PLAY IT AGAIN, DIEF

(A dueSouth adventure)

CHAPTER ONE

Diefenbaker pressed his nose against the glass and whined in longing. Standing on his hind legs, front paws steadying him on the long windowpane, he looked over his shoulder at the man seated at the desk.

"No, it's not that I think she's not interested," Constable Benton Fraser replied to the white wolf's query. "Perhaps, she's concerned that her offspring would inherit their father's wild heritage." He was trying to be as diplomatic as possible. A fitting aspiration, since he was currently the chief Canadian diplomatic officer in Chicago. Acting chief, that is.

Diefenbaker made a disparaging noise in his throat.

"Yes, you're right," Fraser conceded. "Honesty is the best policy between friends." His blue eyes met Dief's brown. He said, not unkindly. "She's out of your league."

Dief whined.

"I'm sorry. You wanted candor."

The wolf sighed and cast one more lovelorn glance at the Afghan purebred on the sidewalk below. He padded to the center of the room, and lay disconsolately on the Persian rug.

Fraser shook his head. Since he had moved into the big office last week, they had gone through this pantomime twice a day as the unattainable object of Dief's desire was walked past the Consulate for her morning and afternoon constitutionals. Inspector Thatcher had ordered Fraser to occupy her office during her absence, as befitted his temporary upgrade in status.

He'd have preferred his small, windowless room down the hall where Dief stayed out of trouble. So far, the only thing that had been broken in these more luxurious premises (besides one lupine heart) was a porcelain vase, a casualty of love at first sight and one wildly wagging tail. Fortunately, Turnbull had found an identical piece in an antiques shop on Wacker and Ray had talked the shop owner down to $150. While Fraser would be eating lunch at Lou's hot dog stand for the next several weeks as he repaid Ray's loan, he considered himself lucky that this was the only untoward event in an otherwise uneventful fortnight.

Uneventful, but nonetheless, time-consuming. Performing the requirements of both his job and the Inspector's had left Fraser with little free time, and that was used for eating, sleeping and the demands of personal hygiene. He hadn't seen his friend, Ray Vecchio. His father had dropped in, taken one look at the mountains of paperwork, and promptly disappeared. Even his neighbors noticed his absence. As they had passed in the stairwell late Tuesday evening, Mr. Mustafi had complained bitterly that he had been drafted to tote groceries for the ailing Mrs. Campbell and then was stuck in her apartment for an hour listening to the details of her latest medical procedure. Fraser apologized profusely, but the older man muttered his complaints all the way to street level.

The Inspector, who had been attending a high level diplomatic conference in Washington DC, would be back at work in the morning. And life would return to normal, or rather, what passed for normal at the Canadian Consulate of Chicago. He'd be glad of it. Even sentry duty would be a welcome change from the never-ending paperwork and telephone calls. A little voice in his head (which sounded remarkably like his grandmother's) reminded him that all work in the service of his country was worthwhile, no matter how tedious or dull.

He turned his attention to his final Form 10998B report. He checked it for errors, initialed in two places, and signed his name. Among other items, it duly noted the loss of the vase, its replacement, and the written reprimand of Deputy Liaison Officer Benton Fraser by Acting Chief Diplomatic Officer Benton Fraser. He surveyed the geography of the mahogany desk top. To the north, fittingly, the official correspondence and communiques from Ottawa were neatly stacked in ascending chronological order. Around the points of the compass were the remaining letters, memos, bulletins, and messages for Inspector Thatcher's perusal on the morrow, arranged in descending order of priority. He placed the Form 10998B in the appropriate pile, and leaned back in the chair.

He surveyed the room with a critical eye, seeking signs of his and Dief's occupancy. These would have to be eradicated. His eyes came to rest on a voluminous garment bag hung from a hook high on the bookcase. He had picked up the gown at the dress shop that morning, reassuring the anxious seamstress that the final alterations would meet with the Inspector's approval. He hoped that had been the truth. Well, even if it wasn't, there was still time. Today was Thursday. The Diplomacy Ball wasn't until Saturday evening.

After a moment's thought, he sorted through the stack of correspondence and extracted the pass required for the Inspector's admission to the exclusive event. It had been delivered yesterday by the firm in charge of security. He studied the plastic-coated badge. Two hands clasped in friendship were superimposed over a black and white globe. The Inspector's name, nationality, and photo were overlaid on top of this background. He positioned the badge in pride of place at the center of the desk. Perhaps, the promise of pleasantry would not go amiss before the Inspector dove into the pile of work. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the blotter, and compulsively straightened the piles of papers once more.

Satisfied with the state of the desk, he removed his notebook from his breast pocket. He studied the sketch he had made after the vase was broken. It was a miniature of the office, drawn to scale. Using the sketch as a guide, he moved the breakables back in place around the room. He smiled at the framed photograph of the dark-haired little girl – Inspector Thatcher at age nine or ten, and her dachshund puppy – as he set it on the coffee table. He was about to start on the paw and nose prints on the window when he heard a noise at the door.

"Excuse me, sir," Turnbull said. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. "This just came in over the fax." He gave it to Fraser, then added. "And Detective Vecchio is on line 1." He turned on his heel and left the room.

"Thank you, Constable," he called after him, before pressing the button on the telephone console. "Hello, Ray," he said, warmly. He had missed his friend.

The detective's voice was hushed, as if he were in a church. "Quick, Benny. Tell me about diplomatic pouches." Fraser blinked and drew a breath. Before he could speak, Ray added, "The Reader's Digest version."

Fraser obliged. "The diplomatic pouch, also known as the diplomatic bag, is a container with certain legal protections used for carrying official correspondence or other items between a diplomatic mission and its home government or other diplomatic, consular or official entities. It usually has some form of lock and/or tamper-evident seal to deter interference by unauthorized third parties. The most important aspect of a diplomatic pouch is that as long as it is externally marked to show its status, the 'pouch' has diplomatic immunity from search or seizure as codified in article 27 of the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations. For that reason, it a breach of international law to use a diplomatic pouch to convey anything other than official items."

"How big is it?"

"Actually, the physical concept of a diplomatic pouch is quite flexible, Ray. It can take many forms, for example a cardboard box, a suitcase, a crate or even a shipping container."

"A shipping container? You're kidding me, right?"

"No, Ray, I'm not," he said. "But, the most common form is a briefcase."

"Thanks, Benny."

"Ray, wait!"

"Yeah?"

"You were never interested in anything to do with consular work before. Why do you want to know now?"

Ray sighed. "The body of a woman – a German courier – was found in a dumpster at Union Station. It looks like she'd come in on the Capitol Limited yesterday. The diplomatic pouch is the only thing missing." Before Fraser could react, he heard Lieutenant Welsh's gruff voice in the background, then Ray responding, authoritatively, "Yes, sir. Funny you should ask. Did you know that diplomatic pouches aren't really pouches at all? Even a shipping container can be considered ..." Ray hung up, but not before Fraser heard the mournful sound of a train whistle in the background.

He dropped the receiver in its cradle, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. The local diplomatic community was rather a small world. It was possible that he or the Inspector or Turnbull knew the victim personally. He wished he'd had a chance to ask Ray her name.

He looked at the fax in his hand. The letterhead identified the source as the Hungarian Consulate. It was brief:

To all consular personnel in the greater Chicago area:

We regret to inform you that Deputy Consul Christina Havlek died in a hit and run automobile accident early this morning. Her remains will be returned home to Budapest for interment. A memorial service will be held in Chicago, date and time to be announced.

He sighed and set the fax on the pile of official correspondence. He had heard the news of the accident earlier on the radio, but the victim's name had not been released, pending notification of next of kin. The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought of the telephone call that, perforce, had been made, informing a family of death in a distant land.

After a moment, he turned his attention to the window. As he sprayed and wiped the glass, the sick feeling grew stronger. Violent death was always disturbing, especially the death of foreign service personnel so far away from home. He supposed his own exile gave the news a special resonance. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but the feeling was growing more intense. He was stooping to reach the glass near the floor when he stopped in mid-swipe. News of violent death was a fact of life for any police officer, much less one stationed in Chicago. So, why did he feel so ... odd? He stood, trying to reel in the maddening, elusive sensation. It was a feeling Fraser had experienced so rarely in his life that it took him a few minutes to identify it.

Either that, or the chili dog he'd had for lunch was disagreeing with him.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let his brain figure out what his stomach was trying to tell him. It took a moment, then he moved to the desk and read the communique again. The fax dropped from his hand and fluttered to the carpet. Dief looked up lazily, then shot to his feet when he saw Fraser's face. They took the stairs three at a time, Fraser calling for Turnbull as he descended.

"Yes, sir?" the young officer said, poking his head out of the kitchen door under the stairs.

Fraser brushed past him, grabbing the keys to the consular vehicle from the hook on the wall. "I'm taking the car." He came back into the foyer, snatching his coat and hat from the rack.

"Yes, sir. May I ask –?"

Fraser was uncharacteristically brusque. "Call airport security. Ask them to page the Inspector and have her report to the manager's office. She's to stay there until I arrive."

Turnbull blinked. "I thought the Inspector said she would take a cab home tonight?" A panicked look stole over his face. "The kitchen's a mess! I wasn't expect – "

"No time to explain." Fraser headed for the front door, Dief in his wake. "Try her mobile telephone, too. Though, I doubt she will have it turned on after the flight."

"Yes, sir." But Turnbull was speaking to thin air. He hurried to his desk and looked up the telephone number for O'Hare International.

Fraser performed a tricky balancing act, keeping the vehicle just over the posted speed limit, yet under the extra five mph that Ray insisted was allowed before any self-respecting city cop would bother to write a ticket. Contrary to his usual practice, he accelerated at every yellow light. But he refrained from running the reds. He told himself it was because he couldn't afford the time wasted if he were pulled over; the Inspector's flight would be landing any minute. But, in truth, he was constitutionally unable to go that far in defying the law or risking other lives. Reckless driving went against his grain and set his teeth on edge, but he made it to the short term parking lot at O'Hare International in record time. Parking was impossible. He left the car in a handicapped space and hurried, shamefaced, into the entrance. He had to leave the wolf outside, over Dief's objection. Animals were prohibited in the terminal.

He scanned the electronic board displaying flight information. The direct flight from Washington DC was on time and had just de-planed. He raced toward the gate as an announcement came over the public address system. "Inspector Margaret Thatcher, please come to the manager's office on Level 4 immediately." The message repeated. Turnbull had gotten through.

He quickened his pace, apologizing repeatedly as he pushed through the press of humanity. As he reached the bank of escalators that led down to baggage claim and up two levels to the administrative offices, he spotted her. She was on the up escalator, two floors above him. Her back was to him as she struggled with her wheeled suitcase, a small duffel on top of it, and a briefcase. She stepped off the escalator and moved to stand in front of a glass half-wall that overlooked the gallery below. She paused to sling the strap of the duffel over her head, then deftly secured it across her chest, never letting go of the briefcase.

"Inspector Thatcher!" he called, relieved to see her.

She turned in surprise and looked down at the tall, handsome man in Stetson and red serge two levels below. Her initial expression of pleased recognition was quickly replaced by a scowl. She leaned over the glass partition and said, "Fraser! What are you doing here?"

A tall figure in a gray hooded sweatshirt loomed over her shoulder.

"Behind you!" Fraser yelled.

The hooded man grabbed the briefcase. Thatcher whirled, surprised, but kept her grip. With shocking, casual brutality, the man stiff-armed her, shoving her bodily over the partition. She let go of the briefcase as she scrabbled for a handhold. The hooded man watched as she dangled by one arm from the rail at the top of the glass wall before fleeing with his prize. A collective gasp arose as other travelers on the escalator and down below noticed the altercation. Several people screamed.

"Fraser!" she cried, kicking her feet in vain as she tried to find purchase.

"Hang on!" he yelled. Instinctively, he had started for the escalator as she struggled with her assailant, then reversed course when she'd gone over the edge. There were other people up on Level 4, though none were close to her. Still, with luck, maybe they could get to her before she lost her grip. But, he'd never reach her in time. If she fell, he might be able to break her fall. His hat flew off as he put on a desperate burst of speed.

As he rounded the bank of escalators, he spotted a large padded bench, upholstered in neon green vinyl, tucked back against the wall. He shoved it ahead of him. At that moment, Thatcher lost her grip. She plummeted with a breathy squeal and landed on the bench with an audible "oooomphhh!" As she bounced up and off, Fraser reached for her. The swinging duffel smacked him full in the face, but he grabbed her, pulling her close. Her momentum knocked him off his feet and he fell backward, rolling her on top of him. The breath whooshed out of his lungs as he crashed to the floor, the shock of impact shuddering through him. He lay still, eyes closed, arms locked around her. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. He felt her trembling, and stroked her back with a shaking hand as he struggled to get himself under control. When he could breathe again, he opened his eyes. Her brown eyes were inches from his.

"You ... OK?" he managed.

She nodded, unable to speak. A flash of light startled them. Their heads swivelled in tandem. A middle-aged woman knelt beside them. Over her shoulder, a young man with a camera was snapping away. Behind him, a small crowd had gathered.

"Are you two all right?" the woman asked, kindly.

Fraser squinted up at her from his supine position. "I ... I ... think ... so." He was still breathless from the impact and the weight of the Inspector on his chest.

She smiled. "Take a moment, sweetie." She patted his arm and sat back on her haunches. "I'm a nurse," she said, conversationally.

"We're ... Mounties," he breathed, half-amused and half-comforted by the banality of the exchange.

Thatcher gaped at the crowd. The flash went off again, and her expression changed. "Let me up."

"You shouldn't move, honey," the nurse protested. "Not until the EMTs get a look at both of you. They're on their way."

Thatcher squirmed. A flash went off, blinding her. "Fraser, let me up," she hissed. As he hesitated, another flash went off. She barked, "That's an order!"

He forced his arms to relax their grip and she rolled off him. She sat up woozily, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She looked at the crowd buzzing around them, trying to gather the shreds of her dignity about her. The young man snapped picture after picture. Fraser, flushed pink at being the center of so much attention, braced his hands on the bench and pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. He reached for the Inspector's outstretched hands and hauled her up. She stood, then cried out in pain, collapsing against him. He helped her to the bench and knelt to examine her rapidly swelling ankle.

The photographer moved in for a close-up.

"Stop that," Thatcher snapped at him. He flinched at her glare, lowered the camera, and backed away. She turned her laser sights on Fraser. "What are you doing here? Who was that man? And why in God's name did you send me up there?"

He followed her gaze to the balcony two stories over their heads, then down at her flashing eyes. He swallowed hard at the thought of what might have happened to this vital, vibrant and very vexed woman.

"I ... uh ... had a hunch," he said, lamely. Before she could respond to that revelation, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. The EMTs had arrived.