wear evening clothes." I agreed.

Periwinkle actually appeared on time, dressed in a doublet of damask, with a wide ruff at the neck, brocade breeches, tights, and a long, velvet cape.

“Let me guess,” I said. “This is one of your own creations.”

“I admit it Blake. And when I’ve sewn something as marvelous as this I go clubbing. Or else I do what we're doing tonight."

"And what is that?"

"We're going to Olivia's. Your palmprint is ready. And Blake, I have a feeling a very important part of your life is going to open up tonight. I think you’ll find what you’ve always wanted.”



Episode 7 Luxury and Beauty

The door to the Horn Mansion was opened by a dark, patrician woman, with a heart shaped face, dressed in black. Periwinkle introduced Sukha. I looked into the deepest eyes I had ever seen. I gazed down at the tiny, soft aristocratic hand in mine. She was not imposing - simply, decisively, present.

We entered a center hall. Black and white marble tiles covered the floor. On one side was a large fireplace, flanked by two enormous chairs, upholstered in soft leather. At the other end, a circular wrought iron staircase, at least twenty feet in circumference, rose toward a domed, leaded glass skylight. At the top of the stairs was Olivia, wearing white silk Chinese lounging pajamas, embroidered in white thread, and gold pointed slippers. Her hair was arranged on top of her head, with two mother of pearl chopsticks holding it in place. I would have been irritated by the latest fashion, but I was captivated by this unadorned, classic Chinese look.

The perfectly made-up model who had stared back at me from the pages of Vogue was not the woman who took my hand and looked into my eyes. This woman had a careless look, an indifference to the effect she created. There was a wildness that had been tamed by hairdress­ers and make-up artists, airbrushed by photographers, cropped by photo editors. This woman was less perfect and far more beautiful than the mannequin from the pages of Vogue. Seeing her without the veneer, I felt an immediate intimacy, a closeness that was not, perhaps, reciprocated.

"Don't expect Chinese food tonight, Mr. Williams," she said sweetly. The four of us went into the drawing room, a long room with French doors on one side opening to a large garden. At the far end, a Chow and a Cockapoo lifted their heads, sniffed the air, then went back to their dreams. The room looked like the paneled library of an English country house.

The dining room is too big for our little group, so I've set up dinner here," said Olivia. The round table in the corner was set for four. Despite its size, it was cozy, a room where I would find a comfortable chair, sink into it and read all day, or sit on the floor in front of the fire and think. My eyes fell on the coffee table. My last book, Distant Voices, lay on top of a pile of bestsellers.

“Blake, make yourself comfortable.” Periwinkle waved his long silk scarf at me. "We’ll be right back. We want everything to be perfect before we display your palmprint."

Suddenly I was alone in the room. I looked around. I wondered what my Probe would turn up about the mansion. What kind of mess were Olivia’s finances in? Was she vulnerable because of sexual orientation, addictions, habits? What was the subtext of her relationship to Kip? Was he watching her for political reasons, because she was close to Cosmos? Stalking her to intimidate her? Or was he attracted to her?

I heard Olivia’s giggle. She was flushed when she entered and Sukha and Periwinkle were smiling.

"After dinner, we'll unveil my new masterpiece," said Periwinkle, buoyant. "Your palmprint and Sukha's prophecy."

Olivia was a code I was determined to decipher, but Sukha drew me in a different way. I had never been in a room with two such compelling women.

"How do you find the future in our palms?" I asked. "What do you see there?" Sukha was unsurprised to hear me speak in Tibetan.

"If you think about it Blake, you'll admit each of us is shaped as much by our own hands as the hand of destiny. It is our character which determines how we react to our circumstance."

"But how can you see it in my palm?"

"It's not just your palm, Blake. It's in every expression and gesture. The way your breathing changes when you look at Olivia; how your eyes run over the book shelves, lovingly; the comfort you feel when you speak Tibetan; the delight you take in asking questions."

"Stop, Sukha, allow me the illusion that I'm not completely transparent!" I laughed. "But seriously, is reading the palm a skill anyone can learn, or does it require innate perception?"

"All of us can see more than we admit. We long to know the future, and at the same time we are afraid. Let go of fear, and we can see so much more."

"What do you see?" I held out my palm.

Her eyes looked inward. "Your breath whispers to me, your expressions are like the pages of a book, fluttering in a breeze, revealing for one moment a phrase, a line. Little clues present themselves in the tilt of a head, the shrug of a shoulder. The evidence of one's bearing, the tone of a voice, all speak of lives gone by, moments to come." I struggled to overcome the spell Sukha was casting over me.

"When you tell people the future, do you think it helps them to live better?"

"We were all born for one significant moment, but we never know which moment it is. So we must live our whole lives as though the unfolding moment is the one that matters most, the moment we were born to live."

"Is that really possible, Sukha?"

"I don't know Blake. Maybe I'll find out in my next incarnation. In this life I'm a serious gossip and a gambler. I love a good story most of all. I have trouble with Buddha's third precept, right speech."

"Sukha!" said Olivia from across the room. "You're glowing. Meeting Blake has done something for you."

Was she blushing? Or was it the firelight? She laughed easily. She had smooth dark skin, dark eyes which saw the world from a different place, generous full lips, and dark, tightly coiled hair. Her voice, her laugh, and the tilt of her head when she listened, reminded me of water falling over rocks into a deep pool.

I felt as if I had known her all my life. My experiences in Tibet, many of them undercover, had taught me that both Buddhism and mysticism were part of every task, intertwined in the details of everyday existence. Daily life formed a rich mosaic of meaning which she could read as easily as Westerners read a newspaper.

"I met your father once, at an international conference on Sanskrit Scriptures. He was a Count, wasn't he? And I understood he was in line for the Swedish throne."

"Twelfth in line, I believe. In the event of a series of implausible events, Sweden would have a small, dark Tibetan woman as its princess." We laughed. I could see that Sukha was much more Tibetan than European.

"I was last in your country seven years ago, " I said. "I traveled all over, but was based in Lhasa." I didn't mention the reason for my visit and Sukha didn't ask.

"Did you see my old friend, Lobsang Lampo?" asked Sukha. "He owes me 95 Indian rupees and a brick of tea from a card game we played in Dharamsala some years ago. He'll deny it of, course, but it's true. He's notorious at dice." We lapsed into a game of international gossip.

Olivia turned out the lights and handed me a long slim candle. Around the table were tall iron candlesticks. Quietly we lit dozens of candles. Their shadows danced on the walls. The fire ebbed, but did not go out. Olivia opened the French doors to the garden and a breeze wafted the tiny flames.

We were served a Japanese meal in light, lovely courses. Mother-of-pearl chopsticks clicked easily on our plates. Two uniformed waiters circled the table, pouring sake into porcelain cups.

It had been a long time since I had attended an intimate dinner and an even longer time since I enjoyed one. I wondered if this was the closest I would ever come to belonging - the pretense and voyeurism of the spy. I occasionally found a kind of intimacy while playing a part, putting on a new personality the way another man might don jeans or a riding habit. Could I go on this way all my life? I know what happened to those who do - I saw them at bars and parties, hunched over drinks. Warriors fighting their own demons and losing the battle.

I looked around the table, at Periwinkle in his outrageous costume, his head bent to catch Olivia's breathless account of a recent art opening; at Sukha, transplanted from a world which represented everything I sought; at Olivia, who was not the mannequin I had expected. She was definitely more aware, more intelligent than I had imagined. Would my strategy of electronic surveillance be enough? Perhaps additional surveillance: a tail at the least. Make sure communications are not only monitored and recorded, but transcribed for me within 12 hours.

For dessert, we moved out to the greenhouse. Olivia turned a switch and hundreds of tiny white bulbs illuminated blossoms, vines, plants. Periwinkle, quite at home, trained the clematis vine over its arbor. A wrought iron, tiered tray of rococo pastries was untouched as we spoke happily, absorbed in each other. I had forgotten how much luxury and the beauty of women could intoxicate and seduce.

When we returned to the drawing room, there was an easel where the round table had been, and it was covered by a gossamer cloth. As Olivia opened the door, the cloth fluttered in the wind. For a moment, I was transported back in the snowy hills of Tibet. A young woman had crossed my path, her cape blowing around her. I wanted to see her face and I followed her. But the blowing wind revealed nothing. I had been following that mystery all my life, trying to sweep away the veil that hid the face, and discover the truth that was concealed there.

Olivia ordered champagne. She changed the music to the mystical chanting of Tibet's Gyuto monks. I felt drumming in my head. Periwinkle swept away the gauze to reveal the palm print and Sukha's divination. There was my palm, etched on the canvas. Around it, Sukha had written:

He, whose palm this is, stands on the verge of new territory unlike any he has traveled before. This new land will tear at his heart. He will become lost with only the most delicate webbing to lead him out of the labyrinth. Will the thread hold? Or will he be forever left in the maze?

I raised my glass: "Will you be Ariadne and lead me out of the maze?," I asked Olivia.

"If you'll follow me," she replied.

"I'll make it my job to do just that," I said.

Periwinkle was elated. "You know Blake, I own many beautiful things and I've been very lucky, but this is the moment I live for, when I step back, stop and call a work finished. I never quite know whether I love it or hate it, but I've done it - that I do know."

"It's quite amazing," I said. Seeing my palm surrounded by Sukha's prophecy had awakened something.

"I'd like to sell it and donate the proceeds to the Antiquities Museum, Blake," Periwinkle said. I hated the idea of my palm print and my fortune hung in a gallery somewhere, displayed, in fact, exposed.

"That’s a gracious offer, Periwinkle. I know the Trustees will be pleased." I said. Periwinkle had had his moment. Now he was off to celebrate. He offered me a ride.

"I think I'll walk," I said.

"Would you like to walk the dogs with me?" Olivia asked. It was the invitation I wanted. Olivia left to change and I sat silently in front of the fire. I had the feeling that Olivia had been anticipating this evening for a long time. Was this chemistry? Was I making a very ordinary encounter too complicated? Or was I in some way being set up? Considering Olivia’s level of sophistication, I’d better have our surveillance people check for interceptors and shields, and be sure the range was sufficient to cover the garden and the street outside. I wanted the kind of operation that leaves no clue: no static on phone lines, volume changes on the television, no trace of our monitors.

She reappeared in embroidered jeans and a light gray cashmere sweater. She put two fingers between her teeth and whistled. Doggerel and Dogma came running. She nuzzled each dog, murmuring baby names. Sukha brought Olivia's leather jacket and my camel hair coat. Outside the dogs raced up and down the sidewalk, then when we reached the river, ran ahead. They came back frequently without being called. Olivia and I strolled together, talking placidly about the dogs.

It was late. The Manhattan streets were quiet. The wind died and the stillness offered me the rare chance to shelve my apprehensions for the evening. The walk took away the last edge of nervous energy that dominates me most of the time. I decided to worry about Olivia’s role in the Imani’s activities later.

When we returned, Olivia led me through a door in the garden. I couldn’t believe it: a pool! Like a lagoon, the pool curved through the garden, then continued inside, under a glass wall. I had swum in a similar heated pool when skiing in Switzerland once. It was a luxury I remembered well.

We found a bench in the garden. To my surprise, I found myself telling Olivia about my academic life. My thoughts spilled out as if I had been waiting for the opportunity for years. I didn't mention HQ. That occupied a different part of my brain completely. Absurdly, I allowed myself to assume that I was in fact, gathering valuable data that would enable me to understand this complicated woman. I found myself describing my work at the museum, my love of the East, my solitude, my doubts about having the treasures of another country as my intellectual bounty.

We made plans to go together to the Opera the following night As dawn broke, I returned to my atelier. I had work to do. I was meeting Shroeder the next day.





Episode 8 Classified Information

The streets of New York, ninety-five stories below, seemed very far away.

"This is quite a view, Steven," I said, looking out to the Empire State Building and the East River. We had met in a New York office of the CIA. Steven opened his briefcase and took out his laptop and a stack of files.

“Have you found anything out about Cosmos’ finances?” I asked.

“We hit the jackpot!” said Shroeder. He got up and poured coffee. “It looks like hush money. We’ve been able to locate deposits in scattered accounts, coinciding with terrorist attacks. It looks as if payments go back to the Madrid subway bombing.

“We can guess that what Cosmos offered the Imani,” I said. “It’s the cop on the beat selling protection, squared. He’s covered their tracks and eliminated most intelligence about them. It’s probably too difficult to put him under surveillance. His evasiveness is second nature. The way he eliminated my warehouse search order indicates how he’ll respond if he gets a whiff of what we’re doing.”

“I’m covering my tracks.” said Shroeder

“Of course. But he knows I’m hooked. So be it. What about Olivia?”

“Here’s some background material.” He passed me a folder. I skimmed it.

Reports on surveillance of Olivia:
Although Olivia Bell is no longer a full-time model, fashion magazines frequently ask her to pose for layouts on lifestyle or fitness. She is often recruited to help put on a charity event. The guest wing is always booked with overnight guests. Acquaintances visit during the day to take a swim, use the gym, or meditate with Sukha. Apparently, she leaves the details of the house to Sukha and the staff, drifting in and out, heedless of house guests. She has a staff including: Charles the chauffeur, Abe, the Japanese chef, Sonya, her maid and seamstress, and Orlando, who runs the foundation.

“What foundation?” I asked.

“The next door neighbor - the building with the columns: The Wilson Fellowship is the Bell family charity,” Shroeder explained. “It could be a front. It’s activities are limited and it is well financed by a provision in her father’s will.”

“This is fine as far as it goes.” I tossed the folder on the table, impatiently. “But what about her involvement with Cosmos? What about Kip?”

“She’s not easy to watch. We delivered a plant to her home from one of her admirers. Someone removed the mike. The plant is sitting in the front window, as if to tell us she’s on to us. I wouldn’t be surprised if any information we obtain about her is revealed deliberately. She’s watching you.” Shroeder observed me carefully as he poured another cup of coffee.

“Watching me?” I was aghast. “Since when?”

“Months.”

“How can that be? She never saw me until yesterday.”

“She’s ordered your books from Amazon, tracked down your scholarly papers, had your colleagues interviewed by her representative, posing as an Equifax agent checking up on an insurance claim.”

“How do you know that?”

“We intercepted this report.” He handed me a file: Olivia Bell’s Dossier on Blake Williams.

Blake Williams is tall, thin and angular, with observant hazel eyes; sandy hair, concentrated gaze. His dress is elegant, if understated. He orders his clothes from tailors in Hong Kong and Italy and his shoes from London. In New Mexico he prefers jeans and hand-made cowboy boots.

As a scholar, Williams works long hours and publishes regularly in scholarly journals, and has earned the respect and envy of his colleagues around the world.

He is employed as a linguist by a national security organization, but his work often goes beyond the confines of linguistic analysis. Surprisingly for a loner, Williams is politically well connected, especially with those members of the Congress who have served on foreign policy committees. He often is asked to brief legislators and new ambassadors. He has been brought in quietly to soothe ruffled feathers in the Far East when diplomatic errors or blunders have occurred.

“She’s an interesting adversary,” I said. “I’m hoping she’s not a opportunist, or being used by one.”

“I managed to get this out of the house. I think you’ll find it interesting.” He handed me a small book.

I turned it over, a tiny hand tooled leather journal with gold-edged pages, written on in fountain pen. I slipped it into my pocket.

“Were you able to trace anything else on the warehouse contents?” I asked.

“Nothing. A cold trail, but I think the GC24 response came in as I left Washington. I haven’t had a chance to go over it.” He handed me a file and opened one himself. We skimmed the results.

"Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization, has identified a group, that answers their description, now infiltrated by terrorists," I read.

Shroeder nodded. "Affirmed by our man in Katmandu, Blake." He was skimming the pages. "Here's a dispatch from Ulan Bator. A CIA informer in Mongolia has identified the Imani as an international band involved in suspicious activities They frequently travel along the border skirting the Gobi Desert.”

"Here's a report from Harris in Karachi," I said. “He's a good man - has been there for ages and knows almost everything there is to know about the various cults and terrorist groups. He's sent us profiles of the Imani.”

Jo Muktani - Charismatic leader of the Imani; the name is an alias. There are contradictory reports on him: he may have been an officer in the Korean police force; some say he is Europe­an. Expertise in weapons, explosives; experience with hostages, terror. Wanted for murder in Hong Kong.

Dr. Jing Ying - Plastic Surgeon, trained in Moscow, later worked in Hong Kong, where he was barred from practicing medicine for conducting experiments on patients without obtaining consent.

Kip Yu - Chinese youth, scarred face, long black hair, a headband on his head, always armed. Enforces discipline.

Madame Po - Perhaps Chinese American, speaks in unaccented English; occasionally wears a mask; expertise in discipline and training.

Julia Jack - American, a drug addict, perhaps a former prostitute

“There’s something else, Blake.”

“Yes?”

Shroeder hesitated. This was obviously bad news.

“Tom Garfield called me from Hong Kong. The Imani may be using a new technology - something we’ve heard about, but never seen. It was developed in North Korea, evidently. Gives new meaning to the concept of bugging.”

“Yes?”

“It’s called bio-surveillance. One form of it is transparent tics that attach themselves to the subject’s skin and transmit his voice.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Afraid not. Another variant employs spiders whose webs are antennae, transmitting sounds from a location.”

My skin crawled. Inadvertently, I found myself scratching my arm. I willed myself to stop, but I longed to lean over, roll up my trousers, and check my shins.

“Ok. What about Kip? Have we picked up a trace of him?”

“We actually traced a cell phone, but the minute we found it, service was discontinued by the client. They had a way to identify us.”

“They’re smarter than I thought.”

“How can we pinpoint the location of the others? Isn't there some way to trace them more closely?" I was intent on finding them.

"You’re the one who can authorize the use of Intersect, Blake,” said Shroeder. Intersect is an electronic tracking program, tracing the movements of different operatives. It enables us to see where terrorists' paths have crossed. I developed it to help track highjackers and spies, North African diplomats and certain government employees. It's highly effective in tracking down the contacts of the elusive web of terrorist organizations who may interact periodically to plan a big job.

"Let’s see what it turns up," Shroeder said. He opened his laptop and I typed in the codes.

"It takes more time because all the messages are scrambled for security," I said.

I applied Intersect to Kip, Jo Muktani, Madame Po and the others. On the screen appeared the list.

I leaned over Shroeder’s shoulder: "Madame Po has been in Chechnya, Pakistan; Kashmir, Mongolia, China. She’s a busy lady. Currently in London. Kip traced to NYC. Nothing on the others. Well, that’s something.

“I’ll track her down in London, if I can,” said Shroeder.

“Let me know what you find, “ I said without much hope.

“One more thing, Blake. For now, the CIA will cover your expenses, but we’ll have to figure out a way to fund all this.”

Funding. My appearance in New York was ostensibly to get contributions to the Antiquities Museum. And I had to worry about funding.




Episode 9 Olivia’s Diary

I walked up Madison, toward the Lapis Café. It was mild and New Yorkers seemed uncharacteristically buoyant. I couldn’t resist a detour to pass Olivia’s house. I picked up a newspaper and lingered for a few minutes, concealed behind the open pages. Olivia came out in huge sunglasses, her jacket carelessly unbuttoned to reveal an ivory cashmere sweater and gold chains, jeans tucked into high boots. She had a soft suede backpack slung carelessly over her shoulder. As she raised her arm to hail a cab, a skinny kid in Nikes sprinted past her, lifting the bag off her shoulder.

Before Olivia could react, Kip was there, seizing the kid by the hair and lifting him off the ground, kicking and screaming.

“You stay away from her, you understand?” Kip’s accented voice was an eerie hiss, a low warning signal. The kid was screaming in outrage and astonishment. Suddenly, Kip’s threat registered and he moaned. Kip dropped him and he hit the ground running.

As Kip turned to Olivia, she grabbed the bag, murmured “Thanks, anyway.” and slipped into a taxi. When I looked back, Kip was gone. What is he doing? Watching her? Stalking her? Protecting her?

I crossed Madison and walked to the cafe. It was an old favorite that Stella and I used to haunt. It was almost three o’clock and the place was empty. I took a table in the front window and opened the Post. There in the gossip columns, was something about me:

Murmurs from Man About Town, by Griffon Thorndike, Absolute expressionist Periwinkle announced today that he has sold the palmprint of archivist Blake Williams for $400,000 to Forecast, Incorporated, a consulting firm. The entire sum is to be donated to Santa Fe’s Antiquities Museum, where Mr. Williams is curator of Tibetan Civilization.

And there was my palmprint, with Sukha’s words in Tibetan and English circling it. If any of my old adversaries wondered what I was up to, they could find out in the Post.
I looked at the palmprint. Sukha had added a border. I couldn’t see what the design was. I flipped out my Scope and magnified it. It was an ornate design, but when I looked closer I could see it consisted of script, in Arabic, Mongolian and Tibetan. Sukha was up to something.

It wasn’t easy to read, but they were definitely names. Then I saw one I knew: Ulanshuvu. He’d been arrested in Inner Mongolia, for protesting the Chinese decision to limit the use of the Mongolian language in schools. What was Sukha doing?

I had never met two women so unalike. And they had the opposite effect on me. Sukha changed the texture of the air. I breathed more easily when she was there. Olivia made it hard to breath, she absorbed all the oxygen.

Olivia is bigger than life, but Sukha is quite simple, familiar. Her simplicity is her genius. Not everyone can see who she is. I bet many people write her off because they are so comfortable with her. Unless they are intimidated, they think they are with someone unimportant.

A waiter behind the bar was on the phone and seemed oblivious to my presence. I reached into my pocket and took out the little leather book, with its gold edged pages. On the flyleaf Olivia had written, January to June.

January 1 When I think back to last year, it is a string of fittings, photo shoots, parties, shopping. The landscape of every week was the same - it was like the desert; there were no distinguishing landmarks to let me know where I was in my life.

January 5 My horoscope said: Be afraid and the demons will devour you. Confront them and they will vanish.

January 26. . . just one more pretty face... Men want us the way they want an expensive car. Our currency, our beauty becomes our downfall. No matter how we respond we are trapped - and cheapened. Men want us; women envy us, but somehow that doesn't raise our stock but lowers it.

February 11 Today, while I swam, I thought about what Cosmos suggested. I glided across the pool, then I turned and came back underwater, looking up at that other surface, underneath, and I realized I could be amphibious. I closed my eyes and felt myself carried away.

Ok Cosmos, what did you suggest to Olivia to make her think she could be amphibious? And why didn’t you tell me when we met?

February 17 I was skimming along on the surface, thinking about my appearance, my workouts, my wardrobes, and I came to a crossroad. Either I took the direction of plastic surgery, fear, rigid resistance to growing older, or I found a totally different direction.

February 19 Secrets, the idea that I know something that changes everything. I'm on the inside - I think. Or am I just part of another plot to hide what's really happening?

February 21 Cosmos knows more than I thought. His unacknowledged role allows him to open all kinds of doors.

What doors? I looked up, saw the waiter still on the phone and lost myself in her journal again.

February 24 Moscow. Cosmos is right about being a model: It’s a foolproof cover. I can appear anywhere and be written off. I attract no more suspicion than a kitten. And so I am free to do as I like. If I show up in Peking and say I am buying silk for a new ensemble, who would doubt it? If I fly to here to Moscow to pick just the right sables for a custom-designed coat, who would suspect otherwise? Last night at the hotel bar, a New York Times reporter made a remark about Olivia being so self-absorbed she wouldn't even know she were in the middle of a coup attempt. Little did she know!

March 1. The trip went well. Next stop: Afghanistan.

March 2 I hear the whispers. They distrust Sukha’s influence over me, but they cannot resist her. She possesses Manhattan's essential credential: She is a gossip. She sees every nuance, nothing is lost on her. She says gossip is woman's therapy, it is the way women throughout the ages have understood their lives, articulated their suffering, shared their insights, and protected themselves from predators.

March 3 Well, so there's danger. There was more danger in going on with my life the way it was. The sameness was the danger. It was wearing me away.

March 4 I don’t think anyone knows the truth about Cosmos. He’s made a fortune selling small arms, buying them from organized crime networks in China and Russia and smugglers in Poland and Bulgaria. Evidently they are received in Turkey, via the Black Sea or in Thrace, in Bulgaria. Covert gun-running by intelligence agencies to insurgent groups is a fact of life, so even if he were discovered, the assumption would be that he was doing his job. His position protects him.

Oh, God! Proof that Cosmos was tied up in the black-market in small arms. He must be selling them to insurgent groups, drug smugglers, terrorists. I remember the time he accused Oliver North and the others of being a bunch of clowns. Now I see it was because they allowed their actions to leak. Was he competition for the Imani? Did he bring Olivia into it? Was Kip watching her because of this?

March 10 I’m going to Kabul. I've thought about those silk route cities - winding streets, mosques, covered bazaar. I can see the silversmiths, spice merchants, stands selling silk, glazed jars, water ewers, felt carpets. I can hear the sounds echoing - the Imam calling the faithful to prayer, the grunting of donkeys carrying loads of mint or piles of carpets, the bells on the sheep as they are herded to the slaughterhouse.

The waiter finally came. I ordered an espresso and croque monsieur. He warned me it might take a while.

March 17 Back in New York. Kabul was not like my fantasy. I guess I’ve been incredibly naive. It was mud and stacks of weapons and little boys who survived landmines but lost their legs, wheeling themselves around in little contraptions they put together. But I know I had an impact.

In fact, despite everything I’m high on my success. And today I had a great run! My best time yet! What a subversive idea: to accept and enjoy my body for its utility, its individuality, the fact that it reflects my moods, stretches when I want. A woman cannot look at her body functionally. She cannot look at it neutrally. She must take sides constantly: for this part, against that part. The waist is slim enough, but those thighs! Every woman feels she must always be on the critical alert, admitting her body's failures and striving to correct them. If all else fails, camouflage - cosmetics, clever styles, distrac­tions, compensations.

March 23 Sometimes I felt I faded right into the background. A cover girl wearing a gown, feeling like a forlorn child with sallow skin and circles under her eyes, in clothes which had been handed down and handed down until their original color and style was dubious. There was a transparent quality about my whole world, my body included, as if you could see right through. Not substantial enough to arrest a passing glance. Unless I was in a photograph.

April 9 My birthday. It's strange to think that other people didn't work when they were growing up. They didn't have agents booking jobs and photographers putting their teenage bodies in different positions, often hurriedly, roughly, acting like they were handling an object. Michael, who thought I should hold up my arms for an hour and couldn't understand why I got tired until I said, "You show me how easy it is Michael, you hold up your arms for ten minutes." And of course he couldn't. Dana, who wanted to photograph me with a pillowcase over my head. I walked out and let someone else take the job. There is always another model who will do it, no matter what it is.

April 14 In the middle of the night, awakening, quaking, thinking how dare I take the fate of other people into my hands?

April 28 Success is the next thing you want. It's being a cover girl until you're on your twentieth issue of Vogue. It's getting up there in front of ten thousand people and singing, until you've done it dozens of times and you go backstage and the guitarist is overdosing on some new drug. It's being in your first film, winning your first cross-country motorcycle rally, talking to your first premier, opening the New York Times and reading about the unfolding of an international incident you secretly created.

June 1 I realize how agents and editors and photographers keep models in line, alert, vulnerable by constantly pointing out every imperfec­tion, every fault. And no matter how much you work on it, getting enough sleep, using the right cosmetics, wearing the greatest clothes, fighting any sign of aging, there's something wrong with you. Your eyes are not quite wide enough, your buttocks are too flat, the backs of your thighs dimple. More retouching, more competition from younger models.

For years, when the shoot was over and the prints delivered, there was that little haunted look that drove the editors crazy. Do they know where it came from? It was from the photographer telling me my knees were going to get heavy and the skin under my arms would soon begin to sag.
I had to find a way out, to leave their measure of me behind. And now that I have established another life, although they know nothing about it, it happened. They leave me alone. The hollow empty feeling isn't there for them to play on any­more.

I had to go on to something else, it was a matter of self preserva­tion.

June 7 It's a toss up - which to fear most: myself or others.

June 14 Knowing that I am a power behind the headlines is an enormous high. I'd rather do this than be on any cover, get a compliment from anyone. I'd rather a king listen to me and nod than look at me and leer.

My order came, but I couldn’t touch my food. I tried to make sense of what I had read, to peer into the pages and see if Olivia was a weapons seller, a political groupie, or, like modern royalty, icing on some imaginary international wedding cake. But the words shifted on the page and refused to yield their meaning.




Episode 10 A Night at the Opera

She appeared on the landing, wearing an off-the-shoulder dress of wine velvet with a satin sash, tied in the back in a huge bow. Her hair, crimped into a thousand tiny curls, fell down her back. Her carriage was perfect - very few women could carry off such a dress. She was breathtaking. As Sukha and I, an audience of two, watched, she descended the winding stairway regally, coolly. Then she was next to me, smiling, handing me a necklace, a web of tiny seed pearls alternating with spun gold thread. I stood behind her, breathing in her warmth and the unexpected softness of her skin against my hand, feeling the catch slide into place as I fastened the chain. I felt both drawn to her and somehow distanced, as if I were seeing her through the wrong end of a telescope.

Sukha handed me a long chiffon and velvet wrap, a cape with a hood. Olivia stood in front of the mirror, checking her hair. I slipped the cape over her shoulders, then lifted the sheer collar over her face. I studied her as she played with the translucent fabric. What did this woman have to do with arms smuggling in the Balkans? With Uzis in Rwanda? With rebel groups in Africa? Indonesia? This afternoon her journal opened an international fault line, with this model straddling it. Tonight, I was taking her to the Opera.

Charles brought the limousine around, and held the door. I liked the chauffeur immediately. His massive head, with a lion's mane of hair and a certain quality in his laugh told me Charles could be trusted. The burly middle aged Italian was at the same time protective and outspoken. Although it was never articulated, I sensed a special bond between Charles and Sukha. They were the anchor in Olivia’s life. And I bet it was Charles who removed the microphone from Shroeder’s plant. He was her bodyguard as well as her chauffeur, that was evident.

I slipped in beside Olivia and blinked. The limousine looked like a cockpit, equipped with a television, laptop, five-line phone, and rotating video camera, surveying the street outside. I found myself wondering if the glass were bullet proof and if Charles had been trained in special defensive driving techniques. I reached for the computer, to turn it on, but Olivia put a gloved hand on my arm, and I remembered this was a social event.

Olivia had a dossier on me and knew more about me than I knew about her. An email from Shroeder, received late in the afternoon had told me his team was running into problems with the Probe. Olivia had a nullification system, security measures put in place to neutralize our surveillance system. It was sophisticated: not the usual Radio Shack raw materials, but something far more effective: an ultrasonic system we’d encountered only within funded government systems, not among terrorists or dilettantes. The audio interception was excellent. We’d have to go to another system.

From interviews and research, Olivia’s life seems to be a string of modeling assignments, parties, shopping and exercise classes. Yet she speaks to Barishnikov in Russian, to her designers in French, to her chef in Japanese.

We’re watching each other. I had a fleeting fantasy of making love to her with both our followers watching, yawning, thinking how they would write it up in their notes.

We arrived at the Opera, a new couple in a crowd that embodied luxury, status, and indul­gence. I spotted Cosmos, surrounded by political movers and shakers, looking every bit the elder statesman. I thought about what I had read in Olivia’s diary. It wasn’t enough to draw conclusions about her, but it was categorical about him. Seeing him now, I was fairly sure he wasn't talking about his last illegal arms deal to a small violent country in the Middle East.

Before we had a chance to take our seats, Olivia was stopped by a reporter, chattering away.

"Take a deep breath, Griffon," said Olivia. "Stop long enough for me to introduce Blake." This was the reporter who had printed my palmprint in his gossip column. He spun around and started asking questions.

“So you’re Blake Williams! A character out of an old fashioned adventure story, aren’t you? I hear you’ve done research in ancient hermit’s caves and traced the silk route on a camel’s back. How many languages do you speak anyway? Seven, isn’t it ? I’m told you know more about ancient Oriental civilizations than any man alive.” Griffon was tall and impeccably dressed, far beyond the means of a newspaper reporter. He affected a slight English accent. His hair was blond - probably out of a bottle, and he had a clipped moustache that suited him. I knew from my research that Griffon was ubiquitous. Whatever the circumstance, he was there, gossiping and chronicling the most trivial and fleeting events. I knew he could be turned to use in my battle with the Imani. I would uncover a story that would interest him and benefit me. I answered his questions and thanked him for his article. Satisfied, he turned to Olivia.

"Darling, where did you dig up Blake? He’s simply marvelous. How’s Sukha? I’ll stop over tomorrow to see her. I have to run – I’m working. A daily column is like a beautiful nymphomaniac - everyone wants one in theory, but when you have to perform perfectly every day year in and year out. Well!”

There was an air of anticipation in the audience. The soft light shimmered on the women's hair, their programs fluttered in their hands as they whispered to their escorts. Diamonds and rubies flashed on their throats and ear lobes. The dowagers sat smugly, measuring each arrival.

The violin played the familiar, haunting opening notes of La Traviata and we settled into our seats. My attention was divided between the opera, my favorite, and Olivia. She was absorbed by the performance. I found myself wishing I were like her, that I possessed the means to enter every experi­ence totally, to be transported, to leave the rest of my life behind completely. She turned herself over to the story in a way that I, who lived on the periphery, could only envy. I wanted to be carried away by the music, concealed passions and deep secrets, by a heroine who secretly sacrificed herself for the man she loved. Instead, I was wondering if my date for the evening was a terrorist, if my boss had sold weapons to the very people I now followed, if Barat would be able to find out more about Kip without getting himself killed. In the background floated Sukha’s face, the one person I knew was free of treachery.

Afterwards, as we made our way through the lobby, we were stopped by a tall elegant black woman, in a white silk dress that was wrapped like an ancient Greek gown.

“Blake, I can’t believe it. We haven’t seen you in years.” It was Chloe, Cosmos’ wife, her body too voluptuous for the severity of her dress. Then I realized she was wearing nothing underneath. “I’ve missed you.”

Normally at social events Cosmos and I are content with a nod, but Chloe had me trapped. She raised her hand and strapped to her wrist, looking like a piece of chunky jewelry, was a tiny video camera. While we talked, she shot the scene. I remembered that Chloe was getting attention as a video artist, one of the wave of new media darlings.

“Are you still getting into trouble?” I asked as I gave her a kiss.

“I will if you’ll promise to rescue me,” she said. “Olivia, Blake has special talents for rescuing a damsel in distress.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Olivia dryly.

“We’re staying for a few days at our New York house. You must come tonight: We’re having a midnight supper. It’s a command performance, Blake. You rescued me, saved my life, and once you’ve done that you’re in my debt forever.”

Chloe’s logic was impeccable. I was cornered.

In the limousine, on the way to the party, Olivia asked me about rescuing Chloe. As Charles negotiated the crowded late night streets, I told Olivia about how I first met my boss and his wife.

It was in Saudi Arabia, years ago. I was retracing Burton’s historic trip to Mecca. At the time I had no ties to government whatsoever. My contacts with the royal family had only been in my own interest: I wanted to go where infidels were not allowed. My Arabic and appreciation of Saudi culture and history had opened doors to me.

There was a sandstorm in the desert outside of Riyadh, but it hadn’t stopped Cosmos from driving out to find me. Cosmos was on an unofficial visit. God only knows what possessed him to bring Chloe along. I guess they were newly married then. She was barely out of her teens, he was in his forties, and suddenly, through her eyes, he could see that almost anything was possible. Chloe was ready to take on the world, and during their visit, she had persisted in teaching a young Saudi princess to drive, and had driven her all over Saudi Arabia, going out to the desert, staying up all night talking to the headsmen. By royal decree, no woman in Saudi Arabia could drive, but Chloe and Princess Nasim chose to overlook that fact.

Their behavior was sure to have consequences, but neither Cosmos nor Nasim's brother Zhareef could confine the young women who were embarrassing them. Eventually, other women started to take to the Arabian roads, often at night. They reveled in breaking out of their confinement and started to talk about other freedoms.

Inevitably, the authorities cracked down. Twenty-eight upper class Saudi women were arrested. Cosmos, who had gone hunting with an Arab chieftain, had came home to find his wife in Riyadh's jail. The Saudis called him to pick her up quietly, but she refused to leave until all the women were released, and until Nasim was allowed to drive. The governor of Riyadh was outraged and informed the United States embassy that he intended to levy heavy sentences on all the women, especially Chloe and Nasim.

That’s when Cosmos tracked me down.

“I wouldn’t say this would be an international incident, Blake,” he’d said. He meant that it was and that his career was in jeopardy.

I arranged for Nasim to be awarded the International Communications Tribute from the Southern Hospitality League for providing a hospitable welcome to the families of American nationals abroad. It would be necessary for the Princess to fly to Waco, Texas, where the award would be given. She would then enter the University of Texas, where she would be far from the only young woman who was financed by a fortune in oil.

Princess Nasim left for Texas at once to receive her award and enroll in the university. The same brother who had forbidden her to drive at home sent her the money for a new pink Cadillac convertible. Eventually Nasim attended law school, so she could someday challenge Saudi Arabia's bias against women.

Chloe was given a two page spread in Vogue for liberating Saudi women. And Cosmos recruited me for HQ. I didn’t mention that part of the story to Olivia.




Episode 11 What They’ll Do For Love

Cosmos and Chloe lived in an Upper East Side Brownstone. I’d never been there. It was posh beyond the means of any civil servant. The entry way was rich and dark, the walls covered with plum brocade. Miniature gold framed oil paintings gleamed on the walls, a brass light over each. It seemed too cluttered for Cosmos’s personality, but he also had his Watergate apartment, if he wanted to escape.

I helped Olivia out of her cloak, and went to get her a drink, and when I returned, Cosmos was blocking my way.

"Chloe's as wild as ever, Blake” he sighed, standing directly in front of me with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. “And she threatens delicate diplomatic ties whenever possible. She's taken up with the descendants of Russian nobles, who are putting in claims for the land they lost in 1917. She feels they are innocent victims." He laughed helplessly.

I stood there, holding Olivia’s drink and my own, watching her surrounded by admirers, my way blocked by my boss. I thought about the diary. And then it just slipped out, unbidden. Not at all what I intended.

“You’re not happy to see me here, are you?”

“I didn’t know you were coming, Blake.” Cosmos took me into the library and closed the door. He sat in an wing chair and I paced in front of him.

“I warned you about this job, Blake. This isn’t your area and to be blunt, you don’t have the subtlety for the job.”

At that moment I saw Cosmos for what he really was: not a powerful international figure, concerned with making the world a safer place, but a flaccid, indulgent, corrupt, compromised felon. I saw how he had grown obese and smug right before my eyes, and lost his ideals along the way.

“You’re not the man I thought you were Cosmos.”

At first he tried to dissemble, to play the whole thing down.

“Blake, don’t make more of this than it is.”

“Don’t condescend to me, Cosmos. You’ve sold Chinese and Russian arms illegally – you’re an arms dealer. Your bank accounts tell the story”

“China - your Achilles heel, Blake. Your passionate opponent. If I’d bought Palestinian arms, you would be disturbed, but not outraged. Watch yourself Blake, this is personal.”

It was true: I wasn’t objective about China. For years I’ve watched in outrage as the Chinese swallowed Tibetan culture, destroyed irreplaceable monasteries and made Lhasa just another polluted Chinese city. My reaction was neither professional nor academic. Cosmos knew it and could play on it. Still, my lack of objectivity didn’t justify Cosmos’s role as an arms broker.

“You know, Cosmos, the Bush era is almost over. You may not be able to get away with this.”

“Oh it will take the new President, whether it is Obama or McCain, a while to get his bearings. And I’m a bit connected.”

“Sex scandals aren’t as innocuous as they once were, you may have noticed. Proud of yourself, Cosmos?

He put out his cigar and looked at me, as if evaluating. And, to my surprise, he explained himself.

“I guess I made a mistake in marrying a much younger woman - but to tell you the truth, I couldn’t help myself. You could see from the moment you met me in the Saudi desert that I was obsessed. I had become a middle aged man of some influence whose every action had become meaningless. She transformed my life from one rote task after another, into days of beauty, subtlety and drama. I admit it. I’m a fool - the worst kind: an old fool. But despite all of it, her betrayals, my own treachery, I wouldn’t trade a moment of it.”

Evidently Chloe had indulged in a series of infatuations, one with a paparazzi who had followed her, another with an up-and-coming actor. She was honest, more than honest, sadistic in relating every detail to Cosmos. Which only served to increase his obsession.

“I wanted to give her the life she wanted. I became possessed. I followed her using all my skills as an agent to track down every meeting she had. I had her encounters video taped and I watched them over and over again, here, in this room. I can show you, Blake.”

“I’ll pass, Cosmos.” I considered having Chloe tailed. I seemed to have a small army following subjects whose days were a round of pedicures, fifty thousand dollar shopping trips, enigmatic treatments, and astronomical restaurant meals where the men drank the most expensive brand and the women sipped designer water and played with tiny servings of exotic greens. I decided against it.

“I’ll always protect you Blake, if I can,” Cosmos was saying. Was that a threat? “I know you think you’ve uncovered enough to hang me. And I know you won’t.” Was that true? Would I protect Cosmos? “I can clean this mess up, Blake, but don’t get involved.”

“What about the Imani, and their terrorist threats?” I asked.

“They added up to nothing. Nada. Just as I thought,” he lied. He stubbed out his cigar, looked me in the eye, and walked out of the room. I finished my drink and followed him into the drawing room.

Griffon had just arrived with Stella and Periwinkle. Chloe was shooting the scene through her tiny video camera, and Griffon was swallowing up the attention, sharing scandalous tidbits he usually reserved for his column.

“Chloe, there's something about the way you record every encounter and incident that makes life richer, somehow more real. It’s time I interviewed you for my column. Let’s do it later tonight,” he said happily.

"Griffon needs no sleep," Periwinkle came up to me. "He stays up all night talking, gathering tidbits, creating news."

“Are he and Chloe lovers?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” Periwinkle said. “She wants to finance a gossip show on MTV with Griffon as its anchor. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if she wants Griffon, or if she just plays with the idea of prying him away from Olivia.”

“Away from Olivia? What do you mean?”

“I thought you knew,” he said. “They’ve been lovers since they were very young. They met as teenagers in Europe, when Olivia was in boarding school.”

“How could I have failed to notice?”

“Well, it’s an unusual relationship, casual in some ways, essential in others.” Periwinkle wandered off. I headed toward Olivia in the kitchen, surrounded by admirers. I was stopped by the Chinese ambassador, who was a full foot shorter than I.

"My dear sir," Mr. Ho bowed. I hated him and the ambassador knew it.

"I've heard that a group of Hong Kong businessmen have contributed a collection of Chinese sculpture to the Antiquities Museum, Blake. Of course, they should be returned to China, " said Ho. "What can you tell me?" He was referring to Tibetan sculpture, but I didn’t bother to correct him. I looked around for an escape route. Next to me was an emaciated, fashionable woman with huge dark glasses. I asked her name. It was Mimi Evans.

"Mimi, the Chinese ambassador thinks you are the most beautiful woman in the room and he feels unworthy of an introduction. But I think he deserves to meet you."

Mimi raised an eyebrow and stared down at the ambassador. She licked her lips and he seemed to shrink.

I headed for the buffet, elbowing my way through the crowd. Guests kissed each other hello, their eyes darting around the room, appraising outfits, matching rumor and hearsay to a face, a name. I recognized a cellist, a ballerina, a judge. I knew there were painters, writers, professors, gallery owners, advertising people, film people. Rich kids.

The food was lush, tables of pâtés, roasts, poached salmon, terrines, dips, cheeses, and at the center, a five tiered extravaganza of desserts on an edible pedestal of marzipan. I was considering the Baba Ghounog when Griffon appeared and took me by the elbow to prevent a quick escape. He greeted me like an old friend.

"For a professor from the hinterlands, you've adapted to New York quickly. You’re well dressed for a provincial visitor.

“Griffon, I wear my clothes for decades!”

“And when you have tailors in London and Italy, it works very well. What are you really doing here, Blake?"

“I'm in New York to raise money for the Antiquities Museum., "

"Ostensibly. I printed the piece about your palm print selling for $400,000. It's a
tidy sum for getting your hands dirty for five minutes.

“And you broke the story, Griffon.”

“I always do, Blake. You know it was picked up by the wire services, and printed worldwide, don’t you? At this very moment, they are puzzling over your palmprint in Lhasa and Kashgar.” I didn’t ask him what he meant. It was the opening I was seeking.

“Kashgar – that’s amazing! I’ve been thinking you should expand into the international arena.”

“What do you mean?

“With your talent, energy and insight, you should be a muckraker, exposing political chicanery or even better, international crime. If you think about it, the right opportunity will turn up - the kind that any sane journalist would sell his grandmother for. It will just appear at the right time,” I said, adopting new age prattle. “You know Griffon, once you’ve visualized something, it manifests.”

“You’re condescending, you know that Blake?” he said. Nevertheless I’d captured his imagination. He was flattered - he was ripe. "Blake you study other cultures, but our own is every bit as fascinating. I, too am a scholar, an anthropologist. My territory is Manhattan, and the natives are fascinating. Do you see those two?" Griffon nodded toward the bar. Two men who looked vaguely familiar seemed to be avoiding each other. I realized I'd seen their faces - and bare bodies - on billboards and in the pages of magazines. "Philippe and Kent were once inseparable. Now they can barely manage a nod as they pass each other, the merest acknowledgment that they once spoke four times a day on the phone. The more things change...”

Griffon waved to a tall man with long hair and hooded eyes.

"There's St. John Wilder. Women adore him. When they meet, he is a luxury, but he's addictive and soon his lovers find his presence an absolute necessity. He cannot resist a new encounter - each lover adds to his self esteem, His lovers know he has a fiancé, but other than that they believe he is faithful. They assume he is too modern, too intelligent, too aware, too discreet, too impeccable to indulge in pursuing one woman after another.

"See the smashing woman in the corner, in the batik, the one who looks like a dream you'd find in the South Pacific?" I saw a long, lithe nineteen year old, with pouting lips and startled eyes. "That exquisite, slender, perfect flower is Monica, St. John's favorite.

"Oops, look who's arriving! It's Sybil, St. John's fiancé. She's the strawberry blond in white lace. And by God, there's Liz, his old flame who's never gotten over him. Manhattan lives for this - we love to see all the taboos flaunted. Since we all admire and dislike Sybil because she looks like a Pre-Raphaelite painting, we are all happy to know she is being publicly humiliated, and simultaneously ashamed of ourselves and of St. John too. He cannot give up Sybil no matter what - she has money, three homes, a fleet of cars, and when he marries her, he will have a share of her perfume business as well.”

A friend came up, a tall, very handsome man, muscular, with sandy hair and intense blue eyes. Griffon introduced me to Nigel Corriga, who was having trouble focusing. Nigel swayed slightly as he surveyed the crowd.

"What? Are Sybil and Monica talking? St. John's fiancée and his mistress? What could they possibly have to talk about? Is that St. John mopping his brow? Now he's pacing." I looked for an escape from the conversation.

"Oh, no." said Nigel. "It's Gina." I saw Gina coming toward us smiling, and noted her blond mane, round blue eyes, and puckered lips. Nigel looked distressed. "I think she wants to trade in her husband for a new model." He slipped away and Gina followed him.

"Poor Nigel," said Griffon . "He's never been the same since he walked in to his apartment and found his wife with another man."

"In bed?" I asked involuntarily.

"On the pool table, I believe," said Griffon . "He's been pickled ever since. A delightful man, drowning in vats of old scotch. He grew up in privilege, but he's found adulthood daunting."

"What can I get you, sir?" asked a waiter at my elbow.

"I don't want anything. I don't even want to be here." I snapped. Griffon was still talking, detailing adulteries, affairs, betrayals.

A friend greeted Griffon and I slipped into the crowd, hating everyone. I caught sight of Stella.

“Blake, did you hear that Kip Yu was exonerated?” she asked.

“No – how did that happen?”

“One of the immigrants confessed. The whole story was trumped up. I guess I was wrong.
A confession? How did Kip do it? One more thing to check out.

“Will I see you before you go back to Santa Fe?”

“Oh, I may stick around and follow up on a few things. Stella, can you think of any reason why Olivia would be interested in politics?”

“I don’t think she’d call it politics.”

“What does that mean?”

"Most people think you're a dreary old professor, a researcher, lost in the archives. You can be gone for weeks, even months, and no one knows, because no one checks the back rooms of museums. They simply assume you're there."

“So?”
"And while you're gone, your actions are changing the course of future events. You are trusted on the highest levels, accepted by people of all cultures.

"Stella, I appreciate the tribute, but I hardly understand."

"Now, think of Olivia. By fulfilling people's assumptions, she raises no questions, no doubts. She's free to operate with the most latitude. As long as she appears flawlessly dressed and giggles on cue, people do not ask questions. If she's not around, they assume she's having her nails done, taking an exercise class, cruising on a yacht in the Mediterranean."

"Are you comparing Olivia's life to mine?" I asked. I wasn’t amused.

"I certainly am," said Stella emphatically. "An elaborate facade, as long as it's seamless, is reassuring.

“But Stella, what is behind the elaborate facade?”

“I’ve got confidence in you, Blake. You’ll figure it out”

“And what would motivate her to get involved at all?”

“The best of reasons,” said Stella.

“What’s that?

She paused. “Olivia doesn’t like to talk about this, Blake, so please don’t mention that I told you. Her parents were killed when a French airliner blew up over Niger. Olivia was seven years old.”

“Who raised Olivia?”

“She raised herself. Charles was there, of course. He was hired by her family before she was born. He’s watched out for her all her life. But there are losses that no one can fill.” Stella looked protective. I thought of Shroeder’s bio on Olivia, tossed on the floor of Periwinkle’s atelier. Her upbringing had seemed so superficial, a life of privilege and money. I’d gotten bored and neglected to read the whole thing. I covered my distress with other questions, then pried myself away, found Olivia, and managed to get us out the door.





Episode 12 The Bait
Charles was waiting with the limousine, but Olivia sent him home and we took a walk. As we crossed Park Avenue, singing the libretto to La Traviata, absorbed in the intimate, unforgettable music, I took her hand. The store windows were brightly lit, the hotels were bustling. Sleek couples in evening dress rubbed shoulders with panhandlers and hustlers.

I wanted to ask Olivia about Griffon, about Cosmos, about her parents, about the allusions in her diary, about the palmprints, but she now seemed fragile and complex, vulnerable and unprotected. I pictured the moment eighteen years before, when a seven year old learned her parents would never come back to her.

We were passing the Plaza when I realized we were being followed. It was Kip, again. This time he was in drag, and pretending to be drunk, carrying a shopping bag from Bergdorf’s. He staggered on his high heels and fell into the street, with a high pitched giggle, his short dress slipping up over his garter belt.

I turned back to Olivia. She watched Kip with fascination , her fingers clutching her cloak. I reached for her and at the same time whistled for one of the horse drawn carriages which walk the park. We climbed into a black satin carriage, with a folding hood, which I raised to shield us. I spoke to the driver who made a quick stop, disappeared into a tiny all night shop, and emerged with two glasses and a bottle of chilled Moet.

I wrapped Olivia's velvet cape around her, then took off my own cashmere muffler and put it around her neck. I popped the champagne cork and it bubbled over my hand. As I handed her the glass I folded my fingers around her shaking hand.

"Opera does that to me, too," I said, knowing she was reacting to Kip. She looked at me gratefully and downed the champagne, holding out her glass for a refill. I filled it and started singing the libretto. She joined me and our driver, a tenor, joined in.

“Isn't it amazing that a city can be so seductive and yet so menacing?" she asked, gesturing toward the luxury of the Manhattan’s shops.

I looked out past her graceful, poised fingers, to the lights of New York, the marquis of the Plaza, the glittering windows of Bergdorf Goodman, the city. I saw the temptation of intimacy, the invitation of power, the clash between our public and private lives. How dare I have feelings for this woman? She might become my quarry, not my lover. She divined my thoughts.

"Aren't you playing into the hands of the enemy Blake?"

"In what way?”

"You're an academic. I'm a model. You care about substance. I care about style. You research things in depth. I'm interested in veneers, clothes, appearances.”

“Don’t be absurd, Olivia. We both know there’s more to you than that. And that’s the part I want to know: in fact I want to know everything.” I touched her cheek. For the first time since I’d met her she looked unsure.

“When I talk to you I want to reveal myself completely and hide at the same time. I just want to lay my life at your feet. But I can’t”

“Why not?”

“Because I know you wouldn’t believe me. You’d believe anyone else on the subject: anyone but me.” I couldn’t argue with her. I didn’t trust her. That was the truth.

“Periwinkle said you’d be good for me, just what I need right now.”

“A scholar in Medieval Tibetan literature?”

“No, Blake, someone who understands the dangers...” her voice trailed off.

“Olivia, I can help you with this person who is stalking you.”

“How?”

“Let me think it through and come up with a plan.” We left it at that.

"Driver, let's go to Tiffany's," she said,

"My life is private." I was thinking aloud.

"You mean secretive, don't you? I doubt you have a private life at all."

"And you do? You're always in the spotlight."

“This is who I am, Blake.” We pulled up at Tiffany's. The windows had been emptied of jewelry for the night, but the displays were still up. Inside each gem-like window was a tiny image of Olivia, dressed to the teeth, wearing lavish jewels. She looked pensively from window to window.

"Which is the real Olivia?" I asked.

"If you can't tell, you are in big trouble."

"I knew I was in trouble the minute I saw you, Olivia."

I dropped Olivia off at 2:00 am. I barely walked her to the door. I decided to finesse the late night kiss.

I walked down the steps, peeling off my tuxedo jacket, loosening my tie, looking for our stalker. And there he was, no longer in drag, again dressed as a derelict, carrying the same shopping bag, examining trash in the gutter, looking up at the windows of the Mansion. I turned the corner and backed out of sight, where I could watch the slovenly creature without being seen.

When the last light went out in the mansion, Kip straightened up, again whistled the Chinese lullaby and strode away. I followed him to the subway, taking the next car down, exiting with him.

Our destination was a squalid waterfront hotel. Two drunks leaned against the wall, scratching lice. Kip went in, and I waited. Twenty minutes later he came out, dressed in a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette.

I waited until he turned the corner, then went into the Lenox. The front desk was empty, the chair pushed back. I saw the locker of keys and opened it. I checked the register, located Kip's name recorded for room 402, and found the key.

The stairwell reeked of urine and mildew. Room 402 was a typical flophouse room. The iron bedstead held a thin, stained mattress, barely covered by a sheet. The closet door swung off its hinges. The wallpaper had been peeling for twenty years. A dead roach graced the dusty window sill.

It took me only a few minutes to go through Kip's things: a fragment of a map, a plane ticket stopping in Manila, Singapore, and Hong Kong, a hypodermic needle, a worn leather backpack, a pair of leather pants and a black tee shirt. I reached into the pants pocket. There was a crumbled note to Kip, in Chinese.

You can finance this operation by smuggling immigrants from China and elsewhere. You’ll be less likely to be detected if you release them one at a time. Meet Madame Po at the gate when she arrives.

Keep the fish in sight when you can and be sure to watch the blond. Every time we sell weapons to a country, or set up a fish, Olivia Bell turns up. Why does she go to Afghanistan when we do? To the Congo? Sudan? Yemen? Whenever we have a job, she is there. And then they may buy less or become distracted. It’s beyond coincidence. For now, just keep your eye on her. Don’t contact C. unless you need to.

I sat down heavily on the narrow mattress, the note in my hand. Yes, why? Why was she in Sudan and Yemen when they were? Evidently the Imani cared enough to have her watched and picked a brutal assailant to do the job. And C? Cosmos.

Is that what being amphibious is all about? Did Cosmos set Olivia up with a rival terrorist group? Is that what she felt so good about in Moscow and Kabul? Or was it simply some negligible act - cutting a ribbon, meeting with orphans, invoking Mother Teresa?

I thought about Sukha. Whatever it was, Sukha wasn’t a terrorist. Of that I was certain.

I uncrumbled the other papers. There was a picture of Olivia from Vogue, modeling a chiffon dress, dancing. Over the face of her partner, Kip had pasted a dime store photo of his own face. He was definitely infatuated. Good.

Then I heard it again. The Chinese lullaby. It was being sung, softly, beautifully. I looked out the window. Kip was strolling down the waterfront.. I looked at the scar slashing his features, the half smile on his lips, the unflinching gaze of a man who had nothing to lose, who would take any risk.

I flipped out my Scope, accessed the telephone function and dialed Barat. I left the hotel. I watched Kip go in and I settled down to wait.

Barat showed up in a half hour.

An hour later Kip, freshly shaven, his backpack over his shoulder, came out of the Lenox. Barat approached him humbly. I saw Kip put his arm around Barat’s shoulder.




Episode 13 Sukha

On my Scope I had an email from Shroeder: The Chinese are unhappy about the message in the palmprint to rebels in Western China. That’s what Griffon meant about Shiraz and Tashkent. Sukha communicating with rebel groups. I had to talk to her.

After the Manhattan streets, the Horn Mansion was like an oasis. There was something different going on here - a certain stillness. Visitors knew they didn't have to fill every silence. Sukha maintained a calm that allowed visitors to become quiet, to see things clearly, to breathe easily.

At mealtimes a buffet appeared in the dining room and guests would pile their plates high, then take them around the house, finding an alcove or a window seat, carrying a tray and their laptops to a corner, or simply pet the dogs, and relax. The myth was that Olivia attracted the guests: the truth was, it was Sukha.

I went out to the kitchen to make tea and there she was, translating a poem from Tibetan to English. She had loosened her braids and they fell around her face. Her smooth skin, the color of walnuts, made me want to reach out and touch her, to enfold her gently into my arms. She was concentrating and didn’t hear me come in. When she looked up, she smiled, unsurprised.
“Sunyata? Blake what is the word in English?”
“Emptiness.” In a few minutes we were working together on her manuscript. I tried to offer her different English words, explaining the shades of meaning, so that she could select the one that most closely approximated the sense of the word in the context of the poem. I thought about the palmprints. I wanted to ask her directly about the messages, about the risk they posed for her, but found I couldn’t just barge in and take over her moment. I watched her struggling over the translation, looking up each word in a Tibetan-English dictionary.

"I'll do it, if you like, Sukha," I volunteered.

"Take it out to the greenhouse, Blake," she said. "I'll bring you cheese and fruit." I wandered through the French doors of the kitchen, and crossed the garden. The greenhouse was utilitarian, but one corner was a tiny year-round garden, an alcove shaped like a gazebo. Clematis blossoms floated from the frame, enclosing the space. I sat in the huge wicker chair, happy to be working on something that yielded itself to me, chewing the end of my pencil, musing over the best English word for each of Sukha’s, reaching for the meaning as she had written it.

I looked up and saw her crossing the garden with a tray. She stopped for a moment next to the fountain, put down the tray and stood very still. Suddenly a sparrow flew around her and lighted on her shoulder. She put her index finger in front of it and it jumped on . She swept her other hand into the fountain, put a few drops of water on her lower lip and brought the bird up to it. It sipped the water and then she held out her hand and it flew up to a branch. For a minute the two of them, the sparrow and the woman looked at each other and then Sukha picked up the tray and came in.

She silently poured me a cup of tea, smiling as she placed it in my hand. She uncovered a tray of Rome apples, anjou pears, and peaches, arranged around three slivers of cheese, with a loaf of country bread.

Quietly, I put down the tea, got up and closed the shutters. And reached for her…It seemed as natural and innocent as bending to pick a flower in a meadow. As essential as breathing, as calm as sipping tea. Her familiar Tibetan garments evoked walks I’d taken over Tibetan peaks, the welcome I’d received in tiny homes perched precariously on the mountainside. As I undressed her, I felt I was uncovering both of us, revealing forgotten childlike innocence. Her hair fell into my eyes, her arms reached above us… her fingers curled in a mudra. Boundaries receded to some other place. I entered into her sphere, a vast spaciousness. We seemed to inhabit a land beyond boundaries and limits, beyond thoughts and speech.

Sukha nurtured every herb and plant, fed the birds, trained the homing pigeons on the roof. She saved broken dishes and other objects to make a mosaic border around the fountain. I knew she had her own little residence behind the garden, over the garage, with a stairway up to the second floor where she had a balcony and two rooms. I understood that she was in touch with people all over the world via fax and, obviously, hidden messages, but I never saw her at a desk. Wherever she appeared, her silent intensity was in marked contrast to the hysteria that was the norm in New York.

She pulled up a wicker stool at my feet, slicing the bread, spreading the cheese, reaching for a sprig of mint to put on the platter.

"Emptiness." I said quietly. "The world is empty to me, but not in the same way it is empty to you, Sukha. For you the emptiness is everything. For me its nothing." I looked at her. "But in a way we’re alike: there's nothing in this world that really tempts you."

"There is now, Blake."

We were the same age, but while my early life had been secure from hunger and any threat to survival, she had lived on the edge since she was a tiny child. My work had introduced me to that edge, to the brutality of nations and the suffering of individuals.

"When did you leave Lhasa?"

"We left after the Chinese imprisoned my mother." She closed her eyes, seeing the past again. "A Chinese officer came to our house, very formally. He spent a long time with my mother. Perhaps he asked her to do something and she refused. I'll never know. He left and some soldiers came and took her away. I stood at the door and she held out her arms, but a soldier put up his gun and blocked my way. She asked him to let her hold me one last time, but he said 'No.'"

I took her hand. "Where was your father?"

"The Chinese had arrested him the day before, but he was released. We stayed in Lhasa for a year, During that time, my father tried to rescue my mother. Then, without any warning, we left. Perhaps he learned she was dead or perhaps he had to flee for his life, or to protect me.”

“We told no one. I never said goodbye to my Grandmother. My father carried me on his back, and we walked out over the Himalayas. Every night we stayed in a village, hidden away, sleeping with the yaks. He'd warm me, massage my hands and feet, singing the whole time. He sang Tibetan songs and opera and every Western tune he knew during those days on the mountains and nights in the villages. I'll never forget his sad, comforting voice."

A tear slipped down her cheek, unchecked. She looked at me and smiled. Tears fell easily without sobs, she smiled through them. She can hold two opposing emotions at the same time, love and loss ... I took her hand.

"To be heartbroken is quite ordinary, after all," said Sukha. Her face was both tragic and accepting. Somewhere within me, I reached out a hand to the little girl she had been, trying to deflect the menace she had faced.

"What are you going to do with this poem?"

"I'm thinking of setting it to music."

“Sukha, we have to talk about the palmprints. You’ve created a border with messages: those names in the palmprints are dangerous. What is this about?”

“They are coded messages, Blake. They’re warnings to people who may be targeted for arrest. Friends feed me information and I use whatever way I can to warn dissidents. The Chinese have cut off most ways of communicating and this is a pivotal time… Because of the Olympics, we have an opening. The world is watching China.”

“Have the Chinese done anything to stop you?

“They’ve tried to get my resident’s visa withdrawn, so far unsuccessfully. Cosmos and Stella have protected me.”

“Sukha, you know this is dangerous.”

“Doing nothing is just as dangerous Blake. I must do what I can to help. We can’t give up, Blake. You wouldn’t have me do that, would you?”

"Of course not.” I decided to see what she knew about my newest adversary. “Sukha, have you ever heard of a gang that works with terrorists, supplying them with substitutes to take the rap for crimes?”

“The Imani,” she nodded. “They do jobs for terrorists.”

“They’ve referred to a Dragon, Dog, Pig. What does it mean?”

“I think it is code for their clients, Blake, the groups who buy weapons and want fish to take the punishment.”

“Are they capable of bigger operations?”

She was silent for a moment. “They are dangerous because they have no ideology. Since they are only motivated only by greed, they don’t care if their actions backfire... as long as they get their money. Who really hires them? That is the question.”

I was quiet for a moment, letting the implications sink in.

“Sukha, you must feel isolated here. Aren't you lonely?"

"Not since you came Blake. You are the link between this life and the life I left behind. I know you understand. You're the only one here who really knows what happened in Tibet."




Episode 14 Listening In

Shroeder had found us money. He’d tracked down an account of Madame Po’s and started withdrawing money from it to finance our operation. Even better, he’d located Madame Po. She was arriving at Kennedy on Thursday at 10:55 am on Singapore Air Flight SQ 025. I decided to use Griffon to stop her in her tracks.

I went to meet Barat at Veselka in the East Village for dinner. As I waited for him, I glanced at Griffon’s column on page 6. There was his interview with Chloe.


Video Artist Turns the Medium On Its Lens
by Griffon Thorndike
She's off hand, arrogant, and cool. She's passionate, angry, easily moved. She's elegant, but she rejects the label. She's Chloe Cosmos, video artist, political wife, haughty chronicler of the current scene. She's a black swan, gliding through the streets of New York, proudly disdaining the adoration she arouses. She also records and plays back the long nights, a modern minstrel, preserving the amusements, diversions, and telling incidents of the New York social scene, the intimate and the public. Is she different than other video artists? Probably... to start, she doesn't edit her videotapes at all. She has eliminated the cutting and directing process, she emphasizes the EYE of the camera, the EYE of the viewer.

Chloe agreed to turn off her video camera long enough to sit for this interview in her Upper East Side brownstone, which she shares with her husband, ambassador-at-large Ephraim Cosmos. Over a buffet of crudités, tofu and brown rice, Chloe attacked the video establishment as racist, sexist, and resistant to change. But she asserts that change will come, nevertheless.

"I believe that the director is a thing of the past in film. The director, a white male, has had a vision and it is a vision that has left African Americans and other people of color on the cutting room floor,” said Chloe, wearing a motorcycle jacket over exercise clothes and cowboy boots. "Since I’m the one with the vision, I will become the director, the designer, and the film editor."

So here is Chloe with a tiny custom-made video camera strapped to her wrist. She wears it everywhere, until it has become an extension of herself. She no longer needs to look through the lens. She aims it flawlessly every time. Sometimes she deliberately holds it at an angle or moves it to get a blur, or pans, or turns it off and on to get a series of still shots. I asked Chloe why she never edits her video tapes, simply runs different parts at different speeds for emphasis.

"There’s more to life than meets the eye, but everything is in the camera's eye," she explained, sipping bark tea. "Where does power lie? The camera knows. A photograph tells the truth. In life, people only see what they want to see and the most outrageous things go right by most people’s perception. I think that the lid has been kept on things too long. There is nothing as deceived as the American psyche. Now let's see things as they really are."

She stretched, preened, and pointed the camera at me. The interview was at an end.

What did Chloe mean when she asked “Where does the power lie?” Perhaps she meant the female power she exerted over Cosmos... whose power she had completely blunted.

I looked up to see Barat coming in the door, looking anxiously behind him. We moved to the back room, Barat’s hooded eyes noting everything, resting on the other diners’ plates of kasha, perogies, and lamb. Our waitress took one look at Barat’s huge frame and brooding features and came over to get our order. She was a bone thin brunette, and when she took out her pen and order book, her hand shook.

“We’ll have you out of here in no time,” she said, trying to smile. “What’ll it be?”

I ordered perogies and kasha for me and double portions of the combination plate for Barat. The food came immediately and Barat dug in wordlessly. I let him finish his food, my salad and all the bread before asking him questions about Kip.

“How did you get away?” I sipped my coffee.

Kip went out early. I followed him to his truck, so I know he’ll be gone for a while. He’ll never know I left the Lenox.” Barat looked around as if he didn’t quite believe he’d gotten away with it.

“Did you find out anything about Jasmine?”

“Kip said she is fine. He asked her to testify to the police that she was well treated. She did. Case closed. He promised I’d see her soon. I hope she is unharmed,” He drank the rest of his coffee. In his hands the cup seemed tiny. “But she didn’t earn her freedom. At least he didn’t ask her to be a fish, to take the rap for a crime and go to jail.”

“For a crime she didn’t commit?” I asked. He nodded and looked at his coffee.

“American coffee is weak. And Americans move so fast. Look,” he waved his hands. “People finish their lunch in a few minutes and then they are gone. For what?”

Indeed. I have no idea for what, although I live that way myself.

“Are there other fish?” I asked.

“Many fish,” he nodded. “In jail, but innocent.” He had wolfed down his food, but he still looked hungry, so I signaled the waitress. Barat ordered another combination plate and more coffee.

“How is Kip treating you?”

“So far, so good. But I am afraid.”

“Why?”

“He says I must do something to earn Jasmine’s release. This afternoon he will tell me about my new job. He says be prepared to get my hands bloody. Sayyid, I cannot hurt anyone.” Barat started to cry. It was striking to see this giant with tears running down his cheek. He looked even more frightening, unpredictable and possibly explosive. Across the room, the waitress dropped a plate. When I looked up she was staring at Barat, her eyes wide.

A minute later she brought his second order of food and scurried away.

“Look, Barat. This won’t last much longer. Just find out what you can about their plans. Then we’ll find Jasmine and you both are on your way home.”

“If you say so, Blake.”

“I want you to show up at the Post, when you can get away. It’s a newspaper. Look for Griffon Thorndike and give him this.” I handed Barat an envelope.

I took out a tiny leather bound Koran and handed it to him.

“Carry this. If Kip is ready to talk to you, push this embossed gold lettering down. It will transmit and my scope will record everything. Try to get him to talk about their plans… ask in a roundabout way… or, if you can, get him drunk and see what he says.”

Barat took the Koran reverently and turned it over in his hands.

“But what if he wants me to hurt someone?”

“Agree to whatever he says, Barat. If you feel threatened, go to this address and signal me with your scope.” I gave him money.

He sighed. “I pray for that moment... I pray Jasmine and I see home again.

I shook hands with him inside the restaurant and he went out alone to meet Kip. I took an iPod out of my briefcase, plugged in my Scope and listened. Then, I opened my newspaper and ordered two deserts and coffee. And settled down to wait. People may think the life of a spy is a life of action. In reality, it is a life of waiting, gauging, going over data endlessly to spot something that doesn’t fit.

Spying is like chess, the game unfolds, moving the pieces or let them move themselves. Suddenly the game is over and someone has lost. The point was not to become a pawn in the game. And not to lose.

The dinner crowd was thinning out, but Veselka has patrons all day. My waitress was gone, a thin long haired young man had taken her place and no one noticed that I lingered. I ordered more coffee and waited for the click.

When it came, I jumped. I could hear a voice. It was Kip.

“Jasmine will be free, but you have to earn it.” I heard street sounds in the background.

“Do I have to be a fish?”

“No, I have something else in mind for you.”

“Do you have others to be fish?”

“Of course. We run a business here. It’s our job to supply “recruits” to confess to crimes. We call them Fish, because they have to bite the bait whether they want to or not.” They must have gone inside. The street noises were gone. “We have fish in jail all over the world. That’s what our clients pay for. That’s what we do best. You know Barat, you are not a brave man but you look fierce. We could train you as a cat.”

“What is a cat?” I could hear the fear in Barat’s voice.

“Cats go after the Fish, convincing them there is a better life they can buy without paying a cent. It was Madame Po’s idea to recruit prisoners working in China's labor camps, Pakistan's Gehna makhlooq, mortgaged creatures, working the fields for nothing, to pay off the debts inherited from their grandparents; Thai children who were sold by their parents, working in brothels and factories, trapped for life. She said a western prison would be like heaven to them. She said there are many miserable creatures who would jump at the chance to trade one prison sentence for another.”

“Is it true, Kip?”

"All they have to do is take the rap. The cats show the dumb fish how Western sentences are easy time, Western jails are warm and comfortable compared to the refugee camps where they have been rotting. They will still have their lives ahead of them when they are released

"You would teach the Fish a few words of English or German or French and send them to a country, where they are framed for a crime. If the police have an eye witnesses, plastic surgery is used to make the person resemble the actual culprit so the witnesses are deceived, or at a minimum confused.”

I remembered how generations of coolies had been persuaded to leave China, and had ended up indentured forever in Malaya or Manchuria at the turn of the century. Then, agents roamed the poverty stricken villages of China with promises of wealth. The gullible peasants were given a tiny advance, just enough to seduce them with the idea of future wealth and to ensnare them in debt they could never repay. They became cargo, sold as merchandise.

Evidently many crimes that HQ considered solved, with the perpetrators tucked away in jail, were still open, the criminals committing the same acts, and importing Fish to go to jail for them.

I lost the signal. I paid the check, mentally composing an email to Shroeder. We’d have to assume that perpetrators charged in many international incidents were fish, not the real criminals, but we had no proof. We’d have to uncover their list of fish and reopen the closed cases, free innocent men and prosecute others. I had to wonder about the cases Shroeder had uncovered in connection with Cosmos: the Cole bombing in Yemen, the embassy attacks in Africa, even that first job for the CIA, destroying Taliban weapons. Were fish substituted for the real perps?





Episode 15 Fashion Rules

Sukha was drawing me to her, but I had to find out about Olivia. I invited her to lunch with me at Monsoon, Manhattan’s restaurant of the moment. It had been necessary to call Shroeder to get the reservation. It's very exclusivity was its attraction. Its Eastern theme was understated, almost lost in the lushness of the carpet, the felt covering on the walls, the dramatic pinpoint lighting.

Patrons were seated on myriad levels where they could see and be seen, without being heard. Each table was secluded by lattice, carved into rosewood in endless patterns. People came here to share concealed thoughts, to plant an idea in the mind of an enemy, to maneuver.

While I waited for Olivia, I reviewed what I knew about her life. The Horn Mansion always had open windows and a cross breeze. The guests were Olivia's friends and acquaintances, even her enemies. Chloe visited, her video camera strapped to her arm, preserving encounters on videotape. Admirers sent flowers and begged Olivia to see them. Jealous friends said things that would never occur to an enemy. Olivia seemed immune to their reactions.

Although she seemed to be the target of an ongoing invasion, Olivia preserved her privacy. I learned that guests were not invited to the second floor of the compound, where her personal suite was maintained. If asked about it, she would laugh it off and change the subject.

"That's where I keep my archives," She told me. "I can't bear to throw anything away - so my entire wardrobe is stored up there in extensive dressing rooms. I also have all my stuffed animals and scrapbooks."

At times like these my vision of Olivia reverted to my original opinion. I found it hard to reconcile this collector of clothes, stuffed animals and scrap­books with the person who could play Scrabble in a half dozen languages, recognize when she was being followed without panicking, and sing the entire libretto of La Traviata perfectly.

Olivia's archives were presided over by Sonya, a proud, erect, haughty, sloe-eyed, woman, from a noble Russian family who had fled to Paris early in the 20th century. Her grandmother had worked in the great fashion house of Chanel in the 1940’s, her mother grew up wielding a needle the way some kids use a crayon and so did Sonya. She was often asked to design or sew a frock for one of Olivia's friends but she would pick up her needle only for Olivia, and occasionally to put together some lavish outfit for Griffon, who she adored.

Short, broad, powerfully built, with a perfectly sculptured head and tight curly hair, Yol managed to be ascetic and sensuous at the same time. A Sufi master, he was Olivia's personal trainer, and he worked with a choreographer to create a workout for Olivia which combined ballet, karate, elements of boxing, weights, and running. He and Sukha had put together a meditation and relaxation program that was a favorite among the guests.

And there was Leo, the enigmatic young African American who spoke only to Olivia or Sukha. He carried a clipboard or sometimes a briefcase. He was soft-spoken, long limbed, and exact, sported dreadlocks, smart clothing and air of authority.

It was Charles who I liked and trusted most. The burly middle aged Italian, a former wrestler, was at the same time protective and outspoken.

"Have you been waiting long?" asked Olivia, knowing I had. Once Olivia arrived, we were the objects of attention, surrounded by servers, discussed by other patrons. The waiters must have been chosen for their looks. They were elongated, with thin dramatic faces and spiked haircuts. From a great distance, our own waiter recited the specials of the day as if they were the sequel to a soap opera. Olivia ordered a stir fry, I asked for a salad.

“I have a fashion shoot this afternoon, Blake, for Elle”

"You still love the world of fashion don't you, Olivia?" I asked. My question launched a monologue on the subject.

"I'm impatient with fashion, Blake. All these retro styles: back to the 1970’s, the sixties: it's time for us to move ahead, to leave the immediate past behind." She checked her compact mirror and decided to take her hair down. It fell on her shoulders, shining. "The spring and fall shows are alike year after year. They even change in the same ways: the hemlines go up or down, there's a touch of something exotic from North Africa or South America..."

"We're on the verge of so much in our world, but we all seem afraid to take the vital next step. Fashion is a mirror of the times. It reflects ideas we cannot always see clearly. This is the end of an era: fashion today is a collection of artifacts. It can't quite decide to step into the future." She was running her fingers through her hair, as her thoughts spilled out.

"The vast chasm between the sexes, between the races, between the classes was the defining fact of the twentieth century." she continued. “Now with Barack Obama, we see how much the world has changed, how the differences can be bridged.”

"Fashion has both perpetuated that gap and closed it. The fact that designer clothes soon appear in wonderful copies at every price level has bridged class distinctions and made it possible for many people to make fashion their own. But many of the designs still perpetuate the old boundaries.

"I'd like fashion to start to shed its preoccupation with class, its accessories that indicate men's power over women. Designers are clinging to the idea of a women being decorative, of a woman as an embellishment for a man. But women no longer see themselves that way. Clothes should reflect the fact that women are moving into an arena of influence, of preeminence. They are ascending - but not over anyone else. They no longer have to prove themselves, but they can express themselves. Fashion has not caught up."

"Can this kind of change come about all at once?" I asked. Despite myself, I was intrigued by the depth of her thinking about this most superficial and frivolous of topics.

"After World War I, Coco Chanel came along and with her new ideas she transformed the world of women forever - took them out of those constricting, long clothes, and put them into simpler, tailored, easy clothes. She made it possible for women to take on new roles, to actually move more easily! Chanel propelled women into the modern world -and into new possibilities. Clothes can do that! They have a certain magic - and they can shape our behavior, our identities, and certainly our reception in the wider world. When current designers start to help women take new steps they way Chanel did, then we'll have arrived.

"I'm not saying that couturiers shouldn't reach into the past. In fact, I think they should imitate Periwinkle and go back further than the 1940’s, go beyond adding a bit of African fabric to their collections. They should look to the clothes that have served other cultures so well. Three hundred years ago men had jewelry and lace and bright tights and elaborate hairdos - all the brilliant touches that we think of as feminine today. In India and China women have always worn the pants. It's time to go into these gold mines more deeply and dig out the treasures that are there for the taking.

"You know, Blake, I made a name for myself as a teenage fashion model by wearing clothes that had a dual personality - a suit by day, a gown by night. My famous Cinderella rags turned into a ball gown. Clothes that transformed themselves and the wearer were my trademark. We need more of that flexibility, ingenuity, and understanding of women, who, after all, have so many roles."

"We've made great progress with stretch fabrics - fabrics that behave and do what the wearer wants, but designers have only scratched the surface in designing comfortable, clothes, smashing with minimum maintenance, that don't restrict a woman's movements , that foster a freer life, that help her take new steps into the future. Designers should work with scientists to apply the new technology to fabrics and design.

"I'd like to see people stop wearing coats at all - one sleek layer would go from a blizzard into a heated indoor environment. I bet we have the technology to make delicate fabrics that are tough as terry cloth, to make synthetics that shimmer and fall like satin. I'd like clothes that came in components - A travel wardrobe that fits in a tiny bag - light, flexible layers that added up.

"I'm intrigued by the idea of convertible clothes. You've seen sleeves that zipped into vests: Well I think that idea can be extended, if it's done right, to make scarves that have an attachable zipper to make them little strapless dresses or slim skirts, clothes that could be turned inside out, edging that could be added like jewelry." She took off her bracelets and piled them in front of her.

"I'd like to design jewelry that can act as tools - a bracelet instead of a handbag, with tiny charms to hold a rolled-up dollar bill, a house key, a charge card, a tiny lipstick, and a miniature compact." She tied a scarf around her neck, without looking in a mirror. No one could look so divine with so little effort.

"Androgynous clothes go a long way to reflect the way women feel today - jeans, the western look, biking clothes, are flexible, comfortable and great looking! But I think women in authority have made a mistake when they borrowed the constricted look of men - not that I disapprove of menswear on women, not at all.

"The good thing about changing styles is the modern idea that an individual can remake herself into a new person, can assume new roles in society. Image can be very useful Blake, as long as the wearer doesn't lose track of the fact that it is only a veneer, that what truly matters is to be found on a much deeper level.

"Oh, I have so many ideas, Blake, but right now I've got to run. I'm modeling the Seventies Disco Look for a spread on evening clothes." We both laughed as she slipped into her jacket.

"Let me come with you," I said, realizing I’d learned nothing at all about her.

"Oh Blake, you'd be bored silly." She picked up her small square cosmetic case. Come over tomorrow for brunch.”




Episode 17 Olivia

I arrived at the Mansion for brunch and Charles directed me to Olivia’s room On the second floor. As I climbed the stairs, I passed through a tiny sitting room. I noticed a painted wardrobe against the wall. . . Something about it make me want to open the door, but I didn’t.

Olivia was sitting on her four poster bed, surrounded by jewelry boxes and heaps of necklaces, tiny piles of earring, rows of bangles. She was wearing an ivory satin dressing gown, parted to reveal a fringed bustier. A swans down ruff fell softly around her neck. Matching heeled slippers lay on the floor where she had kicked them off. Her hair was piled on top of her head and long baroque pearl earrings hung from her ears. Through the open casement windows came the sound of wind chimes from the garden.

Following up with the Jordanians? The question of Saudi Arabia? A cover for my trip to Colombia? Olivia was obviously involved in clandestine activity. Was she the target of terrorists? The accomplice and lover of a weapons dealer who happened to be my boss?

Griffon was sprawled on the floor with open catalogues scattered everywhere. Three speaker phones were on and Griffon was carrying on simultaneous conversations, raising his head occasionally to talk to Olivia, Stella and Periwinkle.

“Olivia, I’m talking to Neiman Marcus. Do we want the new sapphire hoop earrings?”

“I do,” shrieked Periwinkle, He had one of Olivia’s feather boas around his neck and he was giving Stella a pedicure.

“Nails by Periwinkle, Blake darling,” he said as I came in. “If you displayed them in a gallery, each nail would be worth $10,000.”

“Periwinkle, could you do the tantric symbols?” Stella asked. She had a phone cradled at her chin, a pile of catalogues slipping from her lap. There seemed to be credit cards everywhere.

“Of course, darling... just don’t show them to the press. Elected officials and tantra… I’m not sure that’s a winning combination.”

“Isn’t Griffon the press?” I asked, reaching for a bagel from a tray of hor’s d’oeuvre perched on a huge leather ottoman.

Griffon looked up from his catalogues “I’m off duty, Blake, can’t you tell? Some things are more important than deadlines. Pedicures. Shopping. Everyone needs to forget the serious things of life once in a while.”

“Am I to understand you call your column one of the serious things of life?” I poured myself coffee.

“I might surprise you, Blake. You may just see something of a different scoop in my column tomorrow.” Aha... Barat had delivered the envelope. Now, I couldn’t wait to see his column.

“Don’t tease him, Blake, he’s immune to innuendo anyway...” Olivia gave me a sweet smile and turned to Griffon. “Is there anything in the catalogue for my concert in Central Park? I want to look reptilian, like a mythical mermaid.”

I looked around. The room was directly over the drawing room and had the same dimensions, but because it was on the second floor, light flooded in on three sides. A delicate cabinet veneered with semi-precious stones stood beside the bed. Translucent fabric floated from the four posters. Stacks of books and magazines were everywhere.

I took Periwinkle’s arm and we moved to two overstuffed chairs at the far end of the room. Branches of dogwood were blooming in urns. Flanking the fireplace was a collection of samovars. Double doors opened into Olivia's legendary dressing rooms. I could see a collection of indigenous jewelry had been tossed onto heart-shaped hooks: amber from Russia and Turkey, coin necklaces from the Sinai, cloisonné beads from Shanghai, an Indonesian necklace of silver and hand woven silk, antique ivory from Africa.

“Why didn’t you tell me the palmprints were part of a code?” I asked softly. “I think you may have gotten in over your head.”

“Why do you think that?” Periwinkle opened a tiny bottle of iridescent blue nail polish.

“You’re dealing with dangerous thugs. These aren’t your society women.”

“Oh, my dear, how exciting. Thugs are my cup of tea. Just let me do your nails, Blake.”

“Periwinkle, this is serious.” I slipped my hands into my pockets. “I think you should go back to Alabama and lie low.”

“And miss all the fun? I wouldn’t dream of it. And anyway do you know how it is for a queer in the little Alabama town where I was born? No way, Blake. Besides, I don’t know a thing so I’m safe.” He started to apply polish to his fingernails.

“They don’t know what you know.”

“Blake, darling, it’s so exciting to see you take over this way. Olivia,” he called across the room. “Don’t you just love men who take charge?”

“What do you know about the Wilson Foundation?” I asked him. “Just what is Olivia up to?”

“She’s an international envoy for world peace. I thought you knew that.”

“I’m serious,” I was tired of his posing.

“So am I, Blake.”

Periwinkle wandered back to the phones. I moved the ottoman next to Griffon and handed him the tray of sandwiches.

“How did you meet Olivia?” I asked. He disconnected the phones and poured a cup of coffee and added a shot of cognac.

"It was a long time ago. I was a kid who knew nothing. I thought I was hot stuff. It was after grad school at Harvard. I was writing the chapter on Turkey for Let’s Go Europe. I’d bought a used motorcycle in Amsterdam, a BMW. I was on my way to Istanbul, and I had been up all night. I took out the bike as the sun rose and headed across the Bosporus. And there she was, on the bridge.

“Olivia?"

He nodded. "I saw a slight kid with her thumb out. I knew right away she was American. It worried me. I thought, ‘Let me just take this kid home before she gets into trouble.’ So I stopped.

"She had ridiculous cropped, bright red hair. Then she looked up and there were green eyes, wide set, very serious. And the next minute I realized I was looking at the teenage model, the one whose picture was splayed all over the magazine covers. She told me her name was Eloise and I believed her!" He laughed.

I looked at him, then turned to Olivia. I felt if I turned my head fast enough I would get a glimpse. . . of what? Of a little girl standing alone, waiting for parents who never came?

“Doesn’t she get tired of traveling?” Olivia was coming out of her dressing room. The satin dressing gown was gone, replaced by jeans and a sleeveless turtleneck.

“Are you kidding? She travels constantly - photo shoots for Vogue, singing with groups in Europe and all over the world – she’s always on the go.”

“Doesn’t it exhaust her?”

“When she really needs to get away, she goes to Windy Hollow in the Adirondacks. It's a mountain retreat, accessible only by horseback or on foot."

“But how does she get supplies?"

"Apparently, the Nicholsons live there all the time in a house on the property. They exist as if it were two centuries ago, raising vegetables and fruits in an orchard, putting up preserves, making candles, weaving fabrics, making their own soap, cutting logs for the wood burning fireplace. It has modern plumbing, mind you, but no electricity."

“Does she ever travel for political purposes?”

“Olivia? Oh sure, she’s a guerrilla in disguise.”

“I’m serious, Griffon.”

“You’re in luck, Blake. She likes you,” he said.

“Oh, I know you have a relationship,” I admitted glumly.

“You are a brilliant person, Blake, but you don’t get it. Olivia and I aren’t interested in ownership the way you are. That’s not what love means to us.”

“I don’t think love means ownership,” I protested.

He changed the subject. “You know, I haven’t thought about it for years.. We just took off and traveled.” Evidently Olivia had just run away from the Swiss Boarding school her guardians had chosen for her. After he met her, Griffon finished his work on Let’s Go and they went to India for six months.

“Traveling with Olivia was easy - she just picks up languages without thinking about it!” Griffon said. “Her father was the same way evidently: he could go anywhere, and speak fluently within weeks.”

I wished I hadn't asked. They'd known each other forever, since they were kids! Any subject would be better than this.

Did she see my distress? What made her come, take my hand and lead me downstairs?

"By the way, Blake there are checks for you in the front hall," she said, as we passed.

"Checks?" I asked, following her into the kitchen.

"Yes, darling. Contributions. To the Antiquities Museum." Olivia grinned. "You're so elusive, many people just found it easier to send the money here."

I groaned. She raised an eyebrow. "But it's why you're here in New York, isn't it? To raise money?"

She led me into the kitchen, making small talk. The tile and stainless steel surfaces reflected our movements. Olivia filled the tea kettle and put it on the stove. The dogs wandered in. Olivia reached for a muffin in a bowl on the counter, divided it in half and fed it to them.

Charles came in with an email. She scanned it and asked him to put the date on her calendar.

"Blake have you ever considered a different look?” She pulled a band out of her hair and it fell around her shoulders. “I think you could look like anything you wanted.”

I thought of the times I was undercover, with a new name, a new passport, a new wardrobe, working in a different language, with a fabricated history - the feeling of escape, of expressing another, essential part of myself. Did Olivia feel this way as a model, trying on different roles?

“I know you can change - like a chameleon - in a moment, Olivia. But how do you assume all those roles so easily?" I thought of the poses in all the Vogues. "Doesn't Olivia get lost in the dressing rooms, hidden under a pile of discarded outfits?"

“I don’t lose myself... I find myself in each new role and pose.” As the water boiled, she walked around me appraisingly. I poured the tea. She came up and loosened my tie. I started to protest, but she put one finger to my lips.

"This won't hurt at all, love," she said. She unbuttoned my collar, took a silver filigree chain from around her neck and fastened it around my own. Then she turned up the collar of my jacket and started rolling up my sleeves. What was happening to me? Was this an initiation into a secret society? Whatever it was, I abandoned myself to it.

“This may hurt, just a bit.” She had a needle between her fingers and she lit one end with a match. Then she put it through my ear lobe and left it. She took an earring out of a box on the counter and slipped it in the hole in my ear.

She opened a drawer, found a soft, lace trimmed napkin, and folding it perfectly, tucked it into my breast pocket. There was a bowl of eggs on the counter. She picked up one, cradled it, deftly cracked it open, and slipping her fingers into the egg white, she then ran them expertly through my hair teasing it until it stood up stiffly.

I shook my head. "I'll never be the same," I admitted.

“I won’t either Blake.” She looked at me and her voice fell to a whisper. “My life has changed since you came here. I’m not afraid anymore.”

I reached for her. I wanted to ask what she was afraid of, about her diary, about Cosmos, the Imani, weapon sales... but my mind stopped. The longing I felt for her went beyond physical desire.

We were out the door and into a cab within minutes. I knew enough not to touch her until we were alone. The freight elevator to Periwinkle’s atelier seemed to crawl to the fifth floor. Once inside, we never even closed the front door. Our clothes made a trail into the sitting room I had decided was my bedroom, with its chaise, fringed lampshades and ponyskin carpet. The shades were pulled and in the dim light I lifted her turtleneck over her head.

I wanted her with a desire so overwhelming I couldn’t imagine how it could be slaked. No wonder the Buddha warned against desire. It can obliterate everything in its path. And I knew that this moment had drawn us - Olivia and I - into world beyond the ordinary distinctions of her life and mine.

We’d crossed a divide when we made love, we left our posturing and hiding behind. We were free to reveal ourselves in a way we could not in words, to express needs that we could never express in any unimaginable conversation.




Episode 18 Powers of Prediction

We awakened at dawn, reached for each other, slid out of bed and made love on the ponyskin rug. I brewed us coffee and we took it out on the fire escape in easy silence. An hour later we walked back to the Mansion, going in the back door and climbing the back stairs to Olivia’s bedroom. While she bathed, I read the Post. There was the story I’d given Barat to deliver to Griffon, just as I’d written it:

If uniforms and camouflage are now in style, look for Madame Po arriving at Kennedy Airport on Thursday. As she debarks Singapore Air’s Flight SQ 025, she should definitely make a fashion statement. The Madame, head of a paramilitary organization with ties to terrorist groups, is said to be an icon of the guerilla underground.

Now she would be arrested at immigration - it was in black and white.

Olivia came out of the bath, rosy, in a thick white terry robe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.

In the window seat, overlooking the garden, I noticed a Max Ernst collage, with a face much like Olivia's, glimpsed through a circle in the middle. A smiling green-eyed beauty with parted lips, who was ready for anything, gazed invitingly from the piece.

This is how most people perceive Olivia. What they see is beautiful, fun loving, and eager, but almost no one sees the whole person or knows the depth and complexity of her life. Like every­thing in Olivia's life, the picture conceals as much as it reveals.

"It's one of my favorites, " said Olivia. “There’s a sleight of hand I like. You have to look again, and when you do, it's not the same."

"Like you," I said

"And you," countered Olivia.

She went to her dressing table, picking up a gilt hand mirror and looked at her image.

"What do you see when you look at me, Blake?" She put the hand mirror, glass down, on the table next to her.

"I see a green eyed blond haired woman," I said. “I see a vision, an angel.”

"Most people see me as a symbol of fashion, a plaything. Some people like the way I look, some people hate it. It frightens me.”

"Why?"

"I don't want to lose myself - the way you suggested when you asked if I don't get lost in the dressing room among the piles of outfits. I think the only way to prevent that is to watch myself."

"You aren’t self-conscious like the women who are always watching themselves in mirrors."

"I watch myself in another way."

"How?"

"The way you watch me." I felt a wave of nausea.

"How is that?"

"I keep myself under surveillance."

"Why?"

"The same reason you are watching me, to understand the truth about myself... And to free myself..."

"In what way?"

"To go beyond the trivia of daily life that can trap me, make me what I look like. I became a public persona - Olivia who exists only in people's minds."

"What changed that?

"Sukha showed me I didn't have to live up to this image; in fact I could go in another direction entirely."

She slipped into a caftan, a softer look than her high profile fashion; muted gray and white stripes with an embroidered neckline. Around her neck she wore the chunky silver jewelry Middle Eastern women wear everywhere.

"I prefer these clothes to the latest fashion," I told her.

"Sheikh Asifa said the same thing. You remember - you read about it in my journal."

I felt trapped.

"You want to see the Annex, Blake? I'll show it to you." Olivia's features softened. "Don't worry Blake. I'm on your side - at least I think we're on the same side." She took my hand. We passed through the sitting room and at the landing, stopped at the hand-painted French armoire. Olivia turned a knob on the front, pushed it lightly, and the entire wall swiveled, opening to the Annex.

Very impressive. Now, I could see the entire room. On one wall, a series of clocks displayed the time from Tokyo to Los Angeles. An illuminated map of the world dominated the room. I realized the map was computer-generated and could be changed instantly to reflect new borders and the independence of new regions.

Smooth black work surfaces lined the walls. Sonya and Yol, Olivia’s masseur, worked silently, not even looking up when I walked in. Charles smiled from his desk. The same staff in the Mansion and the Annex. I recognized the wisdom of having to trust only a few people. Olivia introduced Leo, her director, the only one who worked full time at the Annex. His dreadlocks and African dress made him seem like a rebel, rather than an executive. But Leo's manner was quiet, almost courtly. As he explained the intricacies of the operation to me, Olivia slipped out of the room.

"What are all these people doing here, Leo?" I asked Leo.

“Obviously, Sonya is Olivia’s lady's maid, but her work here is more complicated," Leo explained. “She is familiar with the intricate social order in thirty countries, the taboos of different cultures, the protocol of the ruling classes, the proprieties among the people. She is also our expert on currencies and climates." Sonya, pushed her long hair back, turned her serious expression my way, and nodded.

"Yol, Olivia’s masseur, is our middle eastern expert." Leo continued. Yol grinned crazily at me. "We depend on him for his knowledge of Arabic, Turkish, and other languages. He understands the convoluted world of countless cults and sects and their political activities."

"I’m the security person, Blake,” said Charles. “It’s my job to know weapons - the latest as well as those that are now obsolete, which are still being traded. Stella is our domestic policy person: she got us background information, no matter how classified, and pulled strings so that Olivia could travel easily under cover.

“We tapped into Griffon’s network - without telling him why. He researched the convoluted world of countless cults and sects and their political activities. He’s interfaced with journalists around the world to keep us informed and provide Olivia with the kind of celebrity introductions that can get her in anywhere. He also solidifies her cover by mentioning in his column that she is in a country to model or shop or make a personal appearance.”

Olivia reappeared a few minutes later, in the black cat suit, with the diagonal zipper. She looked like a fantasy from my childhood. She was invulnerable, tantalizing, unreal.

"And Olivia?" I asked. "What function does Olivia fulfill?"

Leo took a deep breath. "Olivia is an international envoy for world peace. She is an unofficial mediator, unattached to any government agenda. Her influence is undebatable."

"I thought she was an enemy spy," I mused.

"You owe me fifty bucks, Charles!" said Olivia triumphantly. "I told you he suspected me!"

"I had more faith in you, Blake," said Charles, shaking his head. "I thought you were more perceptive."

"He still doesn't believe it, do you, Blake?" asked Olivia.

"Not quite," I took a deep breath. “Who created all this?”

“Sukha and I put the system in place, Blake,” said Leo. “We started by tracking down every act of political aggression worldwide and then tracing the sources of their technology, strategies, expertise . Often the United States is the originator of the problem. When we have an enemy, we created it. You can count on it: we’ve sold them weapons and technology, trained their experts and made them effective. It’s amazing how two-faced western governments can be.”

"Moscow, Cape Town, Peking, Havana, Damascus, Kabul, Tripoli." I leafed through the papers. “What’s the common thread linking Olivia's activities as an envoy?"

Leo and Charles looked at each other. Charles took a deep breath.

"Olivia is able to anticipate the worst case scenario of a political action." he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked, startled.

"She examines each situation and then she has what she calls a presentiment," said Leo, sensing my skepticism. He shrugged, knowing he might not be believed. "She sees the future. It's that simple."

Charles tried to explain it to me. "Olivia works with Sukha. They are able to summon a clarity that reaches into the future. The consequences, repercussions, and significance of an action become crystalline to her. She can see the outcome, the aftermath. She can actually see a bloodbath in advance - she sees it in a kind of waking dream, an apocalyptic vision, after which she stays in her room for 24 hours."

"Sukha is part of this?" I asked.

"Olivia feels she couldn't function without Sukha," said Charles. "On a pragmatic level, she possesses expertise in languages, customs, and international economics. She has ties to the royal families of Europe through her father. Her knowledge of ancient folk remedies, alternate therapies, massage and stress reduction through breathing and meditation are legendary. Olivia frequently carries her remedies to foreign leaders who request them. "

"But even more important, Sukha brought out Olivia's powers of prediction," said Leo. "Olivia feels it is a shared gift. She ties it to the past, she bolsters it with polls and demographics, and she convinces world leaders by presenting it in a package they can understand. But all of that is packaging." Charles pushed a button. The map lit up.

"Leaders throughout the former Soviet Block, the Middle East and Africa listen to her advice," said Charles.

I sat silently, trying to accept what I had heard, but my mind rebelled. I thought about a workshop I'd taken years ago, the Epistemology of Espionage. The leader had warned us then that we'd come across situations that strained credibility.




Episode 19 Kip Sings

A damp, rainy day. Central Park was quiet. We carried our lunch to a sheltered bench at the Boat Pond. When it was sunny, kids would be here sailing their boats. Now there was a drunk picking through a trash can and an old woman feeding pigeons from a small paper bag of bread crumbs.

“Cosmos helped me get started,” Olivia unwrapped the sushi and passed me a Himachi Maki. “He introduced me to heads of state and paved the way for what I wanted to do. I thought he and I were on the same side.”

“He collaborated with the enemy, using his State Department contacts to sell arms to terrorists and drug-runners.” I was angry.

“He introduced me to many of the world's leaders. And he had the ear of leaders who would listen to no other American... War and peace are two sides of the same coin. Sukha has taught me to let go of the idea of enemies and blame.” She peered into the basket and found a teapot and tiny porcelain cups.

"I'm not like you. I am not motivated by compassion for my adversaries,” I said, pouring our tea. “I operate out of my feelings, my passions, my loyalties. We're different."

"We're not as different as you think. We share an essentially American idea that things can be changed for the better. You and I are driven by the same need to solve problems and the same conviction that it can be done." She threw a handful of trail mix towards a squirrel and passed me a slice of sushi.

“Do you think your kind of unofficial diplomacy is really effective... in the long run?” I asked, sipping my tea.

"No – it’s just a stopgap. But I have an idea, Blake,” she leaned forward, her voice breathy with excitement. “Actually, Sukha and I have an idea, the political initiative.” I thought back to my first, clandestine visit to the Annex when Olivia and her staff were discussing me: “Leave him alone. He fits in with my goals for the political initiative”

“Diplomacy has its limits. I think diplomacy, even secret negotiations, isn’t sufficient. It’s not enough to solve problems as they happen,” said Olivia

"As you do."

"As diplomats everywhere do. I think we have to seize the initiative, start the peace process before there is a problem between belligerent countries."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"I think Kucinich had the right idea. When he is elected, Barack should create a Secretary of Peace."

"And you'd take the office."

Olivia looked shocked. "Me? No! I work behind the scenes!"

"Why do we need a Secretary of Peace?" I asked. “We already have a Secretary of State."

"Blake, the country has to face the fact that we have a hand in creating wars, unwittingly, thoughtlessly. Look at our history in Afghanistan. The intention was to free the country from Soviet occupation. To do this we sold sophisticated weapons to rebel tribesmen. Now they use the same weapons to train terrorists and fight each other. The CIA calls it blowback. Sukha calls it karma. Someone must be responsible for looking at every possible implication in our secret diplomacy and covert operations."

I was silent. I had to admit that clandestine actions of agencies like my own had undermined peace.

"You think we can prevent blowback?" I asked.

“Every time a government agency or private company agreed to provide weapons or military training to another country, they would have to fund a Global Impact Analysis, to gauge all possible outcomes.”

"Look at this world! Do you honestly think world peace is a realistic expectation? Or is it an impossible dream?"

“Sukha has convinced me it is a dream worth pursuing.

“At any rate, I thought Cosmos’ work with terrorist groups was part of his cover,” she said. “I was wrong. I discovered he was selling weapons, protecting the Imani. Cosmos, who had protected and guided me, was no better than a terrorist.

“I tried to convince him to stop the Imani, but he just shook his head. He said he was in too far. That’s when Sukha and I turned to Stella and she suggested you.”

“Why haven’t you been upfront with me?”

“I knew no matter what I said, I’d be suspect in your eyes. The very fact that Cosmos and I have been intimate would have compromised me. I wanted you to get a taste of the whole situation. I needed someone on the inside to see what Cosmos was up to, to see the danger. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I think it’s huge.”

“You’re right, they’re very dangerous - and they must be stopped now.”

“I knew you were the right person. I’m not equipped to fight them... Blake, not without help.”

“But it’s not me who has the power to penetrate them right now, Olivia... It’s you....

She looked up, not wanting to hear what I had to say next. She didn’t want to hear it, but she agreed. She even knew how it was best done.



It went more smoothly than I had hoped. I had insisted they limit the trip to restaurants and public places, Olivia wearing a bug. I wasn’t sure what would be the best lure, but she knew immediately.

“I’ll take him shopping... we’ll go to Soho. It’s public and safe, and I’m sure he’d like some designer clothes.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that?

The next morning, there Kip was, watching the Mansion. Olivia offered him a ride on her motorcycle and he accepted. This time it was he and Olivia together and I was the tail. I had changed into jeans, and found a windbreaker and a cap. Rummaging around the atelier, I’d found a worn leather tool belt. A bit large, it hung carelessly around my hips. A street vendor sold me a pair of slightly bent sunglasses. I slicked my hair back and when I looked at my image in a shop window, it stared back at me gaunt, older and lonely. I followed them carefully, but I had no illusions. Kip knew I was there.

They started on West Broadway, popping in and out of shops: D & G, Louis Vuitton, Coach, Ben Sherman, Seven, each time coming out laden with packages. Kip’s scowl faded. His body language loosened up. He was attentive to Olivia, taking packages out of her hand and at one point, going into a florist and coming out with a single violet colored rose. I saw him try to talk Olivia into going into Victoria’s Secret, but she shook her head firmly and took him to Whispering Moon for a burger.

Shroeder had located an Imani bank account, operated out of a Singapore bank. He’d drawn on it lavishly to finance our work. Kip was buying designer clothes with Imani funds! Shroeder had also warned me about Kip: “It will be impossible to be sure which side he’s on. Ever.”

I watched them from cross the street. Kip was mesmerized by Olivia - that was obvious. But a life lived in flight from the authorities, a life of subterfuge and deceit, had created habits. His eyes surveyed each shop as he entered, then swept across the street. At one point, walking out of Banana Republic, he waved to me and smiled at her, then for my benefit, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he didn’t acknowledge my presence again.

In the late afternoon, Kip and Olivia were loading up her motorcycle with packages. They filled the bike’s saddle bags and hung shopping bags on the handlebars. Kip was telling her something that caught my attention. I turned up the volume.

“It’s my strike. It’s called The Club. I’m in charge of three things.”

“What three things?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you, but I will tell you this. It’s scheduled. It’s international and it’s mine. This is the big one.”

“Tell me about it,” said Olivia.

“Maybe. Let’s go somewhere and be alone.”

“I don’t think so Kip.”

After Olivia dropped off Kip at Times Square, we met in the Annex.

“I can’t believe a terrorist group thinks they can hit three targets again!” Olivia was pacing. “I need to do more to get him to open up.” She rolled up the sleeves of her silk shirt, took off her gold chains, and pulled the ribbon out of her hair, letting it spill around her face. “I wish I knew more about him.”

I could see she was no longer apprehensive. Not good. And she was no longer reticent. Even worse.

“You don’t have to sleep with him,” I said voicing my worst fears. I had to come up with something fast. “Maybe there is something you can work with…”

“What’s that?”

“He sings.”

“Kip sings?” she asked.

“Amazingly beautiful voice.” I hated to admit there was anything beautiful about this thug.

“That’s it! Blake, you’re a incredible. I’ll call him. We’ll work up a number, maybe even record it.”

“You have his number?

“His cell phone, for this week. He gets a new one every week.”

That explained why our bugs lasted only a few days.

That night, Kip was there with her in Olivia’s dance studio. From the mezzanine, I listened on my scope while I watched Olivia and Kip working out the choreography to an Usher number. She finished the last phrase of the song, spinning, and as she did, handed the microphone to Kip. As he sang, she whirled in time to the drum's throbbing beat. She became a pulsating, gyrating stranger, an almost animal creature, caught in a hypnotic ritual that went back to an ancient origin. Then the music stopped.

They moved off to the side of the dance floor, toweling off. They popped open cans of coke and talked about the arrangement. Then she asked him about the Club.

“There will be fireworks, but not the safe kind. Maybe more than people bargain for,” he said, stretching out at the bar.

“What will happen?” she asked, toweling off his forehead.

He hesitated. “The subway thing. The plane thing. And in England, the time thing.”
“The time thing?” Olivia asked. “You mean Greenwich?”

“Yeah... you know about that?”

“The Royal Observatory, Kip?”

He shrugged.

“So that’s it? she asked. “Three things?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this Olivia. I could be a dead man.”

‘Kip, there’s a briefcase containing diamonds, other jewels, and gold bars. It belonged to a Colombian drug dealer, but it was confiscated.”

“So?”

“Blake has arranged for you to have it. To give to the Imani. So they know you are loyal.”

“Where do I get it?”

“I want you to meet with Blake.”

“Do I have to?”

“Only if you want the briefcase.”

Kip demanded we meet on his territory, in an abandoned brownstone in the Bronx. The floor, peeling linoleum, was scattered with condoms and hypodermics. There were the remains of a Big Mac in the corner, and a pile of old clothes.

“I guess you’ve been around, haven’t you?” I asked

“I guess I have. I was a pickpocket by the time I was six," said Kip. He had lined up a collection of knives on the floor and was methodically polishing the blades. "Older guys used me as a diversion. I was a burglar at 11, a drug dealer at 13, a prisoner at 15. There I grew up, learned to read and discovered the source of my oppression."

“How did you get hooked up with the Imani, Kip?”

"I was in jail. A prisoner took me under his wing and made me his lieutenant. A very special person named Jo." He smiled at the thought. “This Jo, he saved my life. I was dying of pneumonia and he took care of me. He had the money to buy antibiotics from the guards. I owe him my life. He's the father I never had."

"What happened to him?"

"He turned into someone else, another person." That gave me something to think about. The new person undoubtedly had a clean slate, unlike the old Jo’s record, a long list that probably included murder and prostitution.

"Tell me about Jo, Kip. I want to understand your loyalty to him."

"Why should you care?"

"I know you're not just in it for the money, Kip, not like your boss."

"Someone has to think about the money," he pointed out. “I don’t think about that - just what I believe.”

“Which is?”

“It’s time to turn the world upside down, to put the people on the bottom on top.”

“Just how do you propose to accomplish this?” I asked

"Jo Muktani knows. He's a wolf, leader of the pack. He preys on the predators, protects us, enlarges his territory. I'll admit Jo Muktani understands money - I don't. He found the money to buy our way out of prison. If It weren't for him, I would have died in that hole." He rolled a joint and lit it. "I was lucky to have no father. Jo Muktani told me about his father. He was beaten every day.”

Makes sense.

"His lungs were damaged when the Chinese put him to work in their copper mines. He still wheezes. He protected me, in prison, but there was no one to protect him."

"I wish I didn't care about you, Kip," I found myself saying. "It must be hard to convince yourself you're doing the right thing when you sacrifice all these innocent Fish and the real criminals go free. And I believe your ideals are genuine."

He responded nervously. “Enough, Blake. I’m here because Olivia said you had a suitcase. The one with the diamonds, the gold. So Madame Po doesn’t think I’ve betrayed her. So I can live.”

“Are you at risk with the Imani?”

“Up till now, as long as I showed up at the Lenox, collected my voicemail messages and picked up my new cell phone every week, leaving them a message with my new number, they trusted me. But now I’m talking to Olivia and to you. I need to show them I’m doing something for the Imani. Madame Po is in the country - that means even meeting with you is risky.”

“She’s been arrested.”

“Yes, but haven’t you heard? She was released.”

How did that happen? Had Cosmos intervened?

“Madame Po has Barat working with her.” I realized Barat was at risk.

I held up a key. “At this locker at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, there is a briefcase containing diamonds, other jewels, and gold bars. This should prove your loyalty and give you an excuse for consorting with us – money to finance your operation.”

He reached for it. I held it out of his reach.

“Who thought of this Operation, Kip?”

Kip’s eyes stayed on key. “The Imani wanted to do a job for all their clients at once. They gave their clients a name: The Stealth Network. And they called this project The Club.”

“I’m in charge of three operations: the bombing of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, England that sets world time; an explosion at in the subway, and the highjacking of a round-the-world flight from Dulles Airport in Washington.”

“Kip, why are the Imani doing this?” He shrugged, then looked again at the key.

“It’s this way, Blake. The Imani want to show they are an international force to be reckoned with. We’re ready to forge a new super power the West will have to recognize and negotiate with. Each individual terrorist group is too small to be taken seriously, but together we are unstoppable.” That’s what Sukha had told me at the very beginning... that the danger of the Imani was the coalition it could create.

I handed him the key and the sheet with the location of the suitcase. I thought he would stop there, but even though he had what he wanted, he kept talking.

“Julia will know all their plans.”

“Will she tell us?”

“Probably. Julia can’t help talking - she says whatever comes into her mind. It’s her problem.”

“Where is Julia?”

“I don’t know where she is right now... Maybe China.”

"I think Jo Muktani is using, you Kip," I said. "He's just a mercenary. I'm not sure how the Imani has gotten away with this as long as they have. China closed its eyes to you. But someone in the US has covered up for you as well."

“It’s the koi. He protected us,” Kip said.

“The koi?”

“The big fish.... but he’s as good as dead," said Kip. “He doesn’t know he’s a fish. They let him think he is in control, running things. He’s almost dead, now if I understand things right.”

Cosmos. My boss. Scheduled to die.


Episode 20 The Big Fish

I felt like that Zen quote, “Whose corpse is this I’m dragging around?” But the corpse wasn’t my body, it was the Imani and The Club and the threat to my boss. And time was running out.

I called Olivia to plant a piece in Griffon’s column about up-and-coming singer Kip Yu and I had her arrange a recording session for him. I needed Kip’s cooperation and I would go to any length to get it.

The koi?...The big fish....Cosmos. I had to warn him that the Imani were looking for him. I left messages for him everywhere - his homes, offices... his cell phone. I went to his house. Chloe wanted to videotape us together, but I put my hand over her lens.

I don’t know what it is about Chloe. She makes every moment too intimate. I started asking her questions and found I couldn’t stop.

“Chloe, do you care about Cosmos?”

“Do you care about Olivia?” I realized word had gotten around that Olivia and I were an item, in the depersonalized New York jargon. And they say scholars have their own language.

“Your girlfriend insinuates herself into many men’s lives.” Chloe said. Evidently she knew about Olivia and Cosmos.

“We’re talking about you and Cosmos,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

“We are talking about Cosmos, Blake. Of course, I’ve always loved him, but not in a way you’d understand.”

“I remember meeting you soon after your marriage in Saudi Arabia. Up to that time you were faithful, weren’t you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I never crossed a certain line, Blake.” She examined her cuticles, looked up satisfied with what she’d seen. Kicked off her slippers. Let her cashmere shawl slip around her bare shoulder. I hate biology. My body was responding in spite of the irritation I felt at my boss’s wife. I could see what Cosmos was up against. I crossed my legs. She smiled.

“I know that members of your department have enormous control, Blake.”

“How many members of the department do you know that about?”

She scowled, then giggled. I couldn’t help laughing.

She parodied one of the duller members of the staff. It was Victor Sonora to a tee, the twit. He had more ambition than sense.

“You and Victor weren’t lovers?”

“Of course not, Blake, I think your imagination is running away with you.”

Sex is like surveillance. The more you find out, the less you know. If pressed, even the partners hardly understand what is going on.

She leaned over to fill my coffee cup.

“Where has Cosmos traveled in the past month, Chloe?” I managed to ask. She stood up, shrugged, came around behind me, leaning over my shoulder.

“I never know,” she said. “Would you tell me if you were Cosmos?” Putting me in the role of her husband. “I know you don’t appreciate our relationship, Blake, and obviously I don’t fit the concept of the faithful wife. But Cosmos and I understand and amuse each other. Life is complicated, Blake.”

Exactly.

I left knowing why Cosmos had done what he did for Chloe, but with no clue about where he was or how to stop the Imani from killing him. Why were they after him now? The papers at the Lenox indicated the Imani thought that Cosmos and Olivia were undermining them. Had Cosmos refused to work with them? Did he know about The Club? Had they reached him already? Was he dead, lying in an alley, another terrorist act disguised as street crime? And Barat? What plan did Madame Po have for him?

Olivia was planning a quiet buffet for a few friends. She had invited me over early for a drink, and I showed up at the mansion just as a the rain started. I opened the French doors, and the lightning seemed to come right into the room, the air cackled. Olivia was late and I started rearranging the books in the shelves around the fireplace, alphabetically by subject. As I created a history section, I noticed a bookmark in the Genealogy of the Arabian Peninsula. It was a letter on pale blue note paper, written in a familiar hand: "Dear Olivia. I’ve arranged the meeting in Syria. The Prince is expecting you. Let me know how it works out. Cosmos." I slipped the note into my pocket.

Olivia came in from a photo shoot exhausted. She pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall around her face, kicked off her stiletto heels, pulling a woven cashmere wrap off an ottoman as she stretched out on the sofa. I massaged her feet, very gently. My entire existence seemed concentrated in my hands on Olivia's arch. She put her head back, eyes closed.

“Kip loved the idea of the cutting a demo. We stopped at the recording studio this afternoon. He was exhilarated.”

“I bet he was,” I said. “He spends the day with you, shops, talks about a recording session, and what does it get us?”

“He agreed to our plan,” she said.

“He did?” I couldn’t quite believe it.

“We scheduled the recording session and I gave him more money to pay off the participants.” She pulled a tiny compact out of her handbag, and snapped it open. It was recorder. Kip’s voice filled the room: “Well, for the subway bombings, I’ll send the three guys to Algeria to sell weapons to the government. We won’t be hearing from them soon. On the Hijacking from Dulles airport, I’ll give them their money in advance - the entire amount and tell them I expected them to keep working anyway. They’ll be gone by the next day. It will be more complicated in London. The crew is scheduled to stop the clock at Greenwich and blow up the facility. I may have to give instructions to Samiel in London to have them arrested and make it look like a drug bust. I’ll need to go there to make sure that the Imani think it is still scheduled.”

“I’ll follow up with him to make sure it gets done,” Olivia said. “He loves telling me about his work.”

“You’re superb! I said. I leaned over her and kissed her.

“Where is everybody? What kind of a party is this?” It was Stella’s voice, the imperious one she used with her staff. She stopped at the entrance to the room, looking at us in each other’s arms. For a moment no one spoke, and then Stella blushed and seemed on the verge of tears. I wanted to reach for her, reassure her, but it would have been false.

“I don’t think I’ll stay. There’s a cocktail party, a fundraiser at the Tradewinds Institute and I’ve been asked to say a few words. I told them I wasn’t sure, but I think I’ll just dash over and open the program.” She looked down at her jeans. “Olivia do you have something I can wear?”

“As a matter of fact, a designer I never heard of sent something to me today. I haven’t even opened it yet.” She called Sonya on the intercom and spoke to her in Russian. A minute later Sonya came into the drawing room, carrying a package wrapped in shimmering lilac foil. She handed it to Stella, who turned it over thoughtfully.

"Why would an unknown designer send a package to you?" I felt suspicious.

"It happens all the time, Blake.” said Sonya. “A fresh new designer wants to start a trend, so she or he identifies a trend setter and sends an ensemble. If the recipient likes it, she'll wear it out that week. It will show up in the fashion columns and the designer is launched. Griffon might even mention it in Man About Town: Lindsay Lohan looked smashing in a jacket styled like a riding habit by the new designer, Tessa - that sort of thing."

"Well, let's have a look," said Stella. She carefully unwrapped the package, pausing to examine each layer of tissue.

"Now we find out - is it treasure or is it trash?" said Olivia. Inside, wrapped in silk, was the treasure.

It was a jumpsuit of delicate, supple suede in silver, with a stiff high collar designed to stand up like a ruff around the wearer's head.

Sonya caught her breath, "Why it's beautiful." she said.

"And it will suit you, Stella." Olivia caught Stella’s hand. “Let’s go upstairs and you can try it on.”

They went upstairs, leaving me with my guilt. Most of my life was spent alone, undercover in a remote part of the Far East, seeking or evading the most brutal men the world produced or in the archives, pouring over ancient fragments, searching for a world lost in time. Now, I had been plunged into a life I’d avoided, partly because I hated the idea of hurting or deceiving anyone. I knew that Stella’s confident, crisp exterior hid a sensibility that was easily touched, that she worked hard to overcome crying easily when she was moved by the sight of oppression and injustice, that she and I were motivated by the same vision. This was the way other people lived: hurting the people they cared about.

When the women came down, Stella looked magnificent in the jumpsuit, both regal and futuristic. I know nothing about fashion, but I recognized the suit was stunning. The designer had sent a silver turban that accentuated her open features and wide set eyes. As she left for the opening at the Tradewinds Institute, I realized that with her hair tucked away, Stella almost could be mistaken for Olivia.

After she left, I went up to Olivia, but she turned away and went to sit in front of the fire. She was more quiet than I’d ever seen her.

“Stella told me what happened, Blake, without mentioning your name. I was helping her in the election, opening her campaign appearances with a song. She didn’t identify you, but she let me know she’d met the person she’d been waiting for.” Olivia picked up a poker and rearranged the logs. The fire blazed. “When she was elected, she thought her whole world had fallen into place. She said ‘We’ll be the quintessential Washington couple.’”

“And the only problem was I didn’t play my part?”

“She said you were given the choice of an assignment in the country or out. You took the foreign assignment and went off for years and didn’t answer her email.”

“There was no connection where I was, Olivia.” I couldn’t explain more.



Episode 21 Death in a Limousine

Normally so boisterous, the guests that night surrendered to the wildness of the weather, the warmth of the drawing room. Sukha created a private casino in a corner, with dice and cards, Monopoly money, and a few treasured coins from Tibet.

"The storm lets us relax," she said, rolling the dice and looking at the results quizzical­ly. "We stay in and admit we have very little control. We go out, and strangers talk about the weather, help each other. We see we are all in this together. In fact, we are always all in this together. But it takes a storm to show us the truth and get us to admit it."

“You sound like Barack Obama,” said Griffon. “What do you think, Sukha? Look into the future and tell us if he will be President.”

“He will, but I don’t need to look into the future to know. I can see it in his eyes. He is like a mirror… Opponents who try to belittle him find themselves appearing small, while he grows in stature.”

"Sukha, read our palms," Periwinkle asked, looking up from a book of photographs.

She rolled the dice and smiled. "I'll tell you your dreams, the dreams you would dream if you dared..." I could see the power of her suggestion. We settled around her, draping ourselves over chairs, or on the small Persian prayer rugs, listening.

"Do me first," said Griffon plaintively, as if no one ever noticed him. Sukha nodded.

"Your hidden dream is to be National Editor," she said. Griffon looked startled. "You think you can go on forever uncovering the tiny scandals you and I love, but you are ready to open a new chapter in your life. You find yourself writing about politics instead of personalities. You uncover a story which makes editors everywhere gasp in envy. Then you win the Pulitzer Prize. Instead of calling models and moguls for stories, you call Presidents and Premieres."

Griffon was obviously satisfied. He shaded his eyes and looked around, one palm up..."No autographs, no pictures, please!" Then he smiled. "Blake next."

"Oh, no. Just skip me, “I said. "I want to hear Olivia's future." Sukha ignored me.

"Blake, you dream of uninterrupted time at your research. You are convinced you would never leave the archives, except to fly to Tibet to verify certain facts. But you, who have always tried to seize and preserve the past before it is lost, will realize you want something from the present moment as well. You long to trust one other human being." I looked at Sukha. At that moment, I wanted to reach for her.

Suddenly there was a loud knocking. Cosmos let himself in with his own key, but the storm seemed to have blown him in. He appeared to sway, rather than walk into the room and his limp was more pronounced. As he passed an end table, he knocked over a plant, and when he turned to see what had happened, he saw me.

Not, you...here,” he said. “God, is there no place I can go to be free of your treachery?” He tried to struggle out of his coat and sent two drinks flying. Olivia was at his side in a minute, helping him.

“My treachery?”

“I received your message, of course... How could I avoid it?. You left it everywhere. They know. They know. It’s my life, and they know.” Cosmos’s cellphone rang. He took it out and looked at the number and groaned.

“I’ll never do anything to harm you, Olivia.” He took her face in both his hands. “You are precious and you are my redemption. Remember that I’ve always treasured you.”

He stumbled into the hall. Olivia pressed his coat into my hands.

“Follow him, please Blake. Make sure he gets home.”

I took the coat and caught up with Cosmos. He was fumbling with the front door.

“Let me help you Cosmos,” I said. As I helped him into his coat, I slipped a bug into the pocket of his blazer. He pushed me away and stumbled out the door, muttering to himself.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I exposed her to danger,” he was muttering to himself. “They think she’s competition, but they’re wrong, so wrong. It was my job and I did it and in doing it, I’ve become a vile old man, like my own father. I deserve this, I do.”

I followed him to Fifth Avenue, through the rain... watching him stumble...mumbling to himself. He was crying openly. Walking down Fifth, he stopped, opened his wallet and gave a wad of bills to a beggar on the street, who looked at him, astonished, and then ran before the windfall could be reclaimed.

I lost sight of him. I turned on my Scope, plugged in the ear phones. I could hear him breathing heavily. Then I heard a door open.

“Well, Madame Po, how strange to see you in a white stretch limousine in the middle of Manhattan. They should have let you rot in jail. And the famous doctor, Dr. Jing Ying Or is it the other way around? Ying Jing? The streets of New York are not exactly your setting, are they?”

I caught a cab. I had to find the white stretch limousine. I realized Cosmos knew I was listening to every word. I could get to him, and prevent this thing from happening.

A Saab passed us going very fast on the wet street, then hit his brakes. Too late. I watched as cars piled into each other right in front of us. We were at 60th and Fifth.

“I want this death to be something incredibly elegant.” Cosmos was saying, telling me he was in imminent danger. “Can you do that Doctor Jing Ying? Don’t spoil it now, your record is far from impeccable.”

I paid the driver and left the cab. My anger toward Cosmos evaporated and I felt protective.

“You betrayed us, Cosmos.... You let us down...” It was the woman’s voice, angry. “You had money wired out of our accounts. Only you have the expertise to do that.”

“I didn’t,” Cosmos objected, then fell silent. He realized I was behind it. I was partially responsible for Cosmo’ situation.

“We thought Olivia was the enemy, but you set her up every time” Madame Po continued. “What is she selling ? Guns? Nerve gas? Some new kind of genetic engineering?”

“Yeah, and you are the biggest genetic mistake in the history of mankind.” Cosmos sounded angry, like his old self.

“Undress him” said Madame Po.

I dialed 911.

“Police. What are you reporting?”

“A white stretch limousine going south on Fifth Avenue now at about 50th Street. A murder is about to be committed in it.”

“We’ll send someone out.”

I tuned into the Scope. “Break his glasses. Olivia is setting groups up with weapons, isn’t she?”

“Oh, sure.”

I started running. In front of me a woman holding an infant slipped on the wet sidewalk and I caught her.

“What kinds of weapons? Guns?”

“No, something much more potent.”

“Where are the spiders, Doctor? You must have them in your bag? No? Oh good, there they are... Nuclear, it’s nuclear. Maybe it’s plutonium, tucked away in her diaphragm case.”

“No, far deadlier than that, the deadliest weapon of all.”

“What’s deadlier than nuclear?”

“Olivia herself, a beautiful, unknowable woman.”

“Hit him... no harder.”

I listened, my hands sweating. Cosmos was being tortured and I was unable to reach him. A nightmare, being played out surrealistically on the wet streets of New York.

“You’re going to kill me, huh? And who will be the fish for this one? You set up the Club in the subway, at Greenwich, at Dulles and now you are going to kill me.” Cosmos was telling me about the plan. I put the Scope on record and transcribe. I finally found another taxi. “I’m looking for a white stretch limousine,” I told the driver.

“God, when I think of what we’ve set in motion here,” Cosmos said. “And I thought I’d be alive to set it right.” Cosmos was apologizing to me, explaining.

“You made a profit. But you weren’t satisfied were you? So you set up Olivia to sell weapons to the government in each country, didn’t you?” Madame Po’s voice was treacherous.

“No, you’re wrong.” he laughed. “I’m so relieved at how wrong you are. And I know so much. I know the identities of all your fish. The Cole bombing, the embassies in Africa. Over the years, all the fish. They took the rap and you took the money and the perpetrator planned the next hit.”

Then there was silence. I had dreaded what I would hear next, but this was far worse.
Then a huge breath. Was it a sigh? There was a whisper.

“I can barely remember the boy I was. Chloe made me remember for a while.”

I heard sirens and at the same time saw the limousine turn into the parking garage under an office complex. The cab turned in and I tossed the driver a twenty and ran down the ramp.

The limousine was still running, the doors open. Cosmos’ torturers were gone, and there he was lying naked on the seat, spiders all over his body. I went toward him and stopped, realizing if I touched him, I would be bitten too.

Cosmos opened his eyes. “I did my job, Blake. My mistake. I should have stood up to them.”

“To whom?” I asked.

“ The administration. Don’t tell Chloe how I died.”

I’d have to sort through this later.

“You did this with courage, Cosmos, and you protected Olivia. But I had Madame Po arrested. Why did you have her freed?”

“I didn’t Blake, The Imani have the highest protection. I wanted to control it all, infiltrate the Imani and I would have stopped it, but now it’s spiraling out of control.”

“Where does Olivia fit in?”

"I met her five years ago. I was impressed - and charmed. Did she seduce me or did I seduce her? Never mind. The upshot is Olivia became the antidote.”

“What does that mean, Cosmos?”

“The antidote to the evil I had done on behalf of my government. I have more important things to tell you. The identities of the fish are in my safe. You need to know we brokered deals with China, selling outdated nuclear technology.

“I’m afraid…” he said.

One minute he was there, explaining it to me. The next he was gone. I took a moment to wish him a favorable rebirth. I wanted to cover his body, close his eyes, but I didn’t dare touch him. The sirens were getting closer. I left him, his eyes staring, unseeing, to the police.

There is a horror to death that always seems to override everything else. Our society tries to hide it under a clinical mantle. Other cultures pretend death is simply a transition to another state. But the truth, in the main unacknowledged, is that witnessing the end of life inspires a deep horror, out of which has been born all the tales and myths that have frightened and gripped men forever. I prowled the slick streets, trying to piece together the puzzle of what Cosmos had set in motion.




Episode 22 Awakening

Cosmos was dead, past my help. Instinctively I headed back to the Mansion, to make sure everything was all right. Charles let me in. He told me Olivia was asleep and I could find Sukha in the garden.

By the light of a dozen fat candles, Sukha was painstakingly putting together mosaics around the fountain. Her hair was flying around her face, and when she looked up her eyes darted, frightened. She tried again, then threw down one of the pieces and shuddered, agitated. I went to her.

When she saw me, tears fell down her face. “Something’s terribly wrong Blake, there is poison in the very air. I feel it.” On some level, Sukha knew, without being told, of the terrible scene I had just witnessed.

“I tried to sleep, but it was impossible. I dreamed I saw them taking my mother away. I kept stretched out my arms, but she was beyond my reach.”

I walked with her to the stucco stairs at the back of the garden, to her suite of rooms over the garage. I’d never been there. It was very simple, with only a small altar, a carved wood Buddha and a lotus blossom floating in a bowl.

Again, she was my touchstone. With her, through her, I was restored. In moments, we were drawn irresistibly together, an almost unfathomable current flowing between us. We made love, then slept as if drugged.

I could see the Potala Palace and hear the ringing of the temple bells. I tried to mount the steps, but they were slippery and I kept falling. I heard the bells again and then I was back and it was morning in Sukha’s apartment overlooking the courtyard. She had already brought breakfast and was pouring tea. It was a moment before I recalled the nightmare of the night before, the spiders, Cosmos’ death. My expression must have mirrored my thoughts.

"It must have been terrible for you, Blake. I knew something was very wrong. And now we all know what it was. Cosmos - dead. May he have a fortunate rebirth." Her low voice and Tibetan inflection calmed me. “Were you there?”

I nodded.

“Was it very bad?” I nodded again.

"Let me give you a massage."

As Sukha touched my body, I thought of the immigrant Kip had dragged to his death, of Chloe losing Cosmos. But to the Imani, those lives amounted to small stuff. The Club and their Stealth Network signified a new phase. Their new plot was far reaching, well-financed, global in the threat it represented. My brain circled.

Sukha dimmed the lights. The chanting of the Guyoto monks filled the room. I closed my eyes. I was transported. My mind focused on Sukha as her knowing hands touched my body, erasing tension, opening up my mind at the same time. I recognized the breadth of her mind, and knew she had witnessed wondrous things, frightening things, things that didn't make sense, others that brought meaning to every moment.

As Sukha continued the massage, each touch awakened a memory that had lain dormant in my muscles. Scenes flashed across my brain, without attaching themselves to my consciousness. Myself, in bare feet, a worn teddy bear hanging from my hand. Olivia reaching out to fix the knot in my tie. My mother tenderly shampooing my hair...

Suddenly I saw a scene, in Tibet. I was dressed as a nomadic tribesman, bent under a load of wool, walking by the prison in Lhasa. A woman, a filthy hag, with matted hair and mud-streaked rags motioned to me. I followed her down a stinking alley, to a dead end. There, she reached into a hovel and pulled out a worn leather box. She looked around, her eyes amazingly aware, and then the leather box was in my hand, and she had disappeared.

I sat up.

She nodded.

"It's true. We've met. It was I who handed you the film." I had carried the film to Paris, where it was copied and send around the world. The film, showing Chinese officers clubbing Buddhist monks and nuns in prison, had become a cause celebre in human rights circles. I lay down and when she touched me again, my thoughts evaporated, replaced by the image of sunlight on my bare skin.


Afterwards, Sukha held a robe for me to slip in to.

"It wasn't the first time we'd met," she told me.

"When?" I asked.

"Perhaps not in this lifetime," she said. Despite her almost sheltered existence here, nothing embarrassed her, she could never be shocked. Brushing down the dogs, making a fire, composing the food at a luncheon buffet, and adding a slice of fruit, a flower, to make it a work of art, Sukha brought peace to everything she touched, even to me.

What had I allowed to happen to me? I recalled Sukha's prophecy. It was indeed "territory unlike any I had known before" and a glimpse of it had been enough to make me hunger for it, and feel the loss when it wasn't there.

All my life I had cherished my solitude. And I had constructed my career in such a way that any honest relationship was impossible. I couldn’t talk about my past as an agent, my present, my fears, my hopes. I thought it worth the price and I squelched any tendencies toward intimacy. But what had once been so precious, now was pointless. I had chosen a path that left me hanging - out there in the universe, totally unconnected. Olivia and Sukha, so different, so compelling, made resuming my previous existence impossible.



On CNN, Cosmos’ death was reported as a heart attack. Cosmos was lauded for his years of government service.

I prowled the rooms of the Mansion, not sure what I expected to find. Exhausted, I climbed the steps of the mezzanine, changed into running shoes and obsessively clocked seven miles on the treadmill.

Was it just twelve hours ago when I looked into that limousine and saw Cosmos naked, dead body? The night seemed unreal. The rainy streets, Cosmos voice, Madame Po, the doctor here in Manhattan.

I took a steambath, grateful to be alone in the small marble room. But I came out feeling no better. I stood on the mezzanine looking over the gym, wrapped in my towel, considering the fact that draining the Imani’s bank account had been a factor in Cosmos’ death. But the real revelation was that Cosmos was acting on orders. Evidently, protecting the Imani was part of the policy of this administration.

At least we now would have the identities of the fish. Shroeder would provide me with some perspective. He would know whether anything could be done now about the protectors of the Imani – or whether we’d have to wait until after the election. I’d let him know about the identity of the fish in Cosmos’ safe. We would decide later who could be trusted to reopen the cases.

The enormity of what Cosmos had set in motion was oppressive, the design of a dead man who thought he’d be at the wheel. Now the vehicle was spinning out of control and it was up to me to stop it.




Episode 23 A Glimpse of the Future

Stella had returned the outfit from the mysterious designer. Olivia insisted on wearing it out the next night. Everyone who was anyone was invited to the long awaited Opening of Periwinkle's new installation - a sound and light show called The Consum­mate Future. I worried that Olivia would be another target, as Cosmos had been. I insisted we take the limousine and Charles stay within call.

Olivia felt Chloe should come with us. She brushed aside the idea that it was too soon. When we arrived at Cosmos’ townhouse, Chloe was dressed, but distraught. She paced the room, her hair flying around her face, eyes huge. She lit a cigarette, then stamped it out.

It seemed outrageous for Chloe to be out on the town so soon. But in a way, it served my purposes to have her to video the event. At least, I reflected, the narcissistic world of fashion and the arts made electronic surveillance easy. The camera was welcome everywhere. And I could review the evening afterwards to see who might be a future threat.

Periwinkle had opened a new studio, a vast space. In a sudden burst of energy he had adopted a new mode, working in splendid isolation to the music of Verdi, Puccini and Rossini. When he needed special inspiration, he brought in a string quartet, who set up in corner and accompanied him as he worked. Today, a solitary drummer, a Tibetan in yellow robes, with a huge drum, performed among the easels and the brushes.

Periwinkle had asked us to come early, before the party started. Young men and women in paper tuxedos were setting up the buffet and the bar when we arrived.

The minute he saw her, Periwinkle fell in love with Olivia's new outfit. "You are smashing, Olivia. A vision out of the future! And I have the environment to match your costume. I want you to be the first to see the show. Sukha and I have looked at the future in one way - by locating it in the palm of an individual and bringing it to light. Here, I've found another future to explore."

"I think I'll stay and record each guest's entrance to the party," said Chloe, rearranging the lamps to suit her needs.

Periwinkle led us through a door, down a sloping hall, into a round room with a domed ceiling. As we walked in, the lights came up gently, the way they did on stage during a sunrise. Pink light seemed to come from the walls themselves.

I whistled. Olivia whirled. "I love this room," she said. "I can feel my mood lifting just by walking in the door."

"This is a model of the future, something I've painted with sound and light, rather than oils and canvas. I've been investigating our environmental problems, seeking to create an intimate, streamlined, human home.

"I've used solar energy to light and heat this part of the house. I've combined light systems - incandescent, florescent, neon, and halogen - to create a new rosy light that seems to glow. This radiance is activated by a sensor when people enter and leave the room." Periwinkle pushed a button on a computer monitor on the wall and the scene changed.

The room seemed to fill with the pastel ghosts of people, a sofa, an oriental carpet. Were the images photographic slides? Holograms? One wall turned into a huge computer monitor, another held a wall of books.

"This is the living room, library and home theater of the future. Newspapers and magazines are sent out on chips and read on small, folding screens that fit in a pocket. Throwaway newspapers and flyers are delivered directly to the home computer. Paper is no longer used for ephemeral advertising.

"Here's the x-ray," said Periwinkle. "As always, what's concealed is as important as what's revealed." Again, the room was transformed. The furniture and people were replaced by a system of tubes and filters behind the walls. "The filtering system removes dust and pollutants from the air, and moisturizes it, sending in fresh, healthy air, charged with negative ions. The communications system is composed of radio waves, eliminating the need for unsightly wires and poles. Pneumatic hoses convey recyclable waste directly to factories to be remade into raw materials.

"Would you like to see the kitchen?" Periwinkle asked. He pushed another button. Suddenly, we were in a streamlined kitchen. Light flowed into the room from the window over the sink.

"Our kitchens today are manufacturing a product - in addition to food. That product is trash. The kitchen of the future solves that problem. Throw-away plastic wrap, aluminum foil, and plastic bags have been eliminated. A permanent version of each is supple and dishwasher safe. The end of throwaway food wraps eliminates tons of trash daily.

"The beverage industry can be transformed from the polluter it is, the industry responsible for cans in every roadside and wilderness. Kitchens can be equipped with carbonated water and syrups for soft drinks, many of them fruit based. Individual cans and bottles become a thing of the past, nostalgic collectibles. The development of beer which retains its head hastens the demise of the individual can and bottle.

"Hydroponic gardens grow in every house. Families raise their own greens, miniature peppers, tomatoes, with artificial light, provided by solar energy, year round. They sprout beans, make yogurt, grow herbs. Each self-contained unit maintains the correct environment, dispensing water, light and nutrients. Every house has a compost unit with an outlet in the sink. New nitrogens have been developed to eliminate odor, and the container confines the process. The development of local organic gardening will also decrease the need for packaging and additives.

"Periwinkle, I'd like to remodel my kitchen. I wonder if you would meet with Abe and give him some ideas," asked Olivia.

"Be glad to. I know he'd love this: The dishwasher of the future. It uses less water and it has movable racks so Abe doesn't have to empty it plate by plate, but can lift racks of crockery, utensils, pots, and plastics, and put them in the cabinets, emptying the dishwasher in seconds. A rack can be brought to the table for setting and clearing.

"I'd love to show you more of my dream of the future," he said. "Do you have a few minutes?" We nodded, mesmerized by the vision of one man, meticulously delineated, dramatically presented. Periwinkle pushed another button.

The room seemed to expand until it was the vision of a supermarket, with aisles of products stretching out in all directions. The intimate pink light of the home was gone: the light was stark, hygienic white. In the background a low voice droned, 'Attention shoppers, we will be featuring organic tomatoes...'

"Today, enormous waste produced by packaging makes a quick trip to the home and becomes our trash problem. The supermarket of the future has licked the problem. The future shopper goes to the market with large light plastic bags, filled with recyclable containers of different sizes. Machines sterilize the containers and fill them with exactly the amount of each product needed. This means each family member can have the peanut butter he or she prefers - chunky for Charlie, low salt for Grandpa, smooth for Mom - without generating the wasteful, polluting packaging of the twentieth century.

"Shampoos, conditioners, and soaps of all kinds are sold in bars, eliminating the need for bulky containers. The ban on double packaging has been highly effective. It is hard to believe that many items were packaged first in plastic bottles, then in a cardboard box, then in a wrapper. Now products must be packaged in only one layer. The use of distributors has increased, to offset the use of packaging. Laundry soap, dish washing soap, dog and cat food, and other products are delivered in large, reusable containers.

"How will industry and the economy handle the changes?" I asked.

"In the future, the tobacco industry will have converted from cigarettes to biodegradable packaging materials and tobacco-based paper. Let's assume they led the way, responding to government incentives to produce new safe, non-polluting products. The packaging industry is following their lead. Many of the toxic chemicals used in homes have been eliminated.

"The national installation of bicycle lanes and maps with bike routes have encouraged many people to stay fit by commuting by bike. Tax breaks for leaving your car at home have encour­aged biking, walking and public transport. The development of the electric second car for errands and shopping has critically lowered emission problems."

"You have an incredible, reassuring view of the future, Periwinkle," I said, as we returned to the party. “And you've done it again, my friend, surprised everyone."

"Yes, the exhibit captures the future. This, unfortunately, is the present." Periwinkle handed me a clipping:


Murmurs from Man About Town, by Griffon Thorndike, Olivia will wear a smashing stretch suede jump suit, designed by an unknown designer, Madame Po, to Periwinkle 's opening tonight. Which will take center stage - the art of the Absolute Expressionist or the ensemble of the Sublime Model? Is this the launching of a new fashion designer?



"How did this happen?" I was furious. Suddenly everyone at the party seemed implicated. The room was crowded. I didn't know if I could protect Olivia here. Chloe was videotaping and I was anxious to get Olivia out safely, to screen Chloe’s tape and see who might be a threat.

I found Chloe deep in conversation with the Tibetan musician. She had her camera focused on him and she talked as she shot.

"I'm imprisoned in my grief, my resistance to what has really happened. But your vision of the Bardo is reassuring." Chloe was saying. She rested her camera for a moment when I came up to her.

"Blake, this is Loden," said Chloe. "I wish you had told me more about Buddhism." She looked at me accusingly. "Loden fascinates me. He has explained to me how we are all slaves to our own fears. Here's something real - something I see every day in my life and the lives of others, but I've never been aware of it before."

Loden bowed. "Buddhism means awakening," he said. I laughed.

"Instant enlightenment on the Upper East Side? A videotape to sunyata? Aren't you exposing yourself to the dangers of the surface, the slavery of the mind and the ego, the lure of the temporal?" I teased the drummer in Tibetan.

"I've come here to warn you," Loden replied in Tibetan. He saw he had captured my attention. "There is a danger more immediate and violent than the dangers Chloe and I have discussed. I know you are protecting the young lady in the soft suede jump suit. She should leave this place. Now."

I had expected anything at this party, anything but this alarm from a Tibetan.

"What are you saying?"

"They want Olivia out of the picture."

"Tell me who? And why?"

"She's standing between them and what they want." Loden stepped towards the door and out into the hall, bowing gently to strangers. I followed him toward the elevator and confronted him.

"Are you supposed to be a monk? What are you?"

"I'm no more a monk than you are a fundraiser," said Loden. The elevator door opened and he slipped in. I started to follow him, but Loden rested his hand on my arm.

"If you leave, you will not be able to protect her," he said.

I raced down the stairs and met the elevator at the bottom. But when the door opened on the first floor, the elevator was empty. I saw Olivia across the room, talking to Periwinkle.

"Blake changes the texture of my life," she was saying to the artist. "His presence warms everything, like the glow of wine."

"We're leaving," I said grimly. "Now." Nodding to Periwinkle, I took her hand and led her to the door. There, I grabbed a long black cape that was hanging on a hook. I reached over to a cloth that hung carelessly over one of Periwinkle's sculptures and wrapped it around Olivia's head into a turban. Olivia touched it.

"I'm impressed. I never knew you understood fashion so well." she said, happily.

"Very nice touch, Olivia." said Griffon, passing her.

"Great outfit," said a young woman in sun glasses.

"We'll meet you at the Mansion," I mumbled to Periwinkle, and steered Olivia out the door.



We arrived at the Mansion before the others, and went into the drawing room. Olivia was exuberant, chatting away about Periwinkle's installation.

"Stop playing games, Olivia." I faced her, as she threw the cape on an ottoman. "You know you were vulnerable - I didn't put that cape on you to dress you up, I put it on to protect you from terrorists who want your life!"

She swallowed and sat down. Nothing subtle about me.

"I love the fact that you are protecting me."

"You love everything. And whatever you are involved in you do so fully, you barely remember any other part of your life."

"But that's why you are drawn to me..."

"Yes I love your ability to immerse yourself, but I'm jealous of the attention you bestow on an exercise class, a fitting..."

"But you are the same way. Your research, your work involves you totally...absorbs you completely."

“Olivia, where did that new jumpsuit come from? Do you know who sent it?”

“There was a card. It was signed, ‘A gift from M. P…’"

"M. P. Olivia, Madame Po is the person who killed Cosmos.”

She was silent, absorbing this.

“So the person who sent it…” She didn’t finish.

I nodded. “Was planning to kill you tonight.”

“I'm alive because you were sent here to protect me."

Not exactly.

Olivia was silent.

The rest of the crowd arrived noisily, waved to us, and went to the kitchen, to raid the refrigerator, chatting about the opening. Olivia and I followed them. Chloe and I set up the large LED screen from the gym, while Sukha and Olivia talked about Periwinkle's vision of the future.

"Periwinkle will be my mentor - I'll be his protégé," said Griffon, as he reached for the a tray of cheese and fruit. He slipped a few grapes into his mouth while he talked.
"Periwinkle isn't afraid to try anything: first painting, then sculpture, then palmprints, and now the art of the future. It's time for me to do blogging, videos, soundtracks – to broadcast the news in new ways. I'm inspired by the man.

Olivia found a plate of mangoes and papaya, star fruit and kiwi and passed it around. Griffon kept chattering about Periwinkle. I was impatient to screen Chloe’s video. I suspected Madame Po had sent Loden and he believed the video would confirm his suspicions.

Chloe turned on the video: images appeared on the enormous screen. Lifesize figures replayed the event. The camera swept Periwinkle's studio and I saw them immediately - in a corner, almost hidden by a huge painting on an easel. Loden was murmuring into the ear of Barat! The Tibetan pretending to be a monk and his accomplice, the Indonesian who had evidently duped me.

"Chloe, play it back," I asked. "Stop here." Time replayed, paused at the moment when the camera focused on Barat. Loden, came up, laid his hand on Barat's arm, and leaning over him, whispered in his ear.




Episode 24 The Grotesque

I stayed at the Mansion that night. In the morning, the white limousine was parked in front of the house. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I couldn’t see the driver, but I could see a woman in the back seat. She wore a kimono and the stark white makeup of a geisha. She gestured toward me.

I slipped inside and faced Madame Po. Up close the image of the geisha dissolved. Instead of being beautiful, her face was grotesque. She was old. Too many plastic surgeries had distorter her features beyond repair. And she’d committed too many terrible acts. Perhaps once her face had inspired desire, but now it could only plant fear.

“You have guts, I’ll say that.” I told her. “We’re on to you."

“Don’t threaten me. You do anything to me and everything is set in motion for retribution you cannot imagine." she said, drawing herself up. Her voice brought back the night before. I remembered listening to her voice on the bug, telling Cosmos: “You betrayed us. You let us down.” Again I saw the spiders on Cosmos’ naked dying body.

“Cosmos stole money from us and you saw what happened to him. You stay out of our way.”

“I haven’t been in your way.”

“Barat confessed, you fool,” she hissed. “I know you are committed to stopping us.”

“You tortured him,” I said. And I got him into this.

“We didn’t have to. When we produced Jasmine, he was so grateful he told us the whole story. You’ve been watching us, trying to find out about us.” I tried to gauge the damage. Barat had to have told them I was watching them, had searched the warehouse. Did she know yet that we had neutralized three of their strikes?

“You can’t stop us... things are set in motion and not even I can stop them. But I don’t want interference. Stay away from us. Or you’ll pay. Olivia can still live through this, but only if you cooperate. That tart you’ve become involved with has no more substance than a piece of costume jewelry. She belongs to a renaissance of indulgence, an enlightenment of gratification.”

“You have a way with words,” I murmured, trying to think.

“Don’t toy with me, it’s over. She’s as good as dead unless you do exactly what I tell you.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. It wouldn’t do to agree too soon... she’d find it suspicious.

“Both of you disappear. I give you 36 hours to be gone without a trace.”

I agreed. Obviously Madame Po realized that any more outright violence would only bring unwanted attention. It seemed she didn’t know the three strikes had been stopped. And I realized we were safe from immediate violence as long as she feared the consequences. It would have to appear that Olivia and I vanished into thin air.

I walked back into the Mansion, climbed the steps to the treadmills on the mezzanine. I looked down to the gym and saw ten people taking an aerobics class. I had to subdue the urge to throw out everyone, to run up the curved iron stairs and see if Olivia was unhurt, to sit with her and talk over the previous day. Sukha saw me from below and came up.

“Sukha, this crowd is dangerous for you and Olivia.”

“I know. That’s why Periwinkle is here - to make everyone go away.”

At that moment, Griffon came in with Periwinkle.

"Olivia is too generous," I said.. "Look at this scene - it's exploitation, and right now it’s a risk. We have to have all these people leave, somehow."

"Don’t worry, Blake. We’re taking care of it. In fact it’s about to happen, “ said Periwinkle.

Griffon and I watched ten perfectly slim human beings relentlessly following every move of the instructor on the huge screen. A few minutes later, Periwinkle turned off the tape.

"You'll never guess," said Periwinkle, with his characteristic air of intrigue. “Evidently there's an opening at Dr. Brushca's Clinic in Switzerland. Sasha thinks he can get everyone in for a week of Conveyor Belt Health Care, and you can ski at the same time!"

The guests looked up with interest, each afraid he or she would be omitted from the invitation.

Periwinkle lowered his voice significantly. "Better pack everything you've brought here," he suggested. "You'll need all your clothes."

The aerobics class was forgotten. The guests filed out to pack their things, take a last cup of coffee or chamomile tea, and set out for the private plane Periwinkle had reserved for them.

"What in the world is Conveyor Belt Health Care?" I asked Griffon.

"This crowd is always running from one treatment to another. Monday it's the sports medicine specialist, Tuesday the dermatologist, Wednesday, the masseur, Thursday the podiatrist," Griffon explained. "Even the most narcissistic person gets bored with the routine. And once you reach forty, there are so many doctors visits, one can barely fit in a haircut or a botulism shot."

"I had no idea," I said. I hadn't seen a doctor since a visit to a pediatrician when I was a kid.

"Dr. Brushca has solved the problem. If you are able to get into his clinic, and that's a big if, you can accomplish a year's worth of doctors visits in 24 hours. It's set up like a CAT Scan. You are placed on a conveyor belt, hypnotized to induce a state of trance, and given the works. Each doctor examines you and performs the needed treatments: x-rays, dental care, refraction, blood tests.... You awaken twenty-four hours later to a massage, lunch, a haircut and a manicure and you are finished with doctors visits until next year."

"And if they misspell your name, you have your left leg amputated instead of having a mole removed." I said.

"Blake, you are cynical. You don't trust anybody."

Periwinkle grinned. He waved as he left us alone in the exercise room.

"Now, we'll put an obscure message on the voice mail, turn off the doorbell, close the curtains, and cast a spell over everything." Griffon said. “I’ll catch you later, Blake.”

I climbed the stairs. I was certain Olivia would be upset. She was the target of the Imani, the colleague of a murdered counterspy, the child of parents killed by terrorists years ago. To my surprise, she wasn’t frightened. She was intent.

“We’ll go to my place in the Adirondacks, Windy Hollow. At least Kip has stopped the plans we know about,” she said, pacing her room in large strides, her hands shaping the air as she gestured. “The way I see it, it’s possible Cosmos’ replacement could be as compromised as he was.”

“That’s a depressing thought.”

“I think you should be circumspect, Blake.”

Charles served us a macrobiotic dinner on trays. We ate quietly, thinking our own thoughts.

I made my way down the stairs and returned to my wing chair by the fire. The dogs, possibly let in from the garden by Sukha, came up to me, circled my chair and settled down around me. I slept sitting up.




Episode 25 My New Boss

Madame Po had given me 36 hours to disappear with Olivia. First, I went to Washington. When I called ahead, I found the new acting head was Victor Sonora. I had no choice but to file a report on Cosmos’ death and ask Shroeder to forward the Imani file to him.

Sonora had worked there for years, in a mysterious capacity that was standard at HQ. I checked him out, made a few phone calls, but he was a person who had no close friends, who confided in no one. He wasn’t that unusual in my field: the mystery man, the cold warrior... the male counterpart of the Amazon, only instead of cutting off a breast so that he could fight, he’d cut out his own heart. In other words, a company guy. Was he a person of complete integrity who kept his own counsel, or was he like Cosmos? Whose side was he on? Was Sonora merely a blank screen on which I was projecting my fears?

I realized that I was beginning to think like Stella, and that her way of seeing was not paranoia but the realistic comprehension of conspiracies that grew in the climate of this Presidency, where loyalty was valued above integrity and cover ups were the main activity of most government offices.

As I climbed the steps to HQ, I realized Victor Sonora was now acting head of an organization whose scope only Cosmos had known. When he started the department in the closing days of the Vietnam war, it was a shadow of the CIA. Through the years it had managed to keep its low profile and fund itself through a variety of illegal operations that put it beyond the reach of Congress. Although this does not speak well for the organization, until the past few months I was confident that it made the world a safer place.

It was a shock to walk into Cosmos’ office and see that Marie was gone - Marie who knew more about Cosmos than Chloe and more about the organization than anyone but Cosmos. Where was she now? In some anonymous basement office, perhaps, or furloughed with a bonus.

"Blake, I’ve been expecting you." drawled Victor Sonora. He waved me into the office. Cosmos’ sleek Oriental buffet and shoji screens were gone, replaced by Mission furniture in wood and leather. Sonora slid open a cabinet and turned on the coffee maker.

“Tell me about Cosmos’s death,” he said. He listened intently, without interrupting, sighing at the darkest moments. I did no censoring, hoping that the revelations about Cosmos’ support of the Imani would not trigger yet another cover up.

“Cosmos concealed everything. There were no field notes, no current operation status for the Imani,” Sonora said. He slowly unfolded his stiff body from his desk chair and crossed to the sideboard, pouring himself a cup of coffee. As he lowered himself into his seat, he seemed to remember me.

"Coffee?" He gestured to me to serve myself. I poured coffee from the silver carafe. My phone calls had turned up a bit about Sonora’s youth. He had come a long way from his upbringing in Oklahoma. In the tiny forsaken town where he was born, he had helped his father run his dry goods shop and studied until his eyes were permanently weakened. He never even went to Tulsa until he'd finished high school, and when he did, he didn't look back.

“You got a report from Shroeder about a group called the Imani.” I said. “I opened the case.” He got up and walked to a huge globe, rolled it around to Moscow.

“Until we got Shroeder’s report, I was unaware of this group,” he admitted. “And Cosmos said that the administration participated: that’s quite an accusation.”

“He was dying. I doubt he’d lie at that point,” I said.

“Maybe, maybe not. He could be protecting someone, maybe even Chloe. After all, an investigation could implicate those closest to him,” said Sonora observed. I thought about Chloe, making fun of Sonora. I got up restlessly, crossed to Sonora's desk, picked up one of a set of crystal figures, tapping it against my palm until I realized it was probably as fragile as it was valuable.

“Victor, I have to ask you: did you ever sleep with Chloe Pierce?” He looked startled, then grinned.

“Not that I didn’t have the chance, Blake, but sleeping with my boss’s wife is not exactly my idea of fun.” said Sonora, grinning wickedly, stirring his coffee the way he might stir a mint julep, his sweet southern accent almost smelling of magnolia blossoms. He looked quite pleased with himself.

"Sometimes I wonder how much longer I can do this kind of work" I said, thinking aloud, trying to work out whether Sonora would support or betray me.

"You've worked with tribes in Afghanistan and terrorists in Libya," Sonora said. "On the other hand, maybe you should consider something different than undercover work. I think you are suited to a more public role - in politics, perhaps."

I was dumbfounded. "Politics? Where did you get that idea?"

"Stella De Loria wants you in the State Department."

I shook my head. "Forget it, Victor. I mean it." He shrugged.

“You will continue your investigation. of course, we’ll do the lab work and give you the resources you need. I’ll do my best to discover if there is, in fact, anyone in the executive branch who is involved in any way. And we’ll to continue to run it out of Shroeder’s office, so that another department is implicated, they won’t know we’re involved. In this political climate, I prefer to segment activities as much as we can. I have confidence in you, Blake. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

On my way out, I stopped at the Depot, picking up listening devices, scanners, and recorders. At the Protection Center, they fitted me with a bullet proof vest. I reconfigured my Scope so that it rolled into a flat gold wire, that I made into a hoop and slipped into a hole Olivia had pierced in my left ear, so I could be in touch. I scanned a catalogue, picking out bullet proof clothes for Olivia - a black cloak, a fisherman's vest for her to wear with blue jeans, a running jacket.

I checked my watch. It was too late for the last shuttle. I made a call to Transportation and took the elevator to the roof. A helicopter was waiting for me.

That night back in Manhattan, Olivia and I dined alone, sitting at one corner of the big table, eating curry by candlelight. "Everything set?" I asked

"I was scheduled to fly to Antigua to shoot a lingerie ad on the balcony of a hotel overlooking the Caribbean. I offered Sonya the job. I know with her Tatar features, she’ll be mysterious and wonderful.”

Charles arranged a van for the horses to be driven to a low point on the trail, where they were waiting for us. He chartered a plane so we could fly to the nearest village in the morning.

Sonya was organizing Olivia's clothes for the trip. I gave her the bulletproof clothes I had picked up from HQ, but Sonya shook her head and smiled.

"Olivia couldn't consent to wear these," she said.

"What's more important, her appearance or her safety?" I asked.

"When I have two divergent goals, I just find a way to satisfy both."

"Just so long as Olivia is wearing bullet-proof clothes, I'm happy."

"Sukha wants to see you," said Sonya. "She's in the greenhouse." I walked across the garden. The tropical air of the greenhouse bravely protected Sukha’s seedlings. Was I going to leave without saying good-bye to Sukha?

I found her, her arms deep in clay, making flower pots with a border made of broken mirrors. She had a use for everything, a simple way of transforming rubble, discarded and chipped, into something beautiful and whole.

"I am entrusting Olivia into your care. Watch over her." She didn't look at me.

"Don't worry, Sukha." Suddenly, I seemed to have lost my footing.

"No, I don't worry. It has been a privilege to know you Blake."

"Sukha, we're only going away for a little while. It’s not good-bye."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know Blake, sometimes you have to lose what you want in order to find it." She didn't look up. I touched her shoulder, brushed a tear from her cheek, and left her to her work.





Episode 26 Out of Time and Place

Later, when I looked back to those days, it seemed out of time and place, almost hallucinatory, an erotic interlude unattached to the rest of our lives. We set out at dawn on our horses. Olivia wearing soft fawn suede, looked like a young woman of the forest. I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

"Olivia!" I was making an effort to be stern. "What about your bulletproof vest?" Olivia opened her suede shirt to show a buff camisole underneath.

"It's the bulletproof material," she said proudly. "Sonya and I pulled it out of the bulky vest you brought me and made a simple shift out of it."

The rising sun cast its gold on the treetops, then let its liquid rays drop down through the pine needles, the curving streams, the ferns on the forest floor. The trail meandered up and down the mountains, crossing streams, circling boulders, skimming ravines. When it became very steep, we walked, leading the horses.

For the first hour, I was poised, looking for signs of danger. But the sun, the song of the birds, the graceful swoop of a hawk, the rhythm of the horses were the antidote. I stopped wondering, planning, thinking.

By two in the afternoon, I realized we had met no one since we set out. We came over a rise and looked down into a deep valley, unmarred by roads. A few feet away, a tiny stream was banked by rocks.

I helped Olivia from her horse and when our eyes met, she flushed and I realized she wanted me. From that moment I was conscious of only of our physicality, aware of Olivia's every move, and my response.

I pulled off her boots, and watched her toes slip into the cold stream. She rubbed her feet and looked at me. I took off my gloves and kneeling, I opened her jacket and unbuttoned her deerskin shirt. Suddenly she was running downstream, unbuttoning suede jodhpurs, pulling her hairpins out, laughing, and throwing her clothes on the banks of the stream. I followed on land, dropping my leather jacket, then my vest, pulling off my boots, unbuttoning my pants. The stream curved, and for a moment I lost sight of her. Then I heard a giggle from a copse of trees. I stepped into a little pine grove, with soft needles under foot. I slowed down, and walked through the trees in only my shirt, my heart beating, my whole body intent on hers. I could feel her presence and I found her, panting behind a tree, dressed in only that tiny shift that ended at her navel.

That sliver of satin made her even more vulnerable than she would have been naked and my desire was tempered by tenderness. My senses seemed heightened, my skin was awakened to her touch. Opening to each other, I felt the entire landscape pierced us both.

A lifetime later, I noticed the rustle of pine needles, the ground under us. My fingertips touched the skin of her stomach. We stretched, then we our steps, picking up our clothes on both sides of the stream, dressing each other in the breeze.

I found a place where three huge rocks reflected the sunlight, creating some warmth. We unpacked the lunch basket, poured wine, ate our sandwiches hungrily, silently, watching each other like furry animals. Olivia burped, then giggled, then stood up and stretched like a cat. In minutes, we were laughing and packing, with the impulse to be on the move, to swallow the landscape whole. On a distant slope, water fell hundreds of feet into a rocky pond. A meadow of tall grasses was smoothed by a breeze. In the valley below, sheep and cattle grazed near a stone farm house, with a smaller stucco cottage nearby. The barn was set back, near the orchards. Olivia and I started down the mountain.

There was another landscape the two of us traveled during the journey. We explored our histories, finding we had worked on the same assignments, attended the same events. Our paths had crossed in Moscow, in Beijing, in Kabul. I wondered how often we had been in the same room, touching shoulders as we passed.

This was a rare chance to talk about our lives openly. Olivia gossiped all the time with Griffon and her crowd about the latest fashions, the most surprising couples, the glittering parties, the divorces, the cat fights, the betrayals. And I was always getting calls from colleagues complaining about plagiarism by an associate, or accusing someone of faked research, or reporting that two researchers no longer spoke to each other and could not, under any circum­stances, be invited to sit on the same panel.

Yet each of us had another life, a more important life. Olivia had Sukha and Stella. Cosmos had known about her work. Even Periwinkle knew the broad outlines of what she was doing. But I spoke to no one. When I got my assignments or was debriefed, I had spoken to Cosmos. That was all. I couldn't socialize with the self-styled cold warriors who also took their orders from HQ.

I had never fathomed how isolated my life had been, how much it had cost me to compartmen­talize things so completely. Olivia, who lived the same life as I, could understand the delicacy and complexity of my work, its costs, its satisfactions.

We arrived as the sun set. We rode past the spring house and the pond, with its rock garden. In the barnyard, the pigs lifted their heads wearily, but the chickens didn't even notice. The dogs greeted Olivia and sniffed me apprehensively, circling me, unaccustomed to strangers.

Cruz and Sylvie Nicholson were young; I had expected an older couple. Cruz wore a muslin collarless shirt and suspenders. His britches were tucked into felt boots. Sylvie came up in a long skirt and black twill jacket with puffed leg-o-mutton sleeves, her brown hair braided down her back. Cruz took the horses and Sylvie led us past the smoke house to the small stucco cottage, built into the side of the hill.

It was like a doll house, tiny, vine-covered. Each window had ten little panes, and lace curtains. A tree grew right through the porch roof. Extra firewood was stacked next to a bentwood rocking chair, which looked out across a meadow, down to the pond.

Inside our cottage, Olivia lit every candle and oil lamp. This was how it might have been... or perhaps this was a poetic evocation of a past that was not radiant, but diseased, toothless, crawling. Never mind.

"We have everything stocked for you," Sylvie said, throwing back the shutters. "We'll bring your dinner right down."

"There's no need, Sylvie," said Olivia, "we'll come up and eat with you, if you don't mind. You can tell us all the news."

I joined Cruz at the barn, while Olivia went with Sylvie to the main house. When I had washed up and joined her on the porch, she had changed into a white eyelet turn-of-the-century dress, with puff sleeves and a small bustle in the back. Her hair was swept up, with strands falling softly around her face, and on her feet she wore white kidskin shoes.

"You're an image of the past," I said.

"Let's dress you, too, Blake," she said eagerly, taking my hand and leading me through the kitchen, and up two narrow winding flights of backstairs to the attic.

The attic looked as if it had been undisturbed since the Civil War. Round, flowered hat boxes were stacked next to huge trunks of clothing, wooden racks with coats and gowns, and an ancient bicycle whose front wheel had a diameter of six feet. The sweet musty scent of hundred-year-old pressed flowers pervaded the air. In the corner, a bentwood mirror rocked, like an octogenarian, on its stand.

Olivia started collecting clothes, pulling them out of boxes and shelves, giving me a shirt, a straw hat and a white Irish linen double-breasted suit. She brushed against me and I felt my pulse quicken.

I stepped out of my pants and into the linen ones, buttoning up the old fashioned fly. She leaned back against the shelves, her head to one side, watching me. Then she buttoned on my collar and cuffs. She found a white silk bow tie and tied it on, expertly. She hummed to herself as she took a needle and thread out of her pocket and made a few tucks in the pleated trousers, so they would fit more snugly. Kneeling behind me, she reached around and smoothed the pants over my thighs. Then she stood, looking over my shoulder into the mirror, her eyes dancing, her hand brushing the shoulders of the jacket.

I stared at our reflection in the mirror. I saw an Edwardian gentleman in white linen, and behind me, a woman who took my breath away. I saw the reflections if I had never seen myself or Olivia before. I took her hand and led her to a stool near the dormer window. I sat, and pulled her to me.

"Welcome to the nineteenth century," she whispered, standing in front of me. I reached for her.

I lifted her Victorian eyelet dress. I felt her soften towards me. Slowly, I uncovered a chord within her and a corresponding one within myself. Far away, I saw the setting sun through the dormer window, heard the kitchen door slam a world away, inhaled the scent of burning wood as the fire was lit.

When we noticed, it had grown dark. The attic, unlit, was a sequence of shadows. There was no ambient light, just the last of the sunset. We straightened our clothes, Olivia took my hand and we left our attic. Now this room of banished clothes and objects was ours. We owned it, as we would the cottage and the barn and the forest itself.

In the kitchen, we found the Nicholsons had lit the fire and disappeared. Soon they emerged, carrying glasses of wine. I noticed two bright spots on Sylvie's cheeks and realized the house had been turned over to lovemaking. They're used to being alone, I thought. Company is erotic for them. I wondered if the cows and chickens had caught the flavor of the evening.

We sipped homemade wine as we pitched in to make dinner over the open fire. We carried the food to the big sideboard along one wall, and sat down at the trestle table to a meal of roasted chicken, pickled vegetables, fresh salad, and mashed potatoes,

The room was lit only by the fire and two thick candles on the table. The candles were made of honeycomb Sylvie collected from their hives and pressed into sheets. These she rolled into tapers, cones, and spirals. The candles released the scent of honey when they were lit, flooding the air with the essence of nectar, of wildflowers, of the spring day when the bee had gathered the pollen and the sunlight and raindrops that coaxed the flowers into bloom.

I felt as if I had been transported miles from civilization and light years from my modern, demanding life. I looked around me. Was it just this morning we had left civilization behind? I recalled my trips to Tibet and Mongolia, and I felt again what a gift it was to flee the twentieth century.

Over dinner, the Nicholsons brought Olivia up to date on the health of the farm animals, the riding horses, the crops, the weather, the making of soap and candles, the sheep grazing happily on the mountain, with a sheep dog to mind them.

"How did you find this splendid place?" I asked. In wonder, I watched Olivia, a drumstick in one hand, a roll in the other. I had never seen her hungry before. She normally sipped spring water between infinitesimal bites, while she pushed food around her plate.

"I inherited it," said Cruz. "Windy Hollow was built before the American Revolution. A road ran right through the valley until the 1880's, linking the farm with Newtown to the north of us and Germantown to the south." Cruz pointed to a yellowing map, hanging framed on the wall. I tried to focus on the map, but I was thinking of Olivia's smooth bare thighs under her silk stockings and eyelet dress.

"Once the Railroad was put in, traffic was diverted to link the towns with the train line, and this road was abandoned. My ancestors lived on here, managing a completely self-sufficient lifestyle right into this century. When I inherited the land I was determined to farm it and make it work, again. Sylvia agreed, but we needed capital to restore the place." Was it an hour before I had unhooked that garter, rolled the stocking down her leg?

"I met Sylvie when I was working on the fashion wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art," said Olivia, taking another helping of mashed potatoes. "She was selling some of these vintage dresses and I was impressed with their excellent condition. Blake, you're hardly eating. " She passed me the chicken. I thought of my hands under her dress.

"We were trying to raise money to restore the farm, although we hated selling anything from here," said Sylvie.

"When I heard about the farm, I just had to see it," said Olivia. "Cruz and Sylvie invited me to ride in with them. The minute I saw it, I was attracted to the idea of renewing the old place. I knew it was just what I needed - an escape where no one can call me or even write. So we worked together - I've invested in the place and Cruz and Sylvie have worked miracles. I want to show you every inch of it, Blake."

After dinner, we walked out to see the stars. The moon hadn't risen, and there were no lights, no people. As my eyes became accustomed to the starlight, I saw the silhouette of the spring house and Olivia's cottage, the black gleaming surface of the pond, the contour of the fir trees near the barn. Cruz and Sylvie said goodnight and turned in. Olivia threw a woolen shawl over her shoulder, took a folded quilt from the swing on the porch, and we started down the path, towards the woods.

A half moon rose over the horizon. In a few minutes we had left the farm behind and were crossing the lowland that gave the farm its name. The air was calm and moonlight bathed the glen. From the woods, a few yards away, came the sounds of an owl, then the rustling of a small animal.

"If we watch," said Olivia. "We'll see rabbits, deer, and maybe even a bear."

I perceived only Olivia, her eyes shining, her carriage perfect, her hand nestled comfortably in mine. We found a mossy space near a spring. We rolled ourselves up in the quilt and Olivia warned me to be still and listen for an owl, a deer or even a mountain lion. Lying motionless on the ground, we let the night sounds take over. But as the din of the crickets and the chorus of frogs heightened, we forgot to watch. Perhaps the animals watched us. The landmarks we discovered were intimate, the contours were our own. In the moonlight, in the quiet of the woods, far from any threat, and far from bright lights, we rediscovered each other.



Episode 27 The Curve of the Horizon

At dawn, Olivia awakened me and sent me to find the still-warm eggs in the downy hen houses. She milked the cows with Sylvie and helped her churn the butter. Then we had a huge country breakfast: biscuits, fresh eggs, foamy milk, creamy butter, steaming coffee. After we ate, we heated the water and washed the dishes.

The next day, we awakened to sheets of rain and I reached for Olivia, but she rolled away, pulled on a taffeta skirt, and handed me a heavy black oil cloth raincoat. Before breakfast, we went to the barn to muck the stalls and tend to the animals. When the horses and calves were fed, Sylvie and Cruz went to the chicken coop. I caught Olivia as she was leaving the barn, unbuttoned her slicker, untied her rain hat. Through the open door, we could see the rain, and in a few minutes we heard the Nicholsons return, talking.

I pulled Olivia down on the damp hay.

"It's nice having company." Cruz was saying. "Blake's a thoughtful person."

"He isn’t dazzled by her celebrity. He couldn’t care less." Sylvie sounded amused. "He likes her despite the fact that she's a model. That's a new experience for Olivia."

With the Nicholsons a few feet away, we were quick, furtive, compelled. Part of me wanted to devour her, another part was observant, attuned, controlled.

"I like having you to myself," I told her.

"I'll run up to the house and get us muffins and coffee," she said. She rearranged her clothes, and I smoothed her hair.

I retreated to the cottage in my soggy clothes, and lit a fire. Olivia returned drenched, carrying a basket of food, covered by her slicker. I undressed her and dried her in front of the fire. She opened a trunk under the window and found two ancient silk dressing gowns, thick paisley in magenta and blue. We wrapped ourselves in the robes, and unpacked the mugs, the coffee and the muffins. I took the two large candelabra into the tiny bedroom, and we climbed into the brass bed, pulling the down comforter over us.

The candles warmed the room. The dark patterned silk robes on the old eyelet sheets, Olivia's wet blonde hair spilling over the linens, the coffee mugs perched precariously on the rough hewn window sill, the rain on the window pane, became our whole world. Through the door, I could see the books we had been reading, two hefty, leather-bound novels, left open by the fire.

"We're actually in a bed together," she giggled. "Again."

"Do you mind?"

"It's conventional, but I could give it a try." She laughed and opened the window. The rain blew in on us, putting out the candle. "That's better."

It was a moment stolen out of the storm. And yet, I held myself back. Was it to shield Olivia from the vast reserve of need which lurked beyond my control?. I wanted to protect her from myself, from the part of me I had trouble acknowledging.

That night we stayed up late, pouring over surveillance reports and transcripts of Kip’s conversations. We outlined what we knew. Then, I caught something I hadn't known about: Kip thanking Olivia for buying him a motorcycle.

"A motorcycle? What were you thinking? I asked her.

"He wanted a Harley. I wanted to bind him to me," she admitted. She didn't qualify or amend her intentions, leaving me to see them as I would.

I turned out the oil lamp. We sat in the dark, listening to the storm. Our closeness had evaporated.

By the next day the rain stopped, but my mind had clouded over. I thought about Olivia hitchhiking years before with Griffon, tried to imagine her in Cosmos’ hairy arms. I tried to avoid picturing her with Kip. Needing to leave my thoughts behind, I went for a long run in the hills around the cottage. I didn't outrun my apprehensions, but I felt better.

When I returned, the Nicholsons had gone out for a long ride on their horses, and Olivia, sitting on the ground, her back to a tree, had her laptop open and was reading an email.

"Mail?" I asked, sitting down beside her.

"Kip. Misses me. And he says that he advised Madame Po to get out of the country... but that he can trace her. That's good isn't it?" she asked. Why was she seeking my approval?

"You haven't slept with him, have you, Olivia?" I asked carefully. But I already knew the answer. I stood up, looking for something to hit.

"We discussed it, didn't we?" I snapped. "I thought it was clear you wouldn't sleep with him."

"I never said that." I realized it was I who had said it.

"And I thought we meant something, that I meant something to you."

"You do." But she didn't need to offer me an explanation, she didn't need to reassure me.

Suddenly, I was on top of her pulling off her clothes, ravenous. She stared at me through huge eyes. I stood her up against the tree and she surprised me by throwing me back on the ground. I scrambled to my feet, stood above her, my legs parted and she tripped me easily. I pulled off her skirt, and tore out a strip of linen, binding one of her wrists and tying the other end to a low branch.

"Enough," she said. I stopped. I untied her hand. I felt our bodies were some kind of flotsam, discarded, wasted.

"Apologize! Say you are sorry!" I demanded.

"Never!" she said, her eyes blazing. "You don't own me, Blake. No one owns me."

"I'm leaving," I announced. She didn't try to stop me.

I went to the cottage, changed, and then walked to the barn without looking at Olivia. I saddled Breeze, Olivia's mare. I rode to the ridge, pushing Breeze to the limit, over the difficult trail until we reached the next valley. I rode until I was exhausted. My anger faded. Surrendering the lead to the mare, I let her wander until she found a spring and we both drank. The ride had done me some good. My mind was blank, my emotions still. My body exhausted, I lay under a tree, with Breeze at my side and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke in the dark. Breeze was nuzzling my face. I pulled the saddle off her, noticed the cold, fell back into oblivion.

It was still dark when I opened my eyes. Rested and calm, I splashed water on my face and drank. I stretched and patted Breeze. I checked my watch. It was 4:00 a m. I lay under a tree, waiting for the dawn, devoid of thought, mindlessly watching the birds, the early frogs, a woodpecker. Breeze wandered out to the meadow to graze. I realized I was hungry. I saddled Breeze and started the long ride back.

It was late morning when I rode up to the barn. Olivia one the cottage porch, reading and humming softly. My anger and hurt returned, crashing around me. How dare she be happy? I unsaddled Breeze and fed and watered her, then went into the main house without speaking to Olivia. No one was around, but the coffee pot was set on coals in the fireplace, and I poured myself a large mug. I saw a loaf of peasant bread and spread it with the butter they had churned. Cruz and Sylvie had dried fruit and I ate that, then discovered the leftover oatmeal from breakfast next to the coffee pot and finished that off with fresh cream and brown sugar. Finally I saw some strips of bacon on a shelf and ate them too.

I noticed the scent of lavender and thyme. Dried seasonings and flowers were hanging upside down from the beams in the ceiling. I felt calm, empty, and grateful.

I went out behind the house and lit a fire under the black cauldron, then pulled out the old bath tub and poured in some of the collected rain water. Sylvie had left dried linden flower and rosemary leaves hanging from a branch in the tree, and I crumbled a handful and threw these in the water. I stripped off my clothes, and crouched, waiting patiently for the bath water to boil, then mixed it with the water already in the tub and lowered myself. in. I steeped in the water until it cooled, then washed all over, and got out. I pulled on the black homespun robe Olivia had left there and throwing myself on the hammock nearby, promptly fell asleep.

Olivia was standing next to me, tears streaming down her face. Was it a dream? No, I was awake in the hammock, behind the farmhouse. Was she crying over me? That would be too good to be true. Olivia held a sheet of white paper in her hand.

"This just came by email! Sukha has been kidnapped!"

My work had trained me to wake at once. Sukha! For one moment I experienced vertigo.

"Charles sent the message," Olivia shuddered, as we hurried to the cottage. " Sukha was gone this morning without a trace. He searched carefully and found a crumbled lotus blossom on the floor, a sign that she had not left willingly."

I felt my deep connection for Sukha. I needed to reach HQ. We were miles from the nearest phone, but I had my Scope.

"We’ll be there today," I called from the bedroom as I pulled on jeans and buttoned my shirt. "I can get us a helicopter." I took out my Scope and opened the sliver of a card into a tiny three-fold phone. I entered CODE SIX for a helicopter. Their GPS would determine our location.

"Ask Sylvie to help you pack," I said. "Do you have any everyday clothes here?"

"I have jeans and a blazer."

"Good, put them on. Call Charles, " I said, handing her my Scope. "Tell him to stay at home until we can get there and to record all calls. And to let no one in Sukha's room."

She did as I asked. Her tears continued to fall. I had the desire to save each of her tears, to collect them in a tiny, blown glass vial, so I could taste them whenever I wanted.

Sylvie and Cruz bustled around us, packing and organizing.

"Shall we ride the horses out?" Cruz asked.

"No, we'll come back for them," I said. I needed to come back, to pick up where we left off and make it right..

"I've packed you some sandwiches and fruit," said Sylvie.

"I cannot tell you properly how grateful I am that you allowed me to share your life here. " I took Sylvie's rough, work-worn hands in mine.

The helicopter pierced the quiet, bringing my other life out of the sky in a rush of turbulence. As the helicopter rose over the farm, I held Olivia's hand, and tried to etch the landscape into my mind permanently: three huge rocks where we drank tea in china cups and spread fresh honey on warm bread, the rope hammock behind the house, smoke rising from the farmhouse chimney.

Our fight was dwarfed by the enormity of what had happened to Sukha. Suddenly finding Sukha became symbolic of my life, a life where I had struggled to unearth and preserve her traditions, to rediscover the gift of all that Sukha embodies and emanates. And her captors were the enemies I had fought forever.

"You've been protecting the wrong person, Blake. They weren't after me. They wanted Sukha. I left the city and accomplished their purpose for them. They wanted to deflect us - and like fools, we fell for it."

"I’m not sure about that Olivia. At this point, we’re not in a position to make assumptions about their motives or to conclude that because they have Sukha, you are now safe."

I looked at the curve of the horizon below us. Sukha could be anywhere, except where I could protect her. I remembered her last words to me: "Sometimes you have to lose what you want in order to find it." I was ready to admit how right she had been.




Episode 28 Someone Else

Midsummer in Manhattan. We thought we had neutralized the Imani by getting Kip to undo his plans. But they were striking back. Cosmos Pierce was dead. Chloe was widowed. Sukha had been abducted right under Charles' watchful eyes. My new boss, Victor Sonora, was getting nowhere and I didn't know if it was incompetence or deliberate stalling. I was involved with a young model who was either one of the wisest creatures on earth or a sultry adolescent who manipulated everyone in her path. And I was in love with someone else.

I dropped off Olivia, trembling, but brave, and went back to my atelier, with its condoms weighted with sequins and its mannequins. I looked over my mail. There was a hand delivered letter from Periwinkle: 'Olivia can be pretty outrageous without Sukha,' Periwinkle warned me. 'Be prepared for anything.' And I thought I was, but I wasn't of course. There was a note from Chloe Pierce, a tear-spotted letter saying she had never imagined being widowed. She'd attended a White House dinner, where she’d spent time with Princess Nasim, remembering her early life with Cosmos. There was a letter from my boss at the Antiquities Museum acknowledging the contributions for my palmprint. And there was a handmade envelope, with my name written in Indonesian script.

It was from Barat.

Blake - Good news: Jasmine is alive and well! She has been restored to me. I have pledged to do anything Madame Po asks of me and she has promised not to ask me to hurt anyone. I did my best with Sukha, to make it as painless as possible and she understood and forgave me for taking her away.
Barat.

I sat down at on the sofa with Barat's note in my hand, staring mindlessly out at the streets of New York below. I had to admit Barat owed me little. I had never followed up to help him find Jasmine. I'd merely used him.

I sat there for most of the night, rearranging the facts in my head. In the early morning, when things tend to fall into place for me, I roused myself and went to see Sukha’s room. I walked through the garden. The outdoor stucco stairs led me directly to Sukha’s room. Even without her, the room possessed an austere beauty. It was all there, the steadfastness, the reassurance there would be enough to go around - enough love, enough endurance, enough sustenance. The dropping of a petal was an event here. I was calmed by Sukha's palpable presence.

I remembered seeing Sukha meditating one day, as I looked into the garden. I recalled her intensity at that moment, as though an enormous amount of energy was concentrated in her stillness. And then I thought about the fact that she could appear ordinary. It was in a moment when I took her for granted that I had become involved with Olivia.

Here in her room, where we'd fallen into each other’s arms the night of Cosmos death, I felt Sukha in the air. I sensed her like the reverberation of a bell after you can no longer hear the ringing. Like a kiss after the person is gone and their imprint is still on your lips. I could feel her around me.

And then I remembered her words..."All of us can see much more than we admit... Let go of the fear and see so much more.."

I knew something in the room would help me. I moved furniture, examined the fibers of the rug, lifted every object. And there it was. My palmprint from the newspaper picture, folded so that Ulanshuvu’s name showed. Sukha was in Mongolia.

I heard someone climbing the stucco stairs. I put the clipping in my pocket. It was Olivia, exhausted and pale. She hugged me and curled up in the window seat, a branch of rose blossom in her hand.

"I used to have inchoate visions, but I couldn't articulate them until Sukha came into my life." Her eyes shifted, to an inner look I hadn't seen before, a look that was almost ecstatic.

"How did you meet?"

"One morning I was restless. I thought I would go down to the docks and watch them unload the ships. I remember thinking 'Why am I doing this ?' as I slipped into a huge fisherman's sweater and jeans. I took the motorcycle. I knew enough to want to be as inconspicuous as possible and the limousine would have been out of place, to say the least.

"So there I was, wandering from one ship to another, looking for something, not knowing what. I stopped for coffee, bought it from an outdoor stand, and then I realized I'd wanted it because the air was filled with the most exquisite coffee smell. They were unloading a ship from Kenya and I wandered over, coffee cup in my hand.

"There was a commotion on deck, all kinds of shouting and as I approached, I could see a woman, a dark woman, not African, standing on the deck in African dress. Then a man hit her, hard, and she fell.

"Well, you know me, Blake, I was on the deck in a minute. The captain was very angry, but instead of one woman to deal with he had two, and my presence attracted some New York stevedores, and so I wasn't alone when I offered to take the woman with me. My suggestion was greeted with enthusiasm by the burly stevedores and I guess the captain felt we'd made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

"Of course, the woman was Sukha. And the trouble was she was still out cold. I didn't even mention the motorcycle - just got the stevedores to help me get Sukha into a cab. She was in a kind of trance. When I got home, I called my Yol, thinking a massage master would know what to do.. He took her to one of the guest rooms and banished me. I don't know what kind of magic he worked, but the next morning, when I came downstairs, she was standing there, the most upright figure I had ever seen, and totally familiar. We were both overwhelmed by a sense of coming home, of the rightness of being there with each other. I knew then that my life had changed, but I didn't know the depth of the change."

Olivia picked up the branch of roses. The color returned to her cheeks.

"Are you coming to breakfast?" she asked.

"You go ahead, I'll be there in a few minutes." I stayed until I heard her footsteps on the stairs. I took the clipping out of my pocket, looked at Ulanshuvu’s name. The Imani had taken Sukha to Mongolia. And I would find them.



Kip had moved, but he still had the motorcycle Olivia had bought him. He wasn’t traveling so light anymore. And because of the bike, Shroeder found him and was taping him. Shroeder let me know that he had arranged to meet Olivia at the Mansion. And she hadn’t mentioned it to me.

I let myself into the annex and listened in to my scope. I wasn't sure whether I was glad or sorry he was wired. I listened with aversion and compulsion.

"Where can we go?" Kip asked in a whisper.

"Go?" asked Olivia.

"There’s got to be a place in your home where no one will bother us, Olivia." Kip's voice was low and close. "We must be alone."

"Why?" Did I detect fear in her voice? Or desire?

"Because. Now." He was touching her, I could tell. I was aware of perspiration on my brow.

"Now," Kip said again, softly. I held my breath as though they could hear me, too. "The greenhouse?"

"I don't know," she hedged. "There might be people."

"I don't care." His voice was hard. "Let's go. You want to, Olivia. You know it."

And you - do you want it? I asked her wordlessly.

"It's what I want, too," she said.

You're not to see this, I told myself as I let myself into the greenhouse.

"You're not serious, Kip," Olivia said.

"I want to go now," said Kip. Kip's voice was a whisper, harsh. A sound escaped her lips.

"Do you?" Now he was pressing her.

"Oh yes," she said. "Yes. Yes." She wanted to.

I could hear her stir, she was leaning forward, drawn to him, hypnotically. I knew her. I wished I didn't.

I didn't want to be in the back of the greenhouse. I willed myself to stop. But my body acted without my volition. They were so absorbed they didn't seem to notice me, but I knew Olivia always was physically aware of me. Kip, like a hunted animal, missed nothing. So we were complicit in this triangle. In the last light of day, I watched Olivia, and Kip, gentler than I could imagine he could be, kneeling at her feet. She bent to him. As she sank down in front of him, she looked up and stared right into my eyes. I watch until the darkness enveloped them.

I knew the route they traveled among the greenhouse plants. I knew her body and I could see she had evoked in Kip a tenderness that I had not suspected. I thought back to Windy Hollow, to Olivia, dressed in a white eyelet dressed stitched together two centuries ago, and later, laughing in the barn, when she had pulled on tan linen pants and suspenders, and found a straw boater, and carefully lit a cigar, luring me with an innocent androgyny.

I could see that Griffon had been right. The feelings I'd had toward Olivia were all about possession, ownership. And she could no more be owned than any other wild thing I'd encountered - the horses that roamed the Steppes, the wolves that howled in the arid hills of Western China, or the snow lion I'd glimpsed once in the far reaches of Tibet.

And my own idea of good and bad meant no more to Olivia than they did to the snow lion or the wolf. Periwinkle and Sukha were good. Cosmos and Kip were bad. They were concepts in my mind, concepts that didn't rule Olivia as they ruled me. She was not touched by my idea of evil at all.


That night Olivia came to the atelier to find me.

"Kip knows where Sukha was taken." she said.

"Mongolia?" I asked.

"He told you?"

I shook my head. "Tell me what you know, Olivia."

"Evidently Madame Po thinks she can ransom Sukha to the Chinese because of her support of Tibetan and Mongolian dissidents," she said. She pulled her blue cashmere sweater over her head, unzipping her leather pants.

"That's enough, Olivia. You can get dressed now. If you wanted to get my full attention, you have succeeded."

"I'd do anything to get Sukha back, anything - would you? Would you debase yourself, murder, risk everything?"

"I don't think that's what this is about Olivia. I'm not sure what you are doing, but if you are trying to punish yourself, you can stop right now. Do you think Sukha would want you to feel guilt?"

She looked startled. "I guess it's part of my script."

"You didn't do anything to hurt her."

"My role made life risky for everyone around me."

"Sukha's not a child, she had her eyes wide open. And her life has always involved its risks."

"I've felt so awful, Blake. I became convinced I was to blame for her abduction. I was so fearless before, but the thought they might be torturing her..." Her face dissolved in pain and she shuddered, sobbing.

I held her. "We're in this together, aren't we?"

She nodded, sniffling.

"Here's the unvarnished truth. Knowing I can depend on your discretion is more important than making love to you. Being your partner in this, I can appreciate you as I never could in any other situation - certainly not when I saw you on the cover of Vogue or in front of a frantic crowd belting out a song about the pain of love. Here you are not on parade. And this is your chance to be your personal best, now when our job is to stop the Imani and rescue Sukha."




Episode 29 Undercover

Using Intersect, Shroeder had located the Imani on the East Gobi steppes in Outer Mongolia, near the Chinese border. Kip was on his way to London to undo the plan for the Greenwich Observatory bombing. After that, he'd join the Imani and let us know their location.

On my way to meet Olivia and Periwinkle for dinner in the greenhouse, I saw Chloe and Griffon in the drawing room. They were packing a large Victorian trunk, with packages scattered around the room. They barely looked up when I came in.

"What's this?" I picked up a box tied in red ribbon.

"It's dried fruit, Blake," said Griffon.

"And what are these?" I pointed to a row of large briefcases.

"Solar powered laptops," said Chloe.

"Solar powered laptops? And this? Smoked oysters and deviled ham?"

"Tins of fish and meat," said Griffon.

"Are you going on an expedition?"

Chloe pushed the wisps of hair back from her moist forehead, and sat back on her heels. "We're sending supplies to exiled writers in Asia. Cosmos and I sent off a package every month."

"What exiled writers?"

"The world is a dangerous place, Blake."

"I know that Chloe. Where are these exiled writers?"

"I can't tell you." She looked up at me and smiled.

"I think Cosmos fed you a story. I think he took all these delicacies off and munched them himself." I laughed and walked out of the drawing room, shaking my head. Chloe was so gullible. And Griffon was just as bad. Exiled writers in Asia. If anyone knew about them, I would.

In the greenhouse, Periwinkle was sitting up straight, intently sketching a design on the linen tablecloth. Above him, a grape vine encircled an arbor, although no one bothered to harvest the grapes.

Charles had moved in a delicate carved table and cushioned chairs. The table was set with sushi, white rice, tiny pickles, and a whole sole simmered in ginger. Lacquered chopsticks were propped up on porcelain holders next to each plate. Olivia was late and we were too hungry to wait.

"I've enjoyed watching you operate, Blake. First Stella, Olivia. What a romantic! How you make time to solve the world's problems between flings is beyond me."

"You obviously know more about it than I do," I said, although I knew Periwinkle had been celibate for a decade.

"I don't think so Blake. I bet there have been nomadic women, diplomatic women, maybe even a Buddhist nun."

I smiled. "Your imagination is better than my reality."

"I doubt it," said Periwinkle as he sampled a piece of sashimi. "I gather that your love life has taken a turn.... It's not Olivia you are taken with, after all, is it?"

I was silent. Was I so transparent?

"I knew it would be Sukha, all along, Blake. You were destined for each other."

"Look, Periwinkle, don't you have anything better to gossip about?"

"As a matter of fact I do. I've been observing and I think that Charles is smitten with Chloe. And I see that she reciprocates his attention." Was that true? I was surprised. Chloe's need for status would seem to rule out a chauffeur. On the other hand, perhaps the idea of a bodyguard was the lure. The Patsy-Hearst-approach-to-life on her own.

There is a world of difference between a chauffeur and society widow and then there is the age difference," Periwinkle continued. "But that can be intensely erotic, the touch of the forbidden makes it delicious, don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know." I said, but there was something about it that caught my attention. I'd been in New York too long.

"I'm glad you started without me." Olivia glowed in the summer twilight. The setting sun cast the same patina of gold on both her clothes and hair. Periwinkle held her chair. "Don't we have work to do?"

I called for Leo and Charles.

"Kip has revealed that the Imani took Sukha to Mongolia," said Olivia.

"Mongolia!? That's the end of the earth," exclaimed Charles.

"Not for the Mongolians," said Olivia.

"Still, finding the Imani there will be a challenge," I admitted. "It will be easy for them to take pot shots at us, but very difficult to smoke them out."

"Then we'll entice them to find us and then they'll let us ransom Sukha," said Olivia, brushing back her hair. "I have an idea, Blake... just hear me out." She got up from her chair and walked around. I could tell she was nervous.

"Griffon has been urging me to do a rock video for years. Now is the time. We'll do it on location in Mongolia."

"Olivia, are you out of your mind?" I started to enumerate all the problems.

"Give her a chance, Blake," said Leo. "Just listen for a moment."

"We'll do a series of rock videos from remote locations in the East. We can be very mobile. We don't even need to take the band, since we'll be dubbing their music on to the tape later. As for Madame Po and her gang, it will force their hand, don't you see?"

"Olivia, even I know there's too much preparation involved." I pushed my chair away from the table. "It takes months to prepare a single rock video: the rehearsals, the arrangements are too time consuming. We need to get moving now."

"We can get moving. I have an idea for using indigenous music. I'll do the arranging myself on location." Olivia reached for the sashimi and filled her plate. Her excitement had made her hungry. "We'll put together the material as we go, getting lyrics from poets in each area and music from the traditional folk songs of the culture."

"It has distinct advantages," said Leo, reaching for the sushi. "We can be out in the open – it is our cover. It gives us complete freedom to go where we like, interview anyone we wish, penetrate the most remote areas of a country. We can schedule trips to places no American has ever performed before - and no one will think its strange at all, given our theme."

"Chloe can shoot it - her style will be perfect!" Charles filled my glass with sake.

"Take Chloe? You've got to be kidding, Charles." I protested.

"She's perfect for the job, Blake," said Olivia. "And we'll bring Griffon, too. I've traveled with him all over the world and his sixth sense is indispensable."

"The rock video is a credible idea," said Leo, making some notes. "It allows members of the staff to travel with Olivia - and to take all kinds of electronic equipment across any border. We can be very effective with that kind of mobility."

They all looked at me.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"We'll make sure we have the maximum amount of coverage, world wide." Olivia, always an expert at manipulating the press, was thinking aloud. "We'll put Mongolia on the map. Every teenager in America will know about Ulan Bator and Altay. Everyone in Mongolia and China will know we're making a rock video."

"Oh, Olivia," I groaned. "We're working undercover, remember? You can't simply invite the world's entertainment reporters to come along."

"You're right Blake. We can't have reporters. But we do have Chloe. We'll release a video via satellite every few days and let the wire services pick it up. We'll make sure everyone hears about us. Madame Po and the Imani will contact us, I know it!"




Episode 30 The Mongolian Steppes

I thought of Sukha constantly that first day on the Mongolian Steppes. I almost felt I would look up and see her coming towards me, radiant, her ruddy cheeks and heart-shaped face familiar and yet always new to me.

And I felt drawn to a glimpse of the life that Sukha had held out to me. It was crazy, chaotic, unbearably messy, but somehow I was hooked. Connected to Sukha. Olivia. Periwinkle. Even Griffon. Even Chloe.

Olivia was missing Sukha too. As we landed in Ulan Bator, she had cried. "I'm feeling lost without her, Blake. I never really know the truth. Whether I'm talking to an editor. A premier. A reporter. A lover. A friend. Except for Sukha. That's the only time I knew what was true."

Khan, a Mongolian nomad I had known for years, had arranged for us to live with his family, in their village on the edge of the Gobi Desert. As the tribe's elder, Khan agreed to place us under his protection. Over the last thirty years, Khan has quietly slipped across the border to Inner Mongolia and China as easily as a commuter. His family had become accustomed to his disappearance for weeks and even months at a time. They asked no questions and had no idea of his work as an agent. He spoke Chinese, Russian, Mongolian, and Tibetan. We had worked together many times.

I saw Chloe laugh easily when a sheep bleated. She certainly wasn't the grieving widow here. I watched as Khan's son, Zurri took her out with him to the pasture. She seemed totally at home on the Steppes.

Just before dinner, Zurri came out of his yurt with his youngest son, Gust, tucked under­ his arm. The boy, under a year old, had not yet learned to walk. Zurri unhitched his white mare, handed the baby to me, and mounted. Then he reached down with one hand and pulled the baby up behind him, onto the small wooden saddle. The baby grabbed his father's coat, Zurri spurred the mare and they were off.

The baby's eyes grew wide as the pony ran, and we could see his little hands holding onto his father's sheepskin coat. From across the field where she was butchering the sheep, Kushi shaded her eyes and watched as her baby took his first ride.

When they returned, Zurri threw his boy up in the air and everyone applauded. The startled expression which had dominated the boy’s features was replaced by a grin of sheer pleasure. He was one of the cowboys now.

"See - he rides before he walks," said Hami, the interpreter and guide, assigned to us by the government tourist office. Hami was perfect in her job. Her foreign guests always felt she was bending all the rules to do whatever she could for them. Her employers felt she was keeping visitors within limits and under surveillance. In fact, she did what she liked.

Olivia and I both spoke Russian, which the Mongolians spoke, and I knew Mongolian. Hami was there to translate for Griffon and Chloe. I had asked Charles to stay in Ulan Bator, keeping in touch by cell phone. That way he could move in, with a helicopter and reinforcements in an emergency. Leo had stayed in New York to supply anything we needed.

Khan's family had easily welcomed us. We were to live in their yurts, share their mutton stew, ride their horses. Each of their herds - goats, cattle, camels, and the small, sturdy ponies they prized above all else - had different needs. The family devoted their days to finding the best forage for their animals.

The Mongolian's fancy hand-painted wooden saddles are a challenge to Westerners. Olivia rode the first day, and by the evening she was stiff.

"You're walking funny," I teased her. "No saddle tomorrow."

"No saddle," she repeated. "That's it!" She pulled on her boots and went outside. She ran across the yard, whistling. The pony she'd ridden that day lifted his head. She called out to him and he trotted over to her. She slipped a bridle over his head, and slid on to his bare back. Then she dropped the reins, held onto his mane and started to ride. From then on, Olivia rode bareback.



It was icy on the Steppes. Lifting the flap of my tent at dawn the first morning, I knew everyone - the Mongolians and the Americans - would have to swathe themselves in layers, buttress themselves against the cold, swallow its sharp edge. I covered myself with a rug, and stepped outside. The yurts of the family were set in a semi-circle on the hillside. Their herds roamed around them on the slopes. In the early morning light, it looked as if an artist had drawn a slender blue line around every mountain, every bush, every sheep in the pasture. There was a clarity that startled me and brought a rush of joy.

The wind stopped howling, and something inside me stopped howling too. My concentration was always good in the early morning and the truth often came to me: an insight or even a question that I had been seeking. I remembered a fragment of an illuminated manuscript I had purchased in Sikkim. It was a part of a page, with a Thangka of Sukha, the Green Goddess, her hand extended in blessing. Then I saw Sukha's face. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She smiled through her tears, and extended her hand in blessing.

I thought about Sukha's openness. I remembered a certain woman from the Sahara, the way she looked when she removed her veil, and took me in her arms. This woman had not had to acquire a veneer to protect her from the world - the veil preserved her privacy. She had not been exposed to the numbing years of television, of everyday social dishonesty. She was open in a way none of us can recapture.

Sukha was even more open - she allowed herself to be enveloped by her feelings, by her compassion, by the happiness that can spring from being immersed in life, in its very ordinariness: a steaming cup of tea, the devotion of a friend, the opening of a bud, the sadness of being far from home.

Sukha was right about me. I've hidden away most of my life, first in the archives, then in my disguises, taking physical risks, academic risks which might have daunted other people. I didn't mind courting that kind of danger, but I took no personal risks. I rejected gestures of friendship, condescended to my colleagues, trapped my enemies. And this job, as an agent, replicated a childish world of black and white, a world of irreconcilable differences, a world of enemies to be subdued, with no hope of reconciliation.

Thinking of Sukha's devotion to everyday tasks, I set up my separate tent, giving myself over to the task of doing everything possible to find her. Within hours I had established a base. A satellite linkup put me in touch from this remote corner of the Gobi. I felt some security knowing I could reach Washington in seconds or access information from any one of a thousand databases. I could be connected instantly to Leo in New York or Charles in Ulan Bator. I contacted them by phone and modem. We checked our codes and set up a series of emergency procedures, to cover a range of events.

"By the way, Olivia's press campaign is working," Leo said. "The radios are playing her albums and the news stations are reporting that the video is being made. If the Imani want you, they'll know where to find you."

I sighed. I was undercover with the world watching.

By 8:00 a.m. I was hungry and I knew the rest of the team was up and making breakfast. The scent of roasted lamb drew me to their yurt.

"Where's Olivia?" I asked automatically as I ducked under the yurt's low door frame. There were amused faces and some chuckling, but no other sound. The round tent was furnished with folded carpets, quilts, and blankets of many colors. Small windows let in beams of sunlight which played over the detailed embroidery on the linens. There was a hearth in the center. Goat horns, hung on the canvas walls, acted as hooks.

"I don't see what's funny about my question." I looked from one face to another. Griffon rubbed his three day growth of beard and squinted, grinning at me. Hami tipped her head to one side and looked at me coolly, appraisingly. Periwinkle smiled his mysterious, Buddha smile.

There was another person in the yurt, squatting over the fire, making flatbread. It was a youth, slim, with slicked-back black hair and the most amazing green eyes, wearing trousers that billowed in a thousand pleats, tucked into high boots.

Must be a visitor from another village. Then I took a closer look. Something about this youth, something graceful, something compelling...about the line of the back, the supple curve of the arm...

"Olivia?" The slender youth straightened and Olivia grinned up at me.

"Well, Blake, I guess if you can't tell, a stranger won't know a thing."

"No," I said laughing, "And I thought I was ready for anything..."

"If we hired an expert, we couldn't have created a better costume for the video," said Chloe happily.

"It's got shock value, it's androgynous, and it's exotic. They won't be able to keep their eyes off you," said Griffon.

Yes. I couldn't help being incredibly drawn to the slim, black haired youth, with Olivia's expression, and the hint of something foreign as well. I was reminded of the collage in Olivia's bedroom, with the face glimpsed through a cutout. Olivia was always displaying a new side of herself, and the more she displayed, the more mysterious and indecipherable she became.

The herdsmen knew Olivia was a woman. But since she dressed and acted as a man, they treated her as one.

"She's the best man among you," Zurri said that afternoon. "None of your men will try our clothes. They ride our horses reluctantly. And if a man cannot ride, what is he, after all?"

Like Olivia, the Mongolian men did what they wanted and explained almost nothing. They were happy to be in the saddle, under the enormous sky. At the daily round up, they chased their herds with an urga, a pole with a noose at the end, pursuing each fleeing horse down rugged ravines and up hills. When they caught up with it, they took the bridle of their own horse in their teeth and, holding the pole with both hands, slipped the noose around the horse's neck.

Olivia was immediately drawn to Khan. I knew him as an agent, a colleague. Olivia knew him as the tribal elder, a nomadic herdsman. Khan was all sinew and action, with a gaunt face and penetrating eyes. His stare matched that of his Golden Eagle, which he had tamed to hunt small game. In his fur-trimmed coat and fur hat, long moustache which reached beyond his wide cheekbones, and his eagle on his wrist, Khan seemed a different species of man, a throwback to a time before the written word, when man's deeds were written in action and remembered in song.

Khan showed Olivia how to train a young eagle. He kept it on a leash, tying its tail feathers with strings. It took strength and balance to ride across the grasslands with a heavy bird perched on your gloved arm, but Olivia had an agility to match that of the Mongols.

Khan and Olivia rode over the plains together, and when they returned, there was a trace of something primitive. Olivia's veneer of sophistication and even civilization was wearing away. She stretched, sniffed the air, smiled, scratched herself. A wildness that had always lain beneath her smooth veneer had surfaced.

How involved was she with this Mongol tribesman three times her age? I knew she was sleeping with Khan... and that our physical relationship was over. I swung between feeling like the wronged lover and the indulgent father of an impossible teen-ager who took every risk that life offered.

Now that Sukha was gone, the only one who could see into Olivia's behavior was Periwinkle. But he seemed oblivious, spending his days riding around on a little two wheeled wooden cart pulled by an ox, with a Mongol child on its back. The only way I could talk to him, was to join him on the cart. We took a ride after dinner, to see the sunset.

"She had no upbringing to speak of, you know. She has always simply done what she liked. There is a lot about Olivia you don't know."

"Tell me," I said.

"After her parents died, she seemed like the bravest little girl in the world. I had known them and I kept in touch, doing what I could. But she was incredibly self contained. After that Newsweek cover story, she became a child model and depended only on Charles, who had been, after all, with the household forever.

"Of course, it couldn't last, and the whole thing came to a head when she was a teenager. She ran away from her boarding school in Switzerland, and met Griffon hitchhiking in Yugoslavia. I hate to think what would have happened if he didn't take her under his wing. He talked her into coming home, but for two years she just camped out in the unfurnished house, with Charles taking care of her, refusing to buy furniture or think about college. Then Griffon convinced her to start modeling again. But it all came together when she met Sukha, and Sukha has held her together ever since, filling the emptiness, and creating a home beyond what Olivia had ever imagined."

I looked up to see Olivia streaking across the Steppes on her horse, with Khan at her side. It turned out her wildness was contagious. After twenty four hours, Griffon had turned into a cowboy of the steppes. He whooped and tried rope tricks. He charmed all the women, so they saved the best morsels of meat for him, and eyed him calculat­ingly for their daughters.

From the moment he saw her, Griffon was attracted to Hami, our translator. Perhaps she embodied Mongolia for him the way Olivia embodied everything American. He took one look at the stocky, red-cheeked, robust young woman, with her spectacular high cheekbones and her huge eyes, and was transfixed.

"She is an incredible person, Blake," Griffon told me one night over a dinner of roasted sheep, thin cakes of baked bread, and fermented mare's milk. "She's a poet, an archer, and a member of the militia. She's a modern woman who is as comfortable riding bareback as she is riding a motorcycle, as comfortable at the dawn milking as she is retelling an ancient epic poem. And when I see her with her bow and arrow, Blake, all I can think of is Cupid."




Episode 31 Let It Be

Hami was playing a three string violin, its curved handle fashioned into the head and neck of a horse. Her lilting voice found the notes of a haunting song, an ode to the twilight, the long dusk which hung over the Mongolian plain for hours, before fading into night. Afterwards, she showed Griffon how it was done. He wanted to pick the strings like a guitar, but Hami patiently corrected him, putting the bow in his fingers and teaching him how to play. He was obviously infatuated. When they saw I was watching, he and Hami left with their food, to be alone.

The minute she arrived on the Steppes, Chloe developed a looser shooting style. She put away the tripod and went back to her tiny hand-held video camera, She recorded everything she saw. One morning, wandering through the herds, she found a little black lamb, bleating sadly. Its mother, who had two other lambs, couldn't nurse a third. Every time it approached her to suckle, the ewe kicked it with her back foot.

"Has your family abandoned you?" crooned Chloe to the black ball of fur. "What will happen to it?" she asked, looking up at Hami.

"It will die." Hami shrugged. "There are many more."

"But why doesn't anyone care about this one?" asked Chloe.

"It's the third lamb. That's the way it is."

"No! " said Chloe. "No!" She gathered up the dirty, neglected lamb and rocked it back and forth, tears steaming down her face.

Hami looked startled. "There's nothing to be done, Chloe," she said. "Let the lamb die." To Hami, the lamb was already dead.

I gently untied the kerchief around Chloe's neck, and took it over to the ewe. I squeezed her udder and soaked the kerchief in her milk. Then I sat in front of Chloe and put a corner of the kerchief in the lamb's mouth. "We'll put the other end in milk," I said." If it sucks perhaps it will live."

It sucked hungrily. I filled Chloe's cap with fresh ewe's milk and dipped the kerchief in it. Chloe looked at me, her face, like a child's, beaming.

"I'll name it Karma, Blake," she said gratefully. "This was meant to be..."



Griffon continued to file his column. The Post sent him a steady stream of emailed material from New York, but I was the only one who bothered with it. The others were just as happy to leave New York's form of civilization behind. One communiqué from Griffon's column, took me by surprise.

Murmurs from Man About Town by Griffon Thorndike: Tibetan Scholar and Bon Vivant Blake Williams, now on location in Mon­golia as a cultural consultant to the Druids, and friend of high fashion model Olivia, is revealed to be a hero. Newly declassified documents reveal select information about the scholar's past role in discreet peace negotiations in the Middle and Far East. Williams is responsible for averting bloodshed in a score of delicate situa­tions, an official source reveals.

I confronted him immediately. "Griffon, why are you doing this?"

"Gossip is so superficial Blake..."

"You're just realizing this now?"

"Sukha convinced me I could do something significant! So many of us owe our careers to her."

"Not me." At least not that.

"Not yet!"

"To get back to your column, why did you drag me into it?"

"I'm interested in making a difference, Blake..."

"I don't see how reporting on my past makes a difference..."

"It gives people a hero. People today need a hero. My editor is very pleased. He's thinking of submitting the story for a Pulitzer."

"Who is your source?"

"An admirer of yours, Blake. Someone who simply wants to give your career a boost."

"Nothing is simple, Griffon."

Sunset. I looked up from my laptop, hearing the voices of the Mongolian women, a worried hum carrying a message of despair.

"What is it?" I asked, pulling on a homespun lambs wool shirt as I emerged from my tent.

"It's Khan, " said Olivia, already on her pony, "He never came home last night. We waited all day, but now we're going out to find him."

I caught one of the older, easier horses and joined them, bareback. Griffon grumbled as he swung himself onto a wooden saddled roan. Zurri caught the bridle of an unmounted horse for Khan.

The Mongolian moon rose as we set out. Huge outcrop­pings of rock appeared on the plain. The Mongols had always boasted there was no mountain their ponies couldn't climb. As we came to each, Zurri rode right up the rock. He followed tracks as a Western investor reads the business pages, with complete concentration and comprehension.

We rode in silence except for the tinkle of bells on the reins. Khan's tracks led us to one of the abandoned cities on the old silk road. The ruin, half buried in sand, stood in silence. We rode our horses past the turreted ramparts of a town whose story had been lost in time.

We heard a groan. From behind a rock, facing backwards on his horse, bobbing helplessly, his hands tied behind him, was Khan.

"Khan, what happened?" I asked, as I helped the elder off his horse. Griffon cut the ropes and took the bleeding animal. Olivia slipped Khan's arm over her shoulder, as he told his story.

"I was approached on the road by a bandit, an arrogant young henchman He stood in my path and unsheathed his knife. He had long black hair tied in a headband, and a scar on his cheek."

"'Venerable elder,' he said. 'We understand you are sheltering a young woman who rides like a man and rules a tribe of her own."

"'Estimable dung heap,' I replied. 'Be on your way.'"

"'Honorable patriarch,' said the Bandit. 'Pray lead us to this strange female. We would see this marvel with our own eyes.'"

"'Illustrious rodent' I said. 'Be gone,' When he saw I would not do what he asked, he beat me and slashed the horse's back. Then put me on my bleeding horse, tied my hands and left. Brigand. Outlaw. Insect."

"I'm sorry my presence has caused you pain!" Olivia had tears in her eyes.

We rode back to the village in silence. I knew Kip was retaliating for Olivia's relationship with Khan. He'd been watching us.

Griffon, unsaddling the horse, discovered something.

"I think this is for you, Olivia," he said, holding a scroll, tied with embroidery thread.

"Don't open that!" I said, sharply, plucking the missive out of thin air as Olivia reached for it.

"You know plastic explosives can be concealed in a very small package. Letter bombs are a favorite of terrorists."

"I'm sorry Blake," said Olivia, seizing the scroll. "We'll just have to take the chance."

I stood in her path. Her expression was determined, then pleading, then fragile. I thought of Sukha and looked at Olivia. Then I stood aside and let her pass.


That night, I dreamed of Olivia, singing a sad song, its notes climbing clearly. 'There will be an answer. Let it be. Let it be.' Her voice was joined by another, a man's. I awoke and realized Olivia was singing old Beatles' songs - and she wasn't alone.

I slipped a shearling coat over my shoulders and walked out. The sky arched over me, studded with stars, The desert sky was unmatched by any deed, any work of art. It was frightening, beautiful, humbling. It reminded me that all my plotting, my insights, my strategies were merely the puny efforts of yet another desert dweller, who would soon be simply dust.

Olivia's voice rose again, met by those of the other, a voice I remembered, but couldn't identify. I followed the a capella notes across the pasture. There, leaning on a rock were two youths, slender, sweet, singing Yesterday.

They finished their song, and then smiled at each other. Olivia got up and slipped her hand into mine.

"Blake, Kip took care of things in England. We don't have to worry about Greenwich." I looked at this youth, who had been singing so sweetly. He held out his hand. I noticed the scar on his cheek, the sunglasses in his shirt pocket, the knife in his boot, the bulge of the pistol in his pocket. I remembered the dead body handcuffed to his truck. Shroeder had already told me that Kip had followed through in England, but I still didn't trust him.

I took his hand slowly. I remembered the knife in his hand, how it fit so perfectly, how he used it so easily. I spoke to him in Chinese.

"I'm watching every move you make, Kip. Do you understand?"

"I got it. No offense."

"Why did you attack Khan?"

"Sorry about that. I got carried away. I got jealous. It happens. I'll apologize to the old guy in the morning."

"It is morning," I said, nodding to the horizon, where a pale rose tint lit the immense night sky.

"Kip came to tell us about the Imani's new plan, for another simultaneous strike, called Equinox," said Olivia.

"I don't have the details yet," he said. "But I will find out."

"How long will you stay with us?"

He shrugged. "Maybe one day... maybe more... They'll expect me back. Olivia said she'd make a place for me in the rock video." I was about to ask Kip more about Equinox, but I sensed Olivia didn't want me to. She'd been successful so far. Better to let her handle it. Getting Kip to open up and to lead us to Sukha would be a delicate proposition. Even I could see Kip was more susceptible to Olivia's charms than my own. I controlled the impulse to beat him to a pulp.

"You can certainly sing," I told him.

Kip could do more than sing. Chloe and Griffon worked around his talents and dark, reckless looks. They scripted a separate video, to be shot in one day, in case Kip vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

They shot Olivia's sleeping profile, silhouetted against the tall grass. Then they cut to Kip on the only large stallion they could find. He put his knife between his teeth, and without touching the reigns, galloped across the plains. His horse's hooves barely brushed the ground. The thunder of an army on horseback faded away as Olivia's profile faded in.

He pulled Olivia up beside him on the horse and they dashed across the steppes, returning with a whoop. As a boy in a refugee camp in Hong Kong, he had acquired a western veneer, covering an almost animal energy. His youth and bravado were evident, and so was something much more sinister. Kip would do anything, anything...and it came through in every expression and gesture. He was dangerous and it brought a fascinating menace to the video.

Afterwards, Kip jumped off his horse and showed off, juggling, acrobatics, little tricks he had picked up along the way.

"You'd make a great stuntman, Kip," said Griffon that night over dinner. "Were you ever a performer?"

"I performed for food, when I was a kid on the streets. If someone liked me, they'd throw me a scrap, instead of giving it to the dogs. If not, they'd kick me and I'd crawl away and fall asleep in a ball, so my stomach didn't hurt so much."

He talked disjointedly about his youth, his days and nights as a boy on the streets of Hong Kong, after he escaped from the refugee camp. Kip's parents, Vietnamese boat people had died when he was a baby. He had a vague memory of an old woman crying over him and a stronger memory of shopkeepers watching out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for him to steal. Sleeping in doorways, picking pockets. The gangs with their needles instead of dreams.

"How did you get out of the refugee camp?" Hami asked.

"I got really sick. They put me in the hospital, in a bed with another kid. He was burning. I woke up and he was still, cold, dead. I slipped out of the bed, walked out of the camp, right past the guards. I felt like I was dead."

"Oh, Kip, pauvre enfant," said Chloe.

"Don't pity me," he warned Chloe sharply. She got up and moved next to me.

"Kip's forgiven Olivia for sleeping with Khan. And you've forgiven her for sleeping with Kip. Everyone has forgiven her except me." said Chloe, a note of bitterness in her voice.

"Forgiven her? For what?"

"Sleeping with my husband, you fool. She was the only other woman Cosmos ever wanted. The only time he strayed."

"But Chloe, you slept with anyone you wanted." I was baffled.

"You're single, Blake. You don't understand a marriage."

Evidently not. Chloe arose in a fury and stalked off to her tent.

Kip picked up his leg of lamb and cup of beer and squatted next to me. He had a way to disturb each of us.

"The west is on its way out." He sneered between bites.

"You're right, of course," I agreed.

"Not just the west of course, the government of China is as good as dead. It will come down to a battle between your forces and mine, between the old, degenerate powers on the verge of downfall, without even knowing they are about to topple, and us, the new, young, powerful - the winners, who will destroy, annihilate everything you have created."

Kip, the murderer who wants to annihilate the West. But first, he wants to star in a rock video.

"The west is a parasite. Because of you, our cultures have been starved, cut off, forced to give the best of life to someone else. You have used our sweat, our flesh, our very thoughts."

There was some justice to Kip's appraisal. Western countries had raided developing nations, "rescuing" their artwork, displaying their religious treasures as artifacts, growing rich on the labor of children and political prisons, mining natural resources till the land was stripped and yielded nothing for its inhabitants.

In return, western nations gave foreign aid. The aid was, in reality, weapons and money for the few, the manipulators in power, while the people starved. How many times, during a famine, had I watched children die and then left for a nearby city only to see the grain and cheese sent by the US on sale at an open air market, clearly marked Given by the U.S. Government - May Not Be Sold.

If I had been born in a refugee camp would I feel the same way? We finished dinner. Chloe had returned. She asked me to set up my laptop computer on the plains and made it the last shot of the day. Kip and Olivia took a walk and the rest of us stayed around the fire.




Episode 32 Budinka

Dawn. Periwinkle was standing over me. Something was wrong. Instantly, I was awake.

"Olivia's gone - I'm sure she's been gone for hours."

"Alone?" I asked, pulling on a pair of jeans.

"With Kip," said Periwinkle. I groaned.

We walked outside. Hami and Griffon were shivering in the nighttime chill.

"I think they took Zurri's motorcycle," said Hami. "I hope she knows what she's doing."

"But what is she doing?" asked Griffon.

"She's going to Budinka," said Chloe, coming up to us, wrapped in a cashmere blanket.

"Budinka? asked Griffon. "What's that?"

"It's an abandoned Russian army barracks," said Hami. "But why would Olivia go there?"

"I awakened in the night," said Chloe, rubbing her eyes. "Olivia covered me and I realized she was dressed. I sat up and she put her finger to her lips and whispered, 'I'm going to Budinka to find Sukha.'"

"What time was it?" I asked.

"I don't know." Tears filled her eyes. "I should have gone with her, shouldn't I?"

"Certainly, then we'd have two people to worry about," I said harshly, scratching my unshaved cheek.

"It's okay, Chloe," said Griffon. "We're lucky you remembered what Olivia said. We'd better get going."

"I'm coming," said Chloe.

"No," I said." Are there other cycles?" I asked Hami.

"Last night there was gasoline. Today the tanks are empty," said Hami

"We'll have to take the camels," said Griffon.

"What about Charles?" asked Periwinkle. "He could be here in hours in the helicopter."

"No!" said Griffon. "Olivia hasn't been captured - she went with Kip willingly. In fact, I bet it was her idea. We can't undermine her. We'll just follow up as reinforcement." I had to agree with him. A helicopter might push the Imani into violence. We didn't want to escalate the situation.

"Is the route difficult?" I asked Hami.

"The direct route cuts through a shallow salt lake. We can take the camels and be there in two nights."

"Then we can be there in tomorrow night if we ride all day and night." I said.

"It will be too hot in the desert to cross during the day," said Hami.

"We'll do it anyway. Get the camels ready, " I said.

Within an hour we were on our way. The desert was still cool. A hawk circled overhead, looking for prey. We headed south. The grassland fell away, the scrub thinned out. The breeze ebbed and the sun intensified.

By 10:00 a.m. it was deadly hot and our lips were parched. We stopped for a quick breakfast of goat cheese and small cakes, washed down with tea Hami prepared by shaving the leaves off a large brick of tea she carried.

I strictly rationed our water. Soon the scrub gave way to a desperate landscape, a salt marsh. The marsh was shallow, a series of inert puddles stretching into the distance. The horizon shimmered. There was a burning in our nostrils, an acrid smell in the air. We covered every inch of our skin against the sun. I tried not to imagine what would greet us when we finally arrived at Budinka. As the sun set, I let the motion of the camel and the immensity of the desert sky lull me into a half-sleep.

I'm not sure how much time had passed. I awakened to the sway of the camel's hips. In the distance, a long low shape rose on the horizon, a bulky shadow in the night. It was a building, a barracks. Budinka. It was almost dawn when we approached. There were tracks going off to the south, the tracks of a bulky, odd machine.

"Are these motorcycle tracks?" I asked.

Griffon looked over his shoulder. "BMW's, R71's. Equipped with sidecars. Painted in camouflage, I'd bet."

"BMW's? Here in China?" asked Periwinkle.

"A vintage model - from the 1930's," said Griffon. "After World War II, Stalin moved the BMW factory from Germany to China. The Chinese have continued to grind out these four-speed bikes year after year. Looks like there are four of them."

"How long ago did they leave?" I asked

Griffon shrugged. "Last few hours."

"They must have taken Olivia with them," I said.

"No they didn't," said Griffon. "She's here."

"How do you know?" said Hami.

"I know," said Griffon simply.

"We'll split up into teams," I said. "Hami, you and Periwinkle, stay here. Shoot a flare if you see anything."

The long low building released the desiccated smell of the desert. Griffon and I stepped over the broken sash of a window. The building and its contents were as thin as a house of cards. Sticks of furniture, preserved in the searing air, were strewn at random. In the passageway, the bones of a small animal lay on the floor. I hurried Griffon from room to room.

"Come on Griffon, she's not here." I shuddered.

Outside, Griffon walked in circles examining the gravel. Suddenly, he was pawing at the dirt with his hands, and he had hold of a handle, like a drawer pull.

"Look at this! he shouted, pulling up a trap door in the ground.

There were roughly made steps leading down under the barracks. Griffon had discovered an oubliette, an underground jail, a dungeon of some kind, used in some unimaginable way by Mongolia's Soviet occupiers. I lit a flare, illuminating a long corridor, lined with individual cells.

There, at the bottom of the steps, in the dark, on a heap of empty grain sacks, was Olivia, inert on the dirt floor. It was unmistakably Olivia, but her hair, instead of being black and short was once again long and blond.

I knelt tenderly by her side, and untied her gag, while Griffon cut the cord that bound her wrists and ankles. I lifted her and carried her up the steps and outside. As I gently put her down, her head fell back and the blond wig slid crazily to one side and then fell off, revealing Olivia's round, perfectly bald skull.

Reality receded. The parched shell of the desert seemed to tilt. Olivia's shaven scalp looked like an egg. All the surfaces cracked. My mind exploded. My body calmly cradled Olivia. Years of professional practice in bizarre locations and surreal situations had taught me to appear almost normal under the most grotesque circumstances.

"It's all right, Blake, She's waking up." Griffon was calm.

Periwinkle and Hami came running. We gave Olivia water and she looked around as she awakened, allowing her eyes to linger on each familiar face.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said faintly. "And I've got good news. I've seen Sukha."

I felt an unadorned happiness. Sukha.

"Tell us what happened," said Periwinkle.

"Hold on Periwinkle," I said. "Let's give her a chance. We'll make camp here and stay overnight. Give her time to recover before we question her."

The desert surface went back to normal. I put away my paranoia in the place where I hid my deepest apprehensions, and went back to the other reality.

"Thank God you are all right!," said Griffon fervently. "How did you get here?"

"Kip and I borrowed Zurri's motorcycle. I siphoned fuel from the other tanks."

"Olivia, siphoning is a dangerous feat. You could have choked on the fumes, damaged your lungs." I sounded like a school teacher from the 1940's.

"Don't be silly, Olivia is an old hand at siphoning," said Griffon. He looked at her proudly as he handed her a cup of tea. Her hand shook, and Griffon slipped his hand around hers and guided the cup to her lips. Periwinkle brought over rations - crackers and cheese, a candy bar.

"It was a great night for the bike, Griffon." Olivia's eyes were shining. "There was a half moon and a slight breeze and the sand was white in the moonlight. I mounted a compass on the handlebars and dug out the computerized star finder we used in the Paris -Dakar race. I was worried because we had no spare - you know how we lost our tire that time in Ghardaia, in the Algerian Sahara, but we had no trouble at all. Kip and I arrived at Budinka by early morning.

"You trusted him too easily. He might have led you into a trap," I said.

"No, Blake. Kip trusted me and he took me to see Sukha." She stared right into my eyes.

"You're kidding yourself, Olivia." I couldn't believe she was so naive.

"Your cynicism is blinding you, Blake," she said.

"Enough of this. Tell us what happened," Griffon said impatiently.

"Our reception was less than welcoming. The leader of the gang, Jo Muktani, was angry that Kip had revealed their base here. He said he wanted no part of an action that could focus an international spotlight on them now."

"What was he like?" I asked.

"Charismatic. Brutal. Something strange - I can't put my finger on it. He looks Oriental, but unplaceable. And there's something in his voice..." Olivia trailed off. She shook her head. "Maybe he went to school in Germany, there's something about his intonation that is European, German I think."

"Madame Po is frightening." She shuddered. "Her features were frozen, like a mask. But they are treating Sukha well - at least that's what I was told. But Kip has told me that the Chinese government refuses to ransom Sukha. They say the Imani shouldn't have kidnapped her."

"That could be bad for Sukha, " I said.

"Kip thinks someone is protecting her or she'd be dead already," said Olivia.

"Is this the base of the Imani?" asked Griffon.

"No, that's in China, a place called Typhoon."

"Did you talk to Sukha?" asked Periwinkle.

"I caught a glimpse of her, but they didn't let me speak to her. She was in the next room. The woman named Julia opened the door and we saw each other," said Olivia triumphantly. "Our eyes locked and then the door closed."

I longed for a single glimpse of Sukha. Just one look.

"She was very thin," Olivia's voice had dropped to a whisper and her shoulders sagged. "She may be sick." A tear fell softly down her cheek. She shook her head.

"Knowing they were leaving with Sukha, I felt abandoned." She cried for a few minutes, then wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders. "But I knew you'd find me."

"What else did you learn about the Imani? " asked Griffon.

"I only know what Julia told me. She says whatever comes into her mind. Her role is to brainwash the fish. She's the person who indoctrinates each of them. She provides comfort, support, a place where the newcomer can pour his heart out. She gives him drugs, strengthens his resolve. Madame Po intimidates them, Julia builds them up, Kip uses strong arm tactics if necessary, Jo Muktani plans everything like a stage manager. It's a process of both coercion and inducement."

"What language did Julia speak?" asked Hami.

"English - she's an American from Texas, but she speaks French as well," said Olivia. "The others were more circumspect. At times, when they didn't want me to understand, they spoke Japanese. It wasn't their language - in fact they spoke it quite badly. Of course, I understood every word. They are on their way across the border, into China, to Urumqui.

"I won Julia over to our side. She doesn't know the details of the Equinox, the strike Kip told us about, but she suddenly decided to talk Jo Muktani out of it. She actually said, 'I never thought about it... I don't know why... but of course it is awful for all those people to die... innocent people, even children... Let me talk Jo out of it. I know he'll listen to me.'"

"No chance of that," I said.

"She told me the password," said Olivia. "It is 'All Things Being Equal.'"

"What happened to your hair?" Periwinkle asked the question we all were thinking.

"Madame Po decided to shave my head - as a punishment, I guess," said Olivia, running a finger over her bald head. "She said it would be a souvenir I wouldn't forget. Julia insisted on putting one of her wigs on me. Then they tied me up, and dumped me down those steps. I must have bumped my head and passed out."

"Madame Po knew being bald would be an enormous hardship for an international model." Griffon was furious. "It was an insidious and brutal act."

"Oh, I don't mind at all," said Olivia. She shrugged. "It's just another look. Think of Tibetan nuns. Think of all the women who undergo chemotherapy. Think of babies and their cute little bald heads. I laughed in her face, to tell you the truth." She giggled.

"Olivia, that was irrational." I was upset. "That kind of behavior is provocative. And unprofes­sional." I didn't like the idea of the malicious Madame Po, holding a straight razor and listening to Olivia ridicule her. But, perhaps baldness was the best thing for Olivia, a sacrifice that showed she'd do anything to recover Sukha, an outward sign of her desire to make amends. For ages outcast women had their heads shaved. Perhaps for Olivia this badge represented absolution, allowing her to feel whole again.

"Yes I should have controlled myself," said Olivia, smiling at the memory. Then she laughed again.

"I don't see what is funny," said Griffon, his brow knit. He spoke for all of us.

"I gave Julia a gift," Olivia explained. "A charm bracelet of precious jewels. Within each charm is a gem, in case she decides to buy her freedom. She was grateful but spurned the idea of freedom. "'I can buy better things than freedom,' she said. 'The gems themselves are more to me than freedom. Men worship me, women envy me. What more could I want?' But what Julia didn't realize was that within the bracelet's links is a transmitter so we can track the Imani wherever they go."

"Your actions were exceptional," I acknowledged. "Taking the charm bracelet was incredible planning. What is its range?"

"Unlimited range. It emits a radio signal which bounces off a satellite, Blake," said Olivia. "I pick it up with a receiver on my own charm bracelet."

"I didn't know civilians had access to that technology, " I said.

"I guess I'm not the usual civilian."

"That's certain. It's only a matter of time now, and of Sukha's health... We'll be able to track them down, that's for sure." I had an incredible feeling of joy, simply knowing we were on track, that Sukha was nearby.

At that moment, dust appeared on the horizon. I froze. Out of the desert came a motorcycle, an R71 as Griffon had predicted, a lone cycle with an empty side car, bearing down on us.

The bike circled us. Its rider, a male with goggles and helmet, stopped, straddled the bike, threw something and left, without looking back.

"It's Kip," said Olivia. "He's making sure I am all right. He was very upset at my treatment, poor thing."

"Poor thing?" I thought of Kip, with his knife on the New Jersey waterfront. "Olivia, Kip is violent and dangerous."

"Blake, I convinced him to bring me here. When he left, he cried and kept saying, 'I don't want to leave you, Olivia.' I told him you were on your way, and he promised he'd check to make sure I was rescued..."

Griffon had gone after the object thrown by Kip. It was a letter, wrapped around a rock:

"Olivia - Because of you, I see the world differently. You are so sweet, I can't tell you how sweet you are. Love Kip. "P. S. The key to Equinox at the Wallow, a village three kilometers west of here."

"We'll go there now." I said. I stopped for a moment. "I was wrong, Olivia. Kip hasn't let you down. I admit it."

We headed for the village. Olivia rode behind me on my camel. By late afternoon, the wind had shifted. There was a stirring in the air, almost a breeze. We stopped and there was the distant smell of wet earth. The camels reacted immediately, snorting and tossing their heads. We passed a few paltry bushes. Then we saw it - a large tent village, obviously well populated.




Episode 33 The Wallow

"I feel like a ghost," said Periwinkle.

"We're definitely invisible," said Griffon, leading his camel to a depression in the stony earth, a muddy pool. The camels drank deeply and we tied their back legs together so they couldn't wander, and left them gnawing on the grasses by the watering hole.

Nearby was an improvised cafe, shielded from the sun by a patchwork of skins on a lattice framework, a desultory spot, but obviously a meeting place. Each patron sat alone, oblivious to our presence. A veiled woman slouched over a ragged notebook, writing feverishly, hiding what she wrote with her hand. She looked up suspiciously, then went back to her writing. I saw she had a blue arm band stamped with a fountain pen dripping ink on her right arm, over the sleeve of her black robe. Then I saw everyone wore armbands.

"I must be having hallucinations," I muttered. "I thought I saw two of my favorite authors. That guy over there is a dead ringer for a Buddhist monk, the poet Zawtika. But I read that he died in a prison in Myanmar. And I thought I saw Restano Ortez, but he's in a Cuban jail - or so I heard. What is going on here?"

"What is this place?" Griffon shouted to any one who might answer.

"We don't exist," called out a thin, stooped woman, whose clothes might have been made of burlap bags, gathered and tied with string at her wrists and ankles. The brim of an ancient hat shaded her fragile features. She seemed horrified that she had spoken. She shrugged off Griffon's arm when he reached out to her and went back to her book.

We found a table in the shade of a ragged awning. The waiter, a squat young man whose nose had evidently been broken regularly, was attending other tables. He didn't seem to see us.

"Well this is familiar," said Periwinkle.

"It is?" asked Griffon.

"Griffon, it's the cold shoulder, developed to a high art in dozens of New York restaurants." Periwinkle stretched out his desert boots, sprawling on the rickety chair. "A round for everyone!" he announced in a high voice.

"A round of what?" asked Griffon.

Periwinkle shrugged. "Whatever they are serving." The waiter perked up instantly, and setting out a dozen tiny porcelain cups, started pouring thick Turkish coffee for everyone.

"You've put us on the map," I said. One of the men tipped his hat. A woman tried to smile, but gave up the attempt and went morosely back to her writing.

"Who are these people?" asked Periwinkle.

"My friend, we are the damned," answered a bearded, upright man, pushing a wheelbarrow of books. He stopped at our table and rested his load. He was dressed in a garment that probably had a function in the dim past. But he wore a bandanna around his neck and he seemed less neglected.

"Why?" I got him a chair and he sat down.

"We are writers who have been condemned."

"By your reviews?" asked Griffon. "Hey, man I've had been panned too, but you've got to pick yourself up, keep working."

I sighed impatiently. "Griffon, don't you see, they are writers condemned by governments, interred because they wrote what they did. No wonder so many faces look familiar. Wait a minute, aren't you Ismail Sibekci, the Turkish author?"

Sibekci put his fingers to his lips and sat down. "I cannot believe you know my work. A reader has wandered into my world. Here we all write, but no one has time to read more than an article or two."

"I've read all your books."

"Are you real? I've dreamt of a conversation like this, with a reader of my work, but I never imagined it could happen. Once, yes. I traveled, gave readings, signed my books. Now, never. I'm condemned, like an abandoned building, once filled with eagerness, intimations, passions, now empty, deserted, alone."

"How did you find yourself here?" I asked. "And this town - where did it come from?"

"The Wallow has endured forever," answered Sibekci. "At least, it has existed in some form since the emperor Augustus exiled Ovid for his erotic manuscript, The Art of Love. He was sent to the Black Sea in 9 A.D. Soon other writers joined him. This camp has migrated for two thousand endless years."

"In the third century, the Emperor Shih Huangti, who erected the Great Wall, burned most books and sent their authors to this colony," said the monk Zawtika, who had straggled over to us. I got him a chair and he sat down. "Other eastern rulers soon did the same."

"In 1559, the Catholic Church published the first Index of Forbidden Books," said the waiter. "Then the population of the Wallow swelled."

"How do you survive?" I asked.

"We live by the charity of other writers who donate food and writing materials. Our editors collect these provisions and when we fax our location, we get an air drop every month." said Sibekci. I thought of Chloe and Griffon, packing the Victorian trunk in the drawing room of the mansion.

"This is the village Chloe told us about." Griffon was triumphant.

"Chloe?" asked Sibecki. "Is she a tall beautiful black woman?"

"You know her?" I asked.

"No, I don't know her." he said.

At the next table I noticed a tall, thin, middle aged man, a touch of elegance in the ascot at his collar and the woven patterned slippers on his feet.

"Who is that man?" I asked Sibecki.

"That's Nicholas Rostov, a Russian," said Sibecki. "Infamous in the Soviet Union, known for his roman a clef of Soviet leaders in various stages of undress, caught in humiliating circumstances, enjoying themselves with talking farm animals. The pig, of course, was Brezhnev... and then the other animals were recognizable as well. It was funny when he wrote, no doubt, but who knew he'd be removed because of it?"

I remembered the case. Of course his novel was never published... distributed as samizdat, the uniquely Moscovian approach to literary dissemination: passing dog-eared mimeographed copies from hand to hand until the print rubbed off the page. He'd been accused of "writing innuendo" and disappeared without a trial. I wondered if he knew the Communist era was over. On a hunch, I moved to his table.

"Nicholas Rostov? I've read your work! Imagine finding you here. Can I stand you to a drink?" I waved a cigarette at the waiter, who appeared instantly and took it out of my hand. We ordered vodka.

"I bet you know what is going on in this part of the world," I ventured, offering him a cigarette. I smoke only when it can get me information. I shook out a Marlboro - international currency - looked at the pack, and then handed it to him. "You always had a unique awareness."

"Thank you.... you are looking for someone or something?"

"Have you heard of the Imani?"

"Of course, Dr. Wo... he is my agent and publisher... "

"Your publisher?"

"Yes, it is because of him and his interest in my writing that we have any niceties at all here... sausage, dried fish....otherwise we would have rice and cabbage."

"What did you write?"

"Dr. Wo came up with the idea that I could write a plot for him about international terrorism. The idea was a group similar to the Imani would stage a simultaneous strike around the world on the same evening...and so I wrote the details for him. For money and goods."

"Tell me the story,: I said. "I bet it was movie quality."

"And the password is?" he asked.

"All things being equal," I said.

"Yes, exactly... I wanted a plot that was dramatic and compelling, with inherent tension from start to finish. I called it The Equinox," he said. "It happens in the fall. There are explosions in Brussels, to undermine the European Union, in Washington and in Moscow. The internet cables under the Atlantic and Mediterranean are also blown up. Mercury fulminate, my favorite explosive, is delivered to the protagonists to do the job. Dr. Wo told me it is now obsolete, but I pointed out that that would make the substance easy to use and make."

"It can be unstable."

"Yes, but it is nostalgic."

"You're incredibly clever, diabolical even." I said.

"Aren't I?" He was pleased.

"Are there any other elements you haven't mentioned?" I leaned forward eager.

"The unexpected coup," said Rostov.

"Which is?"

"The perpetrators blow up their own base, as the event happens and with it anyone among their own group who knows too much. Then they disappear. So take care. What I've told you could be a death sentence for all of you. And perhaps for me, as well. In some ways I would welcome it."

"A breathtaking piece of work!" I said. He acknowledged my compliment with a nod.

"Of course I couldn't write it under my name," he said. "They'd come for me."

"You know, Nicholas, the Soviets are out of power, have been for years."

"What do you mean, out?"

"The Soviet Union is dissolved. You can go back now. I'll arrange it if you like."

"I don't believe you."

I shrugged. "I'll send you years' worth of articles. You make up your own mind."

"Maybe the world has passed us by." Rostov was letting my information sink in. He leaned forward and grabbed my lapel urgently. I could feel his acrid breath on my face. "This small, itinerant village is our only sanctuary - this godforsaken place and the printed word. Our main contact with the outside world is a solar-powered fax machine to our publishers. Every 17 days we fold up our tents and move to a new location." I pulled myself away and straightened my jacket.

Suddenly, we were surrounded by tiny whirlwinds. A dust storm swirled in spirals. The horizon disappeared.

"It is said a black wind out of the east sweeps away trust, leaving only doubt," said Rostov.

"They, too, write. Our enemies write decrees, death sentences, threats," said the waiter.

"There has always been oppression," said the monk. "Greedy, ambitious people have always tried to put out the flame of inspiration. But writers have to blow on the flame, fan it, build up the fire, until it illuminates the dark corners of the soul."

It was getting dark. I had learned what I needed to know: Equinox. The Fall Equinox, falling this year on September 22. We had to prevent the plans from being put in place. . I pulled our tiny band away from the village. Great minds are condemned to this purgatory, and no one cares, I thought.

"This story is apocryphal," shouted our waiter, as he waved goodbye. "None of this exists."

It was dusk and our camels were eager to be gone, and once out of sight of the writer's camp, I, too, experienced a guilty sense of relief. The tempera­ture in the desert dropped. We wrapped our sheepskins around us, pulled rations out of our camel bags, but did not stop.

I used my scope to send a complete report to Shroeder, so that he could start tracking down the tentacles of Equinox. We'd learned a great deal about the Imani, enough to change the perception of terrorism on every continent. I've seen politics twisted for every kind of gain, but I found it hard to come to grips with the Imani's business.




Episode 34 Silk Route

Hoping to find the Imani, we followed Julia's bracelet's radio signal to a remote crossroads in Western China - a land most Chinese shudder to think about. When their children refuse to wash the dinner dishes or bring their toys in out of the rain, urban Chinese parents threaten to send them to this land of dust and desperation. The government does send rebels here. It is the end of the road for political prisoners and dissidents. After this, there are endless empty miles, stretching west to the border, and across the border, more of the same.

This hostile land was once the Silk Route. Buried under hard earth, rainless desert, cruel mountains, and red clay cliffs is an army of bodies, sacrificed so a French maiden could have a silk veil in her trousseau and her uncle could sip his tea from a porcelain cup and put gunpowder in his musket. Acts of mercy, daring and evil became common here.

Camels and horses no longer haul tons of spices, gems, carpets and silk. The tracks have long since been erased. But travelers still appear from foreign lands, and are accepted at face value. That's how we were able to get away with it.

Another traveler would have seen two Kazakhs, Muslims of Turkic descent, a knife grinder and his young assistant, trudging along the road, carrying their tools, their bowls and chopsticks, the dirty rags which constitute a change of clothes. That's all.

They wore striped black and gold coats over homespun shirts and billowing trousers. Soiled white turbans covered their heads. The knife grinder carried a grinding wheel. His young assistant hauled a tired assortment of tools. It was obvious the two had scant resources. The one advantage they possessed was a ready supply of weapons, prominently displayed. They were unlikely prey to thieves.

In fact, they were not simple Muslims, trying to eke out a living under the intense barren sun, but strangers from a more complex and enigmatic world. Olivia and me - undercover. I've discovered that assuming the role of a foreigner in a strange land allows me to get away with a broken accent and explains any lapse in customs and etiquette. The role of a wandering outsider covers inconsistencies. In China, it didn't hurt that my manners were old fashioned, picked up from etiquette books which are thousands of years old. I was accepted. Olivia was my mute assistant, an entertaining youth who could divert attention when I needed to mask my behavior.

The electronic signals had led us to the Long Valley, where Chinese still dwell in caves, carved into the red clay cliffs. Here we found Julia, but not the Imani. For Julia, inexplicably, was alone.

We stopped at the base of the canyon, inhabited by a troglodyte community that had existed here since before man could read or write. The red cliffs above us were studded with paths, dwellings, shops, schools - all carved out of the soft red rock. Upstream, flat bottomed boats were wedged against each other along the shore. Young boys, black hair gleaming in the sun, were rowing out into the river. Smiling and laughing, they splashed one another and dove for fish. On the river bank stood baskets of slim silver fish, covered with leaves to protect them from the sun.

After we set up our little camp, I wandered down to the river for water and eavesdropped on the Chinese who crowded the riverbank. A few feet away, two women gossiped as they washed their families' clothes. They were oblivious to the drama of their setting. As cave dwellers, they simply brought their wash down the steep stairs of the ravine, from the high clay cliffs where their ancestors had hacked out caves.

"The witch is always washing her hair, Kai," said the younger woman as she pounded the clothes onto the river rocks. "Spirits must alight on her hair, she washes it so often. She is always putting paint on her toe nails. She packs and repacks her things. She has many possessions and many secrets."

The older woman bent over the wet clothes, brushing back the hairs that strayed out of her bun, then straightened up and looked at the other. She was tiny and hunched over, but strength and stubbornness were evident in her black, undiminished eyes.

"Ling, Jo Muktani has given your father a great sum of money to feed and house the witch for a time, but we may all be sorry. First, she is ugly, with her barbarian face and hair the color of winter straw saved to keep the yaks from starving. And who knows what spells and evils she will bring down on us? What good will money do for us if the witch sends spirits to bewitch our children, deprive us of our strength, or lure our animals away?"


As the sun made its descent in the west, Olivia started making shadow figures with her hands against the stone wall of the canyon. Instantly, a crowd of children gathered, silent, suspicious. But a smile broke out, and then a laugh, and soon the children were giggling and exclaiming at the duck, the bird, and the other shadow figures dancing along the rock wall.

Kai and Ling had gathered up their laundry, and they stopped with their arms full to watch the show. One day was like another in their isolated village and this was rare entertainment. Soon other adults straggled over to enjoy the show. I told a little tale to go along with Olivia's shadow play.

"There was once a flock of ducks who lived by a river. And then a new duck, a different kind of duck, came from far away and waddled right up to their riverbank."

"Just like the witch woman who came here," said Kai, listening. The simple story of the excluded duck held their interest. In my story, the foreign duck was eventually accepted into the flock.

Ling shook her head. "Those ducks made a mistake. But we will not make the same mistake. We will never accept the foreign witch."

"If you're afraid of the witch, why did the village elders agree to let her stay?" I asked

"What choice did we have?" said Lai. "The Imani will take our young men and women away."

"Who are the Imani?" I asked.

"Stupid peddler. Your ignorance will lead you to despair. The Imani are a slave gang. They took the name and revived the ancient tradition of kidnapping people and selling them as slaves."

"But who purchases such slaves?" I asked as Olivia started a new show of shadow figures.

"Where have you come from, the moon?" asked Ling. "Everyone knows they are sold to nomadic tribes in Pakistan, Afghanistan and India."

"You are wrong, Ling, you don't understand." said Kai. "That's not where the slaves go..." The two women wandered off, arguing. Slaves? I thought of the Gatos of Brazil, the "cats" who prowl poor neighborhoods, promising good jobs, and then take children and young adults hundreds of miles away where they are charged for food and transportation, and saddled with debt, and work for almost nothing, with no way out. If they try to escape the isolated plantations, they are pursued by gunmen and tortured.

I wanted to believe this was superstition, the rumor of baby stealing that plagued rural Asian villages as it had once haunted European hamlets. But, it would be simple to take an unguarded shepherd, or a young girl drawing water from a village well. Who would stop the Imani here? I stifled the impulse to follow Kai and Ling and turned back to Olivia.

"Poor bald youth," said a young mother, holding her child's hand. "Those Kazakhs have such ugly faces."

"He's mute," I explained.

"He's lucky to have you, the little idiot," said the woman sympathetically. "You are kind to take him in." Olivia gave me a foolish grin and started to juggle a handful of dried apricots. The children applauded.

Why was Julia here? Where were the others? Where was Sukha? Was she safe?

Our questions could be answered only by Julia, who fascinated us as she had fascinated Kai and Ling. We saw her wash and comb her hair and sit in the sun to let it dry, the charm bracelet reflecting the light. She ran up the stairs to her cave, humming a song, but her eyes looked haunted. Then she took a walk. We watched her disappear along the riverbank.

"Now is the time," I said. I started beating my knives against my grinding wheel, attracting the attention of the villagers. I offered to sharpen the first ten knives for free. Such an offer was unprecedented. People crowded around me.

Olivia moved quickly. She scrambled up the ladder leaning against the cliffside. Then she slipped inside Julia's cave unobserved.

A few minutes later, Olivia left the cave as quietly as she had entered. She returned to find we had cornered the market. She helped me, silently and efficiently. By evening, many of the villagers' knives had been sharpened and Olivia and I had acquired a bit of skill.

As the full moon rose and the sun set, we stretched out next to the river. Julia returned to her cave and made a fire near the entrance, pulling out a blackened pot and a bit of rice. All along the cliff, smoke rose from cooking fires and everyone headed home. The men sat on stools, smoking while their wives bustled around them.

Olivia told me what she had found in Julia's cave. A cookstove, a few carpets, Julia's clothes. And she found a letter, in English. Olivia had memorized it.

Julia:
Jo Muktani is sending you away because he suspects you have collaborated with the American woman. You should not have talked to him about the Strike. Talk is for love, not politics. The troglodytes are being paid well to take care of you. But they have never seen a western woman, never seen long blond hair and they will find you very odd. They speak no English or French, so you will have no chance to be indiscreet. We will redeem you when you have redeemed yourself.
Madame Po

"It looks like my bracelet tracking device is no use to us now. She's separated from the Imani. I feel sorry for her," said Olivia sadly. "Maybe I should reveal myself to her. She is so alone."

"I know how you feel, but it could only hurt Julia." I said. "Evidently Jo Muktani realized on some level that Julia was our link to their whereabouts. His instincts are sound. She's here because Jo Muktani suspects her. If he found out she was in touch with you, he would assume she had been feeding us information. Who knows how he would retaliate?"

"I know you're right, but I'd like to do something for her."

"On the other hand maybe I can talk to her," I said. "As Hamed, the knife grinder, of course. Madame Po mentions French - evidently Julia speaks it. Hamed picked up a little broken French in his early years. Julia is accustomed to meeting traveling peddlers who've picked up a few words of a western tongue."

"I'm sure she would speak to you. She doesn't speak Chinese and the people here speak no English. They distrust her and they show it. She's been so isolated and lonely, I'm sure she'd love to talk to you."

"It may be our chance to locate the Imani. It's not without risk, but we have to find out where they've gone."

"Julia is so indiscreet, there's no telling what she might say."

"Yes, this may be our big chance. But we must be very careful. She must be convinced we are what we say."

"I'm mute. I doubt she'd recognize me, but she might pick up on my voice."

"She's never met me. That's my edge."

Later in the evening, I picked my way up the sides of the red clay cliffs. At the door to Julia's cave, I squatted and shaded my eyes, looking across the canyon. Olivia followed me as if by accident. A few minutes later, Julia came out of her cave.

"Bonsoir Madame," I spoke to her quietly in my broken French.

"But you speak French!" she answered, drawing away from me. She looked around to see if we were being observed.

"Enter, enter my little house." She held back the gauzy scarf which served as a door. Her cave was surprisingly cozy. The clay floor had been covered with carpets. There was a kind of settee made of pillows and folded mats. Here I was asked to sit. Olivia plopped herself down on the ground, like a child.

"A cup of tea?" Julia lit a match under a small blackened pot.

"You are too kind, Madame."

"Some tea for the boy?"

"Alas, Madame, a simple minded youth, unable to appreciate the pleasures of life. If you have some little thing for him to play with, he will leave us alone. " Olivia couldn't react to anything I did or said. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I meant to make the best of it.

Julia carelessly handed Olivia a box of her papers, which Olivia opened and sifted through. A jackpot! She had given the knifegrinder's assistant her personal correspondence. I could see Olivia holding a paper upside down. I knew she was reading it.

"A distinguished lady finds herself in this common little hamlet, far from the bright lights of the big city, from the excitement she loves, and the adoring crowd who love her. How has this happened?" I sipped my tea.

"I've been banished by my master." She stirred her tea. "He is Jo Muktani."

"A powerful man, feared by all, " I said.

"Yes, well, of course you know him. Many villages are willing to pay tribute to keep Jo Muktani from taking recruits."

"We've all wondered what happens to our friends, once they leave our villages." I said.

"Well, they go through a very nice initiation into their new life. It's not so bad, Hamed. I'm a recruit myself. I get whatever I want. Jewels, special foods, guardianship, security. But I miss my home." A tear slipped from her eyes.

"Why were you sent away?"

"Jo Muktani thinks I talked to an American woman about the Imani. But I didn't. I wouldn't do that." She walked to the door of the cave and looked out.

"Madame Po did this to me. She's just jealous. I didn't tell Olivia anything. And I miss the Imani. I can imagine how it is for the other Fish, the ones who are sent away on missions. They must be lonely too."

"Missions, Madame?" I barely breathed. I could see Olivia sitting perfectly still, pretending to be absorbed in the pattern on a piece of wrapping paper.

"Well you know, Hamed, the Imani take all kinds of recruits. Some of them are Chinese, some of them are Turkic." She turned and paced the tiny cave like a caged animal.

"Occasionally we seize westerners, young explorers, often on drugs. They may be idealists who left their countries to explore Buddhism or yoga and fell over the edge, into a life of desultory wandering. The Imani love this kind of person. They're my favorites. We initiate them with a message of surrender, sacrifice, and peace." She ran her fingers through her blond hair. For a moment she reminded me of Olivia.

"The sad thing for me is that these Fish are sent away. And the others too, the ones from refugee camps. They are almost all sent to another part of the world. So I get to know them, they become my close friends, and then one after another, I lose them. I send them text messages with instructions, but of course they never answer me. They just do what they are told."

"Can you send them text messages from here, Madame?" I leaned forward, utterly receptive.

"No, only from another place." She played with her bracelets sadly. "And now we have the Equinox – something very bad, Hamed. I wish it didn't have to happen. I'd do anything to keep it from happening."

"How would you stop it?" I asked, holding my breath.

"There are five teams," she said dreamily, not really talking to me. "They are set up to explode the Kremlin, the Berlaymont Building in Brussels, the Capital in Washington, the transatlantic internet cable and the cables in the Mediterranean. That's all in place. But the detonators will not be delivered until the end. If you could stop the delivery of explosives, the teams would know that it wasn't safe to go ahead and it wouldn't happen."

How right she was.

"And then your friends, the Fish, won't go away anymore? Where do these Fish go?" I asked.

"Most of them end up in Europe." I tried not to move, to let out my breath, to look at Olivia.

"So far away. Is it necessary for them to go so far away?" I murmured. Julia had forgotten me. She continued to reel out her story, thinking aloud.

"Certainly. The Imani's Fish are used in Europe to take the rap for terrorism. So right now, we're recruiting Muslims. " She looked at me. "You have no idea what I'm talking about. And it doesn't matter. It's far away. Bombs. Airplanes. Buses. The Fish takes the rap, and the guilty person goes free. The mastermind is never touched." Julia poured herself more tea. She had forgotten me again.

"And then there are the American jobs coming up. Well, nevermind."

I wondered if the sweat on my brow was noticeable. The air in the cave became very thick.

"What makes the Fish do it?" I wondered aloud.

"We have nothing to lose. Our past is irredeemable. I can tell you, Hamed, people like me, we have so much to forget."

I nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you, Madame?"

Julia shook her head miserably. Then she looked at the knifegrinder's assistant, with the box of letters in his lap. She pulled one sheet of tissue paper, with handwriting on it, from the pile.

"Maybe there is something, Hamed. You see, there is a letter." I glanced at the thin sheet of paper with absolutely no interest.

Jo:
Please forgive me and let me come back to Typhoon. I know I have talked too much in the past, but I didn't tell Olivia anything. Remember when Madame Po found me in Hong Kong and enlisted me in the Imani, she promised me safety, above all. Tell Madame Po I am doing everything she said and talking to no one. No one here speaks French or English so it is hopeless. They hate me here and watch me with sly eyes. I am afraid I'll be murdered in my bed and I haven't slept at all...

The letter was unfinished.

"Hamed, I'll finish this letter and give you a gold coin, and you can take it to Urumqui for me, to the wine shop, the Black Bamboo."

"It will be my pleasure Madame."

"You are too kind, Hamed." She hastily finished the letter, and removed a gold coin from the bracelet Olivia had given her.

"We'll be gone first thing in the morning, Milady," I said, bowing. Then the knife grinder and the idiot assistant left Julia's cave.

Olivia and I returned silently to our camp by the river. We washed up and spread our sleeping bags under the full moon, far from anyone.

"I don't know how far to trust what Julia said," I felt drained. "Still, this shows that Barat's experience was part of a tissue of lies and deception that is worldwide."

"You remember the box of papers she gave me?"

"Anything interesting?"

"I'm not sure you'll believe this."

"Try me."

Olivia reached into her sleeping bag and pulled out a torn sheet of writing paper. On it was a letter, in English.

Boss:
The idiots have no idea about you or about the President. I'm sure of it. They think Cosmos was the only one. We won't make any mistakes. We're following your every order. We love you, boss. And you'll be proud of us. We won't do anything to Sukha unless you say so. Don't worry, you can trust us. Didn't we take care of Cosmos? Jo Muktani.

I held the fragment of paper in my hand, sweat dripping from my brow onto the page. I felt trapped, claustrophobic. As Cosmos said, he was just following orders. This boss is far more powerful than he ever was.




Episode 35 To Urumqui

Almost dawn. The river was silver in the early light, the stars were fading. Thin columns of smoke rose from fires outside the cave doors. We had Julia's letter to take to Jo Muktani. We packed up our ragged belongings, and turned our backs on the troglodyte village. Before going on to Urumqui, we were to rendezvous with our American colleagues. We set out across the barren Gobi, a wilderness studded with mountains and ravines, cracked earth, and dangerous rivers. By afternoon, we had put the Long River Valley behind us.

"Blake, what's that in the distance?" asked Olivia, as we paused for a drink from our waterskins. "It looks like a huge fort."

"It's the last gate of the Great Wall of China, Olivia, the Jia Yu Watchtower." I shaded my eyes and gazed at the fort, with its pagoda-like rooftops, a huge structure rising from the sand. "Charles is picking us up there. It's the end of the Wall, a remnant of the largest human structure on earth."

When we met, Charles hugged us fiercely, smiled indulgently at our dirty clothes, made us feel completely protected, and sensing our mood, said little. We scrounged in the helicopter, grateful to find a jar of Skippy peanut butter and a box of Ritz crackers. We spread the peanut butter on the crackers with our fingers, licking them, and washed it down with a thermos of tea - Lipton's, not green tea. When I've been away from the States for a while, I begin to crave the foods I never consider eating at home, - peanut butter, canned tuna, Kellogg's cereals. Those brands I grew up with become magical totems, evocative of childhood, of abundance, of the security that there will be always be enough to eat, enough warmth, clothes to keep you warm, the kind of comfort and reassurance you despise when you are at home and cherish when you've left it behind.

Using my Scope, I accessed my messages. Shroeder had security in place at every Equinox target and had started infiltrating the perpetrators' organizations. I had hoped for more. At the moment, that was the best he could do.

I was starting to see how the Imani stayed undetected in the border areas of Pakistan, Afghanistan, China, and the states of the former Soviet Union. The borders are relatively ungoverned, especially since the dissolution of the U.S.S.R. They could do their dirty work and slip across a border.

As we landed, Charles switched on the short-wave. "This is the BBC. The American Presidential election is being watched closely in London and throughout the world. The Dalai Lama's meeting with the Chinese has been postponed again. The Fashionista reports that the bald Olivia look that has been so popular on Fifth Avenue has shown up on the streets of London and is taking off in Paris, New York and Tokyo."

Olivia switched off the news.

"They can't be serious, Charles," she said, looking stricken. "How has this happened?"

"Evidently Griffon and Chloe sent the early rushes to the Post. There were shots of you with your hair short and dyed black, then bald. Griffon released them to the media as advance teasers for the video. The rest is history, as they say. There are all your fan clubs. And the black leather jacket bunch loves it. We've been seeing articles in the International Herald Tribune - pictures of young women in America with bald heads. The Post reports all the salons are being asked to do the current Olivia look with a straight edge razor. They've even had some Western tourists coming through China with shaven heads!"

Olivia looked at me and sighed. We were back.

Griffon, Hami and Chloe met us just over the border, in Mongolia. We camped outside an oasis, on a dusty plain. In the distance, snow covered peaks broke the monotony of the expanse. Charles and Chloe brewed tea and hovered over us like parents. Griffon made notes and watched Olivia carefully, lovingly. Hami made mutton sandwiches, with mustard Chloe produced from rations in the helicopter.

"My hair is growing back." said Olivia.

"That's terrific," said Chloe. "I know it will be a relief when you can comb your hair again." She was sitting next to Charles, leaning rather close, I noticed.

"No - I like being bald," said Olivia. She grabbed a piece of lamb. After days of eating the way the Chinese ate, we were ravenous.

"I know," said Charles. "And I think your attitude has been great. Very few women would react to their own bald skull with the courage and spirit you have exhibited."

"Charles, my attitude hasn't been great. It's not an artificial outlook I've assumed. I like being bald! I want to stay this way."

"That's hard to believe, Olivia," said Chloe, making another sandwich. Olivia's baldness had aroused a range of reactions in the people around her. They were shocked by her bald head and bewildered by her attitude. She liked being bald! Griffon and I were the only ones who didn't react. I was simply less affected by surface considerations. I think Griffon was actually speechless for the first time in years.

Charles had stood by Olivia in crisis after crisis, never asking a question, but here was some­thing he could not comprehend. On some level he was traditional and expected ladies to be ladies. And ladies did not shave their heads.

"How long will you stay bald?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't know."

"What do you like about it?" Charles was straining to understand.

"It reminds me of the Tibetan nuns, with their perfect, smooth heads, sitting in meditation, absorbed, compassionate, spilling the most incredible waves of well being out into the world. Their bare heads are unadorned by hair, a haircut, a style, and so their radiance is undiminished." Olivia stood up and looked Charles in the eye. She rarely explained herself.

"Don't you see, all my life I've fussed with my hair and now I'm free of that." She shrugged. She no longer needed to explain. "I don't have to do a thing but shave it, and I'd like Blake to do that."

"Me? I asked, feeling immensely touched by Olivia, by her wider view of the world, her feeling about her body, her wholeness.

Suddenly, everyone else felt uneasy, as if they had found themselves in the middle of an intimate scene. They picked up bundles, smoothed out clothes and vanished into the dusk, leaving us alone.

I went to Olivia and gently ran my palm over the prickly little stubs of hair growing unevenly on her head. I squatted down behind her and kneaded her shoulders, rubbed her back, stroked her neck. Soothed, she eased her body on to the ground and leaned back against me.

I ran my palm over her perfect skull, my fingers alive to every mark. I soaped her scalp. She sighed and closed her eyes. I picked up the straight edge razor and sharpened it against the leather strap. Then I gently shaved the surface of her skull, bringing away tufts of blond hair, which the breeze picked up and swept away.

I went over every centimeter of her head, getting to know it, revealing the skin, gently, lovingly exposing Olivia's head, the part of herself few women are brave or whole enough to even consider revealing. Then I dipped my hand in the basin of clear warm water and cupped handfuls of water to wash away the suds. Tenderly, I dried her naked skull, and she sat up smiling brilliantly at me.

Then, without a word, we took each other's hand and climbed up a tall outcropping of rock to watch the sky darken around us.



It was time to deliver Julia's letter. The next morning we dressed simply as an Uzbek and his wife, on our way to sell a hand woven carpet at Urumqui. I wore a white robe and a woven skullcap; Olivia wore a traditional black and white silk dress, and tucked a white veil around her head, and carried the carpet to be sold. The helicopter let us down just after dawn.

During the day, the blinding sun and jagged mountains of the Gobi seem to say "Do not to trifle with this land." But at dawn, a rosy haze calmed all fears and gave us hope. The sun was rising just over a bluff, so we climbed to the top to see the sunrise. We lingered over the scene in the cool morning air, then it was very hot. The desert's day.

The Gobi simply exists, and humans play their games and dance their dances around it, and then they die. The Gobi endures, its jagged rock rising pink in the sunrise, turning black in a storm. The humans quibble over names, rewrite their maps, try to tame the Gobi. It is futile. The humans build their roads, the Gobi sneers through the blowing sand, the rock-cracking heat. Within a few years, the Gobi has destroyed the road and it remains a remote, impenetrable part of the world, inhabited by nomads and their flocks.

"Someday the tourists will discover the Gobi," I mused, as we paused for a drink. We had stopped at an oasis, where two tiny huts offered shelter to wayfarers and nomads. "These tiny wayside encampments have always existed here. But if investors discover them, additions will spring up. A refreshment stand. A youth hostel. The oasis will become a cross section of travelers who arrive first at any new spot and depart the minute it is placed on the group-tour itinerary. Regal Scandinavian blondes sunning topless will be watched by black-robed Uygurs squatting next to their camels. Young drop-outs, wandering the world with their sleeping bags, will have found a new place to scrounge."

We walked to a Uygur encampment. A young family invited us into their tent for tea. I bargained for bread for our breakfast. One of the veiled women mixed the flour and water, and made a fire. A little girl brought a flat piece of tin for a pan. The woman stretched out the bread and tossed it on. Nearby, the second wife suckled her naked three year old, who stood at her knee. The man of the family greeted us, then walked out, bowed toward Mecca to the West, and said his evening prayers. We asked directions to Urumqui, and set out after lunch.



On a stone bench, bordering an outdoor market, we sat down to a lunch of dried apricots, almonds, fresh grapes, and melons. The people of Urumqui did not have to go inside to get a haircut, have a tooth pulled, arrange a loan at an extraordinary rate of interest, negotiate the terms of a marriage, or, in a no less clandestine manner, arrange a betrayal, a theft, an embezzlement, even a murder. The merchants sat with their scales and an abacus, amid the dust and dung, computing their profits, assessing their risks, as merchants do the world over. We were surrounded by wanderers from every direction, women in veils or shawls, dirty children in bare feet.

"This doesn't seem like China." said Olivia.

"This is Chinese Turkestan, their Siberia. The government has banished dissidents and political prisoners here for generations."

"The women look like gypsies - I love their hand woven shawls and silver jewels," said Olivia. I realized it was some time since Olivia had done any shopping.

"The people here are a mix of nomadic tribes - Uygurs, Kazahks, Tatars, Pamirs, and perhaps some Mongols."

"What are those tables under the trees?" asked Olivia.

"Ping Pong I think."

"I challenge you to a game." She was already on her feet.

"I think we should lie low."

"No one's after us. The Chinese aren't looking for us and if the Imani discover us, so much the better. You're accustomed to lying low, being surreptitious. But sometimes you have to do the opposite of what your instincts suggest."

"This place is a center of intrigue, overrun by spies. There are established interrogation centers in the jails."

"All the more reason to make a splash."

"We might as well take a loudspeaker and let them know we're here."

"Oh Blake, all I want to do is play an innocent game of ping pong."

"In this part of the world, nothing is innocent."

Of course I gave in. Within minutes, we were absorbed in the game, volleying, laughing, each determined to win.

Three games later, Olivia was leading and I was determined to catch up. But I missed the ball again. Out of the corner of my eye, as I bent to pick it up, I saw someone familiar. It was Kip, slouched against a stone wall, arms folded, watching. He nodded faintly when he saw me.

I put the ball and paddle on the table. "Let's get some tea."

"Good idea, said Olivia. "I'm thirsty."

As we crossed the square, Olivia and I watched an old woman approach a scribe with an ancient typewriter, a relic of the previous century which would be considered an antique in New York. With an elaborate gesture, he asked her to sit on a rickety wicker stool. She wiped away a tear as she dictated her letter. He read it back to her and she nodded, tears falling forgotten into her lap. Then she took the letter in her gnarled hand, paid the scribe, and went on her way.

Olivia and I approached the scribe. He squinted up at us, removed his perfectly round wire-rimmed glasses, carefully, He slipped his hand into mine.

"Hello, friend." I said.

"Old friend, revered scholar," exclaimed the scribe, rising to his feet. "It has been such a long time."

"Bunli, I want you to meet Olivia."

"Libby, ah Blake, I knew you would find love one day."

We went to a small cafe and a young boy brought us tiny white porcelain cups of tea on a tray.

"What a coincidence, Blake, meeting someone you know in Urumqui, of all places," said Olivia.

"It's not exactly a coincidence," I admitted. "I asked Khan to send a message with some nomads who were smuggling gold. Bunli and I have kept in touch over the years through the underground network of smugglers, spies, criminals, and diplomats. An occasional reporter helps out."

"Do you find the Orient changed since your last visit?" Bunli asked.

"Essentially, no. But there's one place I stumbled on that I never heard of before. It's called the Wallow and it is a nomadic community of writers. Do you know about this, Bunli, this tent village in the Gobi? A village of exiled writers?"

Bunli looked around uncomfortably.

"Don't even speak of it here, Blake. Don't even mention this place. It is dangerous to take pen in hand to write your own words and thoughts. I confine myself to the mundane messages and the universal thoughts sought by poor illiterates. They come to me to frame their love in a timeworn phrase. But to write my own thoughts, to even think them, is perilous. Your tent camp of writers illustrates that." There was an awkward silence, and then Olivia came to our rescue.

"How do you two know each other?"

"I have had the opportunity to help Blake in his work as a scholar," said Bunli. I laughed.

"That's Bunli's discreet explanation," I said. "Actually he has helped me in less academic pursuits. He's a genius."

Bunli smiled modestly and explained.

"I have been known to forge documents, bribe officials, hide fugitives, arrange transport, smuggle gems."

"He's an international resource," I said. "And he has saved my life more than once. It's been years since we worked together Bunli. You helped me escape from Yarkant."

"How could I forget? You were responsible for smuggling a film of the Chinese attacking Tibetan monks in Lhasa out to the West. A dangerous job for one person."

I remembered entering the old city of Yarkant, the 16 mm film wrapped in cloth and rewound around my legs. I followed the serpentine alleys where the same encounters have occurred century after century: the perpetual haggling of merchants and buyers, the drinking of endless glasses of amber tea, the devoted fingers counting money, prayer beads, yards of sheer fabric, kilograms of grain. There I met Bunli, who arranged for my transport to Ladakh, where I could fly to India.

Olivia looked at me with admiration. "You handled that Blake? You did a wonderful job. Sukha will be so pleased it was you."

"She knows, " I said, realizing Olivia knew nothing about the film. Score one for me.

"That was close, wasn't it Bunli?"

"Yes, the police were tipped off by someone and they came to the house. They actually found me forging your passport, claiming you were an Uygur carpet merchant.

"I had to think quickly, Olivia. I told them I had cholera and needed to get to Ladakh at once for treatment. They backed off immediately. In fact, they encouraged me to leave the city as soon as possible."

Olivia laughed, looking at me affectionately.

"I have come here on a delicate matter, Bunli" The requisite socializing was over.

"Everyone brings their delicate matters to me, Blake. And I help them, ease their souls."

"I would like to entrust Olivia to you."

"But Blake," said Olivia, surprised. "You can't do that."

"Olivia, remember Budinka. You had to do what you did and I didn't like it, but I accepted it." Olivia looked from Bunli to me.

"Olivia, please stay with Bunli for a few minutes, while I find us an inn for the night."

Olivia looked up at me and smiled. I clasped her hand, then walked away and did not look back. As I walked, I took out my Scope, programming it to send a fax to Charles. He would rendezvous with Olivia and Bunli here. Then I rolled the Scope into a strip the width of a gold needle, threaded it through a hole in my earlobe and bent it into a hoop.

Kip was still leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He turned and I followed him.





Episode 36 Jo Muktani

Kip led me through a tiled gateway, into a covered market. The last of the sunlight filtered through a ceiling of branches and woven rushes, throwing a pattern of light and shade across the walkway. Merchants were shutting their stalls for the night. We stopped at a little wine shop with a lantern burning at the door, the Black Bamboo.

Inside, patrons sat on plump cushions, around small round tables. Here merchants gather at the end of the day, wandering traders find a moment to rest, friends meet, enemies spar. Habitués of the Black Bamboo come to trade secrets, deals, temptations. This was the place to sell your camel, your wife, your soul.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. The wine shop owner, a Han Chinese with crystal spectacles, waved us toward a dark corner. There sat Jo Muktani. Dressed in black, in contemporary clothes created by a Japanese fashion designer, he was intense, thin, elegant. His skin was quite pale, his Oriental features were startlingly handsome.

The proprietor poured hot yellow millet wine into large bowls, bowed low and seemed to dissolve.

"Greetings, my friend." Jo Muktani hissed at me. He waved toward the cushions and Kip and I sat. "We meet at last"

"How did you know I was here?"

"We've been watching you all along, Blake. At Kahn's encampment, at the Wallow, interviewing Nicholas Rostov, tracking Julia. Very funny - a knife grinder. That's you Blake, I knew it right away. You always look for the edge." He laughed hoarsely.

From a pocket in my robe, I produced Julia's letter and put it on the table. He disregarded it.

"What will you do to her?"

"Don't worry about Julia. She's coming back to us. She's valuable and what we value, we protect. "

"Is Sukha valuable too?"

"Ah, Sukha, time enough to talk about Sukha... Let's talk about you and me."

"I didn't expect you to wear designer clothes," I said.

"I didn't expect you to be disguised as an Uzbek peasant. We never grow up, do we Blake? We love to dress up, to impress, to discard our identity and assume the garments of a new life, unlike our own. You, for example, Blake. One day you are a researcher, another a fundraiser, and on the third a humble Muslim knife grinder. Which is the real Blake? Perhaps the real Blake is a spy, perhaps not. " Jo Muktani shrugged elegantly. "Your friend Periwinkle flirts with the future - palmprints, fortunes. But he chooses his clothes from the past. Life is full of little deceptions, isn't it Blake?"

"And big ones, too?"

"Ah yes. Olivia pretends to be a model, you pretend to be a scholar, Sukha pretends to be palm reader." He coughed up something into a handkerchief.

"But Olivia is a model, I am a scholar, Sukha is a palm reader. We have other lives as well, but that doesn't prevent us from being what we are."

"On the other hand, I am without pretense. I am the leader of the Imani. It is that simple.

"I rather doubt that," I said. "I think you're just a pimp. The ideas come from your boss. He's the one."

A slow smile spread over his face.

"Very astute, Blake. I admire your acuity." He laughed. Why was he delighted? I grew impatient.

"What do you want?" I asked.

They wanted me.

"We wanted you all along," gasped Jo Muktani. "That's why Sonora let you stay on the case."

"You had something to do with that?" The crack in the landscape reappeared. Straddling it was Sonora and he was standing over the body of Cosmos.

"So why not just kill me?"

"You know the identity of the Arabs you helped to defect after 9/11," said Jo Muktani. "And you will tell us their names and whereabouts." Suddenly, I realized the source of Cosmos' decision to allow me to be the only ones who knew the defectors. He didn't want the Boss, whoever he may be, to find them.

"You're working with the CIA and probably other organizations," Jo Muktani continued. "We need to know who, where, what they have done. Who in our organization has revealed things to you. Then you need to get in touch with all your contacts and tell him you've destroyed us. That we're dead, gone, that Sukha has gone back to Tibet. That Olivia was killed in the fight. That you are taking some time off to get over your grief. Then you work for us, Blake. You're very effective. We recognize that."

"Why should I do that?"

"Perhaps the life of Olivia is negotiable." Jo Muktani shrugged. "Who could resist the young model who stares so blankly from the pages of magazines?" He smiled for the first time. His face lost the perfection it had in repose. His smile was a leer, the expression of someone demented. "We shaved her head, but we may not be so delicate next time." He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.

I didn't respond immediately. I gazed into my bowl of wine, a dubious vintage, no doubt harvested too early, insufficiently fermented, and watered down. I took a sip. It had a flat metallic taste.

"Drink up, my friend," said Jo Muktani. "And relax. We can wait until you are ready. I know you will be eager to unburden yourself."

"I doubt I have anything to add to what you already know," I said mildly.

"Yes you do. You know what steps have been taken to dismantle the Strike. You can help us with this and you will."

"What about Sukha?" I asked. Jo Muktani nodded toward a door. One of the robed men opened it, to a long hallway lit with candles.

There stood Sukha. She was dressed in a black embroidered full length robe. Though tattered, on Sukha it looked regal. She was thinner, intensifying the almost ethereal quality she always possessed.

"Blake, don't..." she started to say, but the guard to her left brandished his weapon and she was silenced. She looked at me with both compassion and strength. Then inside my head, came her message: believe nothing.

And that was the last thing I remembered.



I became aware of the rigid features of a woman, whose eyebrows were tattooed in a permanent expression of surprise..

Was it a mask? Stage makeup meant to frighten me? In the flicking light of an oil lamp, she reminded me of a statue I'd come across in a cave in Nepal, a wrathful goddess who wielded her sword in cosmic anger.

"Well, sir, you've had a long and arduous journey and now it's over." She spoke with enthusiasm. "And I'm here to welcome you into a new life, quite unlike your previous life; a life where you will not be bothered by decisions about your future, by plans, by worrying about how to support yourself. All will be taken care of for you. The pleasures of being an owned person may not be evident at first, but you will come to understand the pleasures of passivity." It was Madame Po.

"The pleasures of passivity? Don't you mean captivity?" I asked, trying to rise. I realized I must have been drugged. I raised my head, trying to focus. I was lying on cushions, in a large tent. A fire burned nearby. The air was hot and heavily scented. The dirt floor was strewn with carpets and the tent was partitioned by translucent veils, moving gently in the torpid night air.

Perhaps the setting was meant to be seductive. It was a room out of the Arabian nights, strewn with baskets of fruit, and candles floating in bowls of oil. A samovar of tea stood next to flagons of unguents and balms. There were a banquette of cushions, a wicker cage with lovebirds, and a painted chest. Incense burned lightly.

A melancholy sigh reached my ears. In the shadows, I saw the most extraordinarily beautiful woman, a vision, a fantasy. Her features were delicate. She was dressed in soft chiffon, with a gold mesh floor length mantle. Olivia, I thought, Olivia is here.

"I'd like you to meet your spiritual guide," said the mask, enjoying my reaction. She chuckled but the laugh seemed to fade into a sob.

The young woman seemed to glide toward me. She touched my hand. Her face came into focus and I knew who she was.

"I'm here to satisfy all your needs." She leaned forward and her robes fell open. "You can confide in me." She didn't recognize me. She had no idea I had followed and observed her, that I had visited her in her cave in worn rags, with my grinding wheel, and spoken to her in broken French.

If she had known, her confidence would have been shaken. But she was accustomed to attracting captive men. She radiated warmth and empathy. In her role as an indoctrinator, Julia was intelligent and subtle, not at all coarse. The older woman watched for a few minutes and then motioned to Julia to sit down. She leaned over her to whisper into her ear.

"This may be your last chance. We brought you back to..." I could hear no more.

The facade turned back to me.

"In a few minutes, I'll leave you with Julia. After we have a little talk." Her lips barely moved in her face.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"This is Typhoon, the base of the Imani."

"Why have I been brought here?" I asked. I reached into my ear for my Scope. It was gone, probably removed while I slept. Had Madame Po realized its potential? Had Julia been tempted by the sliver of gold?

"You will help us defeat the forces that you have moved against us. You will not prevent us from fulfilling our promises. We like to keep our clients happy."

"Your clients?"

"The resistance and insurgency movements seeking to bring about change in the world."

"You mean terrorist organizations," I said dryly. "Groups who go after helpless children and innocent civilians to undermine and destroy. Assassins. Murderers. Thieves."

"Political representatives, seeking to change government policy, to free the oppressed of the world," said Madame Po. "Now it's my turn to ask the questions." She lit a candle and put it on a brass tray next to me, inspecting me as if I were one of her spiders "You put in motion a plan against us. First I need to know what you know, then what you have done to prevent us from achieving our goals."

I almost laughed. She took herself so seriously!

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Why do you ask?"

"Your arrogance is wasted here," said Madame Po. In the flickering light of the candle, her features were even more grotesque. "In your new life, you will not need to ask questions anymore. You will be told what you need to know."

I laughed harshly. "Will I be told when you have your next facelift? Is that when the fun begins? Is your face a failed experiment by Dr. Jing Ying?" Although Madame Po's face remained immobile, I could tell she was not pleased.

"You think this is funny? Think again." Her lips barely moved.

"Your oriental features, your name - they are all a cover." I was waking up. "My guess is you have a long history of criminal acts – on a large scale. You thought you could change your name and your face and maybe even your fingerprints and get away with it. But your DNA is still the same. If you think you are safe, you're deceived."

Madame Po looked dumbstruck. Julia moved forward, picking up my hand and turning it over, palm up.

"There's no need to make her angry," she whispered, bending over my palm. "She's dangerous when she's angry." Madame Po glared at me, then swept out of the room. Julia relaxed visibly.

"Let's not think about things we cannot change," she said. "We have uninterrupted time and we have each other. Would you like something to drink?

I realized I was hungry. "No wine, I could use some food, to be honest."

Julia stuck her head out the tent door and whispered a message. Then she came back and sat in front of me.

"Can I pour you a glass of wine? Or a beer? Or perhaps something even stronger? She took a hypodermic syringe out of one of her veils. "I'm sure we can find a diversion, if we try. . ."

I withdrew my hand. Julia expected me to look at her with desire. I'm sure my face revealed something very different.

"Don't look at me that way." She pulled one of the chiffon veils over her head.

"How can you do this, Julia?" I asked.

She fumbled in a bag, found two pills and washed them down with wine. "I find myself wanting to explain something I've taken for granted for a long time." She raised her arms and I could see the needle tracks. "I often dream of a prison. There is a long line of dark cells. Inside each cell, is a prisoner, trapped. None of them admit what they know in their hearts - all the cell doors are unlocked, each of us has only to open the door to walk out. We may exchange our cell, our own private hell, for the hell of another, but none of us decide to free ourselves."

"This is true of me, but it is also true of you and of those who call themselves free. People don't know how imprisoned they are. Many women marry for the same reason I am here, for protection, for beautiful things, for the status of being able to do what we like, and the ability to say what we did was not our fault, but the responsibility of a greater authority." Julia took out a flask and drank deeply. "Don't you agree?"

"Frankly, I don't. You've surrendered your freedom and no amount of rationalizing can change that."

"I'm hopeless on my own, you see. I can't make a decision. And then, I need to be distracted. There's so much I need to forget..." She bit her lip, then she looked away. When she looked back, her eyes were moist.

Julia's name was called from outside the tent.. She went out and came back carrying a huge tray of steaming food. It smelled delicious. I set up a small copper tripod and Julia placed the covered platter between us. The brass tray was covered with a domed lid of hammered copper, topped with a silver ring. Julia slipped her finger into the ring and lifted the lid with a flourish and then gasped.

A giant rat sat in the middle of the platter nibbling on the food. My stomach churned.

"That old witch," muttered Julia, picking up the rat by the tail and throwing it out of the tent. She sat cross-legged in front of the huge tray of steaming food, picked up chopsticks and started to eat. It was rice topped with mutton. Around the edge of the platter were succulent lamb dumplings. I looked at the tray with both hunger and revulsion. How long it had been since I had eaten? I thought about the time I had eaten cooked rat in Bangladesh. And when I'd eaten while rats nibbled away in the corner in Turkey. I pushed back the top layer of food and warily probed it with a chopstick. I put a bite in my mouth. It was hot, fresh, and it was delicious.

"I guess I've eaten with rats before," I said. "Is this Madame Po's idea of fun?" Spiders, rats...Madame Po kept interesting company. In fact, she made the rat seem relatively inoffensive.

After we ate, Julia played the dulcimer sadly. I listened, without thought, to the single strand of melody. She poured cups of tea from a silver teapot. I looked into my cup, stirring the tea with my chopstick, decided there was nothing living in the tea and took a sip. It had a bitter taste.

"Please, it would be much easier to tell me now," said Julia, desperately. "I hate to see what they'll do to you." She was sobbing. "They'll stop at nothing to get what they want." Her histrionics might be false, but her words were true enough.





Episode 37 Forsaken

Perhaps the drug they'd given me hadn't worn off completely. I slept again, and when I awakened, Kip was squatting in front of me, only inches away, doing something rather methodically. I blinked and the scene came into focus. Kip was loading pistols, humming to himself, caught up in his task.

When he saw I was awake, he opened two bottles of beer.

He tilted his bottle of warm beer toward me. "New York, Mongolia, China."

"An international relationship." I said gasping, after I tasted the beer. "What's in this stuff?" Kip was looking for something, rummaging in the tent. At last he found it. It was a slim hoop of gold. My Scope.

"It unrolls, doesn't it, Blake?" he said, happily, unrolling it into a card and handing it to me. I accessed my messages... There was a frantic one from Charles. "Blake, they've taken Olivia, perhaps to Typhoon. I need the location" I sent him a message with our current GPS coordinates, with a copy to Shroeder. Hopefully they would send help soon.

Kip was surprised when it told him they were holding Olivia...at least that's what he said. I didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"Let's take a walk and see what we can find out," he said, loosely tying my hands. We stepped outside the tent.

Typhoon, base of The Imani, was simply one more mud village in the long expanse of emptiness that stretches for thousands of miles in Western China. The wind howled. Two scrawny chickens scratched in the dust. A camel, tethered nearby, raised its head and brayed. The gray light could be dawn or twilight or just the kind of day that loomed in this godforsaken place. Through the open door of a large hut, I could see men in silence, bending over their noodles and broth.

Kip and I walked through what passed for the main square. Propped up against the wall were a few men, evidently drugged or subnormal. There was fear in the men's eyes when Kip approached. They looked at each other blankly and there was no conversation, comradery or even recognition between them. Phantoms. They might have been born old.

A bent figure shuffled up to me and poked a finger against my chest. "Cigarette, Sayyid, Just one cigarette?"

"What's your name, man?" I asked. The man mumbled a mouthful of unrecognizable syllables and drifted away. He was probably no older than I. But he was thin, bent, almost toothless. His eyes were bloodshot and wary, his mouth slack. His clothes had not been changed in months, perhaps years, and they were old when they were given to him. He hadn't washed in a long time. He mumbled again. He was telling me he could never be like me, but I could be like him.

Typhoon seemed almost haunted, full of shadows, devoid of feeling. Every gesture was tinged with suspicion, the very light was sly and twisted. In this forlorn place, there were secrets I wished to avoid, to distance myself from, the way you keep from turning over a rock, and when you must, you use a stick so you cannot be touched by the snakes underneath.

We walked to the distant huts. In one, we found Sukha. and in the next Olivia. "I'll take care of them," Kip promised... "But Jo Muktani is waiting for us. And if I don't deliver you, he'll suspect me."

Kip delivered me back to the tent. Jo Muktani, now clothed in white robes, was standing in the middle, a riding crop in his hand.

"Sit down, Blake. Here." he gestured toward an ottoman. "I'm surprised at you. You've been given several extremely fair alternatives. You have failed to exercise free choice," Jo Muktani whispered sadly. "Now it is time to tell us what you know." He walked around me, fingering the crop.

"And if I don't?" I faced him squarely. "Torture? Is that what you have in mind?"

"Torture? My friend, we could never be so crude, so banal." He ran his slender fingers delicately over the riding crop. "We would never hurt you. But you know, Blake you should consider plastic surgery. You've no idea how skilled Dr. Jing Ying Ru is. He has developed an incredible five hour operation. He practiced on Madame Po, you know, but now he has refined and perfected his technique." Jo Muktani smiled kindly.

I tried to keep my hand from touching my face. I was having a hard time keeping fear from rising in my throat. I thought of Madame Po's rigid face. I had never thought much about my own features. I discovered a certain fondness for my profile, my chin, my cheekbones.

"Let us sit down, my friend." I looked around the tent, then sat opposite Jo Muktani on a carpet on the floor.

"I can set you up with a surgery date immediately," Jo Muktani leaned forward, intimately. "No waiting. Conditions here may be less than ideal. At one time we were short of anesthesia, but we've solved that problem. We do not always have antibiotics. But what we lack in resources we make up in enthusiasm. You've worked under cover Blake. Well, you would be able to work under cover with your own brother and he'd never know. Olivia wouldn't recognize you. Your own mother wouldn't know you."

I was listening very carefully, but not to Jo Muktani's words. There was something in his accent, the trace of another life, the echo of Germany in his voice that had struck Olivia when she first met him.

"Dresden," I said. "The eastern part of town. Your Chinese is poor, picked up from criminals and prison guards, but your German accent is solidly middle class, with a touch of vulgarity which I suspect, reflects your personality rather than your background."

Jo Muktani looked wooden.

"I guess your mother wouldn't know you either. The good doctor messed up Madame Po. You are his success, an Oriental created in the operating room. But I know you are German, my friend. You're probably a former member of Stasi, the East German Secret Police. And a neo-Nazi to boot. My guess is you are idealistic as Kip thinks, but not in the way you've led him to believe." I laughed thinly.

"I am on the verge of everything I've ever wanted," Jo Muktani screamed hoarsely. "You think I care about creating a new world as Kip does? Do you think I am motivated by revenge as Madame Po? Think again Blake. They are puppets and I am the puppeteer. I mean to have what I want and you're not going to stop me."

"You're not the top puppeteer, that's someone else isn't it?"

"That's your problem. A powerful person in your government is on our side."

He stood over me. "You were deluded all along . We've used you for our own ends. Think of this: no one can help you now."

I knew this was a torturer's rhetoric and I tried to stop a crack of fear from opening in my brain. A hair's-breadth fracture remained.

"It's all up to you, my friend," said Jo Muktani. "The decision is yours and yours alone. The good doctor, as you call him, is away until tomorrow. I'm sure you'll give this some thought."

He went to the door of the tent and beckoned to someone outside.

"By the way, Blake, you didn't think you could trust Bunli, did you?"

I felt as if my heart had stopped. I said nothing. Bunli came in, bowed silently, and withdrew. His posture could not conceal the shame he felt in being forced to face me.

"Everyone in Urumqui is on our payroll. Bunli, of course, is on retainer."

"Olivia is here, Blake. Sukha too. Their fate is in your hands."




I was taken to a tiny mud room, with a single barred window. In the dark, I could hear lizards scuttling across the walls and beetles rustling in the dirt floor.

Olivia and Sukha were here. And I had a my scope again. As I left messages for Charles, and Shroeder, I could feel a drug working its way through my veins. It must have been in the beer, and it worked fast because I imagined I heard Sukha's voice. I sat down heavily on the dirt. Perhaps this was the end of the road. I thought of my missions, like a ribbon around the earth, barely touching the surface. And to balance it, my research, which took me deeply into the culture, the history, the language of the people, counterpoint to my world of deceit, the situation I had created and which created me.

I'd always known there was this risk. There were others who never came back. Later, the clear signs they had talked, the damage done to their systems, the colleagues captured despite all the precautions.

"You've been forsaken by your superiors," Jo Muktani had said. I tried to dismiss his allegations of betrayal. It was the oldest trick in the interrogator's book.

But I wondered. Had Sonora forsaken me? I thought of Bunli's duplicity. . . Barat's deception. If Sonora had wanted to sacrifice me, this was a good time. I knew the damage caused by Cosmos was something Headquarter wanted to cover up.

Sonora knew I had outgrown the need to live this double life. I wanted something else, a life where I would have attachments. Attachments meant it would be hard to disappear on a few hours notice. Field work was wearing thin.

As the night wore on, I thought I heard a voice, a whisper, a woman calling my name. I listened again. Probably a delusion of the drug, creating what I most wanted to hear. Still, I inched closer to the window, tried to stand up, to listen, but I found my legs would not support me.

One glimpse of Sukha at the wine shop, and my whole life had fallen into place. She was the woman I had always sought, the woman in my dream of Tibet, the woman whose face was at last revealed. The texture of my life was different when she was present, and it was a difference I sought. Sukha merged with something I was becoming, something elusive, but reachable. I thought of her gambling, her delight in gossip, the way she elaborated on reality, weaving magic into every word. That one fleeting sight of her at the Black Bamboo, earthy, natural, exotic, and I knew she was attached to me.

"I dreamed about you before we met, Blake," she told me once in the garden of the mansion. "You and Olivia and I will always meet again, if not in this life, in the next. We have always taken care of each other, in incarnations through the ages."

I had shrugged it off at the time, more of her fancy woven into our lives. Now I saw the truth, the depth of her vision, the reason Periwinkle's palmprints worked, the inspiration behind Olivia's work as an envoy.

The Imani...I thought of this despicable gang, capturing Sukha, holding her hostage. If I were ever free, I would smash this ring if it was the last thing I did.

The whisper came nearer, then faded, then disappeared. Then I heard it again, calling to me and I could not answer.

Olivia once told me 'Each of us has another life, whether we live it or not. I go on uncovering and living my other lives, reincarnating myself as a new me.' My other life was to be with Sukha. Until I met her, my life had been dedicated to transcending the personal. I had no life of my own. She held out that possibility.

I started to feel sorry for myself. Now I would never have the chance, I would never live that other life.

"Blake, Blake, where are you? Can you hear me?" It was Olivia. She was closer, then the whisper faded as she moved away from me. If only I could answer, but words were beyond me.

My mind tried helplessly to understand what was going on. Olivia was looking for me, calling my name. Then I realized she was free, while I was locked up. And didn't she have the best cover of all? She'd convinced me and the United States government that she was an envoy for peace. She had us all in her pocket. With a cover like that, she was free to do as she liked.

I heard two women singing. It was Sukha and Olivia, singing the libretto from La Traviata, Sukha from far away, Olivia nearby. Incredibly, I pulled myself to my feet and joined in. No one else seemed to hear our song.

Just before dawn I heard Olivia's voice outside my window. "Trust Kip, Kip is the answer," she said. I listened to the din of the crickets and the gulping of the frogs in the half-light. The insects and reptiles of Typhoon awakened to their pursuits. Bats swept back to their eaves, after a night of searching for the blood of smaller, slower creatures. The humans of Typhoon awoke. I could hear the coughs and grunts, the whines and sobs of those, who, like me, were imprisoned.

The first ray of sunlight revealed a spider web woven across the tiny window. Moths were caught in the strands. One of them struggled hopelessly against its destiny, helpless.

My big mistake was thinking Bunli would keep Olivia with him. My plan failed because I had placed my faith in the wrong person. Repeatedly.

In the late afternoon, Kip led Jo Muktani into my cell. I was sitting on the floor, propped up against the mud wall. Kip reached down, grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me to my feet. Jo Muktani stepped forward, his snarling face inches from mine.

"I didn't hear you knock," I said.

"Oh, would you like me to come in again?"

"No, don't bother." I smiled. He gripped my arm.

"Talk," he spat out. "Tell us about the plan against us now, or your identity, your face, which is so pleasing to Olivia, and I think to you, will be gone."

I managed to keep the hysteria out of my laugh, to restrain it where it lay in my stomach, a force threatening to rise and engulf me.

"After your first operation, you'll talk," said Jo Muktani.

"Think of this, you German idiot. I may not live through my first operation. What good am I to you dead?"

"Are you telling me you are good to me alive? Is it because you will tell me what I need to know?" Jo Muktani peered at me, almost with hope, then sighed. "Enough of this. I'm tired of you. Madame Po will prepare you for surgery." He turned on his heel and left.

Kip pulled me to my feet.

"I can't do anything alone, Blake. I just hope reinforcements are coming. I won't let them hurt you, but what good am I if they discover which side I'm on? I'm not an American with some value. They'll slit my throat in a minute. They've told me as much." He sounded more tired than frightened. We left the cell and trudged up a tiny rise. There was a square hut with soiled awnings. A caged bird could be seen through the open door. Kip led me inside, to a narrow room furnished with a single cast iron table. Standing next to it, pulling on rubber gloves, was Madame Po.

"Well, Blake you've chosen a new face."

"I've chosen nothing."

"The good doctor let me pick out your new identity. No doubt about it, you'll be surprised." Madame Po gestured for Kip to leave. He ignored her.

"What time are they starting?" he asked insolently.

Madame Po looked surprised at his question. She didn't answer. Kip ducked out the door.

"So many questions." she said. She pulled a hypodermic out of her pocket. I decided it was time to talk, fast. I thought about her accent.

"Long Island. College in Boston, upper middle class upbringing." I couldn't help grinning into her face. "You're a New Yorker!" I laughed. "Bloomingdale's. The Russian Tea Room. Central Park."

She looked at me, in disbelief.

"How do you know this? Even Kip does not know. Did Jo say anything to you?"

"I can hear it in your Chinese." I chuckled. I love solving a riddle.

"It's time to get you ready for surgery, you insect. I'm planning to enjoy this." She poured water into a large pan and picked up a bar of soap.

"I'm sure you are," I said. "Like all vultures, you are waiting for the worst to happen, hoping for it...is this what happened to you? Were you forced to undergo plastic surgery? Is this the only identity you had open to you? You and Jo Muktani, Westerners attempting to be reborn as Orientals. But he turned out beautiful and you, you were left deformed, a ruin, a ravaged hag."

Before she had a chance to answer, Kip was back in the tent.

"Julia says she will blow herself up… " he shouted. Then, there was a huge thunderous crash, followed by a series of explosions





Episode 38 – Julia's Redemption

We walked to Typhoon's main square, Madame Po, Kip and I. In the middle stood Julia, dressed in white, a scarf covering her head. In one hand she held a scroll and in the other a grenade.

The entire population seemed to have turned out. Jo Muktani stood quietly on the edge of the crowd, with two women in burkhas. I realized it was Sukha and Olivia. Kip, at my shoulder, was breathing audibly.

"I'm standing on the explosives for Equinox," Julia said. "So don't get any closer." She turned to Jo Muktani.

"You never knew this, but I've kept in contact with the Equinox group by text messages and I've contacted them today. The mission is aborted," she said. "I tried to convince you, Jo. But you wouldn't listen. So I did it myself. No more innocent people dying because of me. Maybe this will atone for some of what I have done.

"I told them they are free to disappear, to fade into background in each of their new countries, to get jobs off the books and forget the past. I also contacted the fish, the ones who would take the rap for Equinox. They are free of the Imani now. I've freed them as I've freed myself."

"You'll never be free, Julia," said Madame Po. "You belong to me."

"I know how you lured me, you witch," said Julia. "And I bought into it. I thought there was nothing better than dressing like a model, having expensive perfume, caviar and cognac, the latest cd's of western music and all the wonderful accessories from Bergdorf's and Bendel's. I thought I could become a combination of Cosmopolitan and the Kama Sutra. And you helped me along with little vials of drugs. As they crossed my lips, I lost myself little by little. You poisoned me and I helped in every way.

"But I've changed. Taking care of Sukha at Budinka, I could see that this was not a life. What seemed like the embrace of a desirable life became a kind of death, cold and lonely.

"I remember when you found me on that curb in Hong Kong years ago and saved my life and said you would make me desirable again, that I would find the life I wanted and the men I would love. How you used me to lure the fish. At first, I was tantalized and then I was ashamed and then it became routine and I forgot that I was doing wrong. But Sukha came and I remembered.


"You made a mistake when you killed Cosmos. It was the beginning of the end of the Imani. All of us knew then that no alliance or relationship meant anything to you and we were just trash to you, to toss at any time.

"Now, I'm finished… If you go to that hill, you'll have a good view." The inhabitants of Typhoon started for the hill. Jo Muktani took a step toward Julia, but she stared him down, closing her fingers around the pin on the grenade….

We ran up the hill, and as we did, the explosions started behind us. Typhoon was engulfed in explosions. Smoke blinded us and we somehow made our way to the top of the small rise. Typhoon went up in smoke.

Out of the smoke, walked my old friend, Periwinkle.

"Glad to see you alive, Blake," he said.

"I'm amazed. Aren't you?"

"Nothing surprises me, Blake. I thought you knew that," said Periwinkle

He took me by the arm and we started walking. No one stopped us. We approached a knoll, and started around it. Waiting behind the rock was Charles, standing next to a helicopter, cradling a Kalashnikov assault rifle in his arms as if it were a baby, with Olivia at his side. Next to her was Sukha. I took a step toward her. Her joy at seeing me in one piece, her relief, were etched into her face. She saw at once how I felt.

Jo Muktani came running. He stopped to catch his breath, then looked at the scene in horror.

"You..." He turned to Kip. "You betrayed me. How could you?"

Kip turned his back on him

Jo Muktani looked at me and hissed through his teeth. He reached into his pants, then paused.

"Just a minute, Blake," he said in accented English, moving closer. Suddenly there was a knife at my throat. "I could merely kill you. But we have unfinished business, I believe. You will tell me the identities of the Arabs you helped to disappear in America."

I laughed.

"Now," he gasped.

"Isn't the Chinese air good for your lungs, Joe Bili?" Jo Muktani's head jerked when he heard his name. "You're out of business, Joe. It's over ... You're not in Germany now. This isn't torturing a cat, or persecuting a playmate, scum."

Jo Muktani's knife inched closer. It stopped, too close to my face.

"Considering plastic surgery, Jo? Be careful. If the knife slips you'll never find out about those defectors and the Boss is waiting, isn't he? I'll just bet he is."

Jo Muktani knocked my cap off my head. He grabbed my hair. He pressed the knife to my throat. I could feel the tip penetrating my skin.

I heard a kind of snap. His face cracked. He gurgled and his eyes seemed to be popping out of his head. He crumbled, his knife slashing my jaw as he fell into my arms. Behind him stood Kip, holding a gun with a silencer fitted on it.

"I couldn't let him hurt you, Blake. You're like my brother. The brother I never had." Kip straightened up and looked directly ahead. "I repudiate Jo Muktani and all he stands for. His evil acts are over forever."

"But you killed him, Kip, and I needed him." I put my hands on Jo Muktani's chest in disbelief. I looked at the lifeless form in front of me, in revulsion and despair. "Now I'll never know the identities of the Americans who shielded him."

Kip looked confused. "I saved you Blake," he moaned. "I saved your life."

There were sounds from over the hill. Olivia looked worried. "We have to go, Blake. Now."

"Yes, the show is over. That's all folks," said Charles. He was already helping Sukha and Olivia into the helicopter. Periwinkle scrambled in afterwards.

As I boarded the helicopter, I looked down at Kip. His eyes were filled with tears. I reached out my hand, grasped his, and pulled him up next to me.





Episode 39 The End

In my sleep, I was propelled down a tunnel of time, to a point where the tunnel turned, and the past and future came together in a moment that lasted forever. I awakened to the distant sound of children's voices and sunlight slipping through slats in the shutters. Seated next to the window, was my love, Sukha, brushing her hair. I had never seen it this way, loose streaming down her back. I lost myself in her cherished profile.

I turned over. The scent of roasted mutton rose from the courtyard below our window. Slowly a terrible image took shape and I pushed it away, then I remembered Jo Muktani's body, lifeless on the ground. How could I find out the identity of the Boss?

I thought back to the night before. Charles had checked us in to this old caravanserai, fed us bowls of steaming mutton soup, and tucked us into our own beds, in our own rooms. Unable to sleep, I had stumbled to Sukha's room. When we made love, it closed a wound. It was a promise fulfilled, an ideal almost forgotten, rekindled and returned to me.

I've crossed many borders in my life. I've approached passport control as Blake Williams, scholar, passport in hand. I've crossed undercover with a dozen other identifies, prepared to ditch a personality at the first sign of a problem. I've slipped silently into a country protected by darkness and stealth.

But this time I'd crossed a border with no choice or will of my own.

That morning, I knelt in front of her like an old fashioned suitor.

"There was something waiting for me in that cell at Typhoon, Sukha. It was something I had known all along. I realized. Something essential..."

She looked down at me, stroking my hair, smiling, listening.

"I cannot be away from you... not for a day, maybe not for an hour...I want to take care of you, protect you, learn everything there is to know about you."

But there was one thing that wasn't right. It was strange, not admitting it then and there, loving Sukha and hiding my love. We had nothing to be ashamed of, but we wanted to protect Olivia. But hiding anything gives it the tinge of something illicit, forbidden, shameful. And I felt quite the opposite about my love...

I threw off the covers, went to Sukha's side and took her hand.

"We have to tell them all, my love. We have to tell them today."


In earlier times, caravans stopped at the Blue Jade Tearoom. After the din of the camels, the burning sun, the blazing sand and the choking dust, wanderers sought the filtered light, the quiet, the quenching tea. Here they could reflect, gather their energies, then resume their journey.

The floor was spread with carpets, woven by Uzbek women in the colors of precious gems, in designs dictated by tradition. But each woman had also woven in her own secret dreams, illusions, griefs, and losses. The carpets told the stories that the women themselves, confined to their tents and little mud huts, could never come to the tea house to share.

There are all kinds of slavery, I thought, understanding Olivia and Sukha's compassion better than ever. I saw how Julia had become a slave of drugs, Madame Po was enslaved by her own domineering temperament. Jo Muktani - there was an evil man. But perhaps I was merely shortsighted.

Sukha and I were the first to arrive. I found a large round table, with one intricate carved chair. Here I placed Sukha in the seat of honor. She wore a blue chuba, a Tibetan dress, and embroidered felt boots. At Typhoon, Julia had given her a pair of turquoise earrings. I had brushed and braided her hair, and Olivia had given her an armful of silver bracelets. A smile played on her lips, as we talked. She loved talking!

"Were you afraid, Sukha?" I looked into her eyes, and saw calm.

"I knew you would find me, Blake." Her eyes shone as she touched my cheek. We had switched to Tibetan, without realizing it.

I took her hand. I was always surprised at its softness. I turned it over and lifted it to my lips. Then the others came in, boisterous, happy. They wore Western dress again - blue jeans, unpressed white shirts, sunglasses pushed up on foreheads or tucked into shirts. Periwinkle managed to look the dandy even in crumpled blue denim. Griffon looked worn, but relieved. Olivia had wrapped her head in a turban. Charles and Chloe wore baseball caps, turned backwards. Kip had picked up sunglasses and he looked American, slouched and careless.

Sukha and I welcomed everyone with a hug. A tear fell, a hand was squeezed in wonder and relief, a shoulder patted in greeting. We sat down happily, chattering away. Suddenly the others stopped talking. They realized I had taken Sukha's hand.

Olivia looked at us quizzically. Her eyes traveled from Sukha's face to mine and back again. I looked at each precious face happily. I cleared my throat. This was the type of scene I'd avoided all my life. Yet I felt I could do it today.

"I guess I learned about myself in that filthy cell at Typhoon." I looked at Sukha, at her treasured face, those black eyes. "I discovered I cannot live without the woman I love." I put my arm around Sukha. Olivia gasped. I continued, not looking at her. "I discovered we need to go through life together, whatever it brings."

No one spoke. I dared to look at Olivia. There was a hollow look in her eyes, and there were tears on her cheeks.

"In one moment, I've lost you both," she said. Her voice was hushed.

"Olivia," I protested. "We'll both always love you."

"Not the way you have." Olivia was used to being the center of attention, the only child. It wasn't easy to relinquish her ascendancy. She wouldn't surrender the spotlight easily. Yet seeing her this way, I felt a surge of affection for this dauntless, courageous young woman.

"This is the worst moment of my life," she said.

"Oh, Olivia, " said Griffon. "Why spoil their happiness?"

"I depended on you," she addressed me accusingly. "That's something I almost never allow myself to do."

"I did what you wanted, Olivia. I stayed at your side, gave you hope, tracked down the Imani and found Sukha."

Olivia turned to Sukha. "You're deserting me. You took care of me, allowed me to become attached to you, to need you, and then you do this."

Sukha reached out to her. "I'll always be close to you."

Behind us, a young boy wielded a huge fan, stirring the air in the still room. The waiter came and recited the meager choices. We cleared our throats, ordered tea, twisted in our seats. Only Sukha was at ease. We didn't know what to do for Olivia. All of us felt sympathy for her - the young woman everyone indulged, who had never sought a drop of sympathy.

"I didn't know if I'd ever see your faces again." I spoke to deflect attention from Olivia's pale face. "And I was sure you'd never see mine, at least not the face I have now."

Uneasy laughter.

"Madame Po - She's lost her face forever," said Olivia. She shuddered.

"She's like those frightened women in mid-life, trying to freeze their faces in a moment of the past when they were still young," said Sukha. "But what remains is not youth, but desperation."

"I can't imagine wanting to look different from yourself," said Griffon.

"Oh, I understand it," said Chloe. "As a kid, I wanted to be perfect, sort of a black Olivia. Now I want to be like Sukha."

"We all want to be like Sukha," said Olivia. She smiled at Sukha. Her eyes were red.

"Including me," I said.

"I'm impressed with you, Blake" said Griffon.

"I did nothing," I said. "Olivia saved me."

"You did nothing?" said Griffon. "Blake, you changed us all. Kip saw he was being used, that Jo Muktani had no ideals, he saw that although he wasn't called a slave, he had been the slave of an illusion. You freed your enemy as you freed yourself, Blake. "

"What will you do now?" asked Periwinkle. "Are you ready to go back to the archives?"

"I think I'll be busy. I've got my work for the next few years cut out for me."

"Doing what?" asked Griffon.

"It's obvious," said Sukha. "It's Blake's job to find the real perpetrators and the American collaborators."

"And what will you do now, Olivia?" asked Periwinkle. "Let that magnificent head of hair grow back, I hope." Olivia ignored him.

"I bet there's a list of the real perpetrators, the Imani's clients," she said. "There must be account books. That would be the key to setting this thing right. Kip will help us, won't you Kip?"

"Be careful, Kip. You'd be incriminating yourself." said Griffon.

"How could I refuse Olivia and Blake?" said Kip. "You are my family now."

"That's too big a job to tackle at this very moment," said Chloe. "Right now, Griffon and I want to show you something." She unpacked a duffle bag at her feet, producing a television monitor and a battery pack. The other patrons of the Urumqui tearoom gathered around us.

The screen stayed black as Kip's voice came over the audio, singing the Ge, the Chinese lullaby. Then Olivia's joined him. The word REDEMPTION filled the screen and then fell away one letter at a time, followed by the words PEACE VIDEO. Then, Olivia started humming the libretto from La Traviata, and the picture came up, the two of them, Olivia and Kip riding across the Mongolian Steppes, each singing in their own language, the songs perfect together.


Ground-Breaking PEACE Tour Results in A New World Music Video
by Ishi
Times Music Critic

Olivia Bell and a new talent, Kip Yu, have emerged triumphant from their PEACE Tour, with the debut of REDEMPTION, THE PEACE VIDEO. The video, shot by Chloe Pierce, cuts a broad swathe through today's music, breaking new ground and promising to be a prototype for years to come.
"This was a unique collaboration between us and the Mongolians, between artists and musicians, between popular culture and scholarship," said Olivia. The contribution of artist Periwinkle who conceptualized the hand-tinted look, using the technology created to colorize old films, gives the production a grounding in the past. The music is suggestive, and at the same time, accessible. The participation of eastern scholar Blake Williams has helped dispel the common, post-colonial approach of most western musicians who travel to the east for inspiration but go on to exploit their colleagues from another civilization. REDEMPTION, THE PEACE VIDEO has lived up to its promise.
Politically, the tour demonstrated that Americans can circumnavigate the globe in peace, without fear of terrorism, without subterfuge or special protection, with an open attitude, will receive an open, unambiguous welcome in return.
Model and rock star Olivia Bell exemplifies the woman of the decade as she leaves behind the narcissism and conformity of modeling, experimenting with a range of new looks – from the androgynous, to the frankly male, and most recently the ascetic quality of the Tibetan nun, who has shaved her head. Her courage stands as an beacon to those who forge new styles.


Scholar Who Was a Foreign Agent Named Secretary of Peace
by Griffon Thorndike
National Editor

The appointment of Tibetan Scholar and former government agent Blake Williams to the newly created office of Secretary of Peace has been approved by the Senate after a minimum of debate. The world renowned scholar will assume the position immediately.
"My top priority will be cases of injustice which have occurred globally," said Mr. Williams. He declined to specify exactly which cases.
Mr. Williams is a scholar of Eastern languages, whose studies have earned him the respect of regimes everywhere. He was one of the few American scholars permitted to enter Tibet by the Chinese government. He has been a welcome guest of other governments which limit the visits of Americans during crises.
On a lighter note, Mr. Williams has acted as Cultural Advisor to exhibits, concerts, and even a rock video. He is married to Sukha Chensal, whose opera, The Jewel In The Lotus, about the Dalai Lama, recently opened to excellent reviews.