CHAPTER FOURTY-EIGHT ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

"And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." - 

H. Murakami

Wednesday night September 6: 

Ivan was supposed to drive us to the airport, but something came up so we take an airport shuttle instead. They release me out of the hospital and Pop and I spend one more night at the beach before returning home. Let’s just say he relented to my begging. We sat on the beach chairs, watching the spectacular sunset, ate garbage food at the pier, played pinball and of curse bought more junk at Ron Jon's because you never have enough tee shirts. Now we’re on the way home,  hui hou Florida! Means goodbye until we meet again. Whatev. All the while, thoughts––of what occurred over the past week––are spinning around in my head. I feel like I'm on a never ending amusement park ride. If I write it all down will it stop? So, during my hospital say, I didn’t have a chance to write in my journal. Not sure why. I don’t know why. I suppose I was waiting until I knew if I'd survive. Scary. After that, thought a little laugh escapes my lips. Deep inside, I consider what it would be like to die, next have a long talk with God. I feel better.  The events of the last few days changed me. Don’t ask me how to explain. I can't put it into word. This is one of those times that there are no words for.

During our progress through the airport stuff, stroll to our gate and board our plane, I feel like a robot. Chatty Pop is uncharacteristically quiet. Probably thinking “ready to be back to normal”. He’s only said that about a millions times. My retort, “so, what is normal?  Ha!”

Pop shoves our carry-ons in the overhead containers then catches my eye. “I’m going to read, you take the window seat.”

I shrug. “Okay.” I always take the window seat and he always read in-flight. A flight attendant passes me ear buds. I poke them in my ears and flip the onboard radio to the oldies channel. See you in September by The Happenings, is playing…one of my all time favs. Char tells me I was born in the wrong decade. I think she’s right. Another attendant stops the drink cart next to our isle and I ask for a Pepsi. She passes Pop his coffee and offers us pretzels. “No thanks.”

I sing along in my head and sip my Pepsi. Anyway, once our jet hits altitude, I clear my ears and watch out the window trying to spot Cinderella’s castle amongst the twinkling lights around Orlando. I’m pretty sure we’re too far north but it’s worth a try. Nothing. Bored. Reaching inside my shoulder bag, I pull out my journal. Time to write.

The Doctors assured me and Pop that the procedure was a complete success. So other than my life altering experience in the ocean, the last two days were uneventful. Seriously. Sitting in the hospital bed watching cable news talk about political negotiations between the United States and Russia was as boring as walking the halls at Brevard Memorial Hospital. But I had to know if there really was a breakthrough in locating Mom. I still contend that she is alive. If the Russian’s have her in locked up in some dark dank cell we have to rescue her. As far as Valentine, and Mom’s case goes––well Ivan keeps telling us that he’s “on it” and that “I am not to worry my pretty little head.” Yada-yada. The highlight of being imprisoned in hospital was peering in on at newborns—the tiny preemies stole my heart. I even considered becoming a neonatal nurse until I saw one changing a poopie diaper. Yuck! Seriously grossed me out. No way Jose! Toxic!

I called Josh as soon as I could talk better. Without coughing. He actually wanted to get on a plane to Cocoa. But flying to Florida was not practical since we’d probably pass each other midair. Nice thought though partner. He’s compiling my missed school work—lucky me. He said everyone misses me, however Char and Billy are still MIA from school. Since I felt just fine, Dr. Abraham released me from the hospital a day earlier than expected. He said I should be just fine’. His staff would be calling my Georgetown doctor and faxing my records to her office regarding my surgery. Next week I’m supposed to go in for a follow up to check my incisions and progress. No swimming for a week. Bottom line, God answered my prayers. I'm ALIVE!

I close my journal, stow it in my bag, and think about using the plane's lavatory. I twist around, there are like five people waiting back there! Ish! I push back my seat and close my eyes. Someone taps me on the shoulder and I open my eyes at a smiling flight attendant.

“Um, miss, would you like another cold drink?”

“Yes another Pepsi please.” I turn my head. The smile on her face falters. I pass her my empty cup and decide to play the pity card for what it’s worth. “Um, may I have the whole can this time? The pain meds dry out my mouth.”

She hands me the can and a fresh cup of ice then hesitates. Her eyes on my bandage. “May I ask what happened?”

“Um, surfing injury,” I say without hesitating and point at the side of my head. “Major wipe out on the foamies.”

“Oh, my, well take care,” she says frowning. She refills Pop’s coffee then pushes the drink cart further down the narrow aisle. Pop lowers his paperback and raises an eyebrow at me. “Surfing accident huh?”

 “Well it was...sort of,” I say grinning. The real story is way too complicated. I take a long drink and sit back in my seat, glancing over my shoulder. The plane is filled to capacity. And because we had to change our return flight, Pop and I couldn’t even get seats next to each other. Now, after the nuts and drinks have been consumed, streams of people are constantly making their way to the lavatories’ front and back. I thumb through the online magazine. There’s an article on Georgetown, showing pictures of the canal and all the familiar spots around town. I can’t wait to be home. To see Josh. He tells me my face is back in the news.

I work on a crossword puzzle and finish my second Pepsi. Now my bladder really starts talking.  I stick my head in the aisle to see if the line for bathroom is gone. It looks like a good time to go, only a lady with a little boy are back there right now and they are...going in. I rise up, glance over at Pop. His head resting on his fist, snoring softly. I totter down the tight aisle, head down to hide my bandage. I don't want to be recognized. I stand in the rear of the plane across from the occupied lavatory door, waiting my turn. The reading lights are off and the passengers around me are sleeping soundly. All of a sudden the plane hits some rough turbulence causing me to weave and reach out for support. I feel my arm being yanked down and when my butt hits the seat a surprised gasp escapes my lips. Before I can utter a scream, a large gloved hand clasps over my mouth, mashing my lips painfully into my teeth. I squeeze my eye shut waiting for a knife or gun to take my life. In the next second, I’m flipped like a rag doll and land in the window seat, my head is pressed into the seat’s back. My heart feels like it is going to burst along with my lungs. I can’t breath. Think. Pretend you are in the pool. Too terrified to open my eyes, I wiggle and grip the arms of the chair as my brain screams, “HELP! TERRORIST!” But only a soft murmur.

“Shhh, be still,” a deep voice with a heavy accent breathes in my ear.

I try, but I’m shaking so badly that his hand—still strapped around my lower jaw—keeps bumping my nose.

“I am wearing a suicide bomb. If you scream...everyone dies!”

I know that voice. Open your eyes. If you live, you can identify your attacker. I open my eyes wide. I freeze and curl my bulging eyes to the left.

IT’S VALENTINE! He's wearing a thick flack jacket under his black trench coat. My brain sends out a News Flash: Just do as he says and you may save yourself AND all of the people on this plane. I nod my head. He loosens his grip on my face a little and I suck air into my nose and mouth. Big wet tears run down my face.

“You must listen to me very carefully Cookie,” Valentine says in a spooky Russian accent. “Do you understand?”

I blink and again nod slowly.

“I am going to take my hand away. Just relax and everything will be fine. Yes?”

I nod yet again. Valentine slowly removes his hand and I immediately wipe my mouth on my sleeve. The smell of leather on my face. Terrified out of my wits, I swallow down the acidity gurgling in my throat and try to breathe normally. Pushing push back in the seat, I slowly look over and see the heart shaped birthmark. He smiles.

“So here we are at last…as they say... up close and personal.”

I swallow hard. My brain clicking from chill mode to survival mode.

My eye catches a commotion. Next to us is the lady with the little boy. They've finally comes out of the stall. My eyes dart over to them and then back to Valentine.

He presses a gloved finger to his lips.

The little boy bolts from the mother screaming bloody murder. She rushes after him looking embarrassed and never sees my bulging terrified expression.

I’m dead meat.

Valentine whispers, “Where is Agent Brody? Did he board this plane?”

I lift a shoulder. "I don't know. This is the truth. He just left."

Valentine doesn't speak. He's as still as a corps. Oh, God strike him dead. Just kidding...

My mind flashes. I'm sitting in a wheelchair in front of the hospital. Feeling like a dork, recalling Ivan's parting words before we entered the van with the letters P.A.F.A.S. on the door. Ivan explains, “Sorry something came up therefore I can’t drive you myself." He gestures. "But Cars here is going to make sure you are A-OK.” The van driver is dressed camo-colored fatigues, has to be a soldier. He comes over.

Ivan introduces the driver. "This is a Patrick Air Force airport shuttle," Airman 1st Class Carson Douglas."

I repeat this in my head. Testing my newly fixed brain.

"Cars will take you to the airport."

“I’m not coming back to DC right away.” Ivan sees the disappointment on my face and the crease between his blue eyes shows up.

"It's all good." I lift my chin and look inside. Cars nods his head, flashes me a tight grin, and Ivan turns to go, apparently in a hurry to skedaddle and go do whatever.

Something make me call after Ivan, “So, hold on Ivan! When will you be back in D.C.?”

Ivan doesn’t answer. He just shrugs. I get it. He has a lot on his mind that he can’t discuss. Top Secret stuff. I’m used to it.

Valentine chuckles softly and it pulls me out of my reverie. I blink.

"Very well child. I really don't need to know right this moment."

I lift my chin and stare boldly at Valentine. My mouth opens and I speak. Courage fills every fiber of my body.

"Look. All I know is that Agent Brody is doing his best to locate my Mom. And even though he hasn’t actually said that she is alive, I know in my gut that she is. I also know that it’s just a matter of time before they find her and captures YOU!"

"Never. I will never been trapped like an animal."

I see the stewardess headed down the aisle. Reality check. I blink a few times to gather my druthers. I lean a tad closer and whisper harshly, "Here's the deal... If Pop wakes up, he will come looking for me. That could turn out badly."

Valentine's glances back. "Let's just listen to some music and chill as you youngsters say." He passes me a headset. We both put the headset on and sit back...all cozy like. Danger Zone is playing, the song from Top Gun.

Weird.

For some reason my thoughts drift back to the front of the hospital. Right after Ivan left, Pop came out of the hospital with a packet of papers in his hand. “All set missy. I have your instructions, prescriptions, and release papers. Let’s make like a balloon an blow this joint.””

“Great.” I rise up out of the wheelchair with the orderly’s (needless) assistance. I hold up my hands at the tall black man.

 “It’s okay. I can get out on my own." I’m over being poked and prodded. I never want to see the inside of a hospital again for as long as I live. He leaves pushing the empty wheelchair the hospital insisted I ride in down to the front.

“Just trying to be helpful,” the orderly mumbles under his breath as he hands me my hospital hospitality bag.

Pete Kalita drives up in a snazzy green Porsche. Preoccupied, Peter nods and waves without making eye contact. I shoot him a peace sign as he climbs out of the low sports car looking like a six foot arachnid and shuts the door all the while searching the vicinity.

I’m sort of surprised to see Pete. Nice of him to say goodbye.

Peter's eyes fix on Ivan. And instead of coming over to say hi to me, Peter lopes over and stands by the driver’s open window, chatting to our soldier driver like old friends who haven’t seen each other in years. Okay. Got it. He’s here to fetch Ivan––not see me off. Ivan strolls over, taps Pete on the shoulder, and glances at his watch, impatiently, “Come on Pete, need to jam."

Peter looks at Ivan then back at the driver. "Good talking to you Cars.” Back away, they salute each other. Carson notices us struggling with our things, hops to it storing our luggage and bags in the rear compartment.

I murmur, “Thanks.”

Then Pop and I board the van. Through the outsized windows, I see Ivan walking next to the van. He's talking on his cell phone again. He looks all wired. My spidy senses are telling me something huge is about to take place. I look intently at Ivan wishing he'd tell us what it is. I think he feels my stare because he stops talking, and turns his back to me.

Gerr! I feel so out of the loop. Got to do something. My eyes dart here and there. Pop is up front, yucking it up with Carson and Pete. They're boisterous voices thunder in the van. I slide into a seat close to where Ivan is standing––ease the window open a crack––hoping to catch his side of the conversation. I sit forward and strain to hear Ivan. Oh yeah, he’d be mad if he caught me eavesdropping, can’t help myself.

“I concur completely Madam President… but by no fault of her own… you have to cut me some slack on... agreed, her unfortunate accident put a major wrench in our plans, but..."

I press my hand over my mouth. "Oh my gosh, he’s talking about moi."

Ivan nods his blonde head. "Yes ma'am. Nevertheless I’ve made more than adequate adjustments to make up for lost time..."

I gasp. "Plans to do what?" I peer over the edge of the window.

Ivan runs a hand over his hair and anxiously consults his watch––yet again. Nodding. "Affirmative, Cookie and Christopher Blakely just boarded the PAFAS.” While talking, he waves Peter to get a move on. Pete waves back. “Correct Madam President. Operation code name “Cookie Cutter” is about to start. I have exactly forty-five minuets to grab my gear and drive to NASA. Of course. I will do my best to keep you informed... Thank you. Good bye.” Ivan quickly punches in another number, and then leans into the side of the van with the phone pressed to his other ear.

"Now who is he calling?"

Ivan snickers. “Very funny T. Just tell that me you paid that greedy-bastard night watchman well and that he accidentally left the hanger unlocked.” Ivan is talking loudly. “Yes, shit head! The hanger containing Pete’s new baby." He throws back his head and laughs. "Yeah butthead! I’m talking about the YF-Thirty the all-singing, all-dancing recon aircraft as Pete refers to it…lovingly known as his Sugar Baby.” Ivan laughs some more then lowers his voice. “Yeah, of course. I plan on leaving him a love note that says something like, sorry bro, but I didn’t think you would mind if I took your girl for a little test drive so to speak." Ivan writes something on his hand. "T, meet Pete and me at the Montafon Inn on Friday night for a few brewskis... and an explanation.” Ivan chuckles. “So you think I should sign the note, kisses, Ivan? Got to go,” Ivan says to the mysterious person named “T”. Ivan chuckles again then clicks off. I reach up and close the window just as he glances over his shoulder. He slides the phone into his front pocket, raps on the driver's window then catches me messing with the window. Reads my guilty expression like an open book and Ivan frowns deeply.

Feeling like a deer in headlights, I bend over and pretend to tie my shoe lace even though I’m wearing sandals. This is what he's paid to do. Watch me, keep me alive. Glancing up, I see Pete finally wrap up his lively conversation with Pop and Carson. He hustles over to where Ivan is standing. I sit back and close my eyes, pretending to be resting. I did just have surgery. I sit there in the seat trying to process all that macho lingo.

Pop plops down in the seat next to me and Carson fires up the engine. We're the only two in the nice, air conditioned van. Good.

Pop waves as we pull away from Brevard Memorial Hospital.

I dig out a pen and a scrap of paper, scribble down Montafon Inn, and stick the folded paper in my jeans pocket… it's still there.

Valentine shifts his weight in the seat, pulling me back to reality. I curl my eyes. He's so close and personal. He waves a finger in front of my face. Valentine smiles at me and the pancake makeup crinkles at the corners of his black eyes. Flacks of spray on black hair dye lands on his shoulders like dandruff. He reminds me of the transvestites Char and I see at the mall cosmetic counters. I recall Ivan saying “Fredik Koshechka is a master of disguise”. I’m like, whatev.

I choke back a nervous giggle and drop my eyes. There's “F. K.” embroidered on his gloved hand. Like in the elevator so long ago.

He says, “You mustn’t tell fibs." His Russian accent is strong, but he speaks slowly so I can understand every excruciating  syllable.  

I shrug, spreading out my fingers, backs of my hands pressed to the top of my thighs.

“I don’t know what I don't know.”

I gaze past his face. The seat across the way is occupied by two older people. They are both fast asleep, mouths agape.

Valentine nods his large head slowly. “Ah. Well then please bear with me while I tell you about my little hobby."

The over head reading light is on and I watch swirling grayish microscopic dust particles fall from his disguise and float through the cold dry compressed air inside the airplane. They land on his black coat. When dressed in a suit, Pop has me use a lint brush on his broad shoulders. I resist the urge to dust Valentine off.

“The stewardess is a undercover agent on my team. She put a mild sedative in Christopher’s coffee. Harmless I guarantee. By the time we set down at Regan, I promise he will wake up refreshed.”

"Pop…" I clench my teeth trying not to scream as I struggle to get up.

"You must sit down NOW!”

“Why am I being put through all of this? Clue, the Cold War is ancient history. Why can’t you just let her go?”

“Cookie, please forgive me. It was a horrible time. Being a part of Russia’s KGB made me do things that will guarantee I burn in hell a million times. I am an old man now and I my only wish before I die to do anything in my power that will make sliver of my life worth living.”

I shake my head. I have no idea what this nutcase is babbling on about. I wipe my face on my sleeve and look at Valentine. “You are a freaking loon,” I hiss. “You kidnapped my mom and now you want to make nice? Why should I believe any of this?”

I try to rise up. I know Valentine said he would kill everyone on the plane but I can’t help it. I can’t just sit here having this conversation with insane person.  Valentine reaches up and grabs my hand and I pull away. 

“Wait, Cookie you mustn’t make a scene! There are others on this plane…watching."

I glance around.

The men surrounding us shift in theirs seats and stare at me with threatening expressions. In the aisle is a large man. He glares down at me as he cracks his knuckles. The older couple smile knowingly. Before, pretending to sleep so I wouldn’t ask for help.

Holy cow! They’re all with Valentine.

I settle back down, drop my chin, and cross my arms over my chest. "I'll behave."

Valentine smiles. His bushy eyebrows look like black steel wool. He lowers his chin. He chuckles deep in his throat. I have to admit he has a grandfatherly way about him.

"You see Cookie, I’ve always enjoyed recording private conversations with high tech gadgets. Growing up, my sisters used to get so annoyed when I'd bug their phones while they spoke to their boyfriends and then play back their conversations when I wanted something from them. Some call it blackmail or extortion, I fancy practical jokes. Over the years, with the help of modern technology, I perfected my techniques.

I blink. I am scared stiff—at the same time—mesmerized by Valentine’s voice and the birthmark––as I was when I was eight years old in the elevator.

Valentine reaches into the pocket of his black coat and takes out a small cassette player and a headset.

"O.M.G. Is that a bomb?"

He smirks. “No. The bomb is strapped to my waist. I want you to listen to a few things. Sorry, it’s not a recording of your beloved Goo-Goo Dolls."

I catch a glimpse of a thick black belt around his middle as Valentine takes a small white cassette from his inside coat breast pocket and slides it into the small recorder. I don't know what to think.

"Even so you may enjoy hearing Ivan Brody explaining to President Parks, and the DOD, what he plans to do for you just as much.”

He gives me the head-set and I automatically put it on. I stare at the back of the seat ahead.

Valentine pushes the start button and settles back in his seat.

Ivan’s voice is clear as a bell, “Absolutely, Madame President. The YF-30 is unique in the fact that it can be flown MAV or UAV. This option gives me the flexibility to keep this mission under even tighter wraps. No, the fewer involved the better. No problem. Yes, I flew the YF-30 in the “Fly-Off” at secret facility in Nevada and Peter willingly explained to all of the capabilities of his hypersonic prototype. I assure you I have every step synchronized perfectly. To refuel, after crossing the Atlantic, I will set the undetected aircraft down on the “USS Triton” currently traveling the Adriatic Sea loaded with avgas. I will set down on the roof of the American Embassy in Vienna.

The President says, "The Triton, formally a World Aircraft carrier, was converted to a heavy-lift ship for service to oilfields."

"Yes. At any rate, the stopover for fuel will only leave me thirty minuets to access the Russian Intelligence Offices, search for the Blakely files and slip the aircraft into a camouflaged hanger at a private airstrip located in the remote southern Alpine region of Austria.  My new black Hummer is parked inside a dilapidated old shack, gassed up and loaded with enough firepower to take out a small army. Allow me to thank you again for the early birthday present."

"Well, you are welcome" the President says sweetly, then with more professionalism, "The dangerous terrain surrounding the Montafon Valley demands such a powerful vehicle during such a covert rendezvous location."

Ivan talking, "Affirmative. I assembled and organized a well equipped, able-bodied team of Green Berets and mercenaries. They are already in position at ground zero. And eager for their orders."

"Ground zero?"

" A small inn between St. Gallenkich and Gaschurn. I told the owner of the Montafon Inn that my wife and I loved the view of the Silvretta and offered him twenty thou to reserve his entire grounds for two days, he was happy to turn his establishment over to me.”

I blink and realize that my fingers are in my mouth. I take them out and gaze at them. I've chewed off most of the nails on my left hand. I rarely bite my nails—maybe during a scary movie.

The tape stops. Valentine picks up the player.

"Wait, Ivan isn't even married. That probably wasn't even Ivan speaking. You could've faked the whole thing. I mean since that is what you do. Right?"

I reach up to remove the head-set and Valentine holds up a halting hand.

“This one you will truly enjoy,” he says smiling and speaking in his weird meticulous way while he switches out the first cassette for another one, "Ready?"

I nod yes and he presses play button still holding the player in his gloved hands.

“Hello darling."

My heart stops and I suck in a sharp breath. "That's my mom’s voice." I press the headset into my ears. I look at Valentine and twirl my hand. "I can barely hear her."

He adjusts the volume button higher.

"This is your mother. I know it will come as a shock. I hope you won’t be too frightened when you hear this. Fredik Koshechka has promised me no harm will come to Christopher or you if you do as he says. I am pretty sure I can trust Agent Koshechka because if he planed to hurt me or my family he would not have done the things he has in the past few months…"

I have my face in my hands. Tears are streaming down my face. I can't bear to look at him right now. Mom pauses. A painfully pregnant silence. I wonder if that is it. "Is there more?"

Of course, he knows that there is more.

"Sorry," Mom says, she clears her throat. "I won’t go into details." She sounds drained, defeated. "There are too many. And time is of essence. My darling, simply know that your nightmares will end soon. Give your father a hug for me... (She always said this over the phone). I promise you will know everything very soon. You must keep this encounter to yourself. You mustn’t tell anyone anything... yet." She makes a kiss noise. "I love you.”

I open my eyes and drop my hands. I feel helpless and exhausted. My head is starting to throb. I really need to pee. I wiggle and Valentine clamps his strong hand on my arm. I flinch. This stress can't be good after all, I've been through. I feel the head-set being gently lifted off my head. I don't move. I can’t move. I can't. I'm numb. Everything except my bladder.

 “Okay dude!" I blurt out, shocked that I've found my voice. "Just tell me what I have to do. Are you going to, like, kidnap me too?”

“Of course not, tough Cookie,” Valentine says chuckling.

He thinks this is funny? Moreover, I’m starting to really dislike the tough Cookie expression. I squeeze my eyes shut. “What the heck does that mean?”

“My dear, you don’t have to DO a thing…except be happy.”

I suck in a few breaths while Valentine tucks all of the listening stuff away in his trench coat pockets. Then with a wave of his gloved hand, he says in his strong Russian accent, “Go into the lavatory." He gestures. "Wash your face and return to your seat as if nothing has occurred. Then, when you get home, simply live your life like a normal American young woman with the world at your feet. I promise you, soon, you will hear from your friend Special Agent Ivan Brody with very good news.”