|
 |
|
 |
|
Summary: Thirty years after Amelia Earhart vanishes in the Pacific, Vincent Carlson, designer of her spy plane, now Ex-CIA, still searches for the answer to her disappearance. His obsession with A.E. changes when he meets Amelia Adams, a young, mysterious Amerasian linked to A.E. by more than name, walks into his life. She spurs his passion, but accuses him of killing her father, Vincent's chief mechanic at Lockheed.
Forced into an explosive liaison, their plight turns deadly when Ito, master spy and Vincent's enemy, spins a web of terror and treachery. Their search for the real killer takes them from Brisbane, Australia to the Corral Sea, and Saipan. Each time they tighten the net, the killer cuts through it, trusting Vincent and Amelia into deeper peril.
|
|
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Tehran, Iran
1909
Although it was early morning, the air was already hot. A heavy mist rose from the rancid waters of the jewb, a large stone ditch that ran alongside the dirt road, one of the few sources of water for the southern part of the city.
A woman dressed in a black chador twisted through the maze of dusty streets that comprised the ancient bazaar. Only her eyes, the same color as her body-length garment, showed through the small opening below her forehead. She carried a swathed bundle in her arms, clutched it to her bosom.
On a slight rise, she paused, watched a drowned cat float by in the jewb's waters. She forced herself to turn away, grabbed her bundle more tightly. She hurried on, the only sounds the plop of her faded embroidered shoes upon the ground, the jingle of the two rials in her pocket.
Hardly enough to feed herself, let alone a child. She looked into the water again, hesitated. Why did he have to die? A woman needed a man to survive.
The aroma of sizzling kabob over a vendor's charcoal sharpened her hunger. She inhaled, hoping the smell of the broiling lamb cubes would fill her empty belly. Instead, her insides twisted with pain. She turned away from the vendor-- dressed in baggy plaid pants, a turban around his head. She tried to concentrate on the tall turquoise minaret in the distance, the muezzin's call for morning prayers echoing from its tower and throughout the city.
A bearded man led a donkey laden with banging copperware around her. The string of bright blue clay beads which dangled from the beast's bridle to ward off the `evil eye' caught her attention. She squeezed the bundle in her arms. The baby stirred, started to whine. Soon the whimpering turned to a wail.
"Oh my little one." The woman looked down into the baby's dark eyes, traced her hand over his smooth cheeks. "Your eyes, they are so much like your father's. Do not cry, please do not cry, my little Mohammad. Your mammon will take care of you."
But the baby did not stop crying, so she paused in a wide doorjamb and sat down on the cracked step. Parting her garment, she took the infant to her breast. But her milk was gone. It had been for quite some time.
She knew she had no more choices. She must go to the home of her eldest son, Jamal, a shopkeeper, husband of two, father of seven. But he, too, had too many mouths to feed. She felt the suckling of her hungry baby, his lips tugging uselessly at her nipple.
"You will survive. You will." She pulled him from her breast and let the chador once more close around her, covering her body like a cocoon. The baby screamed, but she tucked him firmly to her bosom and hurried through the twisting, arch-covered streets to the crumbling mud-brick hovel of her son.
* * * *
Pargol knocked at Jamal's door. No one answered. She glanced at the sky, checked the sun's position. It was much too early for him to be at his tobacco stall in the bazaar. She knocked again, this time harder. Placing her ear to the door, she heard the chatter of children, the clinking of pots over an iron grate.
The old wooden door creaked open. A woman with dark eyes peered out, her body also clothed in a black veil. She opened the door wider and several sunbeams danced across the earthen floor, temporarily filling the room with light. The woman lowered her eyes, turned and called for her husband.
Jamal came to the door, a cup of dark chai cradled between his fingers. The rich aroma of the tea made Pargol want to grab it from his hands, warm her empty stomach. Already she could taste its bitterness, made sweet with sugar cubes.
But her son did not offer the cup to her. "Mammon june," he said. "Salam, halle shoma chetore?"
"I am not so fine this day," she said. "I have many troubles on my shoulders."
"As I do." He motioned for her to enter.
"Your brother, he is hungry."
Pargol slid the veil from her head and stepped inside. Her son closed the door behind her. She looked into his eyes, at his unshaven face. It was going to be difficult. But she had to do it, if only for her little one. She looked at the baby in her arms, now asleep. "I said, your brother is in need of food and milk. He is suffering from the dysentery."
Jamal ignored her plea, shooed several of his children away.
Shy of the new arrivals, they scattered to hide behind the long skirts of their mothers, bent over the wood-burning stove next to the wall. Jamal's wives did not look up from their cooking to greet Pargol. They knew why she was there. Jamal's face parted into a forced smile, which showed the large space between his two front teeth. He too, knew. His eyes traced the small room, searched for a place to put his tiny brother, another responsibility in his already crushing list.
He sighed, motioned with his head to the far corner where a stained straw mattress lay. Pargol went to the doshak, dropped down on the mat with her infant. How would they ever survive here?
The darkness of the room closed in around her. She felt she must run before its heaviness suffocated her. But where? Another man would never take a `used woman.' She was as good as dead. She looked into her baby's eyes, brought him to her breast, and squeezed him tightly. She must survive until he was grown. She must.
She looked across the room. The light of a lone oil lamp beckoned her, gave her momentary strength. A smile crossed her tired face as she gently rocked the child in her arms.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Author biography: Harvey, born in Wisconsin, moved to Arkansas from Laguna Beach, California last year. He is a pharmacist, licensed in three states, married to Ann, and hopes to make a living in writing. He has had three short stories, a poem and an article (Third Place Award) published. He has also co-written a screenplay, which is entered in three contests presently. He runs, walks and plays basketball. He belongs to the Lagunita Writers Group and Cherokee Village Writers Group.
Christie is married, lives in Dana Point, California, and has a BA degree in English. She has had short stories and poetry published. She has completed four other novels and has been employed as a professional writer for a large Orange Country, California corporation. She also belongs to the Lagunita Writers Group in Laguna Beach, Ca.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
