Chapter 25: Big Surprise

The group, assembled in the main room of the estate house, found themselves speechless at what they'd just heard. Andrei shook his head and smiled his big Russian grin in wry acceptance, as if to say, 'why didn't I see this coming?'

"So, Michael! I bet you never in your life expected such words, no? From the mouth of the adder comes not a forked tongue of hate, but the sweet speech of gratitude and apology! You hear it, but can you believe it?" Andrei laughed.

"Grin, you old bear ... have your fun. First, you scare the hell out of us with this unexpected kidnapping! I'm thinking we're going to have a US strike force crashing through our upper story windows at any moment ... but, this? Absolutely unbelievable!

"Todd, did you have any clue? Even the slightest hint that this was possible? I can understand our foolishly-grinning Russian comic sitting there; after all, he's a walking testimonial to old age and senility (Andrei returned the insult by blowing a huge raspberry in Michael's direction) but you are a clever and skillful agent ... didn't you have the slightest suspicion?

"Hell no ... he was the perfect actor! I was convinced he was not only as evil as his boss, but enthusiastically the most evil bastard of the lot! Who knew? Who could suspect?" Todd Abrams answered.

"Not so surprising, actually," Pietor added. "Not if you compare his political situation to that of ... oh, the Kremlin. One must be a chameleon to survive in such situations. Mr. Zaglinder found himself in a swamp filled with predators. It was a case of blend in, or be eaten. Not surprising at all ... and pardon me for saying, but I think such a talent could be very useful. Perhaps not to you, so much, but to me ... my organization, in your service? Very useful indeed, I'm thinking," Pietor mused.

The object of the conversation was sitting a few feet away in another chair, with a plate of refreshments and a cup of Michael's best 'evil brew' at hand. One would think he was paying little attention, but the knowing glint in his eyes betrayed his real feelings. Truth be told, Bob Zaglinder was feeling profound relief. They believed him. And it was to their benefit that they did, for every word he'd told them was the truth. And for that he was extremely grateful.

When Bob Zaglinder recovered from the powerful drug that had been injected into his neck at the moment of his kidnapping, he glanced around his surroundings. He immediately recognized his captors: the tall, golden-hued figure of Jon'a-ren, he recognized from video scenes of the Antarctic debacle; Michael, he was shocked to see, shared a similar if somewhat subdued golden hue. Obviously he'd undergone some transformation during his absence from Earth. His strong features were recognizable as the same he remembered from the video scenes where he was seen standing with Jon'a-ren on the fantail of that sea-going tug.

He was shocked to see Andrei Gulichov, the old Russian spy. 'I thought he'd been retired off to a civil servant's pension, spending his summers at his Dacha, sipping vodka and reminiscing with other old spies.' And there is ... yes, Todd Abrams. Ahhh ... it comes together now."

"We will cut your bindings and offer you food and beverage, if you give us your word that you will sit quietly," Michael told him. Zaglinder nodded his agreement, and in moments he was sitting, rubbing his aching wrists, ready to pick up the cup of coffee set in front of him.

"First thing, allow me to apologize for this 'inconvenience, ' Mr. Zaglinder. It was not my intention to have you abducted. Credit for that must go to my somewhat... overzealous ... friends, here." Michael nodded his head in the direction of an embarrassed appearing Todd Abrams, and a somewhat irate and offended Andrei, who snorted rudely at hearing his 'brilliantly improvised' plan so denigrated.

"I should explain that we conducted a rescue operation of sorts, to remove Mr. Abrams and his family, and that old Russian relic, before your President and his forces could inflict harm upon them. Somehow, you got swept up in the net."

"Where are we, exactly?" Zaglinder asked.

"Geneva, Switzerland ... actually, on a rural estate just outside Geneva."

"Obviously I am a 'guest' of the Masi'shen embassy, then?"

"Guest? Yes, that is a gracious term for it."

"Not nearly gracious enough, I'd say," Zaglinder said, looking up to Michael with a huge smile. "No ... not nearly enough. I'd have to add 'enthusiastic guest' or 'profoundly grateful guest' ... or perhaps even, 'asylum-seeking guest' to the description. Sir, you have no idea how grateful I am to be here. And to make it official, Mr. Hawthorne, I respectfully request asylum!"

"To be perfectly candid and clear about this," Zaglinder reiterated to his hosts. "I can give you detailed information concerning every operation, every order, every plot, plan and perfidy that Jonas Barnes and Albert Stinson perpetrated from the moment I took up my office at Barnes's right hand. I will do this freely and enthusiastically.

"At another time, perhaps, I can explain the disgust and loathing I swallowed as Stinson's insanity increased, and as Barnes fed and nurtured it for his own purposes. Some day soon, the people of America will shudder at the horror of what Stinson and Barnes did to their nation ... but in exchange, I do not demand, but I do plead with you. I fear for my daughter and her family. I beg you to save them, as you saved the Abrams family."

Lyn'na-ra and Jon'a-ren grimaced at Michael, and shook their heads at his 'co-conspirator, ' Berl'ahan. They were gathered around the breakfast table in the Embassy kitchen. All except Michael were sipping heavily-sugared milk tea from their cups. Michael grinned savagely as he noisily slurped his thick, black coffee. They returned the favor with looks of disgust and disapproval.

"Don't the two of you tire of tweaking the noses of the US armed forces, by slipping past them on these 'midnight raids' of yours, to spirit away their citizens in the dead of night?" Lyn'na-ra inquired, sipping her tea? Michael noticed that his mother-in-law tended to use tea-sipping noises as punctuation for her teasing commentary.

"Ummm ... mother-mine, I fear you've been reading too much pulp fiction lately. I must emphasize the term 'fiction'... ," Michael retorted.

"Please answer the question, son. Do you, or do you not, intend to slip into the US in the dead of night, to spirit away more of their citizens, despite the objections of their government and their armed forces?"

"Since you put it that way, mother dear, of course I do!"

"Very well. Do be careful about it. And Berl'ahan, I expect you to exercise some control over our head-strong son. The last thing we expect to see is another international newscast of him standing like some Viking God in the open doorway of our shuttle-craft, 'hosing down' the opposing forces with his magical ribbons of Thor's fire!"

"Oh, dear God," Michael groaned to himself. "I thought we'd settled all that!"

Berl'ahan choked on his tea, and barely regained his breath without losing the entire cupful across the table top. "Yes, my Lady," he gasped. "Certainly ... as you request..."

"And you can stop that this instant!" Lyn'na-ra objected. "One irreverent actor at this table is quite sufficient. It is all I can do to guide the Ambassador away from the path of foolish mischief and misadventure, and it is quite impossible to rein in our son-in-law. I certainly have no need for a second foolish son!"

In retrospect, Michael's encounter at the Canadian border, and his dramatic intervention with the shuttle and his 'energy ribbons' to stop the US forces from over-running the sheriff and his men, provoked a strong response from his Masi'shen in-laws. Comparatively speaking, it was about the same reaction one would expect from human parents who found their six-year-old child testing his balance by tight-rope walking the railing of their fourth-floor balcony. In brief, they praised him for his ingenuity and skill; but extracted a firm promise from him not to do such a reckless and exceedingly 'public' thing again.

"You know full well that you were deliberately provoking the American armed forces!" Jon'a-ren chastised Michael. "They must be terrified, and enraged, at the open display of our power. Son, I realize that you had no idea that news cameras were recording the event, and had the ability to focus on you so closely ... by the way, had you shaved that morning?" he teased.

"It is not in our best interest to make such a display before these Earth authorities, and least of all the Americans. I have learned that they, of all the Earth's nations, consider themselves virtually unassailable in their military supremacy. It is a foolish thing to taunt them, my son. Please, tone it down a bit, would you?"

And that was the end of it ... for the moment.

"You do realize that these night-time missions are perfectly safe?" Michael protested, mildly. "Our cloaking and wave-scattering safeguards make it impossible for them to detect us. Even sitting on the ground, the shuttle can be invisible. About the only risk we incur is if we fly into an ambush, and only then if we should de-cloak, or open the bay doors and reveal ourselves."

"Yes," Lyn'na-ra sighed. "You are correct, of course. But still ... it is my duty to worry. My poor daughter, she worries about you too, dear one. Please, take care."

"Of course, mother-mine. Do your duty, and I'll do mine," Michael teased her.

Andrei had managed to slip a coded message to a trusted contact. He'd been forced to call in his very last favor to do so, but old friendships ran deep and Andrei had been a good friend to many. The message got to Patricia Porter, Zaglinder's married daughter, living in a Virginia suburb of Washington with her husband and two teenage children. Andrei worried that she and her family would strongly object to being uprooted. He'd asked his contact to meet with her personally to state the case forcefully and candidly: their lives were in real danger.

"I did as you asked, Andrei," his friend explained on a Skype-encrypted video call from Washington to Geneva. "I met with both her and her husband in their home, after explaining the urgency of the matter. Let me first explain who they are: she is a school health nurse, currently employed at a local high school. Patricia Zaglinder Porter is 36, and very intelligent. Her husband is Charles Porter, age 38, a civil engineer with his own design and consulting business. This is a remarkable achievement, for one still in his mid-thirties. They have two children: a son, Gerald, age 18, who calls himself 'Jerry.' He is a first-year electrical engineering student at Virginia Polytechnic. The daughter is Megan, age 16, a senior honors student at the same high school where her mother is the health nurse. Andrei, this is an exceptional family."

"Dah, I suspected as much, from her father. He is both very proud, and extremely concerned for their welfare. Do they understand the mission? More urgently, do they agree with our purpose?"

"Yes, no question. They have suspected their father's dilemma and have wondered why he didn't find some way to quit, or escape. The extent of the danger eluded them, however. They are naive, Andrei. They are reluctant to attribute such sinister and ugly motives to their own government officials. But to reassure you, yes, they understand their situation and they trust the message from their father. They accept that they must flee to safety.

"It is a sad thing, Andrei. They are leaving much behind. Their careers, their property, their professional associates and personal friends, and the two young people ... such promising beginnings. It will be hard, Andrei. I am absolutely amazed that they have such faith and trust in her father to do this thing!"

"Dah, amazing. But I think it is safe to promise that they will not regret it, my friend. Some day I will invite you here, and you will see that there are opportunities and wonders of which you could only dream ... and then, I think, your dreams would fall far short of the reality. So ... we have them ready to go, and we have a place and a time, correct?"

"Yes ... see the time and coordinates written on this card. I will not be there, but the family will. You say you have done this before, always without problems. May you be blessed again. Goodbye, Andrei. May we drink together again, on some happier day to come. Be well, my friend."

The night sky reflected the lights of the surrounding city from low-hanging clouds. If one had been looking closely, they might have seen a dark hole in the cloud bottom open and wink closed again. The shuttle dropped onto the football field, centered on the 50-yard line. It remained cloaked. A dim red rectangle appeared about three feet above the clipped grass. A shadowy figure appeared in the opening, looking outward, searching for something. Three whistled notes sounded, like someone calling their dog.

A small group of figures emerged from between the bleacher seats on the side facing the red-glimmered opening. They heard the whistle and began trotting toward it. Before they had gotten halfway across to the hatch opening hanging in the air, the field was bathed in a flood of light. All around them, they heard the sharp snapping sounds of the field's lights powering on. The running figures stopped and looked about in dazed confusion. An amplified voice roared out over a loudspeaker:

"This is the FBI. Halt where you are. Stand with your legs spread and your hands, fingers locked together, behind your heads! Do it NOW! I repeat..." the disembodied voice thundered across the brilliantly-lit field. They were trapped in the open. There was nowhere to run to; no place to hide. The family froze in fear, looking frantically toward ... what? They could see nothing where the faint red opening had beckoned before.