Chapter 2
The Security of Home
A house where rain does not pour,
A place where spear-points do not threaten,
As bright as a garden but without a fence about it.
--"Suibhne Gelt," anon. Irish triad.
When all was said and done, Mara had to admit that being gifted with a sharp assertive tongue was, on occasion, one hell of a counterintuitive blessing. Not that it hadn't served her well in her 29 years. But, every now and then, the universe stepped in to show her just how truly unpredictable it's effect could be. Especially, when confronting the pigheaded determination of some yahoo trying to look good for the boss.
Just such an example stood before her, in all his male arrogance, intensely fumbling through her dainties in her open suitcase. From the moment he had arrogantly snapped "Passport!" in a tone much louder than really necessary for the 3 feet between them, she foresaw that he would cause her no end of headache.
Mara had initially figured that clearing customs couldn't be easier than this. After entering the terminal and retrieving her luggage, she approached a uniformed officer, and identified herself. His face lit up as he welcomed her nervously and directed her towards customs where she could clear her belongings.
"Don't worry Ma'am. Just present your passport and papers to the clearance officer at the customs desk. The chap over there will have you on your way immediately." He'd advised.
After thanking him and retrieving her bags, she walked purposefully towards the customs desk, following the officer's directions. Mara stopped as she arrived at the yellow and red station. Is shouldn't be long noting that she was the fourth passenger waiting in line for clearance. Setting her suitcase on the floor, she rubbed her aching fingers on her jeans, forcing circulation back into her tired fingers. After this 6 hour flight, her muscles ached for the soothing heat of a long hot bath. Mara sighed in anticipation of the relaxing warmth. Another four hours and she would be home visiting her grandmother then enjoying that secret luxury.
Mara had been ten years old when she and her father had quickly left England. An ugly marital breakup had left her American born father anxious to leave English soil and his broken marriage behind him. With a quick word to a few friends back home, David had accepted a new job as assistant chief of the NYPD's drug squad. A position that would make excellent use of his 18 years of law enforcement experience and help the now single parent care for his young daughter.
Mara's mother had insisted that David take Mara with him, stating that her new free footed lover refused to be saddled with the responsibility of a child. Dave suspected however that it was Lise who didn't want the responsibility for little Mara. After the divorce, there were no phone calls from her mother. No letters. Mara's letters returned to her unopened. Her father had been right. Abandoned by her mother, the little girl felt wounded her in a manner only known to the heart of a rejected child.
Her grandmother, however, had kept in constant contact with her, calling her weekly, sending cards and cheques on her birthday and holidays. Money that Mara had judiciously deposited into her savings account, earmarking it for college. The Saturday morning phone call became ritual for Mara, who reveled in sharing her triumphs and defeats of the past week with Grammy Kate. Conversations about school and friends turning to in depth discussions about the opposite sex, as Mara entered her teens.
Only once did Kate ever mention Lise during their telephone time. Mara had received a batch of unread letters earlier in the week and had been upset enough to set her mind to ask Kate why her mother refused to communicate with her. Sighing sadly, Kate reluctantly informed Mara that Lise refused to communicate with her either. Kate accepted Lise's wishes but confided in Mara that she prayed that her wayward daughter would come to her senses and return to the precious family she had turned her back on.
Several years later she had overheard her father talking with her grandmother late on a Wednesday night. This was unusual, as Kate always called on Saturday mornings. She suspected something was wrong and snuck down the stairs, sitting on the bottom stair when she had heard Kate's tearful lilting accent. Her father had switched the call to the speakerphone as he prepared Mara's lunch for school. Kate was clearly shaken, her voice was thick with tears as she described the accident that had claimed the lives of Lise and her lover. Her father's pain filled sobs pulled Mara from her hiding place to his side. He gathered his crying child into his arms and cried with her. Afterwards, Mara's heart felt only sadness. Not the sadness of a child who had lost a mother, but the sadness for the grief of her grandmother who had lost her only child. For a man who still loved the woman who'd rejected him. Rejected both of them. Dead in a head on collision with a transport truck, the woman who had given birth to her and had spent the last 18 years emotionally distancing herself from her child, was gone.
As time healed their loss, Mara became increasingly insistent to visit her grandmother. Regularly asked her father pleading for permission to travel to England. Each time, Dave would say no, citing that he couldn't get the time, or the trip was too expensive. Eventually, upon entering university, Mara secretly determined to go on summer vacation. However, to her disappointment, the resistance to her visiting continued. But this time, from Kate. She apologized profusely stating that she couldn't allow Mara to visit without her father's permission. Period. When Mara threatened to just show up on her doorstep, she was advised in no uncertain terms that she would be promptly sent home on the next plane and the phone calls would stop. She relented, accepting her grandmother's wishes. Perhaps that was one of the reasons she was so confused about this trip.
When she was given the work assignment by her supervisor, he had advised her of the rumored origin of the initial request. Disbelieving, it was only after she had called her grandmother's home to tell her she would be arriving that Friday, that her suspicions were happily confirmed. Charles, her Grandmother's assistant had advised her that Lady Katherine had indeed been informed and was excitedly anticipating her arrival. "You will of course be staying at Stonycroft, and her Ladyship had instructed me to send a car to meet you upon arrival." He had informed her in a cheerful, accented voice.
Four hours. Four hours and she would see her childhood home. Four hours until she hugged the woman who she had long though of as mother. Mara smiled softly, filled with increasing excitement.
Her attention was abruptly drawn back into the present and to the activities of the inspection kiosk. The aggressive tone in inspecting officer's voice alerted her that something was amiss. He was clearing the first man in line and something in the young officers body language spoke of impending trouble.
Quietly, she watched and listened. So much could be learned about a person or situation just through the simple act of judicious observation. It was a skill Mara had discovered she possessed early in childhood. A skill that helped her understand the silent animosity that had been between her parents in the years before their divorce. But this same skill, had been raw, unrefined. That is, before finishing her residency at Quantico, Virginia. Two years later, it was sharp. Focused. Attentive to the subtle cues of behavior. Automatically reading them and unlocking their hidden message of intent and motivation. Now, instincts on alert, Mara analyzed the situation detail by detail.
The unsettled passengers ahead of her took their turns struggling to answer his sharp and increasingly aggressive questions. He rifled through their belongings, loosing bookmarks and upsetting clothing and pleasant demeanors as he invaded their personal space, regarding each person suspiciously through hooded brown eyes. He was certainly on the alert for something. Or someone. For who or what, she wasn't yet certain. His emotionless face intimidated. Frightened.
An elderly lady protested as her medication was confiscated. Pursing her soft lips , Mara frowned. That was certainly unusual. Although prescription medications were often subject to closer inspection, if labeled with the patients name and providing that name did corresponded to the person possessing it, personal medications normally passed through.
The grandmotherly woman's complaints landed on deaf ears as he escorted her towards an unmarked grey door, passing her off to another uniformed officer for further investigation of her "illegal narcotics". Mara shook her head ruefully, her dark brown hair brushing against her shoulders and neck as she anticipated the response of his supervisor once they discovered the officer's error.
Looking closely, Mara could see that the young man was barely out of his teens. His striking brown eyes and youthful features must have caught the eyes of the young ladies. His athletic five foot, eight inch frame was loosely clothed in the crisp dark blue polyester of a spanking new customs uniform. He was likely, summer help. Many of the police authorities used summer help as work placements for college students. Seeking these well paying and prestigious jobs, student applications swamped the departments each spring. The successful applicants provided valuable help to over worked officers while they learned valuable skills and earned next years tuition.
He seemed upset though. Dark circles under his eyes indicated to her that he hadn't slept well, recently. Condescending arrogance filled each word as he spoke to the passengers. He exuded an aura of authority that was pointedly aimed to intimidate those around him. He was acting like an ass, she surmised derisively. Mara had seen this before in her younger colleagues and new members of the team. Until some event occurred that caused their egos to hit the solid wall of reality, they always focused more about the power and perks of the position, than their sworn duty to serve the public. That attitude was dangerous. Especially here.
Heathrow, as the hub for international flights into the European continent, serviced over 15.0 million passengers each year. Airlines from all parts of the globe regularly flew into this airport, making it both, a crucial portal for intercontinental transportation, and a major security risk.
Security was tight and in many instances invisible by the traveling public. Hidden security cameras recorded faces of passengers passing through gates, buying tickets, retrieving luggage. Uniformed police peppered the building, providing additional surveillance and heightened the public's feeling of confidence in traveling. It was well known in law enforcement circles, that the British Customs Authority were led by retired military officers who insisted on the highest level of training and skill in their people. They demanded the best from their agents and in return received the efforts that made them the leaders in the business of airport safety and security. So, she pondered, shifting her briefcase to her other hand, what was happening here to prompt such behavior in this young officer?
He probed and searched, asking the same question in different ways, grinning now and then at discomfort of the poor soul before him, as he tried to slip them up. As Mara moved closer to the head of the line, she sighed in disgust. She really saw no need for this level of aggression. He really appeared to be enjoying the game. Enjoying the sense of power from intimidating these people. Playing the proverbial "bad cop".
Then she saw it. The glance. It was so quick she had almost missed it. Unblinking she stared at him. There it was again. Throughout the "inspections", his eyes would flit away from the passenger, to the wall behind them. But it wasn't just any look. In the brief seconds that his eyes were off the subject, he studied the wall with the intensity of a man committing information to memory. Just as abruptly, the mask of smirking arrogance would slide back into place as he focused back on the passenger. Quietly she continued to watch him. There. He did it again……And again??
"How long will you be in Britain?" glance at the wall. "Visiting Family? You have a number and address where I can confirm this of course." Glance. "You have a receipt for this?" Glance. On and on it went.
What the heck was he looking at, she wondered. You never took your eyes of a suspect during a clearance, whether they were on the street on in customs. Never. It was the golden rule of security. The moment you lost contact with that person's eyes, you lost your ability to see through a lie. Even good liars could only maintain the charade for short periods without giving some little sign. A twitch of the eyelid. A nervous glance sideways or to a hidden weapon. Critical signs that would be easily missed by any momentary inattentiveness to the subject before you.
Although she couldn't see the contents of the wall from her place in the line, she decided to give the lad the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was screening a list of VICAP alerts, flagging someone for pick-up if he or she attempted to enter the country. That would make sense and explain his judicious study of the wall.
Information was exchanged on an hourly basis between U.S. law enforcement, intelligence, and service entities, as well as international law enforcement agencies through the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or VICAP. The computer alerts advised police of the whereabouts of violent offenders and other wanted individuals. Due to the surge in worldwide terrorism, many of the international transportation authorities had recently been added to the database with the intent of detaining suspected individuals as they moved through international airports.
It had been a great success, much to the chagrin of the changes naysayers. In the past 6 months, several international and long sought after criminals had been apprehended by airport security while clearing customs due to the VICAP alerts.
In one case, Louis François, a French national, linked with the militant group Terre National, had been identified and detained by Spanish customs agents within hours of bombing of the American Embassy in France. The explosion had ripped apart the southern wing of the 3 story building and claimed the lives of 22 US citizens, including the Ambassador's 12 year old daughter, Marie.
Louis alleged that he was simply going on vacation abroad, yet the unemployed and smooth talking fanatic had no explanations for the appearance of $250,000, deposited into his savings account only hours before the attack. Money that had been quickly traced to a numbered Swiss account belonging to Terre National. However, it had been the video surveillance tapes that had secured his conviction on charges of terrorism. The images clearly recorded caught him parking the small, bakery truck in the embassy's delivery lot, a mere 10 minutes before the explosives hidden inside it had detonated. Now instead of basking in the sun of Costa del Sol, he sat in a French prison doing life.
In all probability, such a police alert would likely be posted in a place out of the passenger's direct sight but, clearly within the visual field of the inspecting officer. He could be merely judiciously screening each passenger against the VICAP photographs. She discreetly turned around fiddling with the handle of her suitcase as she carefully and quickly scanned the passengers behind her for any hint of unusual activity.
The older bearded gentleman immediately behind her, distractedly studied the business section of the Evening Standard, circling stock quotes with a red felt tipped pen. His thick eyebrows were pushed together in concentration. Well dressed, expensive suit, laptop, cell phone and beeper.
Next was a young couple, whispering endearments to each other as they waited. Holding hands she gazed lovingly at the glittering diamond on her left hand then smiled at the young man. His eyes warmly regarded his wife as they exchanged that intimate smile of a man and woman in love. Mara smiled softly, feeling slightly envious of the couple's deep affection for each other.
Behind the lovebirds, a tall raven haired man smiled as he made eye contact with her, telegraphing his interest in her loudly. He was devilishly good looking, longish hair, clear blue eyes, strong jaw, bohemian style attire of jeans and tee shirt, dress jacket and scarf. Artsy type, she deduced. He mouthed "What's the delay?"
She smiled back, raising her slim shoulders and shaking her head in frustration at the delay. He nodded and smiled sympathetically in return. Everything seemed normal so far. So what had set the customs agent on such a high state of alert?
A young mother two behind him, desperately struggled to hold onto her protesting son. The two year old wriggled and squirmed objecting to her efforts to keep him in her arms and rebuking the toys she handed him. From the exasperated grimace on her face, she was clearly at her wits end. Chocolate appeared from a wrinkled hand behind her, instantly calming the irate toddler. Mom graciously thanked her elderly benefactor, who smiled kindly and tousled the boy's blond curls. "Memo to me,", Mara chuckled, making a mental note. Chocolate sooths the savage beast.
"Next!" came the sharp call from the young inspector. As she turned back, the young bohemian cast her another sympathetic smile and gave her the thumbs up sign for luck. Mouthing "thanks", her full lips curving into a smile that lit up her beautiful face. Quickly she settled into her professional calm for this encounter.
As she approached the table, she discreetly glanced at the mysterious wall. Momentary disbelief struck. No "Wanted" posters covered it. Not a single photograph was in sight. Instead, it was her own slim reflection greeting her. Confusion fuddled through her brain as she started the mental acrobatics of figuring in this new piece of data.
Looking at him, she followed his eyes as they passed over her shoulder, to the mirror behind her and caught his appreciative smirk as he admired his own image in the glass. Turning back and pointedly clearing her throat, she leveled him a stern glare.
Face flushing with embarrassment that he'd been discovered, he tore his gaze away from the mirror, eyes narrowing in anger as they looked at her. "Passport." He barked sharply.
"So much for benefit of doubt." she whispered under her breath derisively as she lifted her suitcase and attaché on the table before him. The metal clasps clicked sharply as she unsnapped the fasteners and retrieved the thick envelope of documents. "My travel authorization, items list, and ID are enclosed as well." Smiling tightly and maintaining eye contact, she extended her credentials for inspection, while repressing the urge to box his ears.
He snatched the packet from her fingers while openly appraising her slim, attractive body. Mara tucked a stray chestnut lock behind her ear, a movement that was wholly feminine and unconsciously sexy. Heat flushed in her cheeks as she felt his leering stare move upwards over her denim covered legs, and slim hips. The blatant hunger in his narrowed eyes as they settled on the cleavage of her open collar started her stomach churning with nausea. She wasn't the type of woman to be bullied by a harassing fool. Perhaps a discrete word to his supervisor was in order.
Smile fading as quickly as her control on her temper, she cleared her throat, her face now cold and disdainful as his eyes rose to her face again. His mouth twitched as he repressed a smirk. His eyes dared her to reproach him. Up close he had a spoiled, petulant look twisting his boyish good looks. She sensed something else, a sick excitement as he rummaged though her belongings. Somehow she sensed that she figured into his perverse daydreams. Fantasies of control and submission to his self perceived power.
Mara bristled. Neglecting his duties was one thing. Being openly rude to passengers was another. Behavior bordering on sexual harassment, well that was three strikes. Discretion be dammed. Perhaps a dressing down in front of his supervisor would teach him a thing or two about respect.
Placing her unopened passport and credentials on the wooden table, he opened her suitcase, moving next to her, crowding her too close. Fingering roughly through her bra's and panties he asked, "How long will you be visiting England?" while not raising his head from his task. Was it her imagination or did his accented voice take on a condescending tone just then?
She was never one to walk away from a challenge. "I suppose that will vary greatly on how long it takes me to finish here." retorting with forced pleasantness and a tight smile on her beautiful face.
His fingers stilled suddenly as his cold grey eyes rose up to her deep blue orbs. "It will take as long as necessary. I am searching for dangerous goods." He announced threateningly. "You bloody Americans think you run the world! But, now you are in my country and right here," he slapped the table loudly with his hand, "I am the law."
"So I see. Please..." extending her elegant hand to her luggage in invitation, Mara inhaled deeply, calming herself, choosing not to respond to his insult. Deciding that a nice long chat with his supervisor was defiantly in order, she held her tongue further and let the man complete his search.
10 minutes later, it was obvious that she had upset him. Every piece of clothing had been thoroughly fondled, her novel opened, loosing both the bookmark, and the place she had left off as the plane had landed. Her pens were opened, inspected then tossed piecemeal back into her attaché. Her makeup, opened, then dumped akimbo within her case. Neatly folded clothing had been roughly removed to the table while he searched the linings of her case, then unceremoniously dumped back in a wrinkled heap.
He even rifled through files marked "confidential" in her briefcase, reading material he had no professional need to know, yet still searching everything for that one elusive piece of evidence that proved beyond a doubt that she was some kind of security risk. Everything, except the papers that should matter to him. They sat, dismissed, on the table. Next he'd have her strip searched. Enough was enough.
"Look," she stated calmly, "the only thing I'm importing that could possibly be termed "dangerous" is my temper, sir. We, "motioning towards the people waiting behind her, "have all had a very long flight, in cramped seats and I am sure that we have been all quite amused by standing here watching you admire your reflection while you joyfully finger your way through my Victoria's Secret's." She smiled inwardly as his jaw dropped open in disbelief. "I personally would be extremely grateful to you for finishing this job or confiscating my "contraband" she said, disgusted, picking up a pair of silk panties that had fallen to the floor, and tossing them back into the case, "and sending me on my way." She heard the sudden silence behind her as the ears of her fellow passengers perked up attentively.
"Another word out of your trap, Missy and I'll charge you with threatening an officer of the law." He smirked arrogantly, his tone threatening as he loudly added, "Nothing gets by me."
Anger flared inside her at his threat. "Somehow I really believe that things don't get by you…."glancing at the name on his tag"...Don." she replied calmly with no trace of emotion on her face. Nothing held such disconcerting power as being insulted by name. "No, I think they tend to smack into your forehead with great, resonating *THUND!* sort of sound, and then drop to your feet, where you will proceed to look at them with the intense sort of scowl that a monkey might regard a football while trying to determine whether to try to copulate with it or throw feces at it."
Snickers and repressed giggles broke out behind her, as the now attentive crowd made it clear that they had been listening absorbedly. "Now, I suggest you do your job and review my documents or find someone with a week or more experience to help you out." She suggested firmly.
He flushed slightly, his eyes gleaming. He grabbed her arm tightly, his fingers biting into muscle, bruising tissue. "That's it! I'll not listen to any more of your smart mouth. Come with me." he snarled, pulling her towards an unmarked door.
As she deftly shrugged off his hand, she started to reply "Look, just examine my—" but never finished. He roughly grabbed her wrist backwards, pulling hard and painfully twisting it behind her back. Mara's shoulder and elbow burst in searing pain as he shoved her over the table face first into the open suitcase. The sudden movement bunching the fabric of her leather jacket upwards, revealing the black metal of the Browning 9 mm that was safely enclosed within the leather holster at her waist..
His eyes went wide with alarm as he screamed, "GUN!! Get down! GET DOWN!" and pushed her harder into the table. Yells and screams exploded from the crowd behind them as the passengers dashed to conceal themselves behind each other while police poured into the small area, weapons drawn. Ready for a confrontation.
"Oh my God!"
"Oh Jesus!"
"..on the plane!"
"EVERYBODY GET DOWN!!" he screamed again.
"I wi the buro!" she choked out as the edge of her suitcase pushed into her throat, cutting off air, making her voice a hoarse, incoherent rasp. Her lungs screamed for air, as she pushed her head and chest back to release her neck from the obstruction.
Thinking she was struggling to get free, he started to push down harder, as the table was swarmed with police and customs officers. His weight lifted momentarily as she felt the cool metal of handcuffs snap snuggly over her wrists.
Weapon confiscated, she was lead off choking and coughing, towards the unmarked grey door, as she fought to remember how to breath.
Nope, she thought ironically, sometimes it just didn't pay to be assertive.
OK: Please. R&R. Your feedback is very important to me. They will help me get the next and nearly finished piece out much faster.
The Security of Home
A house where rain does not pour,
A place where spear-points do not threaten,
As bright as a garden but without a fence about it.
--"Suibhne Gelt," anon. Irish triad.
When all was said and done, Mara had to admit that being gifted with a sharp assertive tongue was, on occasion, one hell of a counterintuitive blessing. Not that it hadn't served her well in her 29 years. But, every now and then, the universe stepped in to show her just how truly unpredictable it's effect could be. Especially, when confronting the pigheaded determination of some yahoo trying to look good for the boss.
Just such an example stood before her, in all his male arrogance, intensely fumbling through her dainties in her open suitcase. From the moment he had arrogantly snapped "Passport!" in a tone much louder than really necessary for the 3 feet between them, she foresaw that he would cause her no end of headache.
Mara had initially figured that clearing customs couldn't be easier than this. After entering the terminal and retrieving her luggage, she approached a uniformed officer, and identified herself. His face lit up as he welcomed her nervously and directed her towards customs where she could clear her belongings.
"Don't worry Ma'am. Just present your passport and papers to the clearance officer at the customs desk. The chap over there will have you on your way immediately." He'd advised.
After thanking him and retrieving her bags, she walked purposefully towards the customs desk, following the officer's directions. Mara stopped as she arrived at the yellow and red station. Is shouldn't be long noting that she was the fourth passenger waiting in line for clearance. Setting her suitcase on the floor, she rubbed her aching fingers on her jeans, forcing circulation back into her tired fingers. After this 6 hour flight, her muscles ached for the soothing heat of a long hot bath. Mara sighed in anticipation of the relaxing warmth. Another four hours and she would be home visiting her grandmother then enjoying that secret luxury.
Mara had been ten years old when she and her father had quickly left England. An ugly marital breakup had left her American born father anxious to leave English soil and his broken marriage behind him. With a quick word to a few friends back home, David had accepted a new job as assistant chief of the NYPD's drug squad. A position that would make excellent use of his 18 years of law enforcement experience and help the now single parent care for his young daughter.
Mara's mother had insisted that David take Mara with him, stating that her new free footed lover refused to be saddled with the responsibility of a child. Dave suspected however that it was Lise who didn't want the responsibility for little Mara. After the divorce, there were no phone calls from her mother. No letters. Mara's letters returned to her unopened. Her father had been right. Abandoned by her mother, the little girl felt wounded her in a manner only known to the heart of a rejected child.
Her grandmother, however, had kept in constant contact with her, calling her weekly, sending cards and cheques on her birthday and holidays. Money that Mara had judiciously deposited into her savings account, earmarking it for college. The Saturday morning phone call became ritual for Mara, who reveled in sharing her triumphs and defeats of the past week with Grammy Kate. Conversations about school and friends turning to in depth discussions about the opposite sex, as Mara entered her teens.
Only once did Kate ever mention Lise during their telephone time. Mara had received a batch of unread letters earlier in the week and had been upset enough to set her mind to ask Kate why her mother refused to communicate with her. Sighing sadly, Kate reluctantly informed Mara that Lise refused to communicate with her either. Kate accepted Lise's wishes but confided in Mara that she prayed that her wayward daughter would come to her senses and return to the precious family she had turned her back on.
Several years later she had overheard her father talking with her grandmother late on a Wednesday night. This was unusual, as Kate always called on Saturday mornings. She suspected something was wrong and snuck down the stairs, sitting on the bottom stair when she had heard Kate's tearful lilting accent. Her father had switched the call to the speakerphone as he prepared Mara's lunch for school. Kate was clearly shaken, her voice was thick with tears as she described the accident that had claimed the lives of Lise and her lover. Her father's pain filled sobs pulled Mara from her hiding place to his side. He gathered his crying child into his arms and cried with her. Afterwards, Mara's heart felt only sadness. Not the sadness of a child who had lost a mother, but the sadness for the grief of her grandmother who had lost her only child. For a man who still loved the woman who'd rejected him. Rejected both of them. Dead in a head on collision with a transport truck, the woman who had given birth to her and had spent the last 18 years emotionally distancing herself from her child, was gone.
As time healed their loss, Mara became increasingly insistent to visit her grandmother. Regularly asked her father pleading for permission to travel to England. Each time, Dave would say no, citing that he couldn't get the time, or the trip was too expensive. Eventually, upon entering university, Mara secretly determined to go on summer vacation. However, to her disappointment, the resistance to her visiting continued. But this time, from Kate. She apologized profusely stating that she couldn't allow Mara to visit without her father's permission. Period. When Mara threatened to just show up on her doorstep, she was advised in no uncertain terms that she would be promptly sent home on the next plane and the phone calls would stop. She relented, accepting her grandmother's wishes. Perhaps that was one of the reasons she was so confused about this trip.
When she was given the work assignment by her supervisor, he had advised her of the rumored origin of the initial request. Disbelieving, it was only after she had called her grandmother's home to tell her she would be arriving that Friday, that her suspicions were happily confirmed. Charles, her Grandmother's assistant had advised her that Lady Katherine had indeed been informed and was excitedly anticipating her arrival. "You will of course be staying at Stonycroft, and her Ladyship had instructed me to send a car to meet you upon arrival." He had informed her in a cheerful, accented voice.
Four hours. Four hours and she would see her childhood home. Four hours until she hugged the woman who she had long though of as mother. Mara smiled softly, filled with increasing excitement.
Her attention was abruptly drawn back into the present and to the activities of the inspection kiosk. The aggressive tone in inspecting officer's voice alerted her that something was amiss. He was clearing the first man in line and something in the young officers body language spoke of impending trouble.
Quietly, she watched and listened. So much could be learned about a person or situation just through the simple act of judicious observation. It was a skill Mara had discovered she possessed early in childhood. A skill that helped her understand the silent animosity that had been between her parents in the years before their divorce. But this same skill, had been raw, unrefined. That is, before finishing her residency at Quantico, Virginia. Two years later, it was sharp. Focused. Attentive to the subtle cues of behavior. Automatically reading them and unlocking their hidden message of intent and motivation. Now, instincts on alert, Mara analyzed the situation detail by detail.
The unsettled passengers ahead of her took their turns struggling to answer his sharp and increasingly aggressive questions. He rifled through their belongings, loosing bookmarks and upsetting clothing and pleasant demeanors as he invaded their personal space, regarding each person suspiciously through hooded brown eyes. He was certainly on the alert for something. Or someone. For who or what, she wasn't yet certain. His emotionless face intimidated. Frightened.
An elderly lady protested as her medication was confiscated. Pursing her soft lips , Mara frowned. That was certainly unusual. Although prescription medications were often subject to closer inspection, if labeled with the patients name and providing that name did corresponded to the person possessing it, personal medications normally passed through.
The grandmotherly woman's complaints landed on deaf ears as he escorted her towards an unmarked grey door, passing her off to another uniformed officer for further investigation of her "illegal narcotics". Mara shook her head ruefully, her dark brown hair brushing against her shoulders and neck as she anticipated the response of his supervisor once they discovered the officer's error.
Looking closely, Mara could see that the young man was barely out of his teens. His striking brown eyes and youthful features must have caught the eyes of the young ladies. His athletic five foot, eight inch frame was loosely clothed in the crisp dark blue polyester of a spanking new customs uniform. He was likely, summer help. Many of the police authorities used summer help as work placements for college students. Seeking these well paying and prestigious jobs, student applications swamped the departments each spring. The successful applicants provided valuable help to over worked officers while they learned valuable skills and earned next years tuition.
He seemed upset though. Dark circles under his eyes indicated to her that he hadn't slept well, recently. Condescending arrogance filled each word as he spoke to the passengers. He exuded an aura of authority that was pointedly aimed to intimidate those around him. He was acting like an ass, she surmised derisively. Mara had seen this before in her younger colleagues and new members of the team. Until some event occurred that caused their egos to hit the solid wall of reality, they always focused more about the power and perks of the position, than their sworn duty to serve the public. That attitude was dangerous. Especially here.
Heathrow, as the hub for international flights into the European continent, serviced over 15.0 million passengers each year. Airlines from all parts of the globe regularly flew into this airport, making it both, a crucial portal for intercontinental transportation, and a major security risk.
Security was tight and in many instances invisible by the traveling public. Hidden security cameras recorded faces of passengers passing through gates, buying tickets, retrieving luggage. Uniformed police peppered the building, providing additional surveillance and heightened the public's feeling of confidence in traveling. It was well known in law enforcement circles, that the British Customs Authority were led by retired military officers who insisted on the highest level of training and skill in their people. They demanded the best from their agents and in return received the efforts that made them the leaders in the business of airport safety and security. So, she pondered, shifting her briefcase to her other hand, what was happening here to prompt such behavior in this young officer?
He probed and searched, asking the same question in different ways, grinning now and then at discomfort of the poor soul before him, as he tried to slip them up. As Mara moved closer to the head of the line, she sighed in disgust. She really saw no need for this level of aggression. He really appeared to be enjoying the game. Enjoying the sense of power from intimidating these people. Playing the proverbial "bad cop".
Then she saw it. The glance. It was so quick she had almost missed it. Unblinking she stared at him. There it was again. Throughout the "inspections", his eyes would flit away from the passenger, to the wall behind them. But it wasn't just any look. In the brief seconds that his eyes were off the subject, he studied the wall with the intensity of a man committing information to memory. Just as abruptly, the mask of smirking arrogance would slide back into place as he focused back on the passenger. Quietly she continued to watch him. There. He did it again……And again??
"How long will you be in Britain?" glance at the wall. "Visiting Family? You have a number and address where I can confirm this of course." Glance. "You have a receipt for this?" Glance. On and on it went.
What the heck was he looking at, she wondered. You never took your eyes of a suspect during a clearance, whether they were on the street on in customs. Never. It was the golden rule of security. The moment you lost contact with that person's eyes, you lost your ability to see through a lie. Even good liars could only maintain the charade for short periods without giving some little sign. A twitch of the eyelid. A nervous glance sideways or to a hidden weapon. Critical signs that would be easily missed by any momentary inattentiveness to the subject before you.
Although she couldn't see the contents of the wall from her place in the line, she decided to give the lad the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was screening a list of VICAP alerts, flagging someone for pick-up if he or she attempted to enter the country. That would make sense and explain his judicious study of the wall.
Information was exchanged on an hourly basis between U.S. law enforcement, intelligence, and service entities, as well as international law enforcement agencies through the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or VICAP. The computer alerts advised police of the whereabouts of violent offenders and other wanted individuals. Due to the surge in worldwide terrorism, many of the international transportation authorities had recently been added to the database with the intent of detaining suspected individuals as they moved through international airports.
It had been a great success, much to the chagrin of the changes naysayers. In the past 6 months, several international and long sought after criminals had been apprehended by airport security while clearing customs due to the VICAP alerts.
In one case, Louis François, a French national, linked with the militant group Terre National, had been identified and detained by Spanish customs agents within hours of bombing of the American Embassy in France. The explosion had ripped apart the southern wing of the 3 story building and claimed the lives of 22 US citizens, including the Ambassador's 12 year old daughter, Marie.
Louis alleged that he was simply going on vacation abroad, yet the unemployed and smooth talking fanatic had no explanations for the appearance of $250,000, deposited into his savings account only hours before the attack. Money that had been quickly traced to a numbered Swiss account belonging to Terre National. However, it had been the video surveillance tapes that had secured his conviction on charges of terrorism. The images clearly recorded caught him parking the small, bakery truck in the embassy's delivery lot, a mere 10 minutes before the explosives hidden inside it had detonated. Now instead of basking in the sun of Costa del Sol, he sat in a French prison doing life.
In all probability, such a police alert would likely be posted in a place out of the passenger's direct sight but, clearly within the visual field of the inspecting officer. He could be merely judiciously screening each passenger against the VICAP photographs. She discreetly turned around fiddling with the handle of her suitcase as she carefully and quickly scanned the passengers behind her for any hint of unusual activity.
The older bearded gentleman immediately behind her, distractedly studied the business section of the Evening Standard, circling stock quotes with a red felt tipped pen. His thick eyebrows were pushed together in concentration. Well dressed, expensive suit, laptop, cell phone and beeper.
Next was a young couple, whispering endearments to each other as they waited. Holding hands she gazed lovingly at the glittering diamond on her left hand then smiled at the young man. His eyes warmly regarded his wife as they exchanged that intimate smile of a man and woman in love. Mara smiled softly, feeling slightly envious of the couple's deep affection for each other.
Behind the lovebirds, a tall raven haired man smiled as he made eye contact with her, telegraphing his interest in her loudly. He was devilishly good looking, longish hair, clear blue eyes, strong jaw, bohemian style attire of jeans and tee shirt, dress jacket and scarf. Artsy type, she deduced. He mouthed "What's the delay?"
She smiled back, raising her slim shoulders and shaking her head in frustration at the delay. He nodded and smiled sympathetically in return. Everything seemed normal so far. So what had set the customs agent on such a high state of alert?
A young mother two behind him, desperately struggled to hold onto her protesting son. The two year old wriggled and squirmed objecting to her efforts to keep him in her arms and rebuking the toys she handed him. From the exasperated grimace on her face, she was clearly at her wits end. Chocolate appeared from a wrinkled hand behind her, instantly calming the irate toddler. Mom graciously thanked her elderly benefactor, who smiled kindly and tousled the boy's blond curls. "Memo to me,", Mara chuckled, making a mental note. Chocolate sooths the savage beast.
"Next!" came the sharp call from the young inspector. As she turned back, the young bohemian cast her another sympathetic smile and gave her the thumbs up sign for luck. Mouthing "thanks", her full lips curving into a smile that lit up her beautiful face. Quickly she settled into her professional calm for this encounter.
As she approached the table, she discreetly glanced at the mysterious wall. Momentary disbelief struck. No "Wanted" posters covered it. Not a single photograph was in sight. Instead, it was her own slim reflection greeting her. Confusion fuddled through her brain as she started the mental acrobatics of figuring in this new piece of data.
Looking at him, she followed his eyes as they passed over her shoulder, to the mirror behind her and caught his appreciative smirk as he admired his own image in the glass. Turning back and pointedly clearing her throat, she leveled him a stern glare.
Face flushing with embarrassment that he'd been discovered, he tore his gaze away from the mirror, eyes narrowing in anger as they looked at her. "Passport." He barked sharply.
"So much for benefit of doubt." she whispered under her breath derisively as she lifted her suitcase and attaché on the table before him. The metal clasps clicked sharply as she unsnapped the fasteners and retrieved the thick envelope of documents. "My travel authorization, items list, and ID are enclosed as well." Smiling tightly and maintaining eye contact, she extended her credentials for inspection, while repressing the urge to box his ears.
He snatched the packet from her fingers while openly appraising her slim, attractive body. Mara tucked a stray chestnut lock behind her ear, a movement that was wholly feminine and unconsciously sexy. Heat flushed in her cheeks as she felt his leering stare move upwards over her denim covered legs, and slim hips. The blatant hunger in his narrowed eyes as they settled on the cleavage of her open collar started her stomach churning with nausea. She wasn't the type of woman to be bullied by a harassing fool. Perhaps a discrete word to his supervisor was in order.
Smile fading as quickly as her control on her temper, she cleared her throat, her face now cold and disdainful as his eyes rose to her face again. His mouth twitched as he repressed a smirk. His eyes dared her to reproach him. Up close he had a spoiled, petulant look twisting his boyish good looks. She sensed something else, a sick excitement as he rummaged though her belongings. Somehow she sensed that she figured into his perverse daydreams. Fantasies of control and submission to his self perceived power.
Mara bristled. Neglecting his duties was one thing. Being openly rude to passengers was another. Behavior bordering on sexual harassment, well that was three strikes. Discretion be dammed. Perhaps a dressing down in front of his supervisor would teach him a thing or two about respect.
Placing her unopened passport and credentials on the wooden table, he opened her suitcase, moving next to her, crowding her too close. Fingering roughly through her bra's and panties he asked, "How long will you be visiting England?" while not raising his head from his task. Was it her imagination or did his accented voice take on a condescending tone just then?
She was never one to walk away from a challenge. "I suppose that will vary greatly on how long it takes me to finish here." retorting with forced pleasantness and a tight smile on her beautiful face.
His fingers stilled suddenly as his cold grey eyes rose up to her deep blue orbs. "It will take as long as necessary. I am searching for dangerous goods." He announced threateningly. "You bloody Americans think you run the world! But, now you are in my country and right here," he slapped the table loudly with his hand, "I am the law."
"So I see. Please..." extending her elegant hand to her luggage in invitation, Mara inhaled deeply, calming herself, choosing not to respond to his insult. Deciding that a nice long chat with his supervisor was defiantly in order, she held her tongue further and let the man complete his search.
10 minutes later, it was obvious that she had upset him. Every piece of clothing had been thoroughly fondled, her novel opened, loosing both the bookmark, and the place she had left off as the plane had landed. Her pens were opened, inspected then tossed piecemeal back into her attaché. Her makeup, opened, then dumped akimbo within her case. Neatly folded clothing had been roughly removed to the table while he searched the linings of her case, then unceremoniously dumped back in a wrinkled heap.
He even rifled through files marked "confidential" in her briefcase, reading material he had no professional need to know, yet still searching everything for that one elusive piece of evidence that proved beyond a doubt that she was some kind of security risk. Everything, except the papers that should matter to him. They sat, dismissed, on the table. Next he'd have her strip searched. Enough was enough.
"Look," she stated calmly, "the only thing I'm importing that could possibly be termed "dangerous" is my temper, sir. We, "motioning towards the people waiting behind her, "have all had a very long flight, in cramped seats and I am sure that we have been all quite amused by standing here watching you admire your reflection while you joyfully finger your way through my Victoria's Secret's." She smiled inwardly as his jaw dropped open in disbelief. "I personally would be extremely grateful to you for finishing this job or confiscating my "contraband" she said, disgusted, picking up a pair of silk panties that had fallen to the floor, and tossing them back into the case, "and sending me on my way." She heard the sudden silence behind her as the ears of her fellow passengers perked up attentively.
"Another word out of your trap, Missy and I'll charge you with threatening an officer of the law." He smirked arrogantly, his tone threatening as he loudly added, "Nothing gets by me."
Anger flared inside her at his threat. "Somehow I really believe that things don't get by you…."glancing at the name on his tag"...Don." she replied calmly with no trace of emotion on her face. Nothing held such disconcerting power as being insulted by name. "No, I think they tend to smack into your forehead with great, resonating *THUND!* sort of sound, and then drop to your feet, where you will proceed to look at them with the intense sort of scowl that a monkey might regard a football while trying to determine whether to try to copulate with it or throw feces at it."
Snickers and repressed giggles broke out behind her, as the now attentive crowd made it clear that they had been listening absorbedly. "Now, I suggest you do your job and review my documents or find someone with a week or more experience to help you out." She suggested firmly.
He flushed slightly, his eyes gleaming. He grabbed her arm tightly, his fingers biting into muscle, bruising tissue. "That's it! I'll not listen to any more of your smart mouth. Come with me." he snarled, pulling her towards an unmarked door.
As she deftly shrugged off his hand, she started to reply "Look, just examine my—" but never finished. He roughly grabbed her wrist backwards, pulling hard and painfully twisting it behind her back. Mara's shoulder and elbow burst in searing pain as he shoved her over the table face first into the open suitcase. The sudden movement bunching the fabric of her leather jacket upwards, revealing the black metal of the Browning 9 mm that was safely enclosed within the leather holster at her waist..
His eyes went wide with alarm as he screamed, "GUN!! Get down! GET DOWN!" and pushed her harder into the table. Yells and screams exploded from the crowd behind them as the passengers dashed to conceal themselves behind each other while police poured into the small area, weapons drawn. Ready for a confrontation.
"Oh my God!"
"Oh Jesus!"
"..on the plane!"
"EVERYBODY GET DOWN!!" he screamed again.
"I wi the buro!" she choked out as the edge of her suitcase pushed into her throat, cutting off air, making her voice a hoarse, incoherent rasp. Her lungs screamed for air, as she pushed her head and chest back to release her neck from the obstruction.
Thinking she was struggling to get free, he started to push down harder, as the table was swarmed with police and customs officers. His weight lifted momentarily as she felt the cool metal of handcuffs snap snuggly over her wrists.
Weapon confiscated, she was lead off choking and coughing, towards the unmarked grey door, as she fought to remember how to breath.
Nope, she thought ironically, sometimes it just didn't pay to be assertive.
OK: Please. R&R. Your feedback is very important to me. They will help me get the next and nearly finished piece out much faster.