EXCERPT
“You are older looking than your online dating photo, Nadia,” General Melmud Massoud Shammam says as he scrutinizes me from top to bottom.
In fact, it’s my bottom that fascinates him the most. To my chagrin, he holds up one of my dating profile pictures in order to compare it to the real thing. “Did you Photoshop your buttocks to look like Pippa Middleton’s? Yes, of course! I see that now! Shame on you, sister, for coveting an infidel’s likeness!” He shakes his index finger at me.
Yeah, okay, busted. It wasn’t my ass. That was Arnie’s idea. I’ll never listen to him again, that’s for sure.
“I should be disappointed, but I am a practical man and prefer hips large enough to bear many, many children. So perhaps you will make me happy after all.”
Ha! Says you, I think, but I stifle the urge to stick my stiletto into his heart.
Besides, his breasts are bigger than mine, so I’m not sure I’d find his heart underneath all that blubber.
I’d sure have fun trying, though. Like playing a real-life version of that old game, “Operation.”
Instead, I bow my head to the man once renowned as the top torture expert in Gaddafi’s army and murmur, “It is true, sir. Allah has given me many wonderful years. But the life of a fertile virgin is empty if it is not spent at the side of an honorable husband.”
Melmud was ID’ed by Interpol’s Universal Face Workstation as the thug standing with Carl in the munitions exchange video. His payoff in arranging the fatal meeting was a new identity and a one-way ticket to the United States.
Ladies, big FYI: because this coward left his three wives and nine children to face Libya’s mob rule, he’s back on the market. His online dating profile in Anastasia Date (the leading website for men seeking Russian brides looking to move overseas) reads like this:
Join me in America!
Strong, virile and handsome man seeks slim and perfect woman with whom to share his life. Let’s hit the links, and take long walks on the beach at sunset!
Must be Muslim, and a virgin. Natural blonde preferred. Must like golf and also hiking, since sometimes we may spend time camping out in the desert for long periods of time. But I am well-endowed, so it will be worth your while.
Quite a charmer, ain’t he?
Arnie hacked into Melmud’s account and zapped the responses from the few Slavic singletons desperate enough to answer the ad so that I’d be his default choice.
My own response was fine-tuned in the hope of making me sound meek, pious and submissive. My profile photos were shot by a photographer who freelances for Playboy, and all that implies. With the help of a sheer, form-hugging shift and some soft backlighting, the photographer knew exactly how to accentuate the positive.
So did Arnie, who’s a wiz at Photoshop. Pippa has set a very high bar for the rest of us. I may have been wearing a headscarf, but now it’s obvious that Melmud’s eyes weren’t drawn to the shape of my head.
Ideally, “Nadia” would have flown from Moscow to LAX, but thanks to some Arnie’s hacking, the best Melmud could pull off on such short notice was a flight to San Francisco, where he was to her up, then fly her into Santa Barbara on his private jet.
A blond female Acme operative with my height, weight measurements (perky breasts and all) and an identical head scarf boarded the flight. When she got off, she went into the fifth stall the closest ladies’ lavatory, where I was already waiting for her. We’re dressed as twins down to our matching headscarves, so anyone following her would presume we’re one and the same. She handed me her ticket to put with my fake passport, changed her clothes and wig, and then there was one.
Melmud’s bodyguard met me at baggage claim and hustled me into another terminal, where Melmud’s private customized Gulfstream G650 was ready to whisk us down to Santa Barbara. The plane is tricked out with a private living room, bedroom, dining room and kitchen galley.
In other words, all the comforts of home for a fugitive on the run.
Now that I’m in mid-flight with my supposed betrothed, I’ll slip him the ultimate mickey—SP-117, a concoction invented by the Russia’s external foreign intelligence arm, the SVR. It’s tasteless, colorless, and leaves the victim clueless as to anything he may have said.
While he’s under the influence, I’ll ask him the whereabouts of the missing munitions cache. But it’s only a fifty-minute flight, so I’ve got to work fast. My problem: being Muslim, neither Melmud nor his thug drinks liquor or caffeine. A glass of water will have to do.
I begin with flattery, in my best Moose-and-Squirrel accent. “Sir, my innate shyness forces me to request that our time together be private.”
By the way he raises an eyebrow at this unexpected modesty it looks like he believes that perhaps he really did find the only virgin on a website loaded with Slavic vixens. I guess he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt because he snaps his fingers at his bodyguard, who disappears into the cockpit with the pilot, closing the door behind him.
I reward Melmud by loosening the top button of my already low-cut, floor-length tunic, revealing the lacy camisole beneath it.
The plane hops over a cloud, giving me the opportunity to tumble against him. Oops! My hand falls in his lap in the hope of bracing my fall. I cover my mouth, as if shocked by this seemingly innocent action.
But when our eyes meet, I lick my lips in anticipation.
His response is Pavlovian in one regard. He’s panting for a treat.
“In my country, we toast the holy union between a groom and his bride.” I lower my head. “Will you allow me to serve you, my honorable fiancé? Just a glass of water, of course.”
He smiles and nods toward the kitchen galley. I bow slightly before gliding to a cabinet and pulling out two glasses.
He is too busy loosening his tie and planning the tests that will prove my virginity to see me slide the medallion on my ring and release the drug into his drink.
As I hand him his glass, he shouts, “Prost!”
He passes out just as he had begun to slobber all over me. Yuck! I shove him off to the far end of the couch. I go over my mental checklist of everything on my list—
Oh, fudge! I forgot to check the SFO duty-free shop for any Furbys!
Note to self: get better at multi-tasking.
But first things first. Buy time.
I grab Melmud’s cell phone from his pocket and yank the subject’s SIM card from his phone. Then I dial Jack with the satellite connection on the wireless SIM card reader I’ve concealed in my valise.
“How’s our little mail order bride?” he asks.
“Cut the crap. I’ve just pulled out the SIM card. What now?”
“Great! Arnie’s on the line, too. All you have to do is slip it into that little doohickey he gave you. When it’s done, uplink it, and voila! He’ll have access to a week, maybe two, of previous text messages and traceable cell numbers.”
By the time the upload is finished, Melmud’s Kickapoo Joy Juice has kicked in.
“Who is the Quorum?” My voice is gentle but authoritative.
“Infidels. But they pay well for arms. Enough for me to buy the mansion next door to Oprah in Montecito. But Oprah’s dogs crap in my yard all the time. Still, I don’t mind. They are Oprah’s dogs! Some are Laboradors, but there are also a couple of Springer spaniels. Not to mention the golf club in Montecito is top notch. I have a two handicap. Soon they will soon make me a member. I am sure of it.”
Someone should have warned me SP-117 leads to diarrhea of the mouth. If this were just another extraordinary rendition, I’d have already given this dude a Cheney spa treatment and tossed him out the door.
I start over. “Melmud, try to stay focused. What is the Quorum doing with heat-seeking missiles?”
“Taking down a plane.”
Like, duh. At thirty-three thousand feet in the air, this guy better tell me something I don’t already know, or one of us is going to jump ship. I don’t want it to be me. “Where will it occur? On what day, and at what time?”
“What I know is—”
A sharp rap at the door stops him cold. That damn bodyguard!
In Arabic, the bodyguard is telling his boss that we will be landing in five minutes. He wants to know if there is anything we need.
Melmud is about to say something when I hiss, “Don’t answer!” I reach for my satellite phone. This time I dial Arnie direct.
When he picks up, I whisper frantically, “I need you to dial Melmud’s bodyguard as if it’s coming from Melmud, and give him a message.”
Arnie pauses. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m in the middle of interrogating this creep, and the guard is standing right outside the door! I can’t have Melmud answer him out loud. He’s in a trance! No telling what he might say! I need the guard to get a text message telling him to scram! But to be authentic, it’ll have to be in Arabic, and my bandwidth doesn’t stretch that far.”
“Don’t worry, piece of cake. And I’ll make sure the caller ID will show Melmud’s phone. Just text me what you want it to say.”
I think for a moment before sending him this:
While she is smart and beautiful and surely would make a fine and pious mother, I still have my doubts that this woman is a natural blonde. I am testing my theory now. If the door is still closed when we land, no one is to disturb us! When I am done, I will meet you by the limo. Allah willing, my bride is flaxen and therefore worthy to accompany us to Montecito. Oh, by the way, the next time Oprah’s dogs take a dump in the yard, shoot them.
The chirp outside the door tells me the bodyguard has gotten Arnie’s message. A moment later I hear Melmud’s thug murmur, “Yes, General,” in Arabic, before trudging back to the cockpit.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Arnie.”
“Glad it did the trick. But, Donna, what the heck was that stuff about Oprah’s dogs?”
“I needed to add a tinge of authenticity to the message. Trust me, it did the trick.”
I click off and shake Melmud back into interrogation mode. “Tell me, quick. Where is the shipment from Libya right now?”
“The Quorum infidels would not tell me. To hide this knowledge from me, they spoke in French. But they did not realize I speak it, too. All I know is that it is coming in by ship. From a toymaker.” A sly smile rises on his lips. “And by the way, the female infidel really did have a butt like Pippa. But by her amorous moves with her partner, I am guessing she is no virgin.”
Valentina’s a slut, and Carl enjoys it? No surprise there. And for the record, this dude has no idea what he’s talking about. No way does her bum look better than mine!
His cruel cackle puts me back on task. “Why should I care, anyway, when the cargo arrives? The less I know about it, the better. I’ve worked too hard establishing my excellent new identity as a successful self-help guru from Dubai. I’m working on my book now. It is called Don’t Worry, Be Happy: Six Must-Do Moves to Being a Better You. I have no doubt it will be a sure-fire bestseller! I will leave it in Oprah’s mailbox, and she will love it and build a whole television network around its teachings.” Obviously, the truth drug has made him delusional. “I love Oprah. And I love Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Did you know she lives nearby? I love Seinfeld, too. I wonder if he ever visits Elaine…”
I hear the vibration of the plane’s wheels dropping. Time to wrap up our little tête-a-tête, and it couldn’t come a second sooner. Hanging out with this guy is driving me nuts.
I force him to sip again from his glass. A moment later, he drifts off to sleep. By the time Melmud’s bodyguard shakes him awake, I’ll be just a pleasant memory.
I’ll also be brunette again, and long gone.
The plane’s landing is smooth as silk. As planned, Jack is there waiting on the tarmac. The credentials he presents to the flight crew and the bodyguard identify him as the field office director of the Santa Barbara County branch of the Immigration and Naturalization Services.
The bodyguard turns white under his swarthy tan. The last thing he wants is for the INS to question him about his passport, or Melmud’s, for that matter.
On the other hand, he’ll gladly step aside so that Jack can take me off the plane in handcuffs. Here’s a shocker. Turns out, I’m not a virgin after all. Apparently, “Nadia” has run away from her husband, a Muslim jeweler based in Moscow.
“Your boss is bereft,” Jack tells the bodyguard. “He asks that you not disturb him. He said something about five salads.”
The guard eyes open wide. “No, he means ‘salats.’ He wants to pray.”
This means only one thing. The Self Help Guru Formerly Known as the Mommar’s Mutilator is very upset that his life-size Barbie wasn’t the fantasy bride he’d hoped for.
“Learn anything?” Jack asks, as we roar off in his Lamborghini.
“Yes. It’s coming in by ship.” Talk about a needle in a haystack. “Also, I now know why Gaddafi’s regime was so dysfunctional.”
“Do you think it might’ve had something to do with the fact he was a nut?”
“No doubt that’s a big part of it. But it turns out we Americans were the real cause of his downfall.”
“Sure we were. We played an important if somewhat covert role in aiding and abetting the rebels.”
“Nope, I mean even before the Arab Spring. You see, Mommar’s generals watched too much American television. To them, life is a series of self-help aphorisms culled from daytime talk shows. They also think sitcom characters are real.”
“So do most Americans. So I guess we truly are a global village.” Jack shakes his head sadly. Then his eyes light up. “Oh, wow, that reminds me. The Big Bang Theory is on tonight!”
“You’ll have to catch it on demand. Have you forgotten the Oprah special airs tonight? She’s interviewing Pippa Middleton! I’m sure as heck not going to miss that.”
Jack sighs appreciatively. “Speaking of Pippa, did anyone ever tell you your butt looks a lot like hers?”
When I punch his arm, he almost drives off the Pacific Coast Highway.
(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).