EPILOGUE~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

I slide the thin straps of my new green swishy-party-dress on my bare shoulders and slip on my new silver metallic strappy high heels. Long swirling curls bounce around my face and down the back of my neck with the movement. I stop in front of my full length mirror and slowly twirl around taking one last glance before heading out to the big event at the White House. No longer is there a scrawny awkward kid looking back at me.

My cell phone rings out. I dig it out of my little party purse. It's Josh. I put it to my ear. "Hey."

"You ready for our big night?" He asks, sounding more like a man than the kid I grew up with.

"I am. Mom helped me with my makeup then she piled my hair on top of my head, in a Cinderella fashion. I look like a fairy princess." I stroll over to the mirror and smile at my reflection.

"So have you finally become the woman you always wanted to be?"

I balk. "Uh, still a work in progress."

What does that even mean?

"Anyway, I look like a waiter. When I walk though the door, they'll probably hand me a tray of Hors d'oeuvre."

I laugh. "See you at the White House partner."

"I'll save you a seat next to the President," Josh says and clicks off.

I smile to my self and cross the hall. My parent's bedroom door is ajar. I stick my face threw the opening but don't see them. "Hello?"

"In here sweetie," Mom calls out from the bathroom. "Come on in!"

I enter and see the ‘rents are in their bathroom...sharing the mirror over the sink. They look so happy. They're never out of each other's view… Come to think of it, I haven’t seen them apart since Pop and I––along with half the town––met Mom’s entourage at the airport about a month ago. Pop gave her one of those Hollywood kisses and it was on the front page of practically every newspaper and website in the Universe.

As I cross the floor, a female voice on the television in their bedroom mentions Mom. I stop short. You'd think I'd be used to hearing her name in public. I guess having her back home will take time to sink in fully.

"Yes, tonight the world will be watching as Special Agent Eva Blakely is honored along with her family and others tonight."

I find the remote sitting on the bedspread, raise the volume and stand in front the set as the camera hones in on two female reporters dressed in evening wear, somewhere outside on the White House grounds. It's twilight, the landscape is filled with twinkle lights. Somber Marines dressed in blues, stand guard at every door and entrance. Mom walks over and opens her jewelry box sitting on the dresser.

I say, "They're showing a live shot of the White House. The place is packed with the press, security and a slew of important looking people."

Mom flicks an eye at the screen. She's tired of seeing herself and hearing about her horrific capture by Valentine. She says it's inhuman what a few leftovers from the Soviet totalitarian regime put everyone though because of their bullheadedness.

One reporter says, "I don't know about you, but I was glued to the set during the entire Blakely thing."

The other woman adds, "And… I’m willing to bet the whole world will be glued to their TV's tonight like they were for the––how long did it take? Like, twenty-four hours for Special Agent Ivan Brody and a bunch of macho-types to negotiate with the Russian government for her release from that awful women's prison."

"Man oh man. What a strong woman Eva Blakely is...like the lady who famously said, "Our office doesn't make 'em, we only break 'em."

I say, "Elizebeth Friedman. I read all about her on the Internet."

Someone must've whispered the name in the woman reporter's ear. "She's a modern day Elizebeth Friedman," the correspondent says, nodding her head, presses on the earpiece. Mom stands in front the TV and I help her put on her earrings.

The other correspondent adds, "But prettier and smarter."

Mom cringes. "Oh please. These reporters are so full of it!"

"Apparently the party has already started," Pop says, peering out of the bathroom. "Looks like the Golden Globe Awards." He emerges from the bathroom looking like the Beast dressed for the ball in Beauty and Beast.

Mom shakes her head in disgust as she steps into cream colored high heels. "I hope they don't make us walk down a red carpet."

I blink. "Yes, that would be really bizarre." It's sick how the government is becoming more and more like Hollywood.

"And can I say WOW! This seems to be a way bigger deal than I expected." Pop likes to kid around, mimicking me and my friends. Holding up a hand mirror, he turns sideways in the cramped bathroom, checking the back of his wild red (recently cut) hair.

"Yeah, way bigger…" I call back, and place my hands on my stomach as the butterflies multiply.

"Well, it is a big deal what you two helped bring to fruition." Mom comes over and hugs me gently. "You save little ole me. Tonight you, Christopher, and everyone involved in my release should be honored in front of the whole world."

"Uh, Mom, hello…just saying that you're the heroine here."

I turn and really look at her. She's wearing a form fitting royal blue silk dress with long sleeves. Her sparkling blue zircon stud earrings match her eyes. Mom's figure is perfect, to die for at her age.

"Oh my, you look so beautiful."

"Thank you." She touches my chin.

"You too sweetheart." 

Pop smiles broadly. "I am the luckiest lad on the planet."

The TV anchor lady wolf whistles and catches all of our interest. The three of us stand side by side in front of the TV.

President Parks speaks first. "As promised, I pledge to be a more transparent and honest administration. I apologize for those who would deceive you and I pledge to fight to make absolutely certain they are investigated, charged, and justice is served to the full extent of the laws. So, on that note…I give you the man who made this extraordinaire mission a complete success with not one fatality or hair harmed on a human head. My fellow Americans, Special Agent Ivan Brody."

The crowd rises and applauds as Ivan, dressed in an Armani tuxedo, strolls in and stands behind a podium in the rose garden next to President Park.

I point. "Check out Agent Ivan Brody working the James Bond suit."

The news anchor breaks in and says, "Because the Agent Ivan Brody plans to real all of Fredrick Koshechka's manifesto aloud, we will hold all commercials until he is finished."

Parks joins the others in applause as she steps away from the podium.  Ivan nods at the crowd. When everyone is quiet, he holds up a small piece of paper and begins reading.

"That's the note signed слон––"

Mom starts to explain and I interject.

"I know. I means Elephant. Sorry, I interrupted you Mom, but is it the note Valentine tossed into my Mustang?" The CIA took everything Josh and I wrote down or had pertaining to Mom's case.

"No." Mom shakes her head and slides on several thin sliver bracelets. "This particular note was attached to the packet containing my missing personnel documents. Fredrick simply labeled them: The Blakely Files and sighed the last page of his manifesto as the Elephant. His code name while in the KGB."

"Right." My eyes glued to the TV screen, I nod, recalling the spy book Mr. J loaned me. Uh-oh, I still have it! Yikes! I need to return it ASAP! Or did he say keep it. I can't remember. Bits and pieces of my memory were lost after my surgery. The doctors say they may come back or maybe not. Sometimes it makes me sad, but after almost drowning, I'm glad and thankful to be alive. Thank you God. I notice Ivan's eye glancing down at the podium. He slowly opens the black binder containing Valentines words, and begins to read in a booming precise tone. As a result, everyone is able to hear and understand every word that comes out of his mouth.

“As God’s witness, I confess to the murders of Boris Artamonov and his wife. Please forgive me." Ivan stops reading and looks at the camera. "History tells you about the horrific methods employed by the KGB so I will not go into the gory details written here."

I curl my eyes at Mom. Hum. Did the Russians hurt her physically?

She catches me looking at her. "What?"

"Nothing." I look back at the screen. Mom insists that the officers only used verbal interrogation methods while trying to persuade her to return and work as a spy for Russia. Nevertheless, she's trained to hold back certain details.

Ivan finds his place and begins reading again. "Boris Artamonov's teenage Granddaughter Ivanova––the woman you know as Eva Blakely––as you know, she evaded my efforts during the flight by not eating her in-flight meal, leaving my most important mission incomplete. And my career at odds. But that is another story." Ivan flips to the next page. "I was in fact the Soviet KGB agent assigned to kidnap––not kill as misreported by the media––the American Special Agent Blakely. This was to take place while she was on assignment in Austria. I chose to complete my long mission during the Christmas holidays. Thanks to the grossly incompetent Agent Werthoust fellow, her bungling handler, and corrupt CIA officers. The United States of America's leaders and intelligence have time and again failed their citizenry… It was a success…nevertheless, bittersweet because I regret of the pain my actions have caused."

Visibly displeased by Valentine's degradation of America, Ivan (a patriot) pauses here to regain his composure. Cameras make that annoying clicking sound as they scan over the chosen media attending this event, and friends of the administration sitting in rows of folding chairs on the Rose Garden lawn. The camera, once again, focuses in on Ivan and as if on cue, he continues in his well trained American accent. Not a lick of his native Russian notes come out in his speech. He appears to be 100% American to those who don't know him intimately. They should see him after a few beers. He's hilarious!

"Those assigned to protect your Special Agents from such an incident, failed to stop me." Ivan mutters under his breath but loud enough for all to hear. "May he rot in hell."

Someone yells "YES!" Restless noises emit from the crowd as the camera pins down the guilty party. It's a young male RT reporter.

Ivan starts up again, "…Anyway, let me remind you again that these are KGB Agent Koshechka's words." He tugs at his black bowtie. "As a senior citizen, he tends to ramble…" Ivan holds up a flat hand. "Please bear with me. Reading his is more painful than Green Beret training."

This draws a round of laughter.

Shaking his head, Ivan turns the page of the thick report with a jerk. "Although thought dead by her family, and the media, I assure you, Agent Eva Blakely is alive and well––thanks to my dear sister… who helped me in this, my final mission. My endeavor to clear my conscious and gain my soul. In any event, you will find Eva in good physical shape. She is being held in a special section of the women’s prison in the town of Paneavezys, Lithuania…refer to maps."

Ivan looks up and waits for the loud muttering to quiet down.

I can't help but think about all that she went though. Mom is standing in front of the mirror above the dresser, brushing her smooth, shiny shoulder length chocolate brown hair. I glance at her reflection. She turns her head and smiles at me.

"You okay?"

She asks me this about a hundred times a day.

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. "Um, sure. Taking one day at a time." My pat comeback.

Her smile fades into a faraway look. "Yeah, me too."

Ivan begins again and I direct my attention back to the television even though I've heard, discussed, and read Koshechka's manifesto several times over. Each time, I was so ready to lay some whoop-ass on Werthoust. However, now, I just want to get on with my life.

I step back and let barefoot Mom go into her walk-in clothes closet. She returns holding a pink shoebox.

Ivan is saying, "…for months, the truth regarding Eva's fate remained concealed from the world's eyes and ears. All because of an arrogant division director plus others supposedly in charge of the United States' State Department––you know their names. They lied to avert potential embarrassment to the President, the US Intelligence department, and the United Nations."

This is so embarrassing for America. I roll my eyes skyward. "Werthoust is such a low life. I hope he gets everything he deserves and more!"

Mom laughs. "You are so your father's daughter." Mom remove the tissue out of her new shoes and tosses it in the shoebox. She says, "After reading the manifesto, Christopher was ready to storm the Pentagon."

I laugh and watch Ivan roughly flip to the next page. Before reading it, I notice his hooded blue eyes keep darting from the page to the crowd. He frowns and takes time. I gesture. "This is torture for him."

Mom puts the shoebox back on a shelf and closes the closet door. She put her hairbrush away, and says, "It's a slap on the face of America."

I swallow again. "Truly."

"Be proud. We won this battle. The President thinks the world deserves to hear both sides of the story." Mom frowns at me. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Just butterflies from all the excitement, I guess."

What's making me freaked isn't just the event. I can't stop thinking about Josh and my plans to move to Gainesville, to attend the University of Florida. We also plan to be roommates. The 'rents don't know. There lies the rub. Plus, I haven't even officially been accepted. I am waiting for a letter. So, why tell them yet until it's a sure thing. I'm listening with one ear while Ivan keeps reading.

"It was a most unfortunate that young Cookie had to suffer during this ordeal.

Even though the Blakely family is a household name, it's always weird to hear my name said on the television. It draws my full attention back to what Ivan is saying.

"It pains me greatly that Cookie grieved one second over the loss of her mother––as well as her husband, Christopher. As the story goes, Eva was only six years old when the Artamonov family became US citizens. They were instructed by U.S. government officials, psychologist and numerous specialist, on how to conceal every part of their past lives. Long after the transformation, Eva learned the truth. To escape punishment, her Diplomatic father had to defect from Russia...or be killed. Soviet authorities tried and sentenced the Artamonov family to death in absentia. Even little Eva (Ivanova) was to be put to death. In secrecy, Eva inquired about her indictment––why were they accusing her––she was just a child…"

Ivan pauses while the people gasp audibly.

"At the time of learning this, I believe Eva still lived in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. She'd recently become employed in the Pentagon with the C.I.A. as a cryptologists intelligence officer. She quickly advanced and became the world's number one code breaker. The Russian government wanted her back badly enough to employ me––an old man––to complete the mission. I am the best agent they ever had."

Several silent minuets pass while Ivan fidgets and skims the next few pages.

"Mom. Is Ivan okay?"

She looks at the TV and says, "No agent likes laying bare a fellow agent's life. I goes against every moral fiber in our being."

Ivan gesturing wildly with his hands, takes a few deep breaths and says, "Look. For those of you who aren't aware: In 1977 the Soviet Navy adopted a torpedo that could travel underwater at a speed of 200 knots or 370 km/h."

I say, "That isn't in Valentine's manifesto."

"He's going completely off script," Mom whispers, more to her self, "Huh. Squall must've been declassified without my knowing."

Ivan really gets into talking about this torpedo.

"The Shkval ("squall") is a high-speed super-cavitating rocket-propelled torpedo designed to be a rapid-reaction defense against U.S. submarines undetected by sonar. It operates by racing through the water with a cushion of air. And can also be used as a countermeasure to an incoming torpedo by forcing the hostile projectile to abruptly change course…and possibly break its guidance wires. Even though this powerful weapon was developed in Soviet times, it is available today for export sale in a modernized form."

Agent Brody clears his throat. There's nervous chatter coming from the media.

Ivan hold up a flat hand. "Eh. People, the world needs to hear the truth. So, still cloaked in secrecy, the Shkval or Squall came to broad public attention during a spy scandal in 2000. So, according to the Russian government, Agent Blakely was further charged with espionage because of her mission as one of the two CIA agents working undercover as US diplomats attempting to get information about the Squall torpedo. They were detained in the Russian capital in 2002." He takes a long drink of water, and then says, "But I digress."

Pop makes growl noises. I didn't realize that he is standing behind us. He opens a bottle of after shave sitting on the dresser, sprinkles some on his big hands then pats his face.

"So, looks as if Agent Werthoust is actually going to be charged with treason and a whole bunch of other crimes." He'd rather be boiled in oil than hear again that his beautiful wife was caged in a Russian prison. He holds his arms out straight and I pick up the lint brush and do my thing on Pop's broad shoulders. Pop twirls slowly as I remove any lint or hair particle on his tuxedo. "Let's just pray that he’s in the pokey for life!"

Mom shakes her head. "It’s so mind boggling! Why didn't I see his inadequacies?" Mom takes the lint brush from me and works on Pop's trousers. He's a big man and it takes two women to whip him into shape. "I still have so many unanswered questions." Mom frowns as she smooths the creases of Pop's trousers.

Pop bends at the waist and plants a kiss on top of Mom's head. "You aren't responsible for him any more love. You're retired."

She rises up. "But it was my job to query everything."

Once Mom was home safe and sound, I finally told them about my encounter with Valentine on the plane home from Florida. Pop about went ballistic. Weird thing is nobody has seen hide or hare of him or his wife since that day. It’s as if they virtually disappeared from the face of the earth. Here I was sitting next to one of the most wanted men in the universe, and the top officials couldn't can’t catch him. Valentine is truly a slippery snake.

Anyway, tonight we are going to (GET THIS) THE WHITE HOUSE! Yep! Agent Ivan Brody is getting some major rewards for bravery in the line of duty—or something like that—for the way he pulled off Operation Cookie Cutter. Can you believe it? Little ole me…Cookie Blakely…having dinner with THE PRESIDENT! I even get to take a friend...Josh...like, who else.

Oh, yeah...Char and Billy are engaged, so I guess we don’t need to go see Madame Suzi to know what’s in Char’s future. And thanks to Jimmy Beal’s photographs, Zak got a brand new VW out of his lawsuit against Senator Brennan. Now, Zak wants to be a lawyer—in Australia—where the waves are like totally radical Duuuude! Oh my Gosh, that reminds me...after Ivan took off in Peter’s Porsche...Peter went back to the beach and found my surfboard! Seems the longhaired surfer dudes I met surfing, found it and were looking everywhere for me. I freaked when Peter shipped my surfboard to me the next day. When I got back home, a note from our post person said it was waiting for me at the Georgetown Post Office. And get this! Josh and I are going back to Florida for Spring Break!

At any rate, life goes on. Beggar the cat—formally, a stray—has taken up permanent residency at the end of my bed.

Mom is laughing liltingly. I sigh contentedly, lean on the stair railing, and watch them. Pop is standing in front of the hall mirror making faces. He attempts to smooth the springy red curls on his head. Mom bends at the waist, sharing the mirror with him. She applies rose colored lipstick. Her hair is long now and most days she wears it swirled up in what she calls a “chignon”. Tonight it is down. It rocks!

“Eva, do I look okay?”

“Oh my yes...you look very handsome in your tuxedo!” Mom says straightening his bow tie. Pop slides his hand around her slender waist, Mom rises up on her toes and kisses his flushed cheek.

Eva glances down at her watch and says, “We better go, mustn't keep Madame President waiting. Christopher, go see if our limo is outside.”

I smile. "Limo?"

Someday soon, I hope my life gets back to normal.

Yeah...right!

Josh meets me at the front of the drive.

I step out and he says, "Wow."

We walk among the crowd of whos-who making our way to the ballroom. I whisper, "Josh, no one knows that President Parks asked me to prepare a speech."

"This so cool C, I can't believe you and I are getting full scholarships!"

"Yeah. I know. I can't believe that I have to go up in front of all these big wigs. When the President of the United states insist..."

"Florida here we come! Sorry, what did you say?"
I smile. "Forget it. We are clearly on different planets."

So after the rewards dinner, President Parks goes up to the podium and asks for everyone’s attention. Once she has it, she says, "I have asked someone special to speak in her words tonight." She gestures for me to come up to the front of the room. "Future agent Cookie Blakely."

Complete numb, I stand up and walk down between the tables filled with important people, cameras flashing. Shockingly, people rise up and applaud moi. I have no idea how I got there. My eyes adjust as I place my notes on the podium and then lean toward the microphone.

The ballroom grows quiet and it feels like about a zillion eyes are on me. I smile stiffly and locate Mom, then Josh. Pop's big smiling face is easy to fine. He pumps a fist then blows me a kiss. I touch my cheek as if I caught it. Next, I take a deep breath and pray for God's help. A warm glow flows through me.

“With the help of the CIA, my grandmother and grandfather, a Russian diplomat, defected to America with their six-year-old––my Mom. After that, the Russian government sentenced all three of them to death in absentia. A cruel and inhumane gesture. Mom grew up speaking English in American schools. However because she refused to forget her home and past, she spoke perfect Russian and launched her career as a cryptologist. Years later, her parents were murdered by eating in-flight meals poisoned with a unique cocktail of deadly poison risen. Thankfully, it was quickly traced to a Russia laboratory by a friend of hers. Mom was saved by a bout of motion sickness which she still suffers from today. While flying she couldn't eat so she was spared."

Everyone cheers.

“While in college, Mom learned several more languages and became a Secret Agent linguist for the CIA. This was during, and right after, the Cold War. And before my parents even met. After I was born, Mom went back to work as a highly trained Special Agent. Much like our troops, she sacrificed her home life for America. Where her heart was…even though she was born in Russia and worked on foreign soil most of the time. Until recently, I had no idea of the extreme danger she’d encountered."

I look at my mother. We lock eyes. She mouths, "I love you."

I mouth, "Love you too." I take another a deep breath and draw on the strength I have inherited from her.

“When I was fifteen, we went on a family ski trip in Austria. On Christmas Eve, Pop and I got up at the crack of dawn and sunrise skiing. While we were gone, a former-KGB agent…”

I pause to revise my thoughts.

I wave my hand. “Eh! You all know about her kidnapper who I nicknamed Valentine because of the heart-shaped birthmark over his eye. Yes, he's still on the lam, so I won’t repeat what the media has already reported a zillion times." I smile. "No offence media folks."

Laughter fills the room.

“Anyway, as you know, Valentine came to our hotel suite, kidnapped Mom and a locked her in Russian women’s prison. The Old Russian government was hell bent on making Mom pay for her father’s sins. They wanted her back. She was Russian. Russia needed her on their side to work as a spy. Therefore, we were told she was dead… It was tough…"

I take a second to regain my composure.

"Mom’s identity was highly classified so Pop and I knew nothing prior to learning all this. I went a little wacko. Anyway, Ivan, Josh, and I put our heads together and played connect the dots with clues about my family that we dug up using the Library of Congress, old family photos, and over the Internet. I was lucky enough to have the US government's help. Squeakily wheel thing."

More laughter.

"Well, long story short, the world watched as Ivan put together a covert operation and rescued her.” I shrug. “The rest is history. I just want the world to know that she is my hero.”

I begin clapping and the whole place rises to their feet to give Mom a standing O. After it's all over, I realize that I never once looked down at my notes.

The following year, Pop’s catering business is booming. Rumor that Mom’s life secret might be put to pen set off the hungry Washington, D.C. media. Then after a few interviews with the main stream, word was out that she'd started writing a her biographical non-fiction novel. An even bigger media feeding frenzy began. Ivanova Artamonov, aka Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely’s astounding story is about to be revealed in a best selling novel (co-written by Moi) and titled: Operation: Cookie Cutter. Get this, Hollywood is interested in making it into a movie.

Oh, and read about Cookie Blakely’s next adventures in

Operation: Fortune Cookie

Operation: Cookie Crumbs

Note from writer.

On May 1^st of 2005, the idea for the Cookie Blakely character planted itself (herself) into my subconscious. As if petitioning me to write her stories, every morning Cookie wakes me up at ungodly hours with her thoughts and ideas about the story in progress or future adventures. I’m serious. There is no shutting her up. So, I am forced to get up, splash cold water on my face, drink coffee, and write.

Cookie’s adventure stories are written to entertain whoever happens to find one of them in their possession and are entirely made up fiction not based on any prior anything or anybody.

Oh yeah, let me get this out now so no one is confused about how fast or not so fast Cookie ages. Cookie’s adventures are written in “real time” and since we (I mean, I) love to do research on the Internet, you may recognize current events, products, celebrities, places, and so forth.

Book Jacket

My first book, Operation: Cookie Cutter, Cookie turns seventeen and is a senior at Georgetown High school. In my second book, Operation: Cookie whatever, Cookie is still a senior in high school and still helps Pop when needed on his catering jobs—however she has taken on a new job. After playing a major role in wrapping up her mom’s screwed up investigation, the president asks Cookie and Josh O’Dell to head up a new branch of the NSA, called Crime Prevention Raiders (C.P.R.). The president and the C.I.A. still contract Eva for certain cases but due to Fredric still being M.I.A. she doesn’t travel anymore. Cookie’s mom Eva, semi-retires from the F.B.I. to write her story, helps Christopher with his flourishing catering business and is now the mom she never was to Cookie. Anyway, as the Cookie Adventure books are written Cookie might be months or years older, who knows what the future holds, right? At any rate, I promise, it will all jive. I hope.

PART THREE CHAPTER FOURTY-NINE ~ 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 look at them. I've chewed off most of the nails on my left hand. I rarely bite my nails—maybe during a scary movie. Wait, Ivan isn't married.

The tape stops. Valentine picks up the player.

I reach up to remove the head-set and Valentine holds up a halting hand. “This one you will truly enjoy,” he says smiling. He slowly switches out the first cassette for another one, sets it down then pushes the play button. Valentine turns up the volume.

“Hello darling."

It’s my mom’s voice. My heart stops and I suck in a sharp breath.

"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.

Mom pauses. A painfully pregnant silence. I wonder if that is all there is more. I stir and Valentine clamps his strong hand on my arm. I flinch.

Of course he knows that there is more.

"Sorry," Mom says, she clears her throat. She sounds drained, defeated. "I won’t go into details. 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. This stress can't be good. I feel the head-set being gently removed from my head. I don't move. I can’t move. I can't. I'm numb.

 “What do I have to do? Are you going to kidnap me too?” I ask, shocked that I've found my voice.

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

"I’m starting to hate 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.

Valentine tucks everything away then with a wave of his hand, says in his strong Russian accent, “Go into the lavatory. Wash your face and return to your seat. When you get home, simply live your life. I promise you, soon, you will hear from your friend Special Agent Ivan Brody with very good news.”