Chapter 23

Opening the door to the large shed, I was pleased to find the Mercedes G55 SUV still here. Theft was easy given a simple padlock was the only security. I like the boxy shape of the G55. It looks serious and capable. It is.

Callie climbed up into the passenger seat. She was dressed casually; well-worn jeans and a lavender T-shirt, but wearing old-fashioned high-top basketball sneakers.

The day was starting warm. Skies were cerulean blue. Occasional clouds looked like cotton balls that God had haphazardly pulled at, forming individual, interesting shapes.

Two and a half hours of rush hour traffic tested my patience, but we finally entered Washington. When a car darted out in front of us on DuPont Circle, I slammed on the brakes, Callie emitting a scream as she flew forward against the seat belt.

The car passed, I resumed.

“Jeez Louise, Lightfoot! Learn to drive!”

It struck me that I’d never heard Callie use a real swear word. “Do you ever actually swear?” I asked.

Studying the traffic ahead, she answered, “Nope.”

“Why not?” I asked, turning onto P Street NW.

“I was taught swear words were crude. One time, I complained to Dad. Swear words worked for other kids at school. He told me I didn’t need them. Then, he showed me how to use an expression and my eyes to scold or show anger. Believe me, if I want someone to know I’m angry, they’ll know.”

I smiled to myself. There was no doubt she could use her pale blue eyes to lance into anyone. I’d been on the receiving end often enough.

Turning, I drove the Mercedes into underground parking, taking a ticket. After parking, I turned to Callie. “You’ll wait right here. Don’t even open the window.”

A frown formed. “I...”

“Right here! I’ll be ten minutes.”

Put out, she crossed her arms and turned away from me. “I’ll give you ten minutes. No more,” she asserted.

Opening the door, I paused. “You’re stranded in a deserted place. It’s freezing outside. You discover an old cabin. In it, you find one match, a newspaper, a candle, and some hay and twigs. Which one do you light first? You’ve got ten minutes to figure it out.”

Shutting and locking the door, I smiled to myself. Then my mind turned to Malcolm Edwards, the lawyer I’d sent the microdot to. I’d met him casually at an American embassy party in Jakarta. We’d chatted and that was that. He wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t close to me. There was no way anyone could link us.

Fifteen minutes later I unlocked the door and slid into the Mercedes. Callie’s cold eyes glared at me. I shrugged. “Sorry. He talked a lot.”

“Fifteen minutes!”

“Suck it up, Callie,” I suggested, starting the SUV. “So, what’s the answer?”

“It’s obvious. The candle might blow out. Hay and twigs would take too long to catch fire. Therefore, you light the newspaper first. Easy.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean nope?”

“Nope. You’re wrong.”

Turning back onto P Street and merging with traffic, Callie sat silent in thought. Eventually she assured me she was right.

“You’re not.”

Defiant, she demanded, “So what’s the first thing you light?”

Holding back a grin, I told her, “The match.”

She laughed. “Well, don’t I feel stupid? Thanks a lot!”

The drive back was faster. Rush hour traffic still filled the roads heading into Washington. We sailed along until Callie suddenly pointed.

“Pull in over there,” she said, indicating a Walgreens drug store.

“Why?”

“Jeez, Lightfoot. Just do it! I need some feminine stuff,” she told me, exasperated.

Callie jumped out and disappeared into the store. I waited. Was it her period? No. It couldn’t be. She’d had it when we sailed on the Canada Senator. Then what?

By the time she returned with a plastic shopping bag, I couldn’t hold my curiosity any longer. “What did you buy?”

Cool blue eyes studied me. “Stop being such a control freak. It’s none of your business.”

By the time we arrived back at the cabin it was lunchtime. The weather was warm, sunny, and I was restless. There was that itch of inactivity that unsettles me; the wait before a storm you know is coming.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested.

Callie bounced up. “Good idea! I could use the exercise.”

We entered the forest behind the cabin. To the east, about half a mile away, luxury homes fronted the Potomac. However here, neighbors were far apart. The old wood forest provided isolation and privacy.

Dead foliage crunched underfoot. The tall trees formed a green canopy over our heads. We walked in cooler, dappled shade, wending our way around large trunks with gnarled bark, birds chirping, the strong, pleasing scent of mulch.

For the first fifteen minutes we walked in silence, both lost in thought. I noticed Callie rubbing the locket around her neck and knew what she was thinking about.

Out of interest, and to distract her from sad thoughts, I asked, “Why Allah’s Tears?”

“Mom was Lebanese. She believed in the Islamic faith. She used to tell me that jihadists and extremists were using religion as a cloak, to hide the truth - that they only wanted power. She was horrified by all the innocent people killed. She couldn’t understand how anyone in the world could hurt innocent women and children in the name of religion.”

After a short silence, Callie continued. “I saw her crying once. She was watching the TV. A suicide bomber had killed twenty-four people in the small town where she grew up. I told her she shouldn’t cry. Mom said, “Don’t worry, Callie. These are Allah’s tears. He’s weeping at the evil done in his name.””

Silence followed. I was moved and felt sadness settle over me. To change the subject, I asked her, “How did a Muslim woman end up married to an army general? It seems odd.”

“Dad was stationed in Beirut. He met Mom there. I guess love doesn’t recognize any social or religious barriers. They fell in love.”

“Still, your father represented armed conflict. It sounds like that would be in direct opposition to what your mother believed.”

Callie laughed. “Dad was a pacifist.”

“And he joined the army?”

“Uh-huh. He used to tell me that there comes a time when the only solution is an armed response. I argued with him that there was never a time for force. He told me about the genocide in Ruanda, the indiscriminate slaughter of innocents in Somalia, Boko Haram killing men and women and kidnapping young girls. He had a long list of crimes against humanity and asked me, “Is it right for us to stand by and let the slaughter happen? If not us, who will stop it? If not an armed response, how would you stop it? With politics?” He was a pacifist at heart. He hated the invasion of Kuwait and Iraq, but he supported the war in Afghanistan. Iraq was based on lies. Afghanistan was different. The Taliban, you know. Anyway, Mom understood. Dad had this locket made for Mom and gave it to her when I was born.”

Two hours later, we arrived back at the cabin. In easy comfort, the afternoon passed into evening. Silences were frequent; Callie pursuing old, out of date magazines and watching the ancient tube television, while I mulled over my plans for the endgame that would commence tomorrow.

When Callie came to bed, this time topless with her plain white panties on, she turned to her side, her back to me. I cuddled up, spooning her, draped my arm over her waist, and inhaled her scent deeply; jasmine and plums. It calmed me to have her with me. It felt so good to have her against me.

The silence was broken by Callie saying, “Put some effort into it, Lightfoot. This isn’t the way to seduce me.”

I smiled when she grabbed my arm and guided my hand to her lovely, pert breast. Having a bit of fun, I did nothing, just let it rest against her.

“At least show some enthusiasm,” she complained.

Still smiling, I groped her sexy boob.

“Wait!” she exclaimed.

“What now?”

“Let’s get undressed. I like feeling your naked body against me.”

Rolling onto my back, I shucked my boxers. Callie wriggled under the covers. When I rolled towards her, spooning her once again, cool buttocks settled against my groin. Reaching around her, I held her petite breast.

“Okay. Start,” she directed me.

I laughed. “How come I have to do all the work? Why don’t you?”

She pressed my hand to her. “You’re the guy. You’re biologically programmed to do the pursuing.”

“If memory serves, you did all the work after our backgammon game.”

“That was different. I was making love to you. I just want some fun sex this time.”

I laughed again.

“Make me horny enough and I have a surprise for you,” she enticed.

Giving in, I caressed her breast, gently squeezing, then teasing by running my fingertip around her areola. She wiggled her ass against me when I tweaked her nipple. Brushing her thick, lustrous hair aside, I leaned over her and sucked on her earlobe, then kissed her neck.

When I started sucking her neck, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“Giving you a hicky.”

“Hey! I’ve never had one! This’ll be fun!” Callie said brightly.

Chuckling, I returned to my task, sucking her neck. I have no idea why, but it aroused me, my penis waking, thickening, lengthening. Callie felt it press against her thighs and reached down, lifting her leg. She positioned me along her pussy and lowered her leg, giving my erection a gentle squeeze. The squeeze turned into a slight stroke, her bum undulating.

With easy familiarity, I let her breast go and reached down to fondle her pussy, my tip sticking out. When precum leaked from a strong throb, I gathered it and spread it along her cleft, finding her clitoris and rubbing.

“Much, better,” Callie murmured. “There’s hope for you yet, Lightfoot.” A couple of minutes later, after emitting an “Mmmm,” she announced, “I think you’ve earned your surprise.” She rolled away from me and left the bed.