Book 2: Operation Detour
Episode 4
A Nutter Now
Back on the phone with Serge as she walks away, Riva says, “His prescription is for something called triphenocyclizine. I have never heard of it, but it must be psychotropic.”
“It is,” Serge replies. “I did that.”
“How...?”
“I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he laughs. “And you’re welcome!”
“For what? I was not prepared to deal with a man on drugs!”
“It’s a very mild psychotropic.”
“Not when he’s taking them by the handful!”
“Oh,” Serge sounds genuinely surprised. “I assumed he would be a good little boy and follow the instructions on the bottle. He seemed the type.”
“This is difficult enough, Serge. He is a genuinely nice guy – a nutter now, thanks to you – but not a bad guy. Why couldn’t you give me someone who was already a terrorist? I know how to deal with those assholes. I feel guilty when I kill nice guys.”
“Too easy. You’re more talented than that. We have high hopes for you, and this is your test. Don’t fuck it up.” He laughs again and hangs up.
“Fut pe...” she starts to curse in Romanian, but stops herself. No point getting angry. People like Serge feed off others’ anger, and she is not going to feed that beast.
Airport Security
Moments later, it is time to pass through the airport terminal security. I hate security checkpoints. I never have anything to hide, I just hate them. Who are these people to presume I’m guilty until proven innocent? I dig into my pocket for another pill.
At the checkpoint, the line is long. A few minutes into the wait, I entertain myself by joking with anyone who will listen. “These guys would crap their pants if they had to deal with an actual terrorist.”
The look on the faces of those around me says, “Uh oh.” The man directly in front of me creates as much distance between himself and me as he can, but it’s futile. We are next to each other in line. How far can he go?
Holy crap, it can’t be! The man in front of me is Forty-Something Guy from the drugstore. What are the odds?
“Hey, man, how’s it going?!” I ask cheerfully.
He drops out of line altogether to get away from me. Chicken. He is walking very fast, looking over his shoulder.
Now he is running. And now he is being tackled by security guards. Poor guy. I should look him up when I return... if I return.
Now directly in front of me is a pre-teen girl eyeing me, probably hoping I’ll be arrested. Her father gives me a dirty look. Pointing at me, he smirks and says, “He’s gonna get his ass kicked.”
Surprised by such language in front of his own child, I say loudly, “I doubt any of these idiots can draw their weapon without shooting themselves in the foot! Bunch of Barney Fifes. They’re probably only given one bullet each. God help us if any real terrorists come through here.”
I am laughing now. No one else is.
Two security officers – one a husky blonde male, the other a slim brunette female – give each other a nod and start toward me.
Three feet away, the male officer barks, “Sir! Please step out of line and come with me.”
“Why are you yelling?” I ask. “You’re three feet away. Besides, I thought the whole idea here was for people like you to keep people like me in line.”
Again, I laugh... alone.
The female officer is not amused. “Sir, please.”
I do not move. The male officer, still barking as if from across a great distance, says, “Sir, if you do not come with us immediately, you will be forcibly removed.”
“No!” I match his volume and draw the attention of everyone around us. “You work for the government, which means you work for all of us. You come to me!”
The sneering father, still nearby – because he has no choice – says, “Good luck with that.”
He’s right. I probably shouldn’t have taken this path. I am going to get my ass kicked now. Pointing at the female officer, I say in a more normal voice, “Or just send her over here. We’ll frisk each other!”
To my audience, I say, “You kids will need to cover your eyes.”
Several people laugh. Finally. Tough crowd.
Next thing I know, I am being handcuffed by the woman officer. “Ooh, handcuffs. Kinky. You’ll have to excuse us, folks. We’re gonna need some privacy.”
More people finally join in the laughter.
Pointing at a sign on the wall, the male officer reads aloud, “Security is not a joke!” I look to where he is pointing. I can’t believe it. There is a sign saying exactly that.
Those who were laughing stop, afraid they might be handcuffed next. Cowards.
“I’m sorry, officer. I didn’t see that sign. And here I thought airport security was a joke. A bad joke. Is there a sign somewhere saying, ‘Born in the wrong decade? Missed your chance to be a Nazi? No worries! Join the TSA! It’s the next best thing! And you get to grope people! Not of the opposite sex, but still, a great job for a pervert!’”
I see a younger man nearby, cracking up. “Listen to this dude!” he says to his friends.
I finish my rant, “Where’s that sign, hmm?”
They drag me to the front of the line, and I’m still performing for my audience. “And that, folks, is all you have to do to get to the front of the line!”
With the guards dragging me away, it is now safe for my audience to laugh as I am taken to a room just around the corner.
Interrogation
In the interrogation room, I am tossed roughly into a chair. It groans as I sink into it. The male officer says, “Okay, funny man. What the hell was that all about?”
“Exercising my freedom of speech. Good exercise! Quite a workout! I have that right, you know.”
“You want to know about rights?” the female officer snarls. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney....”
The phone on the wall interrupts my Miranda rights. The male officer glares at me before answering it.
“That must be my attorney now!” I say.
Speaking obediently into the phone, he says, “Yes. Uh-huh. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”
What a suck-up. Typical. He hangs up and whispers into his partner’s ear. The woman is visibly deflated. She moves in behind me. I’m wondering what she might do.
She only sighs, removes my handcuffs, and says, “You are free to go.”
“You have friends in high places,” the man adds.
“Since when?” I ask. Neither one of them answers.
Escorting me out the door, the woman says, “Now, get on your flight and shut the hell up.”
I say, “Bite me,” unaware it is Riva’s favorite expression.
The officer moves toward me. I wag my finger at her. “Un-un-uh! I’ve got friends in high places, remember?”
Turning to leave, she says to her partner, “I could beat the crap out of that asshole. I’m working on my brown belt.”
“Yeah? I’d just shoot him.”
I’ve already stopped caring about them. Who is this friend in high places, though? I was not aware I had anyone like that in my life.
Maybe my guardian angels have been on vacation the past couple weeks, felt guilty about what’s happened to me, and are now redoubling their efforts to get me back on the right track?
Kuala Lumpur
It is after midnight, local time, when I arrive in Kuala Lumpur. I walk through the terminal and catch a cab to the hotel. I check in and take the elevator up to the room. I seem to be recovering from one hell of a hangover, but don’t remember drinking anything.
~ ~ ~
Riva enters the same hotel lobby seconds later. The door attendant smiles at her, almost drooling. The desk clerk is also very friendly, eager to please. She’s used to that.
She checks in and asks that her bags be taken to her room. She keeps her purse with her and retreats to the hotel bar. Feeling the weight of every man’s eyes upon her, she finds a table with an unobstructed view of the front door. There, she settles in to await Dobie’s next move.
Five minutes later, a fat, sweaty, middle-aged man sits down at her table. He is literally dripping. She glares at him.
“Serge sent me,” he explains before she can object.
“And why is that?” she asks, sniffing the air. The man has an odor like she has never smelled before.
“Serge told me, ‘Armin’ – that’s me – ‘You will meet a beautiful, black-haired European woman in the next couple of days. She’s mine, but you can borrow her, if you know what I mean.”
In her best Southern belle voice, batting her eyelashes, Riva replies, “Whatever do you mean, sir?”
As if on cue, her phone rings. It’s Serge.
“Riva, I forgot to mention. There is a fat horny toad named Armin who might look you up while you are there.”
“He has already left a slime trail leading up to me,” she says with a smile.
“Ha!” Serge laughs.
She hates that laugh, but lets it go.
He continues, “You need to be nice to him. He’s a powerful local politico, and we owe him a few favors. He is going to want to have sex with you.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“That is not going to be a problem, is it?” he asks.
“Funny man!” Riva fakes a laugh. More seriously, she adds, “I will deal with it,” and hangs up.
Armin says, “Was that Serge?”
“It was.”
He slides in a little closer. “Did he explain things to you?”
“He did.”
When he inserts his sweaty hand between her thighs, her response is immediate. Using her left hand, she grabs and twists his ear and gets right up into his sweaty face.
In a low growl, she says, “You do that again, sunshine, and I will leave you dead on the floor. Remember who you’re dealing with. I was trained by Serge himself. Understood?”
He nods vigorously. She lets go of him and smooths out her blouse. Forcing a smile, she says, “We will pretend that never happened, and act like civilized adults, yes?”
Big smile, nodding, he says, “Yes.”
Narrowing her eyes, she asks, “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He smiles and nods. She rolls her eyes. “It is gonna be a long night.”
“I hope so!” says Armin.
~ ~ ~
I walk into my room, collapse onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling. After twenty minutes, I give up, enter the bathroom and splash water on my face.
Not liking the reflection in the mirror, I escape into the Kuala Lumpur night.
~ ~ ~
Distracted by Armin, Riva almost misses Dobie walking through the lobby and out to the street. “We will have to continue this later,” she excuses herself, and leaps out of her seat to give chase.
Latching onto her, Armin says, “Please, what could be so important? I will take care of it for you! We need to spend more time together!”
“Sorry, must go!” she says. “Jumpa lagi.” She extricates herself and hurries to catch up with Dobie.
Armin lets go and orders another drink for himself. One of the local prostitutes, always lurking, slides in next to him and offers herself up as a substitute. Armin reluctantly accepts her offer.