Chapter 15
Natural Artificial Intelligence
I was awakened at about 4:00 in the morning by a phone call from Kris Amar. He called for a couple of reasons and not just to chat. First, he told me he didn’t order his goon to open fire on me at the Red Fort. He said the shooter was a loose cannon who acted on his own. I told him I accepted his explanation and the fact the shooter had moved onto another life in the never-ending karmic drama of reincarnation. In other words, I told him the bastard got what he deserved. Kris didn’t particularly appreciate my description of his underling’s demise, but he didn’t argue the point.
Kris then hammered me on the deal; the agreement, the bargain, we had struck—his demands for the United States to air the Islamic extremist video and to release the two Taliban, mujahedeen (perhaps al-Qaida) prisoners of war in Afghanistan. Christ, I couldn’t tell the players any more without a scorecard, I thought. We really must carpet bomb these rag-heads back to the Stone Age. I certainly didn’t tell Kris that Washington had turned down his demands cold. They were dead-on-arrival as the pundits liked to say. Instead, I told him the logistics of airing the tape were being worked out in Washington. It wasn’t a lie, just a prevarication. That sort of distinction, without a difference, was permitted in department-speak. Truthfully, it was often encouraged as a negotiating tactic when the truth might be a bit nettlesome.
I continued my spiel. As he could imagine, preempting national television programming would be a major event that must be coordinated with many people and organizations before it could happen. It wasn’t an easy or quick matter to resolve. I told Kris he had to accept the realities of life in America. Nothing was easy when it came to television. The boob-tube was the opiate of the masses and the viewing public cherished their favorite programs. There could be insurrection and rebellion if a given TV episode was preempted by a public service announcement. It could be too much to bear, even If it was Smokey. Blood could flow in America’s streets. Sesame Street could be a particularly gruesome example of the citizenry’s wrath, I thought. I then began to worry about Big Bird’s safety.
The United States government simply needed more time to work out the details. I told Kris that the release of the two prisoners would be easier and that we should concentrate on that aspect of the demands for the short-term. I hung up the phone and rolled over and went back to sleep.
Sleep came easily for those who served and protected and had clear consciences, lazy libidos, and too much wine.
The next morning the team met in the task force room and we congratulated ourselves on getting Alicia Thurman released unharmed. We also hadn’t harmed Uncle Sam’s image, so we were ahead of the game for a change. However, Kris Amar was expecting us to deliver concrete results and to deliver them quickly. We had to finesse his demands and expectations until we could get Zeenat Karzai released. She was the top prize in this geopolitical game of tug-of-war.
I started off our meeting by assuring Kali that I would back her play a thousand percent with the DS board of inquiry that would likely be convened over the killing of the Thug at the Red Fort. I had her back, I promised her, as I smirked. She simply gave me the finger. She had, perhaps, saved my life, or more likely Alicia’s, by her quick action.
This was the customary, time-honored way that DS agents schmoozed and bonded as a band of brothers and sometimes sisters. The metro–sexual agents got to choose their gender under the system. But we were always there for each other when the chips were down or cows came home. However, the problem was trying to identify where there was. Was it in the loop or outside? Was it a career-enhancing place or not? Was its location usefully expedient or expeditious? Did it tend to self-serve and promote? These were critical factors to consider when stepping forward in defense of a colleague. In other words, we’d let Kali twist in the wind awhile before we came to her defense. This was the fun part of pushing the bureaucratic envelope and her buttons.
We reviewed yesterday’s events and I briefed the team on my late night/early morning call from Kris. We were still on the hook for Zeenat’s life and personal safety and we all took those responsibilities very seriously. We still had much work to do before we could drop our packs and rest. We liked to use strong military terms like “taking our packs off” in the State Department. That’s because we didn’t have any weapons of mass destruction to threaten others with. Therefore, words alone must suffice.
I then mentioned the P-LINT I had used on Kris Amar’s clothes. It might very well lead us to him and Zeenat. Chester and Kali weren’t familiar with P-LINT and its use. I patiently explained that P-LINT was an offshoot, a subset of E-LINT, or electronics intelligence, that our nation had developed and successfully used over the years to exploit the enemy’s signals and communications assets. It was a very effective intelligence tool when used properly and under the right circumstances.
I explained that DS’s Technical Services Division was instrumental in developing P-LINT for practical application. Its alchemists had discovered that ordinary pocket lint; especially cotton fiber and fuzz balls, was a superior conductor of electricity when mixed with finely pulverized horseshoe magnets and electrolytes. They correctly theorized, and then perfected, a process whereby pocket lint could be converted into micro-particles that created powerful magnetic fields.
Headquarters agents were constantly solicited for source materials to carry out vital experiments with the potent substance. Agents stood on their heads and turned their pockets inside-out for the organization. The collection process was usually fast and easy since the agents typically didn’t have two cents to rub together then. Those unable to contribute were ordered to phone home and have their wives clean out the lint filter of the clothes dryer. All out-of-pocket donations were readily accepted in those early days.
The scientists took the process to its next logical level and created super-micro transmitters made essentially of lint. The electrolytes were the key to providing the power source to the material. Gatorade was especially effective, although Ginger Ale and 7-Up were good substitutes in a pinch. After congealing, the substance was micro-waved for precisely 3 minutes and 20 seconds and then left to cool. P-LINT was a brilliant intelligence and technological breakthrough.
Moreover, the lint didn’t have to be clumped together to be effective. It was only necessary for the particles to be in relative close proximity to each other to create a powerful beam or signal that could easily be picked up by our monitors anywhere in the world. The existence of the substance was a closely guarded secret because the P-LINT specs had many intelligence possibilities. The most prominent of which was the creation of a nearly invisible GPS homing beacon. With the technology, we could locate a target almost anywhere in the world within a radius of about 200 yards.
Kris Amar had been “LINTED,” as we said in the trade, when he sat down on the bench beside me. The tiny Velcro impregnated particles held firmly to his suit pants and jacket. The P-LINT particles wouldn’t be noticed given their minuscule size. They were virtually impossible to detect, unless you were looking for them with a magnifying glass. DS, and other federal security agencies, were rightly concerned that the bad guys could have picked–up on the breakthrough discovery, reverse-engineer the process, and used it against us.
Therefore, before conducting any black operations, U.S. agents would use lint rollers and brushes on their clothes as a security precaution. They would vigorously clean their trousers and shirts. They would remove their sport or suit jackets and run the roller up-and-down the fabric to ensure complete coverage and removal of any errant particles. If you watched closely, you could see Secret Service agents, as well as other law enforcement authorities, flicking lint off a jacket sleeve or shirt cuff. They typically performed this bit of tradecraft off-camera for security reasons, but sometimes you could catch them brushing a pant leg or combing their hair. They were not only well-groomed and neatly dressed, but they were being security cautious. Loose lips, improper grooming, and pocket lint could sink ships in this intelligence biz.
There could be no mistakes when handling P-LINT. Black clothing, in particular, tended to highlight the particles. Under certain lighting conditions, they might even be seen by the naked eye, if you were looking for them. Dandruff was always a concern given its similar appearance and properties. It was all a matter of applying security measures and countermeasures—spy versus spy, versus spy, etc. It got to be very confusing after a while.
Sometimes those who served and protected tended to nitpick for the greater good and security of our beloved nation.
Kris Amar, or at least his Armani suit, was in the city of Agra at the moment according to our traces of the P-LINT. Unlike other U.S. government institutions and personalities, the P-LINT didn’t lie. Kris, and presumably Zeenat, was on the grounds of the Taj Mahal. That location made perfect sense in a couple of respects. First, the Taj was built by Shah Jihan as a memorial to his deceased wife. Shah Jihan was a Mughal Emperor in the 17th century and ruled a good section of north-central India from his palace at Agra. Mughal meant Muslim, in this case; the invaders who subjugated the indigenous Hindu population. Obviously, the Muslim hordes were frisky back in the days of yore too. It was a fitting location for an Islamic zealot like Kris who possessed a keen sense of culture, history, and irony—and a great taste in suits.
Secondly, the Yamuna River flowed through Agra, the same river located behind the Red Fort in Old Delhi. Kris’ mode of arrival at the meeting now made more sense. He used a fast boat and could also avoid paying the tolls on the highway between Delhi and Agra. He was clever and extremely thrifty. I knew that the city of Agra was located about a hundred and ten miles south of Delhi. Kris went with the river’s flow and that was clever on his part. I admired both his seamanship and skating skills. In any event, he avoided capture by the Indian authorities. On average, their outboard motor powered dhows consistently fell behind Kris’s speedboat early in the day’s run-up. The Indian police boats were not up to any endurance standards and were poor substitutes for high-speed chase boats.
Sometimes the stocks of those who served and protected rose and fell on the technology of their craft.
I asked Alicia how long she had been aboard the speedboat. She said the trip lasted about 20 minutes, but she couldn’t be certain since she was blindfolded. I gave her my peroxide present and suggested that she thoroughly blow-dry her head afterward to get the cobwebs out. She immediately started freaking-out and vigorously ran her fingers through the strands of her long black and yellow hair. I told her I was only joking and she thanked me by flipping me the bird. Regardless, the short boat ride suggested that Kris and company had been in Delhi and had now moved their operations, along with Zeenat, to Agra.
I left the embassy in time to catch the happy-hour at the hotel. I invited Kali to join me because the drinks were half-priced and she could better afford to buy them for us. We decompressed while drinking and getting drunk. We talked about mutual friends in the department. That dialogue took less than twenty seconds by my count so we moved onto other topics. The weather was always a safe subject of polite conversation, but we stayed away from sensitive political and religious issues.
I asked her how she felt about India’s rainy season and the current administration’s rightwing, Christian fundamentalist view of the world. The question was intended to be an ice-breaker. It was as she poured a full glass of ice over my head. I think she may have been a coldhearted Republican at heart. In any case, I could tell I’d gotten her attention and piqued her curiosity as to what I was up to with all the nicey-nice-have-a-drink-with-me crap.
I finally admitted that it was all a ruse to seduce her. I told her I wanted to experience sexual pleasures at her hand while I was still awake and more-or-less sober. I mentioned that I lived in the neighborhood and wondered if we could screw our brains out after finishing our drinks. However, I insisted we stay the entire hour so she could get her money’s worth. I was very thoughtful with a date’s money. I had a firm rule to only screw true, nymphomaniac patriots holding an active security clearance. As a public servant, I had high standards to uphold too!
Kali was an insightful woman and trained DS investigator since she had already figured out what I wanted. Correctly gauging motives and intentions was a critical step in becoming a good detective in our profession. She said she thought I might have sex on my mind when I had reached between her legs and stroked her inner thighs. She was a very perceptive woman who had broken the code wide-open, I thought. I congratulated her and continued to massage her thighs with the back of my hand.
We took our last round of happy-hour drinks to my room since the mini-bar booze and room service were too damned expensive. I planned to give Kali the ride of her life tonight. I had prepared some party favors to pay her back for what she did to me the previous week. No doubt, it would be a fun and educational experience for her. I planned to hoist her on her own petard, so to speak. I wanted to give her a sensory overload that she would never forget by playing into the kinks and fantasies that she had disclosed to me the other night before I passed out. Kali was going to be Richard Avery dicked—and dicked hard. My fierce lance would offer no mercy or pity in this joust.
I immediately excused myself and went to the bathroom. I stripped off my clothes and put on a police uniform like those worn by California Highway Patrol officers. I looked chipper, I thought. The black motorcycle boots were an especially nice touch. I added a pair of Ray-Bans to the costume and I was set. I looked the role of a uniformed patrol cop from head to toe. More importantly, I was a study in masculinity and authority.
I marched back into the room and stood at the side of the bed where Kali had curled up like a kitten. When she saw me, her eyes got wide and she sat upright. She had a broad smile on her face and obviously liked what she saw. She should have been awed since I was six feet of pure, throbbing manhood standing before her.
“Where’s the fire ma’am?” I politely, but firmly asked. “I clocked you going 75 in a 50. That’s considered reckless driving and a very serious traffic offense under the California penal code. That could even buy you a few days in jail, if you draw a grumpy judge.”
“I’m sorry officer. I wasn’t paying attention to my speed. That’s because the fire you mentioned was raging between my thighs. Could you extinguish it for me with your big hose?” pouting as she spoke. Kali was really getting into this stuff, as I’d hoped.
“Ma’am, I’m not a fireman—that’s a different fantasy,” I sternly replied. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you. The penal code doesn’t make any exceptions, even for a hot black chick.”
“Oh gosh, please show me your penal code, officer. You can throw the book at me if you’d like,” she replied.
I sensed that Kali was getting excited and aroused. I could imagine what she must be experiencing by her body language and double intenders. My plan was working to plan as planned.
“Put your hands in front of you,” I ordered. She complied and I snapped a set of cuffs on her wrists.
“Oh, those are so strong and hard, just like you, officer,” she squealed in delight.
I took a flex-cuff and tied her cuffed hands to the foot of the bedstead. She was now lying on her stomach, facing the large screen television. For the next 30 minutes or so I teased and caressed her with my baton and she writhed and wriggled under its gentle touch. I poked, prodded, and probed her body from head to foot. She was ecstatic and extremely happy too. At one point, she asked about a glass of water. I thanked her for the thoughtful gesture, but said I couldn’t drink on the job.
Kali then climaxed for the first time of many. She called out my name several times while she had a tremendous orgasm. “Dick, dick, I want more dick! Oh God, please give me more dick. Don't make me plead for any more and just give it to me hard," she screamed in uncontrolled pleasure. I was touched by the fact that she was thinking about me and not herself at this most intimate moment. I was now fully convinced that women were nurturing partners at heart.
Kali finally went limp from exhaustion, but I didn’t. I was just getting started. I turned on the TV and pressed the start button to the DVD player. The theme song from Hawaii Five-O blared from the stereo speakers. For the next 45 minutes Kali watched Jack Lord, one of her favorite cop actors, fight the bad guys. She quickly became aroused and climaxed again during the first commercial. It was a public service spot for the Police Benevolent Society of America. It was evident that Jack met her criteria for an idealized, fantasy detective. He was middle-aged, white, and paunchy. I think he wore a toupee and I mentioned that tidbit to further excite her.
Kali was floating on cloud nine without a parachute. She didn’t want to come down and I wouldn’t let her just yet. Her sexual tensions were high, but they were about to go over the top of the mountain.
Sometimes those who served and protected needed the Lord’s help to get the job done.
I straddled Kali and started reading selected passages from Dashiell Hammett’s novels about Sam Spade and Nick Charles. I did this while she watched a Magnum PI episode. I would occasionally put a lollipop in my mouth and ask, “Who loves ya, baby?” I knew that Kali really loved the Telly.
The combination of raw stimuli caused her to experience orgasmic releases and multiple, volcanic eruptions. Mount Vesuvius would have been ashen with envy. Kali then passed out cold. She was now comatose, but fully sated by my ministrations. I removed the handcuffs and gently tucked her into bed. As I did, I noticed the St. Michael medal around her neck. I now was certain that she was a true believer in all things law enforcement.