Chapter 13

When I was Vince Smith, I had a venture capital deal go south. It happened early in my learning process for that business, but I'd protected myself – sort of. I'd forced the owner of the company in which I'd invested to put up his home as collateral. The home was an estate on Long Island comprising about five acres. In the back of my mind, I considered occupying the estate after I staged my demise as Vince Smith. Otherwise I would have sold it when I liquidated most of my other assets. As it turned out, I stumbled on the eighty acres in Gold Canyon, and I preferred the high desert to Long Island for a home. I preferred Gold Canyon because by nature I'm a Western man. I also didn't enjoy cold winters, and Long Island has its share of winter weather.

I still owned the estate. It was listed as an asset in one of the untraceable corporations I controlled. Before leaving the country, I wanted to list the property for sale, and I'd made an appointment to meet a realtor at the estate and sign a listing agreement. I had a corporate resolution with me in a file that gave me the authority to sign the listing. So after my discussion with Loni about our secrets, and after making tender, sweet love while our minds were connected, we showered and dressed, and Greg and Owen piled into the limo with us for the trip to Long Island.

"What's the purpose of the trip again?" Greg said.

I told him, without mentioning Vince Smith's name.

"What's the place worth?" Owen asked.

"Ten million, thereabouts. Not counting the value of the estate, I lost fifteen million on the deal, thankfully one of my few mistakes in the business."

"So you're out five million?" Greg said.

"Yes, depending on the final sale price. For all I know, it might be worth more or less than ten million. I've never seen the estate. I hired a caretaker to live on the property, though, so it should be in good shape to list it for sale."

Did you meet the caretaker? Loni asked silently.

No, I said.

Then you haven't been in his mind?

No, but I've paid the maintenance invoices as they arrived monthly, and I've spoken to the caretaker on the telephone, I said, which suddenly made me realize that I'd talked with the caretaker as Vince Smith, not Clint Wilson. As Clint Wilson, the new owner of the estate, I'd dealt with the caretaker via written correspondence only. Dammit, I couldn't meet the realtor, not if the caretaker was present, and he'd be there. He'd be there front and center and standing tall. It had been more than a year since we last spoke, but he might recognize my voice. A mistake. Changing identities is rife with possible mistakes, especially the first few years after a switch, and I'd just made one.

The caretaker might be cheating you, Loni said. Pocketing the money for repairs that weren't made.

That's possible, I said. And it was, but the caretaker cheating wasn't a big problem, not like having my new identity exposed as a fake. I should cancel, I told myself. I should turn the limo around, return to the hotel, hire a lawyer and give him power of attorney to sign the listing, but that would delay our departure for London a day. The extra day in London to visit Savile Row and Loni's bespoke tailor had already made the itinerary tight. If I took another day in New York, I'd have to reschedule my appointment at Al Badeia Stud in Cairo. I couldn't reschedule that appointment. I'd have to cancel the extra day in London, and I didn't want to disappoint Loni.

I could wait until our return trip through New York, but I wanted to use the proceeds from the sale of the Long Island property to make the improvements to Respite. Besides, I wanted to see the estate. The caretaker had never seen my face, and if he recognized my voice as Vince Smith, I'd stonewall him like I'd stonewalled Jim Evans. So, against my own advice, I didn't turn the limo around.

The wrought iron, filigreed gates were open when we arrived. The chauffeur drove the limo up the private driveway and pulled to a stop in front of a large Colonial mansion.

"It's beautiful, Clint," Loni said.

"I don't like it," I said.

"Why?"

"The lines of the structure are awkward. It's too massive, sits on the land like two beached whales, one on top of the other. The garages are attached. I'd prefer a carriage house for cars. If I were to guess, the floors will be covered with polished marble. Probably the wainscots as well. Marble's a cold material to live with."

"The grounds look well cared for," Loni said.

"Yes, they do," I said.

Two men met us at the open front doors. Axel Hamilton was the real estate agent. He was a tall, thin man, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie. Forty years old, maybe. Professionally styled hairdo. Thin mustache. I connected with him.

My, my, I thought. My real estate agent is gay. He liked what he saw when he looked at me, not Loni. I figured Loni would get a kick out of this hidden interaction, so I told her about it silently. She smiled, trying not to laugh out loud.

Bradley Caruthers was my caretaker. He was dressed casually in khaki pants and a button-down wool shirt. His hair was slicked down like he'd just washed it and combed it without letting it dry. He wore boots, not shoes. His farmer tan lent evidence that he did some of the work outdoors at the estate. I liked his face.

I also liked his mind. His thinking was straightforward, not convoluted like the real estate agent's.

As Vince Smith, I'd been talkative when speaking to Brad Caruthers over the telephone, so I'd be taciturn now. Perhaps being a man of few words would fool him.

"Mr. Wilson," Hamilton said, sticking out his hand for a handshake.

I grunted and took his hand. He had a limp handshake, and his palm was sweaty. I turned to the other man and said, "Caruthers?" As Vince Smith, I'd referred to him by his first name, but shortened to Brad, when I'd spoken with him.

"Yes, sir," he said.

He had a firm, dry handshake.

"Looks like you've been doin' a good job," I said.

"Thank you, sir," he said. From his thoughts he hadn't recognized my voice – yet.

"Before I sign the listing, I want to walk the place," I said to Hamilton. I purposefully didn't introduce Loni, Greg or Owen. Instead, I walked by Hamilton and Caruthers into the main hall.

Yep, I said silently to Loni. White marble everywhere, probably from Carrera, Italy. Expensive but cold.

She chuckled.

I'm disconnecting from you now to concentrate on the caretaker and the real estate agent, I said.

Bye, bye, she said and curtailed an urge to wave goodbye.

The main hall looked like the lobby in some hotels I'd occupied, old hotels full of marble and a lot of unnecessary decorative thingamabobs. It was dramatic, though, two-stories tall with a filigreed railing around the second floor. A curved stairway. Arched doorways and windows.

I walked through the rest of the house without speaking. Hamilton, Caruthers, and Loni trotted along with me. Then I walked outside. The estate had a pool and beach rights with a water view.

"What's the asking price?" I said to Hamilton.

"$9,999,000," he said.

"It's worth more," I said.

"It is," Hamilton said, "but if we list it for $10,000,000 or more, the number of potential buyers drops precipitously."

"List it for $9,999,000 but include only three of the five acres. The way the house is situated on the land, the other two acres can be sold separately. Sell the other two acres for one-point-five million."

"You'd have to subdivide," Hamilton said.

"Not if I sell everything to one buyer," I said. "Which is how the deal will go down."

Hamilton frowned. He didn't get it. Caruthers did. He'd also recognized my voice, which confused him. How could I be Vince Smith and Clint Wilson at the same time? Fortunately, he didn't voice his confusion, but he was positive about my voice.

I walked inside the house to the kitchen, where I pulled out the corporate resolution and gave it to the real estate agent. "Show me the listing agreement," I said. Hamilton handed the document to me. I read it, set it on a marble countertop, made a couple of quick changes, initialed the changes, and then signed the listing. "The changes I made reflect the structure of the sale I just suggested. If a buyer can afford $9,999,000 for a house, he can afford $11,499,000 for a house. Advertise it at $9,999,000 and sell it, including the extra two acres, for $11,499,000."

I turned to Caruthers and held out my hand. "You've kept the place up beautifully, Brad," I said. "I appreciate everything you've done, especially meeting me here today. I'll add a substantial bonus for you when I send out the checks to pay the maintenance fees next month. When the estate sells, I'll also give any future potential employer a glowing recommendation on your capabilities. Do we understand each other?"

"We do, Mr. Wilson," he said, grinning.

The bonus is for keeping my mouth shut, he thought. Fine by me. Got nobody to blab to anyway.

I smiled. "Thanks, Brad." I wasn't sure, but I believed I'd dodged that bullet.

"Let's go. We've got a plane to catch," I said to Loni. I held out my arm. She linked hers in it, and we walked clip-clopping over the marble floors and out of the house.

Are you connected with me now? she asked silently.

I am.

You're right about all the marble. It's a cold material. That place would need a gazillion rugs and a boatload of soft fabric to make it warm and livable.

We made our flight ahead of time.

In London on Savile Row, I ordered half-dozen regular suits, two with Western cuts, some sport coats and trousers, and a tux, and I talked Greg into letting me buy him two regular suits and one Western. He wore the shoulder holster without the pistol for the measurements (no guns allowed in England). At first, Owen refused to be measured, but Loni coaxed him into accepting one Western suit as a gift from her.

Savile Row would never be the same, not after Greg, Owen and I invaded the stuffy street with our unusual requests and irreverent banter. We had fun, though. So did Loni when she finally stopped trying to make us something we weren't.

I give up, she said silently. You are what you are, and I love you the way you are. I love those two galoots, too, not like I love you, but I love 'em and wouldn't change either one of them one iota.

Over the course of the next year, we'd be making three or four trips to Hollywood, which was fine with me because Loni's tailor set up shop in the Beverly Wilshire, one of my favorite hotels. More to the point, Loni agreed to go to Hollywood with me. I liked that; it meant she was planning to stay with me beyond the trip we were on. Not much of a surprise, perhaps, but more time with her was important to me. She took away my loneliness.

Two years, I decided. I'd steal two years of her life. She'd still be under thirty, would still have time to find someone else to love and make her happy, a man who could grow old with her. That wasn't asking too much, was it?

Then we landed in Cairo.

Was she more than twenty feet away? Yes. Twenty-five feet at least, Loni calculated by eye. She was safe from Clint's prying mind.

In London, she'd purchased a fifty-foot retractable ruler.

What's the rule for? Clint had asked her.

To measure out twenty feet in various situations, inside rooms and outdoors, so I can learn to accurately gauge twenty feet by sight. I want to know when I'm out of range, so I can curse you and the thing you do without worrying about offending you.

He'd laughed and said, Have at it. But, baby doll, you don't need to go to that extreme. If you want some mental privacy, just tell me to get out of your head, and I'll honor your request.

I'll do that, too, but you could cheat. Not that I'm accusing you of cheating, mind you, but there will be times when I'll want to feel absolutely comfortable that you can't hear ... sorry, experience my thoughts, she'd told him.

This was one of those times. She stood in the far corner of the bedroom in a Royal Suite in Le Méridian Pyramids in Cairo. Clint sat on a sofa in the living room. She opened her cell phone and dialed a number. The signal flew up to a satellite, bounced around, and a telephone rang in Denver, Colorado.

"Safford Placements," a receptionist said.

"Bill Wainwright, please. Dr. Loni Masterson calling."

"One moment Dr. Masterson. I'll see if he can take your call."

She waited.

"Loni, it's good to hear from you. I've been trying to reach you to confirm your appointment with Crossroads Counseling Center in L.A. the day after tomorrow," Wainwright said.

"Bill, I'm out of the country. I won't be able to make that appointment, the one in New York, either. Here's the deal. I'm in love."

He chuckled and said, "Congratulations. I think."

"Thanks. I'm in love and painfully aware that long-distant love affairs rarely work. My man lives in Gold Canyon, Arizona. That's the easternmost suburb of Phoenix. So, I won't be going to L.A. or New York. Find me a job in Phoenix, the east part of the city in Tempe, Chandler, Mesa, Gilbert, or Apache Junction. Scottsdale would work, but the commute would be a killer."

"I'll see what I can do, Loni," he said, his voice sounding reserved, perhaps even cold. "How can I reach you?"

"You can't, not until next week when I return to Arizona. Bill, I know you're disappointed with me, but if you want to place me with a counseling firm anywhere, it'll have to be in one of the cities I just mentioned."

"The firms in those cities won't be near the quality of the firms I've arranged for you to meet in L.A. and New York. They won't pay anywhere close to what you'd be offered in L.A. or New York, either."

"I know. Bill, you're not hearing me. The quality of the firm and what I'll be paid is no longer as important as the location of the job. If you don't want to work with me, say so, and I'll find another search firm who will."

He sighed. "Okay, I hear you. If possible, I'll line up some appointments for you in Arizona starting towards the end of next week."

"You're a doll, Bill. I'll call you as soon as I'm back in the country. Bye, bye."

She pressed the end button on her cell phone and smiled.

Now, the trick is to not think about my change in plans within range of Clint's intrusive mind.

He's amazing! Tall, handsome, a body a decathlon athlete would envy, rich, smart, funny and fun, interesting, a phenomenal lover, kind, charitable. I could go on and on. And oh, by the way, he also reads minds. He's an alpha male and then some, and he loves me. If Bill thinks I'd abandon Clint Wilson for a high-paying job with a quality firm in L.A. or New York, he needs his priorities rearranged like I've rearranged mine.

She glanced at her wristwatch. They had time. They couldn't dally, but they had time. She stripped, except for her panties and high-heels and sauntered into the sitting room. Clint looked up at her and smiled.

Are you connected with me? she said in her mind.

I am.

How about a quickie? We have time before dinner if we hurry.

If we don't, we'll make time, he said and rose to his feet. Whether to hurry with you or not should not be a function of time, but rather of passion.

She speeded things along by unbuttoning his shirt.

I want to sit on your face for a few minutes first, for the speed and the passion, and then I want to sit on you, she said.

Speed or passion, whatever. What you want I want, he said. I have decided that's the natural order of things.

You're right, of course. After the quickie, we'll take a quick shower together. We'll make each other squeaky clean, and then I shall try to make myself look like a dowdy school librarian, she said, referring to the mode of dress she'd agreed to follow while out and about in Cairo: long cotton skirts, long-sleeved shirts, a scarf around her neck in case she needed to cover her hair.

Try as you might, you'll be undertaking an impossible quest, he said. Dowdy you aren't. Dowdy you shall never be. Besides not all school librarians are dowdy. I once knew a school librarian who looked as far from dowdy as you look right now, he said.

You saw her naked, huh?

I did not unless undressing her in my mind counts, he said as he tumbled naked onto the bed. I was a boy. She was a woman, and what a woman she was! She moved onto the bed after him. We all lusted in our hearts for her, our hearts and other anatomical places. By we, I mean all the boys in the school. Never in the history of the school had so many boys spent so many hours in the library. Not that more hours in the library did any of us any good. We...

Hush now, she said and groaned. Yes, like that. Just like that. Perfect.

Yuusif Ahmad believed he was one of Allah's soldiers, and he'd grown impatient. He'd been sent to Egypt to blend in and await a call that would fulfill his destiny. He'd been in place for months. He'd gathered the equipment and explosives to do what he needed to do, what he must do, but no one had contacted him; he'd received no orders.

He understood the reason behind the silence. Islam was concentrating its efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq. He'd been effectively set adrift. But he wasn't without resources or purpose. For Yuusif, martyrdom had become not just a means but also an end.

As Yuusif strapped on the vest of explosives he reflected back in time when he and two other young men, Widaad and Mahmuud, had undergone countless hours of intense spiritual training, when he had learned the minutiae of jihad, the holy war to which he'd committed his life – and death. He had also been indoctrinated in the need for revenge, and he'd been told about the rewards he could expect in the afterlife. Widaad and Mahmuud had already journeyed to Paradise, and Yuusif yearned to join them.

Although far from destitute, Yuusif also knew that his family would be rewarded. Saddam Hussein's government in Iraq had rewarded the families of suicide bombers, but Saddam was no longer in power. Still, some individual Saudis and various other groups sympathetic to the cause offered cash bonuses. Regardless, the real reward for Yuusif wasn't the money his family would receive. Paradise awaited him on the other side of the detonator. Death would feel like nothing more than a pinch. He daydreamed of the weddings to dark-eyed virgins that would soon take place.

Yuusif Ahmad turned on a video camera perched on a tripod and stepped back. Gazing raptly at the lens, he said in Arabic, "Today I take revenge upon the sons of the monkeys and the pigs, the infidels and the enemies of humanity. Today, I will meet my holy brothers, Widaad and Mahmuud, and all the other martyrs and saints in Paradise."

He spoke in a similar vein for another five minutes, and then placed his "farewell" videotape in a package that he would mail as he drove to Le Méridian Pyramids, the hotel in Cairo that housed foreign infidels, the sons of monkeys and pigs he'd referred to on the tape. After one last round of cleansing and prayer, he walked out of his tiny one-bedroom, furnished apartment, his eyes and countenance alight with fervent purpose.

Madness!

When I lived as Vince Smith, I frequently hired tutors to teach subjects of interest to me or dispense knowledge needed to achieve in business. After 9/11, I hired a tutor to teach me Arabic. I had an advantage over other men and women. I could experience their thoughts, but if their thoughts were in a foreign language I didn't know, my advantage went away. I reasoned that knowing Arabic might someday save my life.

A linguist I'm not. I never truly gained proficiency in Arabic, especially speaking the language, not like Greg. But I could understand it enough to experience about half the thoughts of my tutor, who thought in Arabic.

Since our arrival in Cairo, I'd frequently invaded the minds of Egyptian men and women within range, and some of my old proficiency in Arabic had come back to me.

Like it or not, we lived in a world with radical Islam, a religious faction that professed unwavering faith in a transcendent deity, but also followed a militant, politically activist ideology. According to my tutor, radical Islam's ultimate goal was the creation of a worldwide community of Muslim believers – a caliphate. This form of Islam is determined to achieve its goal by any means necessary, including violence and mass murder. The followers of this creed of Islam have nothing but contempt for other religious traditions. Their intolerance gives them ideological justification for their acts of terror.

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