The Falcon & His Desert Rose - Chapter 3

   

THE FALCON AND HIS DESERT ROSE

                           

Chapter 3

In a scene that would make a perfect cover for an issue of Architectural Digest, a white, Battenberg lace tablecloth covered the long dining table. Upon it, the elegant goblets and china gleamed beneath a twinkling lead-crystal chandelier.
        The sound of ocean waves breaking on the nearby shore wafted in through opened windows on this unusually temperate and sunny holiday. In the background, soft classical music played by a tuxedoed, live string quartet set the mood for the Franklin family's Thanksgiving feast, attended by friends and colleagues of U.N. Ambassador Franklin and his wife, Sonya.
        Their only son, Thomas, had been told he could invite two guests. He chose Horace and Jeanne Mosley, an attractive history major in her junior year at MIT. He and Jeanne frequently studied together. Both were baseball fans and shared a passion for the Red Sox. But, so far, to Thomas’s dismay, that was the only passion they shared.
        Thomas didn’t consider himself shy, but didn't want to risk their friendship by expressing his innermost feelings. Sometimes, however, he caught Jeanne looking at him in a way that caused him to wonder if she might not harbor similar desires.

~        ~        ~

        Among the celebrities attending the Franklin's holiday celebration was Vice President Christopher Gillpatrick who had recently announced his candidacy for the Democratic Presidential nomination. Those in-the-know speculated he would select Ambassador Franklin as his running mate. 
        Also on the guest list was the Vice President's identical-twin brother, Senator Kevin Gillpatrick, a second-term Democrat from Massachusetts. Accompanying Kevin was his lovely wife, Shannon and their teenaged daughter, Chloe.
        To the amazement and disappointment of the nation’s gossip columnists, Christopher had divorced six years earlier without any juicy accusations of infidelity. He and his ex simply admitted that his political responsibilites prevented him from being the kind of “stay at home” husband she envisioned when they fell in love.
        The only vaguely “scandalous” story the press dug up concerned the Vice President's penchant for playing juvenile games. He owned a plastic suction dart gun, which he used to shoot unsuspecting female White House interns. Gillpatrick vigorously protested the story, insisting he shot male interns as well, and had been known to shoot President Daley.
             

~        ~        ~

        After dinner, Horace spoke to the Vice President. He infiltrated a cluster of men smoking expensive cigars and swirling sifters of brandy or cognac in one corner of the richly appointed library. Trimmed in sea foam green and furnished with maritime paintings, antiques, and salt-water aquariums, the room's theme proclaimed the majesty and power of the oceans.   
        Seated in a generously padded leather chair, with one leg crossed over the other, the Vice President fielded a question concerning the continued dependence of the United States on foreign sources of oil. He finished with an amusing anecdote that left his audience chuckling. 
        At that moment, the towering young Egyptian chose to step forward. Showing respect by bending slightly forward at the waist, he said, “Mr. Vice President, I am Horace Khenemetankh, of Egypt. I am here as a guest of Thomas Franklin and his family. Respectfully sir, I submit, you must see the folly of current policies regarding the middle east. As long as the United States blindly supports Israel, the entire block of oil-producing countries, which offer far more in the way of monetary and military assistance, will reject the majority of the initiatives you propose."
        An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the library as Horace continued. “By supporting Israel, the United States is pouring petrol on the smoldering coals of the peace process. President Daley's strategies have done nothing more than perpetuate the volatile situation. Isn’t it time to rethink your alliance with the Jews?”
        The casual mood of those gathered about the Vice President shifted. Shocked silence and expressions of surprised concern surfaced as they waited to hear his response.
        Gillpatrick took a sip of cognac and smacked his lips. He waived his once illegal, hand-made Cuban cigar ceremoniously in the air, making sure he had eveyone's attention before answering in his Kennedyesque, Hyannis port accent.
        “Visiting us from the land of the Pharaohs are you? Well, young man, let me say that this great country welcomes you and your opinions. I’m sure you understand the values of friendship and loyalty. After all, you're here today because of your association with the Franklins and their fondness for you. Horace, sometimes world affairs mirror personal relationships. You can’t simply drop an old, faithful friend to placate another acquaintance who may presently have more to offer."
        The seasoned politician rose from his chair and continued, "A long-lasting friendship between people, or countries, is something to be treasured and appreciated, not unlike the relationship between the people of Boston and Fenway Park. What a travesty it would be to do away with the history and memories of Fenway just to have something newer and bigger. To put this in terms that you can relate to, Horace, why not just bulldoze the amazing pyramids and temples of Egypt while we’re at it, eh? Today, we could build larger, more impressive structures that would mimic the old ones, couldn't we? That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
        Gillpatrick puffed on his cigar and surveyed the room, which fell so quiet the bubbling of air in the aquariums became noticeable. The blilnking, wide-eyed spectators stared at the Vice President, Horace, and each other, like a flock of owls until he added, “I think not.”
        Relief flowed through the room, as welcome as the resumption of fresh air in an oxygen-deprived, deep-sea-diver’s bell helmet. A few clapped, others chuckled. The Vice President's twin, Kevin, raised his sifter of brandy and exclaimed, "That's my brother! Did he belt that one right over the Green Monster, or what?" 

~        ~        ~

        Everyone in the library approved of the Vice President’s answer. Everyone except Horace, who smiled and politely nodded. Outwardly he displayed what appeared to be genuine admiration. Inwardly however, he despised the way the Vice President glibly sidestepped the issue.
      Before he turned away from the Vice President, Horace noticed two secret service agents stationed in separate corners of the room. Impervious to their scrutiny, he winked at one of the agents, signifying his awareness of their vigilance. With a polite bow, he abandoned the library, leaving the gossipmongers to their scuttlebutt.       

~        ~        ~

          Standing in front of a crystal punch bowl, Jeanne Mosley spied Horace returning  from the library. Judging by the speed of his long strides, she suspected trouble. Horace looks upset, she thought, but couldn't be sure. He possessed what Thomas called the ultimate poker face - as emotionless as the Sphinx. She fashioned an excuse to break away from two White House interns who were boring her to death.
        A raven-haired beauty with unblemished skin as fair as finely-sanded alabaster, Jeanne glided across the room in a cloud of white chiffon and pearls. Nearing Horace, she asked, “You did it, didn’t you?”
        Horace flashed a smile, projecting charm and innocence. “Did what?”
        “You waited for the perfect moment, used your friendship with the Franklins to command a few moments of the Vice-President’s time, and then showed your true colors. You blindsided him in front of everyone with your inappropriate 'drop the Jews' proposal, didn’t you?” Jeanne wagged a disapproving finger. “I warned you not to do it.”
        “Yes, you did, Miss Mosley, but truly, you should have been there. Why, for a moment the air became as still and quiet as Seti’s tomb. I nearly laughed out loud.”
        “Well, how did he respond?” she asked, unsure as to whether she wanted to hear the answer, but knowing he would tell her.
        “As you predicted,” he replied. “With all the pompous composure of a fat cat. He waved his cigar like a baton and made some convoluted analogy about the relationship between the people of Boston and Fenway park. He never attempted to address the benefits of abandoning Israel and forming an alliance with the major oil producers.”
        “Did you honestly think he would?” she asked.
        They both turned towards Thomas, who approached at a fast pace, rubbing his wrinkled brow with his left hand. “I’ll be lucky if I’m ever allowed to invite anyone to another Holiday affair. Horace, how could you be so insensitive? You’re my guest. I’m responsible for what you do and say! My Mother," Thomas pointed upstairs, "has gone up to her bedroom, threatening to swoon!”
        “I am not sure what you have been told, Thomas Franklin," Horace spread his arms as if professing innocence. "But let me assure you that I merely posed a question, and, I might add, in a far more respectful manner than your journalists often display.”
        “That’s their job,” Jeanne stepped in front of Thomas. “They’re supposed to ask tough questions, but what you did was, well," seeking the right word, she held her breath for a moment and then blurted out, "inexcusable!”
        Horace asked, “Why do you say this, Jeanne Mosley? I merely asked a question, I assure you. I showed no disrespect. My demeanor was not one of an agitator.”
        Jeanne emphasized her words by poking her index finger into his chest. “You tried to make the Vice President look bad. You used Thomas to achieve your own objectives!” Her green eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t like those tactics, no matter how noble you think they are!         
        She stormed off towards the stairs, stopped and turned half-way around after mounting the first few steps. Placing one hand on the polished, cherry-wood railing, she said, “Thomas, I’m going up to check on your Mother. The poor dear, she must be devastated.”
        Pointing at Horace, she added, "And, by the way, you can forget about the movies this weekend!”

~        ~        ~

        The two young men stood side by side as she ascended the carpeted staircase. When she reached the top, Thomas turned to Horace. “Going to the movies, were we?”
      While his chiseled features usually reflected self assurance and a stone-like portrayal of stoicism, a hint of frustration appeared on Horace’s face. “In my country,” he whispered, “insolence of that nature from a female not born of royal blood would not be tolerated.”
        Looking appalled, Thomas replied, “So, maybe she is royalty. Who are you to say? And incidentally, if you haven’t figured it out, this attitude you have towards women won't win you many points in this country. In fact, that kind of thinking could explain why your country is no longer a world leader. In this country, most of us have learned to respect people for what they can do, rather than for their sex, or the color of their skin.”
        Annoyed by the lecture, Horace glared at Thomas. “If you knew your history, Thomas Franklin, you would know that ancient Egypt set the pace for all countries when it came to women’s rights. After barely a hundred years as a world leader, you Americans think you have it all figured out. When your country has existed as a major world power for more than three-thousand years, then you can preach your idealistic sermons. As for my behavior, I never intended to cause any embarrassment. I hope you know that I hold you and your family in the highest regard." Horace sighed and glanced toward the top of the stairs. "Should I go up to see your mother and apologize?”
        “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, right now. But, if you really want to make amends, you might go apologize to Vice President Gillpatrick, or find my father and let him know you’re sorry.”
        Horace smiled. “In the immortal words of Rameses, according to Cecil B. Demille...” he bent forward at the waist. “'So let it be written...'”
      "Yeah, 'So let it be done.'" Thomas finished the quote, but sounded more than a little unsure of Horace's intentions.

~        ~        ~

      The Vice President remained seated, one elbow propped on an antique reading table, listening politely to Ambassador Benjamin Jefferson Franklin’s detailed description of how he acquired one of the antique, deep-sea diving helmets on display in the library. Horace paused in the doorway as one of the secret service agents, a stocky man with short, blonde hair approached him.
      “Excuse me, sir,” Horace said, bowing slightly. “I would like to speak to the Vice President, if I may.”
      “The Vice President is busy at the moment with Ambassador Franklin. He's asked not to be disturbed,” the agent replied.
        Recalling movies Thomas had forced him to watch, Horace thought the big guy looked like he belonged in The Blues Brothers, or maybe Men in Black. All he needed was a pair of sunglasses.
        "Surely there must be some way, Agent ...?”
        "Collins," the agent answered. "And the only way is if the Vice President approves it." 
        Could you at least ask? Regretfully, I made some remarks earlier that —"
        "I noticed." Collins said, unsympathetically. "I can't leave this post until the other agent gets back."
        "I saw him in the hallway. He didn't look well."
        " Stomach trouble," the agent shrugged. "He'll be back in a minute."

~        ~        ~

      Horace waited outside until the second agent returned, holding his stomach. His sour expression proclaimed how he felt.
        While the second agent remained at the door with Horace, Collins approached the Vice President and Ambassador Franklin. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he pointed in Horace’s direction. “The young man at the door has requested a brief audience with the Vice President. I told him you had asked not to be interrupted. I can tell him to leave, or to wait a while...”
      Ambassador Franklin waved and said, “I know this young man, Agent Collins. It’s okay if he joins us for a few moments. Thank you.”
      As Horace approached, the Vice President called out, “Ah, yes, the young Pharaoh,” and then turned to the Ambassador. “You say you actually know this boy, Benjamin?”
      “I do, Gilly. He's my son’s next-door neighbor.”
      The Vice President pointed to an antique, union-style chair. “Grab that chair and pull up a seat, my good man. Now, let's see if I can remember your name." Gillpatrick's brow furrowed in concentration for a moment. "I believe it’s Horace, isn’t it? Do you spell it H-O-R-A-C-E, or is it H-O-R-U-S, like the son of Osiris?”
        Lifting the chair, Horace replied, “I'm flattered that you remembered my name, Mr. Vice President. I spell it H-O-R-A-C-E. I would not presume to take the name of a god."
        "Why not?" Gillpatrick asked. "We have about a million guys in this country who call themselves J-E-S-U-S."
        Horace placed the chair next to Thomas’s father, and settled onto it. Leaning forward, facing the Vice President, he said, "This country is so different from Egypt. You do not act or think the same way we do, which brings me to the reason why I have asked for a moment alone with you.”
      Ambassador Franklin spoke before Horace could continue. “Well, since the press is gone, I don’t suppose you’re planning another attempt at embarrassing the Vice President. And, since the secret service is watching,” he gestured towards the agents, “I guess we can assume you aren’t here to do us any harm.”
      To the Ambassador, Horace said, “Thomas and Jeanne have informed me of how inappropriate my actions were. I wanted to let you know that I meant no disrespect.”
      Horace turned to the Vice President, who spoke before he could begin to apologize. "I get much tougher questions from our own journalists, Horace. Isn’t that right, Benjamin?”
      “Oh yes, without question,” the Ambassador conceded.
      Gillpatrick paused to puff heartily on his cigar several times. Holding the rich smoke in, he pursed his lips, savoring it for a moment before he exhaled. “Everyone in the room knew you were trying to make me look bad, Horace. Naturally, you were unsuccessful, but people did seem a bit offended by your little, 'drop the Jews' suggestion.” He tapped the ashes from his cigar into a large ashtray encircled by bronze dolphins and looked back up at Horace. “You have political aspirations, don’t you, young man?” 
      Horace shook his head, no. “I am enjoying the hospitality of your country while studying Nuclear Physics and Molecular Biology at MIT, not political science, sir.”
      Puffing on his cigar again, Gillpatrick stared into Horace’s eyes. During the Gulf War he faced death without flinching, but now, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt something strange and unsettling in the odd, golden eyes that stared back. He maintained his intense gaze until Ambassador Franklin spoke.
      “Horace, the Vice President and I have some business to discuss, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to —"
      "Gentlemen, I thank you for this private audience." Horace rose, bowed, and returned his chair to its proper place. "I humbly apologize for my behavior. Please attribute my mistakes to zealous, youthful ignorance and unfamiliarity with your customs.” He bowed again and turned to leave.

~        ~        ~

   
        Nearing the library's entrance, Horace reached out to agent Collins who assumed he meant to shake hands. In his hand Horace held a card with his name and cellular number. “Call me later,” Horace whispered. "You'll be glad you did."
      Moments later, Agent Kevin Kerekes, asked, "Hey, Collins, wasn't that the young Egyptian that caused such a stir earlier? What was he doing back here, alone?”
      “Apologizing for his behavior,” Collins answered. Fingering the card in his pocket, he added, "He's not such a bad guy after all."


This concludes your free preview of The Falcon and His Desert Rose. I am delighted to announce that World Castle Publishing has published this novel as a paperback and as an eBook. I invite you to visit the World Castle website or you can order a copy from Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/Falcon-His-Desert-Rose-ebook/dp/B005UD7R1C/ref=tmm_kin_tit...

I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Write to me at [e-mail] or send an email to [e-mail]. you may also contact me on Facebook... http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414

Writing.com members are encouraged to spread the word here, within our community, by posting a brief public review.