Maccabee settled into her plush, comfortable first class British Airways seat. She couldn’t believe how spacious, roomy and luxurious it felt. Her usual tourist seat felt like a highchair.
The seat next to hers was empty, as were the seats across from her. Three rows ahead, a skinny middle-aged man worked on his laptop.
Then a large, muscular man with a heavy satchel walked on and sat down two rows behind her across the aisle. Earlier, in the departure lounge, she’d caught his dark eyes staring at her every few minutes. He’d made her feel uncomfortable.
Now, as he buckled his seat belt, he shot another glance at her.
Her suspicion cranked up a few notches.
“Something to drink?” the young, blonde stewardess asked.
“Sounds great,” Maccabee said, still shaken from the attack in the apartment. “Vodka, please.”
“How would you like that?”
“Enormous.”
The stewardess smiled, and returned quickly with a large vodka. Maccabee thanked her, took a sip and leaned back. The alcohol tasted great. She took another sip.
Minutes later, the 747 hurled itself down the runway and soared into the sky.
No turning back now, she realized. She was in a cloak-and-dagger scenario, one she was ill prepared for. But Donovan had said she’d be safer in Brussels and she trusted his judgment. She hoped she wasn’t a burden for him and could help with new Sumerian translations there. He’d said her translations could give them vital information. Her father, she knew, would want her to help.
She glanced back at the large man. Again, he was peering at her over his magazine. When she noticed the title of the magazine, she stopped breathing. Soldier of Fortune. An assassin’s bible. Mandatory reading for hitmen.
She told herself to relax. Donovan had told her there was an armed air marshal on the flight. And each passenger had been frisked, Xrayed, semi-undressed and practically fondled by TSA Security personnel. Still, a Nigerian’s underpants almost blew up a Detroit flight. And some guy recently breezed through TSA airport screening with a concealed weapon.
She looked back at the passenger. He was still reading. No way he could have brought a weapon aboard.
Unless… he was the air marshal.
But wait – what if he was a fake air marshal sent to kill her?
She was slipping into Paranoidville and knew she had to stop. She gulped down more vodka and told herself to relax. She remembered her friend, Marilyn, had given her an Ambien to help with jet lag. She took it from her purse and washed it down with more Vodka. Probably a bad combination, but hey, she needed to chill out and sleep now.
Moments later, she yawned and listened to the soft drone of the engines. Soon, her eyelids grew heavy, very heavy… and very closed.
A loud thud jolted her awake!
She looked around. Everyone seemed calm. Then she realized she’d heard the landing gear lock into place.
Had she just slept over five hours?
She had, she realized, as she looked out the window saw London, a city she loved. The emerald grass and Serpentine Lake of Hyde Park slid by, then Big Ben and Parliament. It amazed her how much of America’s values and culture emerged from this revered chunk of land.
She remembered the assassin, Mr. Soldier of Fortune, a few rows behind her. She turned and looked.
Sleeping, and drooling on his magazine.
They landed at Heathrow Airport where Donovan’s friend, a British Intelligence agent named Nigel whisked her through VIP Customs and minutes later into the lobby of the airport Holiday Inn.
As Nigel registered her under his name, a tall young man in a business suit walked past her. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She actually gasped out loud, leaned against the counter and whispered, “Andrew!”
The man’s similarity was beyond shocking. The man was Andrew’s clone.
Andrew Pierce. She flashed back to the graduate school party where they met. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he strummed folk songs on his scuffed-up Gibson guitar.
She spent the next few hours chatting with him, laughing with him, dancing with him. By the end of the party she was wondering about spending her life with him. They began dating, grew serious, and six months later were planning to marry after graduation. Everything was perfect.
Except the arterial walls in Andrew’s brain. Over the years, a congenitally thin wall had slowly ballooned into a small aneurysm, then into a larger one.
Six months before their wedding, he was exercising in his apartment. Perhaps, he’d tried a few extra pushups, or lifted heavier weights. Whatever it was, the extra effort increased his blood pressure and sent blood pounding against the weakened arterial wall.
The aneurysm exploded, destroying brain tissue.
Late that night his roommate found him on the floor. Dead.
She had never known such pain, almost dropped out of school, but didn’t because he wouldn’t want her to. For weeks, she visited his grave and spent hours talking to him, thanking him for their brief, but cherished, memories together.
Over the next three years, she didn’t socialize much. A few dates. Nice guys. Not going anywhere. Not Andrew. Even today, she didn’t date much, still held back, afraid of committing to a serious relationship, knowing she couldn’t withstand that kind of pain and loss again.
Sometimes she wondered if Andrew had been the one true love of her life.
Her thoughts shifted to Donovan Rourke, awaiting her in Brussels. His courage, honesty and intelligence reminded her in some ways of Andrew.
But Donovan also had an illness, a lingering sadness, a malaise that at times seem to drain all emotion from his eyes. And she knew why. The horrific murder of his wife had killed a part of him, and damaged him, perhaps forever.
* * *
The following morning at Brussels International Airport, Maccabee was met by an associate of Donovan’s, a tall handsome man with thick, brown hair named Marcel de Paepe.
Twenty minutes later, Marcel escorted her into the luxurious lobby of the Amigo Hotel and over to the elevator. He explained that she was already checked in under a male alias, Mr. Antoine Charbonneau. The manager walked over, introduced himself and handed her a message.
Maccabee,
Welcome. Jean de Waha and I are out
for a while. If you need anything just ask the
hotel manager, or Marcel. A guard will be
outside your room at all times. If you feel up
to it, please join Jean and me in the Amigo
bar at 7 this evening, and then for dinner. If
not, just leave word at the desk.
I’m relieved you are here.
Donovan
I’m relieved I’m here, too.
Marcel escorted her upstairs to her room, where he introduced her to her security guard, a large, powerfully built man named Theo, sitting outside her door.
“Nice to meet you, Mister Charbonneau,” Theo said to her.
She laughed. “Nice to meet you, Theo.”
She went inside, unpacked and began translating the new NSA intercept she’d received via email from Donovan’s colleague.
This message was longer and the Sumerian logograms looked much more complicated.
Something clicked loudly behind her. She turned, saw nothing, then continue working.
Seconds later, she heard the clicking again.
It came from the door connecting her room to the room next to hers.
She noticed the locked dead bolt knob was slowly turning, unlocking the door. Concerned, she stood and prepared to run out into the hall and tell Theo.
Slowly, the connecting door opened.
“Oh… you in room already?” said a small woman housekeeper. “Guard ask me to double-lock door. Is okay?”
“Yes,” Maccabee said, breathing out.