The Winds of God

by pat weakley

Book Two-The Daily Sentinel has been bombed. Britt's investigation of who did it is complicated by the fact that he must keep his activities as the Green Hornet secret from his two grown children who are home for the holidays.

3. The Conference

Chapter Three

The Conference

I

Britt Reid unfolded the note that Jennie at the Daily Sentinel had given to him. It was from John and said that he wanted to see him as soon as possible. He had a good idea of what John might want to talk to him about, and it definitely had nothing to do with the wedding. It's not that he had been avoiding his son all day, it was just that there was one thing after another that demanded his attention.

Now there was the unexpected phone call from Hamidi Nasser, a wealthy importer of fine rugs and tapestries and one of the leaders of the city's growing Muslim community. Nasser had not said why he wanted to see the publisher, but there were enough hints that the meeting was very important. Britt refolded the note. He'd already canceled the rest of the day's appointment, now he'd have to miss seeing John as well.

"Mr. Reid," Hamidi Nasser said heartily, offering a slender hand heavy with diamond and gold rings. "I am so glad that you could make it on such short notice."

Britt shook Nasser's hand. "I had to. After your phone call, I was intrigued."

"Very good," the broadly smiling Egyptian said, leading Britt from his shop's showroom into a large room decorated with beautiful oriental rugs of red and gold. In the center of the room was a large low table surrounded with thick velvet cushions. "I don't think you will be disappointed. By the way, how is your lovely wife?"

"She's doing fine," Britt answered, "She's home from the hospital now."

"Good, good," Nasser beamed. "It was most unfortunate what happened. There have been incidents in our little community as well. Nothing like the bombing, praise Allah. Just fires that should not have happened, windows broken, racist graffiti on the walls. Perhaps you noticed where I painted over some on my own walls?" Britt nodded. "It's been so very random, we can't find who is responsible. It's been more a nuisance, really, nothing serious, it's just that some of our more timid people have become frightened," he explained.

Britt frowned. "I didn't hear anything about this. Did you tell the police?" he asked.

Nasser shook his head. "No. I wanted to, but the others wanted to keep it quiet. There is little trust of the police among our little group. They wanted to handle it themselves. Most think it is merely harmless vandalism done by some spoiled teenagers who have nothing better to do with their time."

"But you don't agree," Britt stated.

"Exactly," Nasser said, "Racist vandalism has always been a problem in communities like ours, but this is different, more widespread. I have spoken to others small communities like ours and they all talk of the same thing. I think there is a single group behind this and if it is not stopped it will only get worse."

"Is that what this meeting is about?" Britt asked.

"No, not today," Nasser said. "There is something more important to talk to you about." His dark eyes shone with pleasure at the publisher's puzzled look. "I have someone very special for you to meet," he said rubbing his hands in delight. "I would like to introduce you to Abdullah ibn Ubayy," he said as a slight man entered the room followed by a dark, somewhat taller young man.

As leader of the Palestinian Freedom Front, Abdullah ibn Ubayy was a favorite interview subject whenever an Arabic opinion was needed on the frequent violent happenings of the Mideast. His small stature combined with an impressively huge nose and a perpetually stubbled weak chin made him a favorite subject for political cartoonists. The simple common soldier's appearance of a plain, unadorned olive drab uniform complemented with a traditional arab red-checked head cloth bound around his head by a simple black cord belied the power of the man branded as the most dangerous in the world.

"Mr. Ibn Ubayy, it is an honor to meet you," Britt said.

"More of a surprise than an honor, I would guess, Mr. Reid," Ibn Ubayy added for Britt, his broad smile revealing a mouthful of bad teeth.

"Yes, it is," Britt admitted. "If I remember correctly, you weren't invited to the conference."

"Indeed I wasn't. Your government unfortunately still holds a grudge against me and my organization for past excesses."

"I'm not surprised about that, since among the many acts of terrorism your organization was responsible for was the hijacking and bombing of a plane load of American tourists," Britt remarked bluntly.

Instead of disappearing, Ibn Ubayy's smile broadened. The young man who had entered with him took a threatening step forward. Ibn Ubayy raised a hand. "No need, Ibrahim. Mr. Reid is merely demonstrating a most admirable penchant for speaking his mind. I find it most refreshing after the constant evasiveness that I have been subjected to lately."

"How did you get into the States and why are you here?" Britt asked.

"I would rather not say how I came to be here. I may need that route again in the future. But it should be obvious that I came here because of the conference. My people must be truly represented, which they will not be by those lackeys selected by the U.N." Ibn Ubayy replied.

"What do you want me to do?" Britt asked him.

"Ever to the point, Mr. Reid. I am glad that you were recommended to me," Ibn Ubayy said, "but why don't we get comfortable first. We have much to discuss," he said leading Britt to the low table. "Hamidi, some coffee to moisten our parched throats and to keep our tongues supple."

Britt frowned, but followed Ibn Ubayy's example by folding his long legs into a sitting position on top of one of the pillows.

Ibn Ubayy noted Britt's slight difficulty with his left leg. "Perhaps we should bring in some chairs. I did not realize that you had a bad leg," he said apologetically.

"Don't bother," Britt said, trying to get into a more comfortable position. "It's an old injury from a time when I was younger and more foolish," he explained, "It always acts up on cold days like this."

"Yes," Ibn Ubayy agreed. "We old men must always pay for the carelessness of our youth. Perhaps if we had known about the pains of getting up in the morning, we would have been more careful." He looked up at the young man who had remained standing, and was obviously not included in the conversation.

"But I seriously doubt it would have changed anything. Right?" he said, accepting the cup of thick black coffee offered by the rug merchant who quickly disappeared after giving another cup to the publisher.

Britt took a sip of the strong Turkish coffee before answering. "I can think of some decisions that could have been made differently, but in the long run, I don't think things would have turned out differently."

"Any regrets then?" Ibn Ubayy asked.

"None," Britt answered. He looked pointedly at Ibn Ubayy. "Do you have any?" he asked.

"Some," Ibn Ubayy admitted, glancing quickly up at his aide with a wry smile. "Although many of my people would like to believe that I am incapable of mistakes, there are things I would have done differently."

"The acts of terrorism," Britt supplied.

"We were fighting a war. We had to fight our oppressors any way that we could," Ibn Ubayy said defensively.

"Including murdering children?" Britt demanded.

"Our own children were dying," hissed Ibn Ubayy.

"An eye for an eye," Britt calmly stated.

"Yes, an eye for an eye," Ibn Ubayy said, glaring at Britt. Then with a visible effort he regained his composure. "Those were evil times, Mr. Reid. Many terrible things were done. On both sides," he said. "And with each new death, innocent or soldier, with each new outrage, things became worse, never better," he admitted tiredly.

"Instead of freeing ourselves, we became the prisoners of the violence. No longer do we sing songs of peace and happiness. Now there is only hatred. Boys learn how to fire an AK-47 before they know their alphabet. That is if they ever learn it all. Their mothers and sisters think it a great thing when they die at Israeli hands, because they have become martyrs for the cause, for Allah," he said harshly. "Even women with babies in their arms have willingly set themselves up as targets for the sake of our cause."

"Our cause," Ibn Ubayy snorted derisively. "What will if profit us if all of our young people are dead or maimed? It is not only the loss of lives, it is the loss of our souls that we have suffered."

"That is why I need your help. You have a lot of influence, a lot of power, perhaps even more than you realize. And yet your reputation for honesty and fairness is beyond reproach. I want you to represent us at the conference."

Britt looked doubtful. "I don't know. You're in the country illegally. How do I know that you aren't here to cause some kind of trouble, perhaps even to kill some of the delegates?"

"I wouldn't be here with you if I had. I may be getting old, but I am not senile. You must believe me. This may be our one last chance for a fair and lasting peace. Think of all the lives you would be saving," Ibn Ubayy pressed.

"But can I trust you?" Britt asked.

Ibn Ubayy looked him in the eye. "What do your instincts tell you? Trust them."

Britt studied Ibn Ubayy thoughtfully. He seemed to be sincere. His instincts told him to trust the man, and yet his history, the terrorism, the deaths he was responsible for. How could he?

"Okay," he finally said. "I will represent your interests at the conference, but I will also see if I can get you recognized as a legitimate delegate. However, if I sense or get the slightest hint that you are not dealing with me honestly, I will make you sorry you were ever born," he warned.

Ibn Ubayy's aide moved forward, his hand reaching for the pistol at his side. "Sir, I cannot allow this infidel to threaten you. We can do without his so-called help," he said angrily.

"Ibrahim!" Ibn Ubayy shouted angrily. "Silence. I will tolerate no further outbursts. Do you understand?"

The young man nodded his obedience, but his anger did not subside. "My only wish is to protect and serve you," he said humbly.

"You will serve me best by holding your tongue," Ibn Ubayy said sharply. He turned to the publisher. "Please forgive the young fool's words. He is young and over zealous, like we both once were." He offered his hand. "Let us shake. I have understood your conditions and agree to be entirely truthful as long as you deal fairly with me."

An agitated Hamidi burst into the room. "Mr. Reid, a bomb has been found at the Grand Hotel! A cameraman from your television station has been taken in for questioning."

II

Lee glumly watched Detective Morrisey pace in front of him while a Secret Service agent stood beside him at parade rest, his eyes as unreadable as if he still wore the mirrored sunglasses that peeked out of his breast pocket. Lee had refused to say anything until Britt Reid and a lawyer showed up, but it was easy enough to see that both men would have preferred to have questioned him without such legal pleasantries. Sometimes it's helpful to have friends in high places. Problem was, it was Britt Reid who had gotten him in this trouble in the first place.

He should have known that the day was going to go badly. First, the past week of full days at the Daily Sentinel and full nights with the Green Hornet had finally taken its toll on him, and he had slept well past the buzzing of his alarm. Then James O'Leary wasn't ready when Lee had finally had come by with the DSTV newsvan to pick him up. Then they got lost.

"Looks like we can't get there from here," Lee said disgustedly as they watched a backhoe carrying a load of ripped up asphalt cross in front of them. "Every road we take is full of construction."

"Maybe if we take the next right," James O'Leary suggested.

"We already did that," Lee said testily.

"But I can see the building from here," O'Leary pressed. "It's to our right. You can see the glass dome from here."

"We already went that way," Lee replied. "They're working on a water main there and if you remember, we had to keep on taking right turns until we're where we are now. If we turn right, that's what'll happen again."

"What about the right after that?"

"That's a one way street. Remember? We'll wind up going left any way."

"But it doesn't make any sense to turn away from the building we're heading for."

Lee gunned the newsvan through after the flag man moved to safety and slammed to a stop just beyond the construction site. "Okay, smart guy. Why don't you drive and figure out how to get there?"

"Maybe we should park and carry the stuff over there," O'Leary suggested.

"You want to carry all this stuff over there?" Lee asked, eyeing the photographer's pudgy frame. "I'm not going to carry it all," he warned.

"We're running out of time. We're going to be the last ones there."

"Well, why weren't you ready when I got there?" Lee demanded.

"Didn't matter anyway. You were late," O'Leary replied heatedly.

"All the more reason why you should've been ready," Lee snapped back. "And worse we had to go back for that damn gym bag of yours. What's so important for it anyway?"

"It has some equipment I need," the redheaded photographer answered.

"If it was so important, you should've had it ready when I got there."

"I forgot. Okay?"

Lee sighed tiredly. This wasn't turning out like Britt Reid wanted it to. "I'm sorry. I've been putting in some late nights working on something for Mr. Reid. I guess my temper's getting too short."

O'Leary shrugged. "Yeah. I guess you're right. I should've been ready by the time you got to my place." He grinned slightly. "You know, if we're having so much trouble, I bet everybody else is having a hard time too. We probably won't be so late after all."

"Yeah, maybe, "Lee said as he reluctantly pulled away from the curb, "We'll try it one more time. Then we'll walk."

"Uh, Lee," James said hesitantly, after if finally seemed like they were on the right track. "Do you know anything about mind control?"

"Mind control? What do you mean?" Lee asked, wondering what had brought on that odd question.

"Well, it's just that Dr. Goode asked me to do some research in the Sentinel's morgue on subliminal messages being used for mind control. I found some stuff about a guy who used music with subliminal messages almost thirty years ago. It mentioned that Mr. Reid had something to do with it, so I was wondering if he ever told you anything about it, or since your father was his valet, if he ever mentioned anything."

"I think my father did mention something about that. I think the guy brainwashed Mrs. Reid, she was Mr. Reid's secretary before they got married, into trying to kill him. My Dad stopped her just in time. Like you said, it was nearly thirty years ago. I don't know how anything about it that could help you."

"Maybe you're right. I guess things were pretty primitive back then. With today's technology, it would be a lot easier to brainwash people with subliminal techniques."

"Yeah. That's a scary thing to think about."

James smiled oddly. "Yet, think about the possibilities for good that it could be used for. Imagine using it rehabilitate criminals or cure addicts. The possibilities for good are endless," he said eagerly.

"So are the possibilities for misuse," Lee countered. "It would be a way for governments, or anybody else with the means, to make people do exactly what they want them to do. It could take people's wills away from them."

"But society would be so much more peaceful and ordered. There'd be no dissent, no violence. People would be a lot safer in such a society. The lawbreakers could all be turned into useful citizens and all evil thoughts in the world would be eliminated. It would be heaven on earth."

"Or Hell," Lee commented grimly. "Why did Dr. Goode want to know about mind control anyway?" he asked.

James shrugged. "I don't know, he didn't tell me." He was silent for a moment. He brightened. "How would you like to come with me to one of the services at the Kingdom of Divine Love?"

Just what Mr. Reid had wanted, Lee thought. "Yeah, sure, I'd like to. I've been wondering what it was all about."

"Great!" James said. "How about I call you later with the time and where we can meet."

"Sounds good to me," Lee answered. "Look, there's the hotel, and I think I can actually see a parking space."

"God damn it!" Lee swore as a long strip on paint was scraped from the van's side. "This space isn't large enough for a Yugo, never mind this van."

"You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain," James said disapprovingly. "Instead you should praise Him for the fact that we found anything at all."

"Sorry," Lee said. "I just wish He had arranged for something a little wider. Doyle's going to kill me when he sees this."

He tried opening his door. "How in the world am I going to get out of here."

"No problem, you can get out the back," James said. "There's lots of room behind us."

With James' help, Lee scrambled into the rear of the van. He helped the photographer don his equipment and hefted the rest of the camera gear out of the van. With a groan, he recognized Ed Lowrey standing there watching them. "Uh, hi, Lowrey. What're you doing here?" he asked.

"Dunigan sent me here to cover the audience reaction to the delegates' arrival," he explained. "You guys are little late, aren't you?" he commented casually. "Did you get up late or something?" he asked knowingly, aware of Lee's nighttime excursions with Britt Reid.

"We both got up late and then we got lost," James said helpfully.

"There was a lot of traffic on the road too," Lee said, trying to save face in front of the lanky reporter. "Some idiot in front of us wiped out on a patch of ice. It tied up traffic and we had to find another way over here."

"Yeah, ice can be damn dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. Especially at night." Lowrey added.

James' brow furrowed, wondering what the reporter was hinting at.

"Uh, James, why don't you go on ahead?" Lee suggested. "I'll get the rest of the stuff and catch up with you as soon as I can."

"Sure," James said, "Hand me that gym bag, will you?"

"Okay, especially since we had to go back for it," Lee said, handing the bag over.

Behind O'Leary's retreating back, Lee hissed at the reporter, "What're you trying to do? Can't we trust you to keep your trap shut about the Green Hornet?"

Lowrey ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair. He grinned innocently. "Hey, back off, Kid. I didn't mean anything."

"Don't call me 'Kid'," Lee growled, angrily slamming the van's rear door closed.

Lowrey shrugged off Lee's anger. "I heard you guys had a narrow escape."

Lee glared. "As you can see we got out just fine."

"The Boss looks like he had a rough time of it though. Why didn't you give him a hand?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"No thanks. I'd like to live a while longer, if you don't mind. By the way, did you find anything out at Red Knight?"

"That's something else you ought to ask Mr. Reid about."

"I tried. He won't tell me a thing."

"Not my problem," Lee commented.

"Your coming here with O'Leary got anything to do with last night?" Lowrey pressed.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out," Lee answered. "Look, I got a lot to do and you're not helping any." He shouldered his equipment. "I got to catch up with James. I hope I don't see you later."

"Don't count on it, Kid," Lowrey replied under his breath as Lee quickly trotted away. He raised his voice, "Hey, Kid, be careful if O'Leary invites you to his church. I hear they don't take prisoners."

Lee trotted hurriedly to the hotel's service entrance. Lowrey's unwelcome interruption had cost him a lot of time. He hoped that somehow he would be able to catch up with the redheaded photographer and get set up before the delegates arrived.

"Damn," he swore when the door refused to open. He pulled harder and still the door wouldn't budge. Slamming on the door, he shouted, "Hey, somebody! Open up! The door's locked!"

He paced in front of the door a few minutes, hoping that somebody had heard him. Time was passing away far too quickly. He shot a quick glance at his watch. He was going to be late and in a lot of trouble if he didn't get inside soon. He swore again, and kicked the door one final time. "Damn, damn, damn," he chanted under his breath. He would have to try the front door.

A large crowd of sightseers and curiosity seekers made it nearly impossible to reach the doors. Lee noticed Lowrey working the crowd and quickly turned away before the reporter could spot him. People grumbled and shot dirty looks at him as he shoved his way through, trying to keep a hold on his equipment and trying to stop it from hitting anyone. Most of the time he wasn't successful, earning dirty looks and muttered curses as people wondered aloud who he thought he was. He considered himself lucky that everyone was too intent on keeping their spot in the crowd to take a swing at him. Britt Reid would've killed him if he was caught getting into a fight on an assignment.

An over-coated guard with an earphone jack in his ear and mirrored sunglasses eyed Lee's press card skeptically. "You say you're with the Daily Sentinel?"

Lee nodded breathlessly, shifting his equipment to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. He was disturbed by seeing his own reflection wavering in the man's sunglasses.

"Why didn't you use the back door?" the man demanded suspiciously.

"It was locked," Lee answered, wishing he could read the man's expression behind those sunglasses.

The man signaled to one of his partners. "You can buy these things in any mail order catalog," he growled, flipping Lee's press card back to him. "Show me your driver's license."

"Anything you say," Lee said, pulling out his wallet and opening it to show his driver's license. "The picture's not too good, but that's me, all right," he commented, forcing a smile despite the seething anger he felt inside.

The two men glared down at him, silently examining his license far too long for his liking. "C'mon, I got work to do. Give me a break. Okay?" The sharp edge of desperation was starting to creep into his voice.

The second man took Lee's license from the first man. He examined it even more closely. "Your address is from out of town. The Daily Sentinel's a local paper," he said suspiciously.

"I moved here a few months ago. I haven't gotten around to changing my license," Lee answered. Behind him he could hear the wail of the approaching police escort of the dignitaries.

"C'mon, man, I got to get going," Lee pleaded, silently thinking, Why don't you go hassle somebody else?

The guard gave his license one more close look. "Get it updated, Mr. Lee," he growled as he returned it. He muttered to his partner, "I don't like guys who have only one name. It's like they think they're some kind of celebrity or something."

"Thanks," Lee said, placing his wallet into his hip pocket, adding under his breath, "For nothin'."

The guard looked down at him sharply, and Lee forced a weak grin as he squeezed past the two men who made no move to get out of the way.

Lee looked at the vast marble-lined lobby in confusion. All of the clerk positions stood empty and there was no one around to direct him to the room where the press conference was going to be held. He wandered to where the lobby opened into a large atrium filled with tropical trees and a five story tall water fall that tumbled down into a crystal pool filled with speckled Koi and floating red-ribboned poinsettias. Three broad, thickly carpeted hallways led off from the atrium.

Lee looked for a sign, something, anything that would point him in the right direction. "Great," Lee said to himself, "What am I going to do now?"

He heard someone whistling from behind the mirrored bar in a sunken alcove filled with small tables and red upholstered chairs. He walked over to the bar and looked behind it. "Uh, excuse me," he said to the young woman busily adjusting something under the counter, "Can you help me?"

The girl stood up, quickly smoothing the wrinkled grey jumpsuit and absently brushing at a strand of dark hair that had escaped from the long ponytail that cascaded down the length of her back. "I'll try," she said.

Lee smiled engagingly. "I'm kind of lost. Do you know where the Van Gogh room is?" he asked.

"Van Gogh?" she repeated, straight brows knitting in thought. "Sure," she brightened into a broad grin. "Take the north corridor and it's the third, fourth and fifth doors on the right."

"Uh, north . . . " Lee began trying to remember which direction north would be.

"That one," she said, pointing to the center hallway.

"Thanks. By the way what's your name?" he asked.

"Lisa. What's yours?"

"Lee."

Her smile grew broader. "Lisa and Lee. That kind of goes together." Lee nodded. "I'll be done around six," she added.

"You like pizza?" he asked.

"Love it. Doozie's down a block from here makes a great veggie special," she suggested.

"I'll see you at six then," Lee answered, thinking that perhaps things were going to work out after all. Then he remembered what he was doing there in the first place. After a quick wave he trotted down the hallway that Lisa had pointed out.

Just within sight of the Van Gogh room he noticed under a tall vase of white and gold flowers a box wrapped in gold foil wrapping paper decorated with angels. That was an odd place to put a present, Lee thought. Too odd. He was running late, but a feeling told him that something was very wrong.

Coming back to the present, Lee checked his watch. It looked like he was going to miss that date after all. "Look, Morrisey," he said to the detective, "I found the box, but I wasn't the one who put it there. You should be calling me a hero instead of treating me like a criminal."

The secret service man turned on him. "How do we know that it wasn't a publicity stunt for your newspaper?" he demanded angrily.

"Sir," said a familiar voice that had enough authority in it to send the secret service man bolt upright. "If you have any accusations against my newspaper or my staff, I suggest you bring them directly to me."

"Mr. Reid, boy am I glad to see you," Lee said as the tall publisher faced the secret service man and Detective Morrisey.

"For beginners, gentlemen," Britt said, taking control of the situation. "How about telling me what happened and why are you holding this man," Britt said, hitching a hip onto a desk, expectantly waiting to hear what had happened.

After Lee had told his story, Detective Morrisey added, "The box was given to the bomb squad. They found a bomb in it with a timer set to go off in about half an hour."

"So if it hadn't for my man finding it, people might have been hurt, or killed." Britt said.

"Yeah," Morrisey admitted reluctantly.

"Then why are you holding him?" the publisher asked.

"We have to explore all possibilities," the secret service man said.

"Including the idea that my paper would stoop so low as to plant a bomb as some sort of sick publicity stunt?"

Morrisey glared at the secret service man. It was obvious that the idea wasn't his. The secret service man repeated, "All possibilities have to be explored."

"I see," Britt said. "Do you have any proof of the Daily Sentinel's involvement?" he asked.

"No," the secret service man said.

"And none concerning my man's involvement outside of finding the thing?"

"Right."

"Is there any reason to hold him any further?"

"No . . . "

"Except," Morrisey chimed in, "We would like to see him downtown later to sign a statement."

"That can be done," Britt agreed.

"And it's not a good idea for him to leave town," Morrisey warned.

"I am sure Lee has no intention of doing so." Britt said firmly. "I take it that he is free to go."

"Yes," Morrisey said.

The secret service man opened his mouth to say something, but decided to go along with the local cop. He made a mental note though, to keep an eye on the young man. He was still sure he was tied in somehow.

III

The smell of fresh coffee brewing and baking bread roused Casey from a deep sleep. "Who in the world is making breakfast?" she thought. Britt had earlier mentioned something about them going out to the House of Pancakes after she had gotten up. "Had he changed his mind?" she wondered. But who was baking the bread? Coffee was about the limit of Britt's culinary skills. Perhaps it was Fatima, she thought remembering that John and Fatima were planning on coming over in the morning. She threw on the robe that had been draped over the edge of the bed the night before.

"Danielle!" she said in surprise, spotting her dark-haired daughter standing at the stove scrambling up some eggs. "What in the world are you doing here?"

"Hi, Mom," Danielle answered as she quickly tossed a small carton into the trash. "I didn't mean to wake you up," she said, giving her mother a quick kiss and a hug. "I figured that since I had finished all my finals, there wasn't any reason to hang around any longer than I had to."

"Did you drive all the way here?" Casey asked.

Danielle nodded.

"That's an awful long distance to drive by yourself," Casey said. "Or were you all by yourself?" she asked.

"Now, Mom. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And yes, I drove here all by myself. Just because John is getting ready to tie the knot, doesn't mean that I have anything like that in mind," Danielle pointed out.

Casey smiled. "I'm sorry Danielle. I didn't mean to pry. I guess it's a mother's curiosity. You know, with all this talk of love and marriage in the air, one never knows," she said.

She took a deep whiff of the cooking food. "Eggs, bacon, muffins. All of your father's favorites." Picking up a package, she read its label, "Non fat, soy vegetable breakfast strips . . . " Her forehead creased in puzzlement. She picked up another package. "No cholesterol egg substitute. Dani . . . " she began.

"Dad'll never know the difference," Danielle said as she retrieved the packages from her mother's hands and pushed them deep into the trash can. "As long as we don't tell him," she added with a conspiratorial wink.

Casey shook her head, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "I have a feeling that you're trying to change your parents' diet," she said.

"I'm just concerned, that's all. I want you and Dad to be around a long time. I wanted to show you how these kinds of food can make perfectly good substitutions."

"As long as you don't tell anybody," Casey reminded her.

Danielle shrugged. "Well, at least until after you've eaten," she said.

Opening the oven door, Casey sniffed at the baking muffins. "Are these 'healthy' too?" she asked.

"Uh huh," Danielle answered as she cut some fresh chives into the bubbling eggs and then mixed them in with a spatula. "They're whole wheat with oat bran, wheat germ, sunflower seeds, dates, apples, raisins and a touch of wild clover honey for sweetness," she explained.

"Honey?" Casey said, "my, my. We're being extravagant with our calories, aren't we?"

"Honey's perfectly good for you," Danielle retorted. "Much better than white sugar. In small amounts, of course."

"Of course," Casey echoed in mock seriousness. "One mustn't go overboard," she added.

"Oh, Mom," Danielle said, "You know what I mean."

Casey smiled lovingly. "I do, sweetheart, and I am so happy to have you home again," she said, giving her daughter another big hug. "I can't wait until you see John and his fiancee, Fatima. She's such a lovely girl. I think she and John will make a wonderful pair."

"Gossiping about us already, Mom?" John interjected, poking a sweat-covered face into the kitchen.

"Hardly even had a chance to get started," Casey said.

John walked into the kitchen and gave his sister a bear hug. "How's it going, Sis?" He sniffed at the food cooking on the stove. "Smells good. I'm starved. When're we going to eat?" he asked.

"As soon as you set the table," Danielle answered, placing a stack of plates in his hands.

John counted the plates. "You need one more," he said.

"Oh? Who did I forget? There's five of us, isn't there?" she asked.

"There's one more," Britt said, coming into the kitchen. "This is Lee. He's the son of an old friend of mine. I'm showing him the ropes at the Sentinel."

Danielle smiled at Lee, intensely aware of the way he was looking at her. Son of a family friend or not, what he had in mind was certainly not mere friendship. The problem was she could not decide whether she liked that or not. Covering her embarrassment, she reached for some coffee cups up in a cabinet near the stove. "Why don't you help John set the table with these cups?" she said.

"I'd be glad to," Lee said, his hand momentarily touching her as he took a cup from her hand. "Anything for a beautiful woman," he added, his burning coal black eyes gazing deeply into her clear emerald eyes.

"C'mon Lee, quit flirting. We got our marching orders," John said, teasingly breaking up the electric moment. "Besides it's time to eat."

"Yeah, I know," Lee responded, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Danielle. "And you're starving," he said, following John and his mother into the dining room with the coffee cups in his hands.

Giving Danielle a hug and a peck on the forehead, Britt said, "Good to see you, Baby. How do you think you did on the finals?"

"Pretty good," she answered. "I'll be glad when it's all over."

"It's not too much longer. About another year, isn't it?" Britt asked.

"About," Danielle answered. "I've already gotten some job offers."

"Any of them look promising?"

Danielle shrugged. "Not really. Mostly corporate stuff and I'm not interested in that. I'm looking into some kind of legal aid work. I want to help people."

"Not much money in that line of work," Britt told her.

"I know, but I'm not that interested in making a lot of money. Besides you've done well helping people."

"Could've done better, or at least that what some of the other publishers have told me," Britt said.

"But would you have liked it as much?" she asked.

"Not one bit," Britt said. He smiled. "Even though you chose not to go into the newspaper business, you're still a crusader at heart. Just like your brother."

"And my old man," she reminded him.

Danielle grabbed a bowl and began spooning the hot eggs into it. "I think we better get the rest of the food out before John comes in after it," she said, handing the bowl to her father.

She laughed. "I thought I would be waking everybody up, and here it looks like you have all been up for hours," she commented as she popped the muffins into a bun warmer.

"Basically, it's the boys and I who have been up since about six. We let Casey and Fatima sleep in."

"Why in the world were you up so early on a weekend morning?"

"Lee's something of a martial arts expert. He learned it almost before he could walk, and John asked to show him some of his techniques."

"It sounds like they're getting along really well," Danielle said.

"Yeah, they act like they've known each other for years instead of just a few days. Watching them work out together reminds me a lot of the way Lee's father and I used to be."

"Lee's father . . . " Danielle said thoughtfully. "Wasn't he the one who left when you were in the hospital after a gang had tried to kill you?" she said more harshly than she had meant to. "I thought you were still angry about it."

"I was wrong," Britt admitted gently. "I think I was a lot angrier at myself, then I was at him. If it hadn't been for Lee's father, I would've died. I realize now that he left because he felt responsible for what had happened and couldn't bear to face me again. I was stupid to be angry at him for so long, especially since he died before we ever had the chance to make up. " He looked seriously at her. "What happened wasn't Kato's fault. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine. I pursued a story too far, and didn't have the sense to back away before it was too late. I don't want you to blame Lee for what happened between his father and me. That was a long time ago. He's a fine young man."

"I wouldn't blame him," Danielle retorted. "Besides, it looks like John hasn't let that affect their friendship."

"John doesn't get angry very easily, and when he does it's over quickly. He's not one to hold grudges." He looked at her meaningfully. "You do, young lady."

"Well . . . " Danielle said, trying to slide away from her father's sure knowledge of her quick temper.

"Dani, a grudge can ruin a person's life," he advised her.

"Have you ever held a grudge?" she asked defensively.

"Yes, I have. It was a long time ago," Britt said without explanation. The look in his pale eyes was so chilling that Danielle fervently hoped that whatever it had been about would stay safely in the past.

Casey came bustling in, hunting for the forks and knives. "Hurry up, you two. Everybody's waiting for you."

She grabbed the bowl of eggs from Britt's hands. "Everything will be cold before you two sit down. She laughed lightly. "That is if John and Lee don't inhale it first."

The food quickly disappeared from the table just as Casey had predicted and Danielle felt the warm glow of success. Even after the true nature of many of the ingredients had been revealed, everyone had pronounced everything as delicious. Everyone except for John who had promptly begun going into an overly exaggerated act of gagging on his food, even though nothing had stayed on his plate more than a minute. His theatrics stopped with such suddenness that Danielle was left wondering who had kicked him under the table. Both of her parents had maintained a studiously innocent look on their faces. Lee however, had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that placed him at the top of her suspects.

A gentlemanly rescue of a lady's honor? she wondered. She couldn't quite decide whether she like that young man yet. He wasn't half bad looking. The dark, straight hair, flashing black eyes and high cheek bones that bespoke his oriental heritage, made him lot more interesting than many of the men she had dated the last few years, but he was something of a cipher. She couldn't quite figure out where he stood in the scheme of things. Was it only in sake of the memory of an old friend, or was there something else?

She glanced over at her father who was engaged in a conversation with her brother. There was such a combination of differences between the two men. It was like comparing the moon and the sun. Britt was silver-haired and deeply tanned with aqua-grey eyes as changeable as the sky; pale blue one moment, green another, even grey at other times. Often she could tell what mood he was in by the color of his eyes.

John on the other hand was golden haired and although he was always out in the sun, his fair complexion would never be as dark as his father's. Always seeming to have a sunny disposition, his eyes nevertheless were as grey as a stormy sky. Like her father had pointed out, John's rare flashes into anger were as rare as summer storms and over just as quickly.

Despite the surface differences the two men were obviously father and son, with the same broad, high brow, narrow flaring nostrils and strong square jaw. Even the way they moved and gestured was very much alike.

Beyond the surface similarities ran a current of moodiness through both father and son. She knew how her grandfather had died and she could guess how it had affected her father. And John. She wondered at times what he had seen as a foreign correspondent for the Daily Sentinel. Things that he had seen that he chose never to talk about. Her father and brother were dedicated to the Daily Sentinel far more than she could ever be. To them it was more than a business, it was a cause.

She had lived with that cause all her life. Sometimes she was jealous of her father's dedication to the paper. She knew her mother considered it her father's second wife. Or first, since he was involved with the Sentinel long before he had ever met her. Danielle had always accepted the Sentinel's place in their lives, because it had always been there, and because she was a Reid.

However now, she felt that something new had come into her father's life. Seeing him with her brother, there seemed to be something very different about him. Something she had never seen before. It was like a fire that had been banked for a very long time had finally flared back to life. His step was surer, lighter and the long familiar limp was almost undetectable. He seemed fitter, stronger than she had ever seen him, like he was an entirely new man. She almost suspected that he had taken on a mistress, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Her parents were still obviously very much in love. Or at least she fervently hoped so.

Tearing herself away from such unhappy thoughts, Danielle glanced over at John's fiancee. Fatima was as much a cipher as Lee. She had strong Semitic features, olive complected with large eyes of an extraordinary golden hue, a strong arched nose, and heavy sensuous lips. There was nothing delicate about the woman, even her figure was of an old-fashioned lushness, heavy breasted, and broad-hipped with a small waist. Her thick dark hair had golden-olive highlights and fell down her back in tight waves that many women paid a fortune to duplicate.

She was beautiful, but she was definitely not like any of the other girls John had dated in the past. The first ones had been daughters from the city's best families, debutantes with the best of everything; the best clothes, the best cars, anything that Daddy could buy, including hair, face and body. What they lacked at birth, Daddy's checkbook provided.

His later conquests had been somewhat different; long-legged thoroughbreds that jogged several miles before a breakfast of granola and yogurt. Some of them had even been Danielle's friends, but somehow after they met John, their friendships quickly dissolved. She couldn't ever figure out why, except perhaps they always figured that they would be the one John would finally settle down with.

With a shock, Danielle noticed that Fatima was studying her as closely as she was examining her. Embarrassed, she studied the empty plate in front of her. Did Fatima see her as a rival or a supporter?

"Dani?" Casey said, breaking into her thoughts. "I was wondering if you would like to go with your father to the reception party tonight for the conference's delegates."

Danielle frowned worriedly. "Is there anything wrong? Aren't you feeling okay?" she asked.

Casey smiled reassuringly. "No, it's just that those things always seem to last forever. I'm not quite up for a long evening yet," she explained.

"I'd be glad to," Danielle said.

IV

Everyone who was someone was at the glittering party held for the opening of the peace conference. Every country on Embassy Row was represented, with graceful Sari-clad women from India mingling with tall, dark women dressed in bright African tribal robes. Alongside the colorful national costumes vied the latest in Parisian fashions worn by women from every nation and of every shape and color.

Not to be outdone by the foreign contingent, every city, state and national official who had the time and were able to wrangle an invitation, were there as well. All of them were as brightly arrayed; precious gems, expensive furs, and the most pricey haute-couture, whether it was proudly pro-American or up-to-the-minute European.

Contrasting with the showy throng, high up on the balcony overlooking the grand foyer, watched the more conservative Arab delegates' wives, faceless and formless in long black chadors.

Danielle, because of her youth and beauty, turned more than her share of heads. She smiled to herself, noticing how often a bejeweled wife would nudge her husband's ribs as she passed, her arm in her father's. Perhaps a few knew she was his daughter, but others would find that difficult to believe, more readily believing she was his latest conquest. She didn't care to change their minds, it kept some of the more bolder young men away from her.

Britt helped her remove the emerald satin cape that matched the gown that flowed over her slender figure like a second skin. His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Being a little daring, aren't we?" he asked.

Although Danielle's gown had a high neck and long sleeves in deference to the conservatives sensitivities, it was entirely backless, ending just above the swell of her hips in a large bright red bow.

Danielle smiled sweetly. "It was the only thing I had with me."

"You could've borrowed something of your mother's." Britt commented.

"Why?" she said innocently.

"You know perfectly well 'why', young lady," Britt answered sharply.

"I don't like being told by a bunch of dried-up old woman-haters how to dress. They don't have the right to dictate to me how I will dress. This is America and I am an American woman. I don't like people from another country telling me what to do in my own country," she answered with a tight smile.

"Even at the cost of embarrassing me and insulting them?" Britt answered.

Danielle reddened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's just that their attitude about women make me angry. I wanted to make a point," she explained. "Do you want me to put the cape back on?"

Britt shook his head. "Forget it," he said, "If you didn't do things your own way, I'd probably wonder if you were really my daughter."

"Nice dress, Sis," came John's voice from behind them. "Who are you planning to unwrap you?" he asked, referring to the large bow. "Anybody I know?"

"Never you mind, John," Danielle answered sharply, still stinging from her father's rebuke. "I've already gotten enough flak about this dress."

"I don't see why you should," John answered. "You certainly brightened a lot of guy's night with that dress. Although I think I saw a bunch of those old geezers with the long beards and cloaks have heart attacks when Dad took off your cape."

"Never mind him, Danielle," interrupted Fatima before Danielle could reply to her brother. "I think that dress is just lovely. The green brings out the color of your eyes beautifully. I bet every woman here wishes that she had the figure to wear a dress like that as well as you do."

"Thank you," Danielle answered. "I think your dress is lovely too. Is it all handmade?"

"Yes, it is," Fatima said, smoothing the dress' ivory folds. "This is a traditional Palestinian dress. There is a craftswoman's guild in Kahara City that made this dress from the weaving of the material to the addition of the sateen appliques and embroidery. Traditional craft work like this is the main source of income for most of the women in the guild since many of them are widows or their men can't find enough work to feed their families," she explained. "I've been working with them, trying to get their work into foreign markets."

"I love your dress," Danielle said. "Maybe I can help you out. I know a few of the boutique owners here who would love to carry clothes like that. I am surprised though that Arab actually wear dresses like that."

Fatima smiled. "Too many people in the West don't really understand the Arab peoples, and yet, there are so many differences between the different Arab countries, never mind the differences in the different Muslim groups such as the Sunni and the Shii. We are subjected to so many stereotypes. Many years ago, Westerners thought that all Arab women dressed like harem slave girls. Now they think we are all like them," she said nodding to the black-garbed women on the balcony above them. "Even then appearances can be deceiving. Most Arabic city women are very fashion conscious. Under those dresses you will find the latest fashion and expert makeup," she explained. "I know some of them personally. Would you like to meet them later?" she asked.

"I'd like that," Danielle said, "I think it would be interesting to find out how they feel about living like they do. I don't think I could live like that having no voice in how I live my life, where men control every aspect of it. It sounds so restrictive."

"If that was all that you ever knew, you wouldn't think such a life was hard," Fatima said. "Many of these women love their lives. Like you, they couldn't imagine any other way of life. They can't bear thinking about living like Western women do."

"I don't understand," Danielle said.

"Most Muslim women are protected and held in high esteem. They are very well taken care of. Their lives are secure, well ordered and without worry. Whether it's by their father, brothers or sons, they are always protected. The idea of having to go out on their own like an American woman is very frightening. They think American men are lazy because they don't take care of their families without their women's help," Fatima explained.

Danielle shook her head. "So for the sake of security, their freedom is sacrificed."

"Is that not the choice we face every day?" Fatima asked.

"You've seen both sides, Fatima," Danielle asked, "Which do you prefer?"

Fatima gently smiled, nodding toward John who was engaged in conversation with another man, "I think it is quite obvious what choice I have made. I'd rather have freedom with some insecurity, than have someone else make all my decisions for me."

John came over to the two women as dinner was announced. "Come on, ladies," he said. "It's time to eat and listen to long boring speeches."

Conversation immediately stopped as people entered the grand ballroom. The room was completely dark except for the small candles that floated in bowls of heavily scented gardenia blossoms. Overhead through the domed ceiling shone a brilliant full moon that reflected palely on thin wisps of clouds that floated across it. Huge, soft snowflakes floated lazily past the dome and down into the city far below that glowed as brightly as the hundreds of stars that peeped occasionally from behind the clouds.

Britt rose to his feet as a prim Maitre' de escorted John and the lades to their table. "This is Colonel Abdullah ibn Ubayy," he said, introducing the hawk faced Arab rebellion leader who rose to his feet to greet Fatima and Danielle.

"I am overjoyed to share my table with two of the fairest flowers of two continents," Ibn Ubayy murmured, pressing his lips to each lady's hand.

"And this is the Ayatollah Abd Allah," Britt continued, introducing a gaunt grey-faced man with a straggly yellowed beard.

The Shiite cleric remained in his seat, barely nodding his acknowledgment of the younger Reid. With a thin, shaking hand, he motioned to the Maitre' de, "It is bad enough that women have been admitted to this reception," he grumbled in a dry whispering voice. "I will not tolerate sharing a table with them, especially one who is so immodestly dressed. I demand to be seated at another table where there are no females."

The Maitre' de worriedly scanned the other tables while quickly checking the seating list in his hand. "I'm sorry sir, but all of our tables are filled."

Glaring at the unhappy man, the Ayatollah rose unsteadily to his feet. "Then I will return to my suite and lodge my complaints with this hotel about the lack of respect for my person and my station," he said angrily.

"Sir, if I may intrude," broke in a tall dark-haired young man, his voice a soft French lilt, "I would be most happy to switch seats with this gentleman. At my table there are only old bachelors. I would much rather spend the evening in the presence of two beautiful women."

"Would that be acceptable to you sir?" the Maitre' de asked the Ayatollah hopefully.

"Barely," grunted the Ayatollah.

"That was very nice of you, Jacques," Danielle said to the young man as he took a seat beside her.

"Do you know each other?" Britt asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dad. This is Jacques La Blanc. We met in Paris last spring," Danielle said, blushing under the intensity of Jacques' green-eyed gaze.

"Oui," Jacques said, "Most people rave about Paris in the spring, but Danielle... There is no comparison. She outshines the City of Lights itself."

"Indeed?" Britt said coolly, his eyebrows arching in interest.

"Jacques!" Danielle said, her cheeks flushing even more redly.

Jacques patted her hand reassuringly. "Forgive me, mon Cherie. Monsieur Reid, I did not mean to imply that we had been intimate. Quite the contrary. Despite the most earnest of pleas from the men of France, Danielle remained as pure as the Maid of Orleans. No man was ever able to get past her defenses. Not even I," he admitted with a trace of wistful regret in his voice.

"Alas," Jacques continued, "These are unfortunate times. Today even the very act of love can lead to a lingering death." He tilted his head, studying the elder Reid. "Not like in your day, Monsieur Reid. In those days a man could dine in whatever field Cupid led him."

"You're wrong, Jacques. Even in my time, there was a cost to be paid for what some people then called 'Free Love'," Britt said. "There were venereal diseases then, just as there are now, and there was always the risk of pregnancy."

"And of course, jealous husbands," Jacques said lightly. "But that never stopped you."

Britt looked narrowly at the Frenchman. "I don't know what you're getting at, young man. I'll be first to admit that I was no saint when I was your age, and I surely don't intend to pry into my daughter's love life, but anybody who tries to force their intentions on her will have to answer to me," he warned in a cooly even voice.

John leaned forward, his voice mirroring his father's, "That goes double for me, buster."

Jacques laughed lightly, studying the two men past the rim of the champagne glass he had brought with him. "You misunderstand me, gentlemen. I would never dishonor Danielle." He took a sip from the glass, then put it down with a grimace of distaste. "The juice of the grape is at its best after it has been fermented. No matter how expensive the sparkling water you add to it, it is still nothing more than grape juice," he commented, "It's only fit for the breakfast table."

He patted his lips with a linen napkin. "My mother remembers you very fondly, Monsieur Reid," he said.

"Your mother?" Britt asked, frowning in thought.

"La Countessa de la Grange. Surely you remember her, about thirty or so years ago? She's a sculptor. I believe you modeled for her several times, including a week long session at the chateau near the Riviera." Jacques smiled, studying Britt's reaction. "Her favorite piece is a young Neptune that forms the centerpiece of a fountain on the grounds. I always wondered who sat for it, and now I know."

"Yes," Britt said cautiously, "I remember now. I wound up stuck in Paris, when I ran out of money and my father wouldn't send me any more because he knew I'd just waste it, like I did the rest. It's hard making money as a journalist in France when you only know English," he reluctantly admitted.

"Oui," Jacques said, "Good male models can make excellent money, especially since they so much rarer than female ones."

Britt studied the young Frenchman, there was something about him... "I didn't know your mother was married."

"Of course not," Jacques shrugged carelessly. "My father allowed my mother her games, just as she allowed him his. She said you were one of her favorites. 'A young John Wayne,' she always said."

"I'm surprised she remembers me so fondly," Britt said. "I never got back in touch with her after I left France. It was a difficult time then. My father was in trouble and when he died I had to take care of the newspaper. Unfortunately my time in France became nothing more than a fond dream of lost innocence," he explained.

"Ah, the pressure of owning a business," Jacques remarked.

"What do you do?" John asked, tiring of feeling like a spectator at a tennis match where the game was being played with an invisible ball. In the dark.

"Why, I do nothing. My father left me with a lot of money, land and a title. My mother controls everything and allows me to do whatever I want as long as I do not spend too wildly."

"Sounds boring," John said, "And a completely pointless way to live."

"Hardly," Jacques said, "I am totally free, and I assure you, I do find ways to challenge myself."

"Jacques," Fatima, broke in, sensing that John had picked up the gauntlet meant for his father, "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asked, hoping to move the conversation to safer ground.

"No, my mother felt that having a son to carry on the family name, more than satisfied her duty as the countessa."

Before the conversation could devolve any further, silver covered trays were presented at the table and among an assortment of gourmet delights of three continents, harmless small talk finally reigned among the combatants.

After the meal and a multitude of speeches about the hopes of world peace and brotherhood, an orchestra assumed their places and struck up a waltz. Fatima excused herself, explaining that the heavy food and close air had made her slightly ill, but declined Danielle's offer to go with her to the ladies room. Jacques swept Danielle up from the table and led her in a gliding dance across the floor.

"They look good together," Ibn Ubayy remarked.

"Yeah," Britt said glumly.

Ibn Ubayy's dark eyes narrowed. "I agree with you, Mr. Reid. I would not want my daughter with a man like that. He has no conscience."

"Why do you say that?" Britt asked. "Do you know anything about him?"

"I know very little about him, except that he is always showing up at one embassy party after another. He is one of those useless young people who have more money than they need, and do nothing useful with it, except to drown themselves in excess. They have no causes to fight for, nothing to live for, except for their own misguided pleasure. I would suggest you tell your beautiful daughter to have nothing to do with him, or I fear she will be hurt."

Britt nodded his agreement, then smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, you don't know my daughter. She has a will of her own. I've given up trying to control her a long time ago. Forbidding her to do anything is likely to achieve the exact opposite end." He watched the young couple dance across the room. They do look well together, he thought, too well together. Danielle resembled the young Frenchman more than she did her own twin brother.

"I don't think it's a good idea to dismiss that young man so quickly," he said. "There's something about him... I can't put my finger on it, except to say that I was once very much like him, aimless, looking for nothing more than a good time. Then I was forced to grow up very quickly. That young man has a lot more to him than we 'old men' can see."

"Perhaps you are right," Ibn Ubayy said, "But I feel you always knew right from wrong. I do not think that young man does. He's the kind of man who plays by his own rules." Ibn Ubayy rose from his chair. "This room is getting too close around me. I need some fresh air and a smoke. Will you join me?" he asked.

Britt shook his head. "No, I think I'll stay here."

Ibn Ubayy watched Danielle and Jacques dancing for a moment. "A wise choice," he commented.

Ibn Ubayy found Fatima talking to a chador clad woman. Judging by the small slight figure that was barely detectable in the all covering robe and veil he could tell she was very young, little more than a girl, . She moved restlessly, nervously. She was very agitated about something. He moved into the shadows, until the girl had left, passing by him without seeing him. One of the Ayatollah's serving girls, he thought. Her robes were made of cheap coarse cloth and smelled of cooking oil and spices. The Ayatollah, he remembered, had insisted on having all his food made by his own people.

"Fatima," he said, approaching John's fiancee, "It is good to see you again." He smiled. "I believe I knew you when you bore another name."

Fatima smiled shyly, eyes modestly downcast. "I am sorry, but I think you are mistaken."

"No, I am not mistaken. True, you are now fully a woman, and I knew you when you were a mere girl-child, but I never forget a face, or a voice. I must admit that your taking the name of the Prophet's daughter surprises me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she moved to get past him.

Grabbing her arm, Ibn Ubayy hissed, "Do not harm the Reids. They are good people. They do not deserve the kind of harm you might bring them."

Fatima's amber eyes met the old terrorist's in a cold hard gaze. "Who are you to speak of trouble?" she demanded.

"You are right, girl. I am the wrong one to speak of trouble," he said releasing his hold. "But I warn you again, do not bring harm to Reid. He is an honorable man. I have a lot of respect for him. I don't want to see him hurt."

"Don't worry, I have no intention of endangering Mr. Reid, or his family," she answered, rubbing her arm where Ibn Ubayy's hard grasp had left red welts.

"Why are you here then? How does Reid's son figure in your plans?"

"There are no 'plans'. John and I are very much in love and are going to be married very soon."

"You in love? I find it hard to believe that you are capable of loving anyone."

Fatima's heated reply was cut short by the loud chatter of gunfire. A chador clad figure raced past them, closely pursued by several men in green fatigues, automatic weapons in their hands.

Ibn Ubayy caught the odor of cooking oil from the robes brushing past him. "Stop!" he shouted to the girl's pursuers.

Unheeding the men opened fire, catching the girl in the back, spinning her around as she screamed. The stained glass window behind her folded over her falling body. It splintered and drifted in bright shards around her as for a breathless moment she hung in the night air, like a huge black bird taking wing, then it followed her to the dark ground far below.

Suited secret service men, drawn by the sound of gunfire, raced down the hallway from the opposite direction. Seeing the fatigue dressed Arabs, they drew their own guns. "Put down your weapons!" they demanded.

The Arabs glared defiantly at them and the secret service men tightened their grips on their guns.

"Put down your weapons. Immediately," Ibn Ubayy demanded, placing himself between the two groups of armed men.

For a tense moment the Arabs hesitated, and Ibn Ubayy was starting to wonder about his own ability to command when the guns clattered noisily to the floor.

"What happened, Ibrahim?" he demanded of his aide who was standing at the head of the Arabs.

"Yeah, what the hell is happening here?" echoed the leader of the secret service men.

Ibrahim snapped a quick salute to his commander, and held himself stiffly at attention. "Sir, the girl was trying to kill the Ayatollah with this knife," he said, holding a large knife with a heavy ivory handle and a wickedly curving blade. "When one of my men tried to take it from her, she grabbed his gun and tried to turn it on the Ayatollah. She was disarmed before she could fire and she tried to escape."

"Is the Ayatollah all right?" the secret service man demanded.

Refusing to answer the American, Ibrahim remained at attention and addressed his commander, "Sir, the Ayatollah is safe. Some of our men," he continued, placing a special emphasis on the word 'our', "Have remained with him to ensure that no other attempts are made on his life."

"Who the hell was that girl and what the hell are you people doing armed at this conference?" the secret service man angrily demanded. "Weapons were banned across the board. We were to be contacted immediately if anything happened."

"If it had not been for myself and my men, the Ayatollah would have been killed," Ibrahim answered hotly.

"You could have easily disarmed her without the guns. As it was she almost used one of your own guns to kill him," the secret service man shot back. "Now who the hell was that girl and why was she trying to kill the Ayatollah?"

"Perhaps I can explain," Fatima said quietly.

"Then explain," the secret service man said tightly.

"I was speaking to her just a few minutes ago. She was very distressed. She had been given to the Ayatollah as a guarantee of her family's good behavior. She had just found out that her brother had just been killed by a firing squad because he had led a protest against the Ayatollah's regime. I tried to convince her not to seek revenge, but it appears I have failed."

"I see," the secret service man said. "I want you to come with me so we can straighten things out." He glared at the Arabs. "This is supposed to be a peace conference, those weapons will be turned over immediately."

Ibrahim and his men glanced questioningly at the Ibn Ubayy. He nodded. "Do it," he ordered. "We will discuss this matter later."

"Do you have any more weapons stashed that we don't know about?" the American asked.

"I do not believe so, but then I did not know about these until just now. I will talk further with my men and if other weapons are in existence, I promise you they will be turned over to you."

Ibn Ubayy thoughtfully watched as Fatima was led away by the secret service men. "What plans, girl, are you hatching?" he thought. "And how will the world fare if they succeed?"