Storm Front

hellhole,” Virgil said. “It’s more like a dormitory.”
    “Send her down to Texas—we’ll fix her clock,” Sewickey said.
    —
    V IRGIL DROVE back to his house and called the Israeli embassy and asked to speak urgently to Colonel Ohad Shachar. When he came on the line, Virgil said, “I’ve put out an arrest order for Tal Zahavi, who I believe is a Mossad operator. I believe she has kidnapped a woman and taken her across a state line, which makes it a federal offense. You should be hearing from the FBI. In the meantime, I’ve sent very good photographs of her to every TV station in the area. I wanted you to know.”
    “You are misguided,” Shachar said. “This woman has nothing to do with the Mossad—I doubt even that she is an Israeli. So, do what you must.”
    “I am telling you that I already have,” Virgil said. “I’m not negotiating, I’m simply telling you. Let me give you a few of the television websites—you can watch the press conference yourself.”
    A while later, Davenport called: “Well, that’s another weed in your cap. The legend of that fuckin’ Flowers continues to spread, like Minnesota kudzu. At least you’ve got Jones and the stone.”
    “Not exactly,” Virgil said.
    Jones had vanished. He explained that to Davenport, who, after a silence, said, “I’m sure you’ll find him right away. With the stone.”
    “Probably,” Virgil said. “But I’m more worried about Ellen. Did you hear back about the Turks? Did they leave the country?”
    “I haven’t heard. We’re still waiting.”
    “Not my day,” Virgil said.
    “Is there anything I can do?” Davenport asked.
    “Yes. Get the DMV to do a computer run and figure out how many red Volvo station wagons there are in the state, and which ones are located around Mankato.”
    “I’ll see what they can do,” Davenport said.
    “Goddamnit: I hope Zahavi gets the message,” Virgil said. “If she gets the message, they’ll let Ellen go. She had a couple of loose gears, but I don’t think she’d hurt an innocent.”
    “You’d know better than me,” Davenport said. “To tell you the truth, from this distance it looks like she’s got more than a few loose gears. She looks like she’s fuckin’ nuts. For a stone? All of this for some old stone?”
    —
    T O GET A DEGREE , Raj Awad was required to take general courses along with his pilot training, and so it was that after he returned from the airport adventure, he had to hurry off to “Introduction to Gender”—he’d been told that it was a good place to pick up chicks. He later decided that perhaps his American mentor had been pulling on his shirt, but by that time, it was too late, and he was in for the semester.
    He was returning from the class when he found al-Lubnani standing in the kitchen holding a bottle of Stolichnaya.
    Two concepts flashed through Awad’s mind in a fraction of a second: (a) Hezbollah fanatic, (b) the Islamic ban on alcohol.
    He stuttered, “Where did you find this? One of my silly friends—”
    “Under the sink,” al-Lubnani said. “I believe I saw a bottle of V8 in the refrigerator?”
    A moment of realization. “And some celery,” Awad said.
    So that’s the way it was. They mixed up a pitcher of Bloody Marys, got a couple of glasses, and sat on Awad’s tiny balcony, in the heat, and made the best of it.
    After a while, al-Lubnani observed, “I do not believe I see in you the best of the
mujahid
.”
    “I confess, this is true,” Awad said. “I am a seeker of peace. I wish to be a pilot, and nothing more. The kind who lands his airplane at airports, and not in tall buildings.”
    “And I find a number of
Playboy
magazines under the bed,” al-Lubnani said.
    Awad sipped the Bloody Mary, said, “You know, this could use some pepper. I will get some.” He stood up and said, “The
Playboy
magazines. I am all alone here.”
    “I understand this
Playboy
. I once bought them in Beirut, when I was a younger man.” Al-Lubnani frowned. “They’re not so good anymore. They don’t show so much, how do the Americans say it, this
qittah
.”
    “Pussy,” Awad said. “That is not an exact translation.”
    “Not so clearly anymore, the photography,” al-Lubnani said. “Back in the eighties, it was more clear.”
    Awad came back with the pepper, he sprinkled some on his drink and passed the shaker to al-Lubnani, who said, “I also sometimes become . . . weary of the conflict.”
    “Mmmm.” Dangerous territory,