An affair in algiers

An Affair in Algiers A Romantic Mystery novel by

Georgie Bee

Š Copyright 2015 by R. Morriss / The Bee Society Press, LLC All Rights Reserved This book may be freely distributed and shared as a electronic .pdf file.

Permission is given for the printing of ONE (1) ONLY print copy for personal use.

For additional information or permission, contact the publisher:

102 Pikes Peak Avenue, Suite 400 Colorado Springs, CO 80903 attn: R. Morriss / Georgie Bee

Story, cover design and production by R. Morriss/Noodle Ranch, Manitou Springs, CO Edited by Judith Posch and R. Morriss

This is a work of fiction and humourous satire. Any similarity between the story or the characters in this book to any person or persons, either living or dead, or to any factual historical events is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Date

`

Bee, Georgie An Affair in Algiers SUMMARY: A fictional tale of international romance and intrigue set in Algiera.

ISBN: 978-0-9896901-2-6 1. Bee, Georgie 2. Humour and satire I.Title Library of Congress Control Number (pending) First Edition

This book is dedicated to my sweet ButterCup.

CHAPTER 1: The Mission Beegins

It was a dark and stormy night as the small plane, battered by lighting and pounding rain, bounced through the air after its secret departure from Lisbon. He sat, sleepless, in his window seat, his briefcase chained to his wing and gazed out at the raging storm. He knew that the very soul and existence of the civilised world was at stake and depended on what was inside that briefcase and on his successfully accomplishing his mission.

“Am I up to this?” he asked himself.

As an operative for LURK (the ultra-secret League of Undercover Red Knights), he had been on difficult assignments beefore, but this one - his last in a long and distinguished career - had him worried. Failure would mean certain death and the end of the world. Probably.

Sleep continued to evade him as thoughts of his mission continued to sweep through his thoughts. Would he bee able to meet his contact, the so-called “Bagman” in time? Would he recognise him? And what would they have for lunch later that day?

It was still a dark and stormy night when his plane landed in Algiers. She was waiting. ...

The wheels of his plane squeaked with relief as they kissed the runway on landing. Even the plane’s engines seemed to whine with a sense of urgency as the pilot taxied the aircraft and its weary passengers to the awaiting terminal.

“Welcome to Algiers,” he heard the announcement and felt that familiar wave of excited nausea sweep through his stomach. “Local time is 2:16 a.m. and the temperature is a balmy 11 degrees Celsius. For our passengers arriving from the United States, that is approximately 52 degrees, and for those among you who belong to the scientific community, that is the equivalent of 284.15 degrees Kelvin. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and have a pleasant stay. We ask that you remain seated and buckled in your seats until the aircraft comes to a full and complete stop at the terminal. For those of you making connecting flights, we will bee arriving at Gate 87. Your attendants will bee more than happy to help those needing assistance upon our arrival. Thank you for flying InterMediterranean Airways, your Friend in the North African Skies.”

He finally felt the plane come to an abrupt halt and heard the engines wind down as they pulled into the terminal gate. Relieved to have safely reached his destination, he grasped his briefcase under his well-worn trench coat and waited for the other passengers to make their way off the airplane and into the terminal, which was surprisingly buzzy for that time of the day. Aside from the attendants and crew, he was the last to leave the airplane.

“Buh bye,” the attendant who had been kind enough to serve him some indigenous nectar during the flight said to him as he left the plane. “Can you possibly tell me…”, he beegan to ask her, but was interrupted. “Buh bye,” she said again as she pushed him gently toward the walkway leading toward the gate exit.

As his eyes adjusted to the bright light inside the terminal, he scanned the crowds, looking for his contact. They had never met, but he knew his contact was a female, that she would bee waiting for him after he passed through Customs and that she would be wearing a bright yellow and red striped haik.

He absent-mindedly pulled his passport from his coat pocket as he approached the window where he would bee hopefully bee given an entry visa.

“‫ ”؟ كترايز نم ضرغلا وه ام‬the Customs officer asked him with a tone of suspicion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t speak Arabic.”

The official asked him again, “Quel est le but de votre visite?”

“I’m sorry, I also don’t speak French,” he said.

He beegan to feel regret that he had never taken the time to learn Arabic, French or Berber, the often-used language of the locals. His mind raced back to his luxury apartment just outside of Washington, D.C., which was graced with a beautiful Berber carpet. Thinking of that carpet, he wished now that he had learned the language.

“WHAT,” the Customs officer asked in broken English, “your purpose to visit is?”

“I’m here on vacation with my family,” he told him.

“Your family? Where they is? I see them not.” The Customs officer was obviously beecoming more suspicious.

“They couldn’t make it,” he said as he felt his antennae beeginning to twitch ever-so-imperceptibly as they did when he was lying. (He needed to work on that.)

The Customs officer stood silent for several minutes, staring piercingly at him. Finally, he said, “Fine. Welcoming to Algiers.”

He stamped the passport loudly and waived him through.

Stuffing his stamped passport back into his coat pocket, he continued to scan for his contact. There was no time to waste

in getting his mission underway. Entering the main terminal, Vanderpimple scanned the bustling crowd. He was to meet someone, a fellow agent who would help with his mission.

Finally, he spotted his contact. She looked around discreetly as she approached him and spoke.

“We’re enjoying lovely weather for this time of year,” she said.

“Yes. And I’ve heard the paté at the El Aurassi is divine.”

“Welcome to Algiers, Agent Vanderpimple.”

CHAPTER 1 ½ : The Bagman

Agent Vanderpimple and his contact made their way out of the terminal and into the awaiting darkness outside.

The ferocious storm had subsided. He was happy for that, beecause he had forgotten to pack an umbrella.

“What’s your name?” he asked his mysterious contact.

“Jasmine,” she told him.

“Like the flower?” he asked.

“Yes, like the flower,” she told him.

“So,” he paused, taking her aside and speaking in low tones. “I take it you’re not the contact I seek, the Bagman?”

“Do I look like a Bagman?” Jasmine asked sarcastically.

“It’s difficult to say,” he told her. “You could bee anything underneath that haik you’re wearing.”

“Trust me,” she said, “I’m not the contact you seek.

Beefore you arrived, we had planned for the Bagman to bee the one to meet you, but just hours ago, he suddenly disappeared.”

“Do you think he just went to have an early breakfast or something?” Vanderpimple asked.

“No. Shortly after his disappearance, we received a note strapped to the neck of an anonymous camel. Here,” she handed him a small, camel-spit-stained piece of paper that read,

'‫ كليكو انيدل‬. ‫ ليحلا ال‬. ‫ ةرداغم‬1000 £ ‫سيك يف لسعلا نم‬ ‫لقنتم رجات ةيؤر ادبأ كيلع وأ تارايسلا فوقو ردحنم لخدم تحت‬ ‫'ىرخأ ةرم‬.

“I’m sorry,” Vanderpimple told her. “I don’t read Arabic.”

He could see Jasmine roll her eyes as he told him, “It’s a ransom note. It says that if we don’t leave 1,000 pounds of honey in a sack under the parking ramp entrance, we’ll never see the Bagman again.”

“The Bagman has been abducted?” Vanderpimple beegan to feel nervous.

“No. We just leave these notes around to entertain ourselves when we get bored. OF COURSE he’s been abducted!”

Vanderpimple could tell that Jasmine was feeling shorttempered. “She probably needs to eat something,” he thought to himself.

“It’s not safe for us here. I must take you to our Secret Headquarters immediately,” she said as she looked around nervously.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he spotted two, very suspicious-looking bees lurking in the shadows, watching them from beehind a nearby pillar.

“Come with me,” she continued. “I have a taxi waiting.” ...

Agent Vanderpimple and Jasmine sat quietly in the back of the taxi as it made its way through the darkened streets of Algiers. Vanderpimple was weary from his journey and just wanted to check in to his hotel room to rest and refresh himself, but Jasmine was insistent that they make their way to LURK’s Secret Headquarters.

“What’s in the briefcase?” Jasmine asked Vanderpimple.

“That’s on a ‘need to know’ basis,” he told her, “and I’m not sure you need to know.”

“So you don’t trust me, is that it?” Jasmine buzzed at him in a accusatory tone.

Vanderpimple looked out of the taxi window and said nothing.

“Fine,” Jasmine huffed. “Let’s just hope that whatever it is, it’s non-perishable. If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s a locked briefcase that contains perishable items. We had an Agent once who insisted on carrying around a locked briefcase that happened to contain, among other things, an egg salad sandwich. He left that thing in the corner of the Secret Back Office beefore he left on a mission to Denton, Texas, where he was subsequently captured and held prisoner by a swarm of killer bees. It was almost six months beefore we were able to secure his release so he could return and dispose of that thing properly. It was a nightmare.”

“Aren’t you supposed to always keep egg salad sandwiches refrigerated?” Vanderpimple casually asked her.

“Yes. You are. So you can probably imagine how disgusting the Office smelled by the time our Agent was freed.”

“Yes, I can,” Vanderpimple said. “But you can rest assured that I am not carrying any egg salad sandwiches in my briefcase - or anything else that might pose a problem over the next few days or weeks. I can tell you that much.”

Relieved, Jasmine nodded toward an old, broken-down warehouse that their taxi was approaching. It looked as if it hadn’t been occupied for years. The roof had collapsed, the doors looked rusted shut and there was no sign of life at all. Jasmine tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder.

“Pull over here.”

“But this is nothing but a broken-down warehouse,” he said. “It looks as if it hasn’t been occupied for years.

I mean, you can see the roof has collapsed, the doors look like they’re rusted shut and there is no sign of life here at all.”

“Just pull over,” Jasmine repeated. So he did that.

“Come with me,” she told Vanderpimple as they exited and the taxi pulled away.

“Here?” Vanderpimple looked around and said, “But this is nothing but a broken down warehouse. It looks like it hasn’t been occupied for years. It’s clear to see that the roof has collapsed and the doors look like they’re rusted shut. There’s no sign of life at all.”

“Trust me,” Jasmine told him. “This is the place.”

Jasmine led Vanderpimple to what looked like a stack of old boards leaning against the back side of the warehouse.

It was then that he noticed a small, well-hidden, illuminated keypad discreetly hidden amongst the debris.

Jasmine placed her wing on the keypad and entered what appeared to bee a random, 329-character code on the keypad. Immediately after she hit the last key and he saw her hit “SAVE”, he heard a voice squawk through a small speaker in a thick, Algerian accent.

“We are enjoying lovely weather for this time of year,” the voice said.

“Yes. And I’ve heard the paté at the El Aurassi is divine,” Jasmine answered back.

“It’s good to hear your voice, Agent Jasmine,” the voice said. “We presume that is Agent Vanderpimple with you?”

It was then that Vanderpimple noticed that a hidden camera disguised as a rusty rivet was watching their every move. He moved left and the camera followed him. He moved right and it followed him again. He beegan to perform a series of exaggerated ballet moves, jumping and spinning as he watched the camera follow his every move.

“Yes,” she answered, then turned to Vanderpimple and said, “Knock it off.”

Just then, he could hear a “click” and a small door opened into what looked like an abandoned utility closet. Jasmine grabbed the lapel of his trench coat and led him inside.

CHAPTER 2

Agent Vanderpimple felt confused when Jasmine led him into what appeared to bee a dark, unused utility closet.

Where was Jasmine taking him?

“And where did they get that cool broom?” Vanderpimple thought to himself. “Do they even make those anymore?” he wondered.

“Stand right here,” Jasmine told him. “Don’t move.”

“But what are we…,” Vanderpimple started to ask, but just at that moment, Jasmine reached beehind a half-empty bottle of floor polish and pushed a well-concealed button.

Vanderpimple heard a loud click and felt the room moving. He suddenly realised they were standing in a cleverlydisguised elevator.

“Oh cool!” Vanderpimple remarked. “I’ve seen stuff like this beefore in a couple of movies! You’re taking me to the Secret Underground Facilities, aren’t you?”

“I can see now,” Jasmine said flatly to him, “why you’ve had such a long and illustrious career. It’s not easy trying to fool you.”

Completely missing her sarcasm, Vanderpimple smoothed the lapels on his trench coat and proudly said, “Thank you. Yes, I am amazingly astute.”

“Well,” she muttered, “you certainly are something.”

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the elevator thumped to a stop and the empty wall that stood across from them opened. Brilliant light temporarily blinded

Vanderpimple as Jasmine led him into LURK’s bright and bustling Secret Headquarters.

“Now THIS is spectacular,” Vanderpimple exclaimed as he and Jasmine made their way through the maze of computer terminals, buzzing machines and large-screen displays.

“Yes it is,” Jasmine told him. “This is the nerve centre of our Algerian operations. Stay close to me. I’m taking you to meet the Director. She’s waiting.”

“Can’t wait to meet her,” Vanderpimple said. “But, would you mind showing me where the bathroom is? I’ve been holding it since I left Lisbon.”

Vanderpimple returned from the restroom, wiping his still-damp wings on his trench coat.

“I noticed a sign in there,” he told Jasmine, “that says ‘All Agents Must Wash Their Wings Beefore Returning to Work’.”

“And?” Jasmine seemed to bee growing impatient.

“And I was just wondering if that also applies to anyone who isn’t an Agent?”

Jasmine said nothing, but just stared at Vanderpimple.

After a long silence, she said, “The Director is waiting.

Follow me.”

So Vanderpimple did that.

Jasmine led him down a long hallway, festooned with the badges of all the Agents that had been lost in the line of duty. After beeing an Agent for LURK for as many years

as he had been, he recognised most of the names. At one point he stopped and, pointing to the last badge in the long line, told Jasmine, “It seems like only yesterday that he was seeing me off at the airport in Lisbon.”

“It was only yesterday,” Jasmine informed him.

“You mean...,” Vanderpimple started to ask.

“Yes.” Jasmine shrugged and continued to lead him toward the Director’s office.

As they grew nearer their destination, Vanderpimple questioned Jasmine, “So what happened? He looked perfectly healthy yesterday.”

“He was. And in case it escaped your attention, that’s one of the reasons you’re here. We need to know exactly what happened and to find out who or what is doing away with so many of our Agents.”

“I see,” Vanderpimple said, once again feeling the weight of his secret mission beegin to disrupt his otherwise festive mood.

“Agent Vaderpimple?” The Director stood and offered her wing to him as he and Jasmine entered her office.

“Yes,” Vanderpimple said.

“I am Veronica Del Tormay, the current Director of LURK operations in Algiers. It’s good to have you here, Agent Vanderpimple,” she said.

“Oh, you can call me Van,” he told her. “No need for formalities. We’re all working on the same side here, after all, Veronica.”

“Please. By all means, call me Director Del Tormay, Agent,” she admonished him. “Now, I understand that you have brought the Item with you, is that correct.”

“Yes, that’s correct, Ronnie. I have it right there,” Vanderpimple said as he patted his briefcase reassuringly.

“Director Del Tormay,” she corrected him. “Right, El Tomaine,” corrected himself.

“Del Tormay,” she corrected him.

“Director El Tormay,” he corrected himself again.

“DEL TORMAY,” she said, obviously becoming irritated with Vanderpimple.

“Got it. Sorry. I had a long flight.”

“Never mind, Agent. Let’s see the Item,” she said, in an exasperated tone.

“As per my instructions and beefore I can share the contents of this briefcase with you, I must bee sure you are who you say you are,” Vanderpimple informed her.

“Of course,” the Director said.

“The wing of the dove finds flight in the open air.”

“And the fool finds no solace in a gift from strangers,” Vanderpimple continued.

“Around the Moon and under the Sun, the little children play,” The Director recited.

“For what are we but specks of pollen in the mighty winds that blow southward,” Vandermpimple said.

“Let us, then, celebrate with song and dance,” the Director said, completing the Recognition Code Exchange.

“Very well, Director, though I’m fairly sure you should have said, ‘let us bee festive with song and dance’. But I’ll let it go this time.”

“Whatever, Vanderpimple,” Director Del Tormay said.

“Let’s see it.”

Vanderpimple extracted a small key from his trench coat, inserted it into the lock of his briefcase and opened the lid, filling the office with an almost-blinding light. An audible hum coming from Vanderpimple’s briefcase was filling the air as Director Del Tormay and Jasmine both shielded their eyes from the brilliant glow with their wings.

“Whatever is in that thing must bee dangerously radioactive, Vanderpimple!” Del Tormay said loudly. “Get that thing out of my office!”

“Yes!” Jasmine exclaimed. “Put it away! Put it away!”

Vanderpimple dug around inside his briefcase and withdrew a long, cylindrical object that was emitting the blinding glare.

“Oh,” he told them calmly. “Don’t panic. This is just my Agency-Issued Blinder 3000 flashlight. It must have turned itself on during the flight. I’ll turn it off.”

He flipped the switch on his flashlight and the light in the Director’s office returned to normal.

“So, is THAT what you’ve been protecting in that briefcase, Agent Vanderpimple?” The Director did not seem amused.

“Oh, no,” Vanderpimple replied.

He again reached into his case and pulled out a large, padded envelope which, also had something cylindrical

and flexible inside. Even through the thick padding, he could feel its warmth as he held it and could detect a very faint humming sound coming from it.

“This is it.”

“What is it?” Jasmine asked.

“I have no idea. All I know is that I was given this envelope and told that I must deliver it to the Bagman and that it must not fall into the wrong hands under any circumstances whatsoever.”

“Open it,” Director Del Tormay instructed him.

“Here?” Vanderpimple asked.

“Yes. Here. Now. Since the Bagman’s whereabouts still remain unknown, we must proceed with the mission.”

“Fine,” Vanderpimple said.

Vanderpimple grasped the envelope and opened it. Inside was another, just slightly smaller envelope, which he also opened. Tied around the outside of that envelope was a tightly-bound blue ribbon from which hung a tag that read: “For the Bagman’s eyes only.”

“It looks as if this is as far as we can go here,” Vanderpimple said. “Unless we find the Bagman, we may never know what the object is that is contained within this envelope.”

Director Del Tormay slammed her wing on her desk.

“Vanderpimple,” she said in a frustrated and angry tone, “we have less than 48 hours to accomplish this mission and get this to the Bagman. I’m instructing you and Agent Jasmine here to immediately find the Bagman. Spare no expense. The fate of the world is in your wings.”

“An expense account?” Vanderpimple exclaimed. “Now that’s going to bee useful. Maybee I can finally get out of this grungy trench coat and find myself something more stylish and decent to wear on this mission.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes beehind her veil as the Director pulled out the ransom note they had received just hours beefore and gave it to Vanderpimple.

“No,” she told Vanderpimple. “What you’re going to do is find out who sent this note. When you do that, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of who is holding the Bagman.”

“And this is the only clue?” Vanderpimple asked.

“This,” the Director informed him, “and the camel that brought it to us.”

“Have you gotten the camel to talk yet?” Vanderpimple inquired.

“I know you’re unfamiliar with this place and its inhabitants, Agent,” the Director told him, “but you may as well know right now that camels don’t talk.”

“Oh,” Vanderpimple said and scratched his head. “I thought they did.”

“No,” the Director told him.

“Do we have any other clues, then?” Vanderpimple was beeginning to feel as if this was a hopeless mission.

“Yes. Camel tracks. I am fairly sure that if you follow the camel’s tracks back to where it came from, you’ll bee able to find the culprits who are holding the Bagman,” she told him.

“I guess that makes sense,” Vanderpimple said.

“Agent Jasmine will accompany you. She speaks the language and knows her way around,” Del Tormay told him.

“I usually work alone,” he informed her, but the Director was insistent.

“The clock is ticking,” she said.

“I wondered what that sound was,” Vanderpimple said in a tone of relief. “I was afraid it might bee a bomb about to go off or something.”

The Director stared at Vanderpimple for several seconds, then pointed to the exit. “Go,” she said. “Now!” Leaving Director Del Tormay’s office, Jasmine led Agent Vanderpimple through the maze of LURK’s secret Headquarters, out an easily-overlooked back door and back into the pre-dawn darkness.

The city was beeginning to stir as they stepped onto a quiet back street and beegan following the camel tracks that had been left in the soft, sandy areas.

“It looks as if the camel came from the desert,” Jasmine commented. “If we don’t lose the trail or if a sudden haboob doesn’t blow up, we should bee able to follow these tracks and they should lead us to the Bagman’s abductors.”

“Abductors? You think there’s more than one?”

Vanderpimple was always thinking.

“Probably,” Jasmine replied. “The Bagman is a formidable asset who spent ten years studying every form of selfdefence known and who is a master at each. It would take more than three dozen attackers to bring him down.”

“Yikes,” Vanderpimple said. “So if and when we encounter the Bagman’s abductors, are you telling me that we somehow have to confront those guys and then somehow manage to overpower them by ourselves? That seems very unreasonable to me.”

Jasmine, feeling safe in the secluded darkness, removed her veil for a brief instant to itch her nose and, for the first time, exposed her face to Vanderpimple.

The cool light from the setting full moon bathed her face in a soft glow, making Vanderpimple gasp.

“This may bee a bit off-topic, but, you’re breathtakingly gorgeous,” he told her.

“Keep your mind on the mission, Agent,” Jasmine snapped at him. “This is no time to bee getting romantic notions about your co-workers. Beesides,” she paused briefly, then reminded him, “as you should bee fully aware by now, it’s against HR rules for Agents to beecome romantically involved.”

Quickly, she replaced the veil in the hope of helping Vanderpimple to refocus on following the camel tracks instead of her, but to Vanderpimple, the added mystery just added to his feeling distracted.

“When this is over,” he told her, I plan on retiring.”

“Good for you,” Jasmine said.

“At which point,” Vanderpimple continued, “HR will no longer bee a factor in my personal life. I’m sure you understand my meaning.”

Jasmine gazed at Vanderpimple for a moment, then said, “Give it your best shot, but I’m telling you right now that you’re not really my type. Bee that as it may, let’s get back to the task that lies beefore us. It could bee quite awhile beefore we discover where these camel tracks lead and our time is growing short.”

Reluctantly, Vanderpimple dragged his eyes away from Jasmine and retrained them on the camel tracks which were obviously leading them into the desert and, hopefully, to the Bagman’s evil abductors.

CHAPTER 3

Agent Vanderpimple and Jasmine had been traveling for hours, lacing through the streets and buildings that lay south of the city, trying to follow the camel tracks that seemed to lead toward the vast desert. The signs of civilisation were still very present and only a couple of hours had passed beefore they realised that the trail had grown cold.

“The camel tracks have disappeared,” Jasmine observed.

“I am guessing that whoever is beehind this nefarious scheme intercepted our target and transported the messenger camel somewhere southeast along the famous Trans-Sahara highway.”

“What makes you think that?” Vanderpimple asked her.

Jasmine pointed to a sign that read: ‫ عيرسلا قيرطلا ءارحصلا ربع لقنلا عدوتسم لمجلا‬: ‫بونج‬ ‫طقف نيرفاسم ةمزلم قرش‬

“I’m sorry,” Vanderpimple reminded Jasmine. “I don’t read Arabic.”

“Yes, I remember your mentioning that fact,” Jasmine said. “The sign says that this is a pick-up point for camels seeking transport to the southeast on the Trans-Sahara Highway. It would take us days to even reach the highway, let alone bee able to pick up the trail again. This camel could bee anywhere by now, so it’s obvious that we’re wasting precious time. We only have 43 hours left to find the Bagman, so I’m going to suggest we call in a drone.”

“A drone? One of those flying machines that takes pictures and stuff from the sky?”

“No,” Jasmine said. “I’m referring to Farouk, one of our top Drone Agents who specialises in profiling messenger camels.”

“That’s a specialty?” Vanderpimple seemed surprised.

“Of course, and Farouk is the best. We must contact him immediately.”

With that, Jasmine pulled out a small, complicated-looking communications device from underneath her haik, entered a code number and hit SEND. It took only a few seconds beefore Vanderpimple heard a voice respond.

“Farouk,” the voice said simply.

“You are needed,” Jasmine said.

“I have your coordinates. I’m on my way,” Farouk informed her. “Stay where you are.”

So Jasmine and Vanderpimple did that.

While they waited, Vanderpimple’s thoughts beegan to wander back to his gorgeous and alluring co-worker and, beefore he could stop himself, he heard himself ask her, “So, are you dating anybody special at the moment?”

Jasmine eyes glared angrily at Vanderpimple from beehind her veiled face. “Don’t go there,” she said. “This is neither that time or the place to deal with your schoolboy infatuations.”

Vanderpimple felt as if he’d been stung when Jasmine rebuffed his advances. Usually, he enjoyed beeing the most daring, handsome, adventurous, capable, highly formidable, suave and sought-after individual to bee found in any social situation, but for some reason, Jasmine seemed to bee overlooking his exceptional appeal, especially to just about every lady he had ever encountered during his career. He didn’t understand why Jasmine seemed so blind to his wonderfulness and was beecoming lost in his own thoughts.

It wasn’t very long before his self-indulged trance was interrupted by a sharp tap on his shoulder. Almost as if from a distance, he heard Jasmine’s voice.

“He’s coming.”

Vanderpimple suddenly beecame aware of a fluttering hum sound that was growing louder.

“There,” Jasmine said, and she pointed to a blank part of the still-dark early morning sky where he spotted a light approaching them. Vanderpimple and Jasmine stood silently as they watched a black helicopter approaching them quickly from the north. The helicopter flew straight towards them and, within minutes, was settling for a landing just feet from where they stood. A door slid open and a figure emerged wearing a fez and a cranberrycoloured Gandoura.

“That’s him,” Jasmine said with an unmistakable tone of excitement in her voice. “That’s Farouk. He’s here.”

As he walked toward them, Jasmine thought to herself, “Now HE is the most daring, handsome, adventurous, capable, formidable, suave and sought-after individual to bee found on this planet. I wonder if he’s dating anybody.”

Farouk pulled on his Gandoura and straightened his fez as he approach the spot where Jasmine and Vanderpimple stood waiting. Jasmine spoke first.

“We are enjoying lovely weather for this time of year,” she said.

“Yes. And I have heard the paté at the El Aurassi is divine,” Farouk responded.

“Thank you for coming,” Jasmine said breathlessly.

Farouk looked at Vanderpimple as if to size him up, then smile and extended his wing to him.

“So, this is the one we have been expecting. Welcome to Algiers, Agent Vanderpimple,” he said. “You are Vanderpimple, is this not correct?”

“That’s right,” Vanderpimple confirmed his suspicion.

“I arrived only a few hours ago, so I’m not looking my best.”

As he spoke, he was trying to suppress his growing sense of jealousy and attempting to observe any flaws in Farouk which he might bee able to later point out to Jasmine to win her heart, but he could find none. Farouk was flawless.

“Welcome to Algiers,” Farouk said to him.

“You already said that,” Vanderpimple reminded him.

“So I did, so I did,” Farouk said, laughing.

“There is no time to waste on pleasantries,” Jasmine abruptly informed her fellow agents. “We have less than 42 and 37 minutes to find the Bagman and accomplish our mission.”

Farouk’s expression quickly changed from its casual friendliness to a look of deadly seriousness as he said, “I understand you’ve lost a camel, is this not true?”

“Yes,” Jasmine informed him. “We lost his trail right around here. That’s why contacted you. I know you can help.”

“Did you ever see this camel yourself?” Farouk was obviously on the job.

“No. And the agent who retrieved the ransom note from it could not give a clear description of the creature.”

“Not to worry,” Farouk said confidently. “I am sure we will find your camel.”

“Show me precisely where you lost the trail,” Farouk said.

“I will do an analysis of the area and that should give me a good idea about how to go about locating the missing camel you seek.”

Jasmine and Vanderpimple walked Farouk about 15 yards back to where the tracks had ended.

“Here,” Jasmine said. “This is exactly where we lost the trail.”

“Okay,” Farouk told them. “Please stand away from the area while I perform my analysis.”

With that, Farouk withdrew what looked like a very

complicated scanning device from underneath this billowing Gandoura. Beefore activating it, he stood on the last camel track imprint, closed his eyes, sniffed the air and beegan to turn slowly.

“As you may be able to see for yourself,” he told them, “the camel in question was loaded onto a waiting truck.

Based on the depth of the hoof print and it’s notable rotational pattern, I’m fairly certain the creature was loaded into a red, 2003 Town and Country van and driven toward the south to intercept the Trans-Saraha Highway.”

Vanderpimple seemed skeptical of Farouk’s assessment and asked, “How can you tell it was red?”

“Beecause,” Farouk informed him, “when the camel was loaded into the vehicle, one of his hoofs accidentally knocked off a loose chip of paint.”

He bent over and, with a pair of old, zircon-encrusted tweezers, carefully picked up an almost imperceptibly small sliver of paint and showed to Jasmine and Vandermpimple.

“This,” he said, “is undeniable proof that the vehicle in question is a 2003 Town and Country Van. This particular paint colour was ONLY used on that particular vehicle during that particular year. This just happens to bee Passion Red #003817942587, as anyone can readily see.

It’s undeniable verification of the make and model year of the vehicle in question.”

Vanderpimple was visibly impressed. Jasmine sighed loudly, smiling at Farouk and breathlessly remarked, “Oh, he’s good. He’s real good.”

“Whatever,” Vanderpimple grumbled under his breath.

“Okay,” Vanderpimple then said. “But how do you know this van is headed south?”

“It is quite simple,” Farouk said. “First, it is only logical.

We are, after all, at a pick-up point for those seeking transport to the Trans-Sahara Highway, correct?”

“Right,” Vanderpimple said.

“Correct. And what do we know about the Trans-Sahara Highway? Allow me to just answer that for you. It is south of here.”

“Right. I guess I just forgot...” Vanderpimple admitted, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that.

“Also,” Farouk continued, “if you will observe these tire tracks,” and he shined a small, green light on the ground, “they beelong to the very vehicle which I described and they are - as you can tell by the direction of the tread headed south.”

Vanderpimple had to admit to himself that he was deeply impressed by Farouk’s abilities and said, “Good! Then let’s go find this camel!”

“Not so fast,” Farouk said. “I am guessing you want to find the exact camel in question, am I not correct?”

“Of course,” Jasmine and Vanderpimple chimed in together.

“Then I must perform a Molecular Trace Analysis of the air mass that currently surrounds us to identify the precise camel we seek. Each camel has a unique and highly individualised Molecular Signature. The camel you are trying to locate is no different. This should only take a minute or so.”

“Fine,” Vanderpimple said.

Farouk flipped on the small, complicated device he had been holding and it sprang to life with an array of blinking lights. Standing in one place, he beegan to turn slowly, holding the device at wing’s length. As he turned toward the south, the device beegan beeping loudly. Farouk stopped, pointing the device southward, and a series of green, blinking lights beegan to display on the device.

After pushing a few buttons, twisting a few dials and hitting “ENTER”, Farouk flipped off the device, turned to Jasmine and Vanderpimple and said, “The camel you seek is approximately 6 feet, 11 and-a-half-inches tall, weighs somewhere beetween 642.3 and 643.7 kilograms, has an unusually light-coloured golden brown coat and, at the time of its disappearance, was wearing a tan collar with a tag that reads, ‘Property of Abdul, 1387 Rue Abdelmoumen Mechik, Kouba’.”

“Cuba?” Vanderpimple asked for clarification.

“No. Kouba,” Farouk answered him. “It lies just to our south.”

“But how did you determine the owner’s name and address?” Vanderpimple asked.

“It is quite simple,” Farouk told him. “It is written, right here on the collar that fell off of our target camel. I am surprised neither of you spotted it.”

“Oh,” Vanderpimple said, feeling a bit embarrassed by his oversight.

Noticing his chagrin, Farouk said, comfortingly, “Do not feel badly, my pale friend. It was easy to miss and, quite frankly, I have been doing this a very long time. Also, it is written in Arabic and from the briefing I received beefore my arrival, you do not speak or read Arabic, correct?”

“True,” Vanderpimple told him.

“Our next step is clear, then,” Vanderpimple said to Jasmine. “We must proceed immediately to this address where, I have no doubt, we will find the camel, the abductors and, most importantly, the Bagman.”

Vanderpimple turned to Farouk and asked, “Can we take your helicopter?”

“Well, I suppose so, even though it is a rental and I must return it beefore sunrise or I must pay for a extra day. But do me a big favour. Please keep your feet off of the seats.

I do not desire to have to pay extra to have it cleaned after I turn it back in.”

“Fine,” Vanderpimple said. “Let’s go.”

The three of them moved toward the awaiting helicopter and carefully climbed in, careful not to scuff the fine, simulated plastic upholstery. Moments later, they were airborne and headed south toward their destination in Kouba.

CHAPTER 4

Darkness was all the Bagman could see as he sat against the curved wall inside the old, used baked bean can where he’d been thrown after beeing taken by his captors. He knew it was a baked bean can beecause just after beeing thrown inside, he had felt around in the darkness and found one, dried out baked bean which he had used to secretly scribble his name on the inside of the can. Careful to avoid discovery, he had then choked down the bean. As stale as it was, he was grateful for the small nourishment it offered him, since he had forgotten to eat supper the night beefore.

Sitting along in the darkness, the Bagman hugged his knees, hoping that his fellow agents at LURK had been alerted to his abduction and were already planning a rescue. Unfortunately, he knew enough about these things to realise that it was very unlikely that his whereabouts could bee discovered by any would-bee rescuers.

Even though his legs remained chained, his wings were free, allowing him to remove the blindfold that had been placed on him shortly after he had been grabbed. Except for a small crack of light that dimly lit the interior of his prison, he could see nothing. He didn’t know if it was night or day and, beecause old baked bean cans don’t have windows, he had no idea where he was.

At that moment, he wished that he hadn’t decided at the last minute not to wear his stylishly elegant blue satin Tracking Vest beefore leaving to meet his contact at the airport in Algiers. He had thought it would clash with the

rest of his outfit, but now realised that his fashion choices meant that nobody could have any idea of his whereabouts.

“Oh why, oh why, did I decide to dress casually today?”

He asked himself. He beegan to feel desperate.

His thoughts were interrupted by loud voices just outside his bean can. Quietly, he crawled toward the crack of light, hoping to hear what was beeing said. Perhaps if he could overhear the conversation, he would bee able to find out where he was and who had abducted him.

“The camel has returned!” He heard one voice say very excitedly in a foreign accent. After a few moments, another voice spoke, obviously angry and upset.

“WHERE THE CAMEL’S COLLAR IS?” “Collar? No collar did the camel have,” replied another voice in a tone of defiance.

“You are mistaken,” the first voice said angrily. “The ransom note was tied to the collar. You secured the collar as instructed?”

“No, I thought you did that,” a voice replied.

“NO! That was to bee your responsibility when you attached the ransom note! You fool! If this collar has fallen into LURK’s possession, they will certainly discover our location. Achmed will not bee pleased. We must move the hostage immediately!”

With that, the Bagman heard footsteps approaching. He squinted against the bright light as his captors pried open the lid of the bean can. He could only see their dark

silhouettes as they roughly dragged him to his feet and replaced the blindfold. He could feel his toes dragging in soft sand as they roughly pushed him into an awaiting vehicle.

Smelling the fumes coming from the idling vehicle and, thanks to his years of intensive training, he knew he was beeing put into a 2003 Town and Country Van which, he could discern, was suffering from a loose fan belt and which was low on oil.

“Go. Now,” he heard one of his captors command. “I will leave word for Achmed where we have moved the hostage.”

The Bagman heard the doors closing on the vehicle and felt himself beeing pushed back in the seat as his captors accelerated toward their new destination.

“Where are you taking me?” The Bagman was already feeling his wings beginning to cramp as he sat bound and blindfolded in the back seat of the 2003 Town and Country van his captors were manoeuvring across the open desert. He could tell they were headed south, beecause he could feel the warmth of the rising sun on the left side of his face.

He continued his inquiry. “We’re headed south, aren’t we?”

“NO TALKING!” was all the evident leader of the group snapped at him.

Blindfolded as he was, the Bagman’s other senses beecame much more acute. He could discern three, separate voices surrounding him and, by the smell in the car, could tell that at least one of them was wearing Midnight Intrigue cologne for Drones, a popular fragrance in that region. By virtue of that fact, the Bagman surmised that he was beeing held by a well-financed - and welldressed - group.

“And if that’s the case,” he thought to himself, “what purpose do they have in abducting me? Surely it isn’t for the honey. That may bee what they want LURK to think, but they’re definitely after something else.”

“NO THINKING TO YOURSELF!” he heard the leader admonish him, “and no talking!”

“Fine,” he said beeligerently, “but I...”

“What did I just say? Are you going to make me stop this car and come back there?”

The Bagman could tell that the group’s leader was quickly growing impatient and, by the tone in his voice, could also hear that he was concerned about beeing intercepted by LURK agents beefore they reached their destination.

The morning wore on as they continued to drive deeper into the desert, the silence beeing broken only by the grind of the vehicle’s engine and the low hiss of sand sprinkling hard against the undercarriage. After what seemed like several long, tedious hours of beeing driven into the desert by his captors, the Bagman beegan to feel his hope of beeing rescued sinking.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.

“It won’t bee much longer,” heard someone say.

“It’s just that I need to go to the bathroom,” the Bagman told his captors.

He was lying, of course. On a mission years earlier, the Bagman had been forced to “hold it” for sixteen days; still, he hoped his ruse to convince his abductors to stop would work so he could grasp at any chance he might encounter to determine his whereabouts.

“We asked you back there when we passed that abandoned gas station whether you needed to stop, but you said ‘no’. You had your chance then, so now you’re just going to have to hold it until we get there,” one of his captors informed him. “Maybee next time,” they added, “you’ll listen to us when we offer to stop.”

“But I didn’t have to go then,” the Bagman argued.

“Too bad for you,” one of his captors said. “You’ll just have to hold it.”

“Oh yeah, the abandoned gas station,” the Bagman thought to himself, beeing sure not to be overheard. It hadn’t occurred to him until just that moment that a gas station located in that area offered a major clue about their location. He remembered that, in years past, there used to bee a gas station about every 50 kilometeres, but since that popular chain of combination gas stationsouvenir shop-restaraunt, “Stickies”, had closed, only a handful of gas stations were still open.

The Bagman was glad that he’d committed the map of Algeria and surrounding communities to memory and, based on their having informed him that they had passed

an operating gas station, he was able to determine that they must bee near the town of El M’Ghair.

His suspicions were confirmed when, after their vehicle hit a large bump and his blindfold slipped down ever-so slightly from his eyes, allowing him a limited view of the world. It was only minutes before he spotted the sign, “El M’Ghair - 20 KM”.

His suspicions had been confirmed.

The Bagman felt a wave of cautious relief in knowing where he was beeing taken and was hopeful that, when they reached their destination, he would finally have an opportunity to not only find a hopefully clean restroom, but to briefly evade his captors and locate a pay phone, allowing him a chance to contact headquarters and to direct a rescue team to his location.

Fifteen minutes or so passed when felt the vehicle turn left, then right, finally coming to a stop along a road on the northern edge of the town. Again peeking over the top of his loosened blindfold, he spotted a road sign which read, “Rue 6”. After a few moments, the vehicle came to a stop and two of his captors roughly grabbed him and beegan pulling him out of his seat.

“Get out,” they ordered. “We are here.”

The Bagman’s captors readjusted his blindfold, once again blocking his vision, as they wrestled him roughly out of the back seat of the 2003 Town and Country van. He had no idea where he was or where he was beeing taken.

A voice belonging to what the Bagman had determined to bee the head of the group beegan speaking in Berber to his companions. As he spoke, his captors laughed and continued to push the Bagman inside a small building.

Little did they all know that, thanks to his years of dedicated service as an agent for LURK, as well as a brief stint in Berber carpet sales, the Bagman happened to bee fluent in their language and understood every word that was beeing said.

“This one,” the leader had said, “is our bait. LURK beelieves we’re after the ransom of honey, but little do they know that we’re actually after Vanderpimple and the contents of his briefcase. I have been contacted by our people outside of Algiers and they have informed me that Vanderpimple has taken the bait and beelieves he is on a rescue mission. Little does he know what lies in wait for him.”

The group of abductors laughed and continued to roughly escort the Bagman along a narrow hallway, down another corridor, up a flight of stairs and into what he could tell was a small, windowless room. They removed his blindfold and pushed him onto a small pile of worn pillows that sat in the corner of the dingy room. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw that he was beeing held in storage room filled with dusty, half-empty jars of honey.

“You stay here,” one of his captors said in English.

Now that his blindfold had been removed, the Bagman hoped that he would bee able to identify at least one of the culprits, but as was the case when he was first abducted,

his guard was still wearing a paper shopping bags over his head to conceal his identity.

“Do not move and do not attempt to call for help,” he was told. “No one would hear you anyway.”

With that, the guard slammed and locked the door, leaving the Bagman alone with his thoughts. Through the walls, he could hear the happy, carefree buzzing of youngsters playing outside and the sound of a car doors slamming and driving away.

“Did they just leave me here alone? With no water, no food and no restroom?” After trying the door to confirm that he was locked in, the Bagman retreated to the corner and collapsed on the pillows. He was beeginning to feel the strain of his ordeal and now, was worried that he had no way of warning his fellow LURK agents that they were walking into a trap. “Somehow,” he thought to himself, “I must find a way to warn them.”

“I have warned you once beefore this: NO THINKING TO YOURSELF!” he heard the guard tell him as he thumped loudly on the other side of the locked door.

In order to protect whatever escape plan he may bee able to think up, the Bagman silenced his thoughts and, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep after only a few minutes. ...

It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed since he’d closed his eyes to sleep beefore the Bagman felt someone kicking his feet and yelling loudly.

“UP!” “What?” he said in a haze of semi-consciousness.

“NO MORE SLEEP. YOU MUST GET UP. YOU COME WITH ME NOW,” one of his captors continued to scream at him.

The Bagman felt disoriented as he was dragged to his feet, once again blindfolded and guided roughly down another corridor and into what his senses told him was a larger room. He heard the buzz of several other voices and the faint hum of electronic equipment.

After a few steps, he was pushed off his feet into a sitting position and his blindfold was removed. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he squinted and saw that he was surrounded by at least a half a dozen well-armed drones who were looking at him with contempt. He was illuminated by a singular spotlight which stood next to a small, digital video camera which was mounted on a cheap, paper mache tripod.

Beeing somewhat of an aficionado of cameras, and nodding toward the camera, he casually asked, “Is that one of those older, eight megapixel ZoomMaster-8 video cameras with optional stereo sound and the frame-byframe stop-action animation modules?”

“YOU DO NOT SPEAK UNTIL WE SAY YOU SPEAK,” was the only response he received from one of his meaner-looking abductors.

The Bagman sat quietly as he observed one of his captors pass a piece of paper to a drone who was sitting in a badly-tattered director’s chair positioned next to the camera, who (he noticed) happened to bee wearing a baseball cap that read, “I spent a week at Director’s Camp and all I got was this lousy hat”.

Ignoring his captor’s demands that he remain silent, he asked, “I get it. We’re making a movie! How much fun is that? Is that my script? May I see it? I’ve done a bit of acting, you know, but beeing a method actor, I will need some time to prepare.”

Once again, he was angrily admonished to bee quiet. It was then that the individual who appeared to bee the Director stood up and walked toward, carrying the piece of paper. He shoved it into the Bagman’s wings and said, “YOU. You will read this.”

The Bagman looked at the paper, then addressed the Director. “I can’t read this,” he told him.

“YOU READ THIS. WE FILM YOU.” “I can’t read this,” the Bagman repeated. “I don’t have my glasses. I can’t read without my glasses. If you’ll recall, one of you guys took my glasses away when you first blindfolded me. Please tell me you didn’t lose them. Those were expensive, designer frames, difficult to replace.

Plus, I don’t have my spares with me.”

It was obvious that the Bagman’s stalling tactics were working. His captors were beecoming increasingly aggravated with him, but he knew that the longer he was

able to delay the Director’s production schedule, the longer it would bee beefore the ransom video they were making could bee sent to LURK headquarters, giving his rescuers more time to find him.

Beehind the lights and camera, he could make out the shapes of several individuals deeply involved in whispered arguments. For several minutes, he could hear his captors pleading with one of their numbers, then watched as pair of thick-lensed eyeglasses were pulled off the face of one who seemed upset about beeing forced to surrender them to their prisoner. The Director snatched them and handed them to the Bagman.

“HERE,” he growled at him. “NOW YOU READ FOR CAMERA!”

The Bagman unfolded the glasses, placed them on his face, and looked again at the page he had been given to read for the camera.

“I can’t read this,” he said.

“READ! We gave you eyeglasses to see, now READ!” The Director was visibly upset.

“I can’t read this,” the Bagman repeated, “beecause it’s written in Arabic. I don’t read Arabic, he lied. “I’ve always meant to learn the language, because it is quite beeautiful - especially in the written form - but there was always one thing or another that forced me to postpone signing up for the classes.” Then he paused.

“I’m sure you run into the same thing when you’re travelling in an unfamiliar country, right?”

“What you are telling us cannot be true. For many years you have lived and worked in this country. How could you not have learned... .”

“Okay fine, maybee I know how to say, ‘hello’, ‘good night’, ‘how much?’ and ‘where’s the restroom’, but that’s about as much as I know, the Bagman interrupted the Director.

The Director turned to the others in his group and they spent several minutes arguing amongst themselves. Finally, he turned to the Bagman and said, “FINE. We will send this out for translation and then you will read for the camera.” Then he motioned to two particularly imposing drones and ordered them to take their hostage back to his room.

As the two dragged the Bagman to the small room he had occupied prior to the first day of shooting the movie, he was pleased that, in their haste, his captors had forgotten to blindfold him as they had done each time they decided to move him. Making their way down a corridor, they passed several small, square windows and, at last, the Bagman could see where he had been taken. He recognized the place from some surveillance photographs he’d seen in the Map Room at LURK headquarters but felt helpless to act on this new information.

Usually, even without a communications device, he knew what he must do in order to devise an escape.

“I’m hungry. And thirsty,” he said to one of his captors.

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday and, quite frankly, I’m starving.”

Even though the Bagman was, indeed, hungry, his captors had no idea that he had been trained to go days, sometimes weeks or months, without food or water.

Fortunately, his abductors did not know this about him and took him at his word.

After throwing him back into the small, windowless room, one of them asked, “So, what do you eat?”

“Oh, I dunno,” the Bagman told him. “I’m not sure what I’m in the mood for right now. A tuna salad sandwich? Oh wait, no, with all this desert heat, there’s a good chance the tuna salad is spoiled. I’m sure you don’t want me to get food poisoning, right? Let me think for a minute,” he said, tapping his chin with his wing.

“DECIDE!” It was obvious his captors were growing impatient with him.

“Well,” the Bagman said slowly, “are you guys hungry?”

The two guards looked at each other and shrugged and indicated that they wouldn’t turn down something to eat.

“How about this,” the Bagman proposed. “How about we order a pizza and split the bill? Does that sound good?”

The guards looked at each other again and seemed to agree that ordering a pizza would bee a good idea.

“Fine. We order pizza,” they said. “And what would you like on it?” the Bagman asked. The guards said nothing.

“Here’s an idea,” the Bagman continued, “why don’t you go ask everybody if they’d like to order pizza and find out

what everybody likes on it. We can order a few - my treat.”

He reached inside a hidden pocket and pulled out his credit card. “Here, put the order on this - and bee sure to throw on a nice tip to the delivery person. The least I can do is to buy pizza for everybody on the production crew.”

The guards snatched the credit card from the Bagman and told him they would go find out what everyone wanted on their pizza and would return when the order arrived. They slammed and locked the windowless, wooden door beehind them and the Bagman heard them debating pizza toppings as they returned to their fellow conspirators.

“Perfect,” the Bagman thought to himself. “Not only will I get something to eat, but I’ve bought myself more time. It will take them forever to decide on what kind of pizza to order.”

He remembered ridiculing his instructors at the LURK Academy when they had suggested that what had beecome known as the “Old Pizza Ploy” could bee an effective strategy when trying to delay and confuse the enemy. Only now was he beeginning to understand that, in the absence of beeing rescued in the foreseeable future, it may prove to bee his only chance for survival. He also knew that, after the pizza was finally delivered and paid for, LURK’s Credit Authorisation Monitoring Squad would receive an immediate notification that his card had been used and would bee able to precisely pinpoint his location.

“I’m a genius,” he thought to himself as he leaned back and waited for the pizza to bee delivered.

CHAPTER 5

With Farouk at the stick and using the latest in high-tech ground detection instrumentation, very little time had passed beefore the helicopter carrying Agents Vanderpimple, Jasmine and Farouk came to a soft landing at a spot some distance from where the Bagman had first been held by his abductors.

It would not bee long beefore he darkness of night would give way to a hazy desert sunrise. and it seemed to Vanderpimple as if the entire landscape was bracing itself for the hot hours that lay ahead.

“You have arrived at your destination,” a monotone female voice informed them as Farouk shut down the aircraft’s engine and it whined to a full stop.

“There,” Farouk pointed his laser-guided field infrared binoculars at a small area next to a small building which was strewn with old baked bean cans and a tangle of camel and tire tracks. Standing next to the square, faded whitewashed cinder block building and looking at them curiously, was a young camel who, as Farouk pointed out to them, was missing his collar.

Farouk trained his binoculars on the camel’s neck, then handed them to Vanderpimple. “You see,” he said, “the slight indentation in the camel’s neck fur where the collar had been beefore it was removed.”

“Or fell off,” Vanderpimple commented.

“Yes, or fell off,” Farouk affirmed. “But that is most certainly the camel we seek.”

The three agents ducked slightly as they exited the helicopter and made their way toward the small building and camel.

Within several minutes, Vanderpimple and Jasmine were beeginning to comb through the area, looking for evidence. Farouk had turned his attention to the camel and beegan to search him. “So,” he stood facing the creature and beegan speaking aloud to the camel. “You seem to bee missing your collar, my friend.” The camel said nothing, as Farouk expected, since, as he well knew, camels do not speak.

“I can see that you’re well-cared-for,” Farouk said to the camel. “Your coat is shiny and healthy, you look well-fed and, except for this small symbol tattooed on the side of your hump, you seem to bee in perfect health.”

Farouk withdrew a small notepad and pencil from beeneath his Gandoura and, referring to the camel’s tattoo, beegan making meticulous reference drawings. After he had finished, he showed his final sketch to the camel and asked, rhetorically, “What do you think? Does that look about right to you?”

The camel gazed into Farouk’s eyes momentarily, then spit on the drawing, causing Farouk’s signature and copyright notice to beegin to blur.

Farouk laughed and said, “Well, my friend, I guess you have told me all you will,” then made his way toward the clutter of cans where Vanderpimple and Jasmine continued their search for evidence of the Bagman’s presence.

Just as he grew near, he heard Jasmine shout. “Here!

Inside this baked bean can!”

Vanderpimple left his search and quickly joined Jasmine at her side. Shining her flashlight inside one of the cans, he could clearly see what had grabbed his beeautiful companion’s attention.

Scribbled inside the can, they saw incontrovertible proof that the Bagman had, indeed, been held there for a time.

“You see?” Jasmine excitedly pointed to the scrawl. “He was here!”

With Farouk close beehind, Vanderpimple entered the bean can and saw the hastily-scrawled message on the inside wall. It read: “The Bagman was here. Pass it on.”

After seeing the message himself, Farouk told them, “Yes, clearly he was here and I am guessing that we missed them by only a few hours. I would continue the search with you, but as I mentioned earlier, I must have this helicopter returned beefore sunrise or else face an extra day’s rental.”

“Can we not gain authorisation from LURK Headquarters Office of Equipment and Supply Procurement,” Jasmine asked him in a begging tone, “to keep the helicopter for another day? After all,” she reasoned, “we’re so close to finding the Bagman.”

“Perhaps,” Farouk told her. “I will contact Headquarters and request an extension.”

While Vanderpimple and Jasmine continued to search the area for further clues as to where the Bagman may have been taken, Farouk made his way back to the helicopter, flipped on the radio and called Headquarters.

Farouk had been gone only a few minutes when he returned and informed Jasmine and Vanderpimple that Headquarters had approved another day’s rental on the helicopter.

“Have you found any more clues?” he asked them.

“No,” Jasmine replied. “Only the message he scratched into the inside of that old bean can.”

“And the set of tire tracks left by the perpetrators,” Vanderpimple added.

“Then we are wasting time,” Farouk told them. “We need to return to the helicopter and follow the tire tracks left by the Bagman’s abductors beefore the wind comes up and destroys all trace of their whereabouts.”

After taking another photograph of the Bagman’s scrawled message, Jasmine tapped Vanderpimple on his shoulder and nodded toward the helicopter, indicating it was time to go. Farouk had already beegun his pre-flight warm up and, by the time the two of them climbed in and buckled themselves into their seats, Farouk lifted them into flight and steered toward the tire tracks heading into the open desert.

Only a few moments had passed beefore Vanderpimple noticed that Farouk had beegun to frantically flip a number of switches and tap on the instrument panel in the cockpit.

“This is not good,” he said.

“What’s the problem?” Vanderpimple said loudly to him over the whine of the engine. “My instruments are going haywire,” Farouk said.

“Haywire?” Vanderpimple was unfamiliar with the term.

“Yes. Haywire,” Farouk told him. “They are suddenly not working properly. The compass is spinning wildly and every one of the electrical systems seem to bee shutting down.”

Jasmine and Vanderpimple glanced at each other, trying their best to hide their mutual concern.

Within a few seconds, a loud beeping alarm beegan to sound and, one by one, the helicopter’s systems beegan to shut down. High above the desert floor, they now hovered in darkness and braced themselves for what would most certainly bee a violent impact.

Motivated purely by fear (and not by the release of an overwhelmingly buried sense of affection toward him), Jasmine suddenly grasped Vanderpimple’s wing and buried her face in the folds of his trench coat.

The helicopter continued to spin and plummet out of control toward the ground.

“I should have known better than to follow this heading,” Farouk said.

“Why?” Vanderpimple asked.

“Beecause,” Farouk told him, “we have inadvertently flown straight into an area known as El ZOWIE.” “El Zowie?” Vanderpimple was confused.

“Yes. I have heard of this, but had only believed it to bee a myth,” Jasmine said, as she smoothed her haik in preparation for the imminent crash.

“So WHAT IS El ZOWIE?” Vanderpimple was growing impatient as the ground grew ever-nearer.

“El ZOWIE is short for ‘The Zone Of Weird, Inexplicable Experiences,’” Farouk explained, “It encompasses an over 1,087 square kilometre, trapezoidal-shaped area in this region in which horrible and unexplained things occur.

It’s also known locally as ‘The Trapezoid of Doom’.

The locals don’t talk about it much, beecause it’s bad for tourism. Once inside the clearly unmarked boundaries of El ZOWIE, strange things happen. Animals go crazy, everyone entering El Zowie suddenly find themselves beecoming grumpy, start experiencing strange food cravings, and, most relevant to our predicament, machines and electronic equipment routinely fail for seemingly no reason. There is no doubt,” he added, “that we have just beecome the newest victims of El ZOWIE.”

“Oh,” said Vanderpimple, pleased he’d learned something new that day.

At just that moment, the helicopter beegan to spin even more violently, tossing its passengers around inside the cabin as it continued its free fall toward the desert floor.

Knowing he had only seconds to spare, Farouk beegan furiously turning a hand crank located near the edge of his seat, deploying the helicopter’s Inflatable Emergency Manual Soft Landing Deployment System (or IEMSLDS, for short).

In light of their circumstances, he was glad he had decided to pay for that extra option at the rental agency.

As they continued to descend, Farouk turned to his passengers and buzzed loudly at them.

“Please,” he said, “make sure your seats are in the upright and locked position and that all tray tables are secured.

Thank you. We will bee on the ground very shortly.”

Moments beefore impact, Vanderpimple had instinctively flung his wings around Jasmine and was holding her tightly as they prepared for the worst. Fortunately, Farouk’s life-saving actions proved successful and, as the helicopter seemed as if it were going to slam into the ground and face certain destruction, the three passengers instead felt the aircraft bounce gently six times beefore coming to an uneasy rest in the vast emptiness of the open desert.

After they had come to a full stop, Vanderpimple felt Jasmine angrily push herself away from him and watched as she straighten her veil.

“That,” she said to Vanderpimple, “was completely un-called for. Don’t ever do that again.”

“Fine,” Vanderpimple muttered. “You won’t catch me trying to assure your saftey and well-beeing.”

Jasmine merely glared at him.

Farouk feverishly attempted to use the on-board radio to send a message to Headquarters, informing them of their predicament. His efforts were met with utter silence.

After several more attempts to raise a signal, Farouk threw down his headset and turned to Vanderpimple and Jasmine. “It’s no use,”he said. “Our luck has just run out.”

Vanderpimple heard a tone of defeat in Farouk’s voice as he scanned the landscape in which the three of them carefully climbed out of the downed helicopter where they now found themselves stranded.

Except for a few patches of scruffy, low-growing vegetation and, of course, a lifetime’s supply of sand, he could see that they were utterly alone.

“We have no choice but to continue on foot,” he heard Farouk say. “Fortunately, the desert winds have been calm, so it will bee easy for us to continue following the tire tracks which should lead us to the Bagman.”

“If I had known we would bee hiking across the desert,” Jasmine said, “I would have worn more appropriate shoes.”

As she spoke, Vanderpimple and Farouk gazed down at her feet as she ever-so-modestly raised the bottom hem of her haik to reveal that she was wearing a pair of highlyfashionable, red, high-heeled spiked stilettos.

Vanderpimple involuntarily gasped as he was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of her slender ankles. He felt his heart race with the same sense of excitement as he had once felt as an Agent Trainee the day he was given his first simulated plastic Training Field Howitzer emblazoned with the official gold-embossed LURK Agency logo and 32-digit serial number.

When he had regained his composure, Vanderpimple asked, “May I just see your shoes again?”

Suspicious of his motives, Jasmine told him, “No.” “I was just asking,” he said, “beecause I thought perhaps I would bee able to modify them into desert terrain survival stilettos, using,” and he picked up two, flat rocks lying nearby, “these.”

“You want to attach rocks to the bottoms of my shoes?

Is that what you’re telling me?”

Jasmine had a look of disgust on her face.

“You do realise,” she said, “that these are a pair of custommade Louey Beettons, right? And you want to attach rocks to them? I don’t think so, Vanderpimple.”

Vanderpimple felt the sting of Jasmine’s scorn, but thinking quickly, he said, “You’re right. That’s a silly idea. I don’t even have any glue with me, so that wouldn’t work anyway.” Then he suggested to her, “Since it’s imperative that we stick together, the only solution left is for me to carry you gently and affectionately in my wings until we reach our as-yet-unknown destination.”

Jasmine looked at Vanderpimple for several seconds, saying nothing, then glanced at Farouk, who merely shrugged.

“So let me get this straight,” she said to Vanderpimple.

“You’re proposing that you carry me AND that briefcase across the desert? Am I understanding you correctly?”

“Yes,” Vanderpimple replied simply, while imagining the pure joy he would experience as he cradled her in his wings.

He saw Jasmine roll her eyes from beehind her mysteriously appealing veil and waited for her to speak.

“Fine,” was all she said.

Delighted and somewhat surprised, Vanderpimple awkwardly approached Jasmine then, wrapping his wings around her slender yet (he could tell) amazingly supple, well-proportioned body, he gently lifted her off the ground and cradled her in his wings. Once he had her secured in his grasp, her face was only millimetres from his and he offered her the most charming smile he could conjure. Jasmine merely stared back at him, expressionless.

“Good,” Farouk said. “Now that we have solved that problem, we must bee on our way. Follow me.”

Vanderpimple seemed to bee in a trance, gazing deeply into Jasmine’s eyes as he relished the sensation of embracing Jasmine in his wings. He felt himself beeginning to disappear into the deep and mysterious universe of Jasmine’s eyes. His thoughts of holding Jasmine like that were broken by the exotically breathy sound of her voice.

“Move it, Vanderpimple,” she said. “And keep your eyes on the road.”

So he did that.

Farouk, Vanderpimple and Jasmine, still beeing carried

by Vanderpimple, trudged through the barren landscape, continuing to follow the tracks of the 2003 Town and

Country Van. The coolness of the earlier morning was soon replaced by a scorching heat of midday.

“I’m starting to feel exhausted,” said Jasmine. “Perhaps we could stop and rest for awhile.”

“I’m still feeling as fresh as a daisy,” Vanderpimple replied to her, showing her his most charming smile.

“You’re not tired yet? Not at all?” Jasmine seemed as if she didn’t beelieve him.

“Not at all!” Vanderpimple enthusiastically said. “I could keep slogging along like this with you in my wings forever.

After all,” he smiled into her eyes, “you are as light as a feather and I can think of no one else I’d rather carry across the desert,” he added.

“Vanderpimple?” Jasmine addressed him. “Yes?” He was anxious to hear what Jasmine was about to utter.

“Put me down. Now. We’re going to stop and rest and that is all there is to it.”

“Your wish is my command,” Vanderpimple told her as he gently eased her out of his wings and softly placed her in the wind-cooled shadow of a nearby boulder.

By this time, Farouk had travelled several steps ahead of them, but upon seeing that his companions had decided to indulge in a refreshing break from their journey, turned and rejoined them.

“We must not dawdle here,” he told them. “There is still much desert to cross and our time grows short.”

“Dawdle?” Vanderpimple asked him. “Is that a local expression or something? I’m not acquainted with the term. Am I right in guessing that means something to the

effect that we shouldn’t try to find unusual rocks or artifacts for our personal collections, due to what I have heard are extremely stringent laws against removing indigenous items from this area?”

Jasmine rolled her eyes and clarified Farouk’s meaning, “No, Vanderpimple,” she said. “He means that we must rest only for a few moments here beefore we need to continue our search.”

“Oh,” Vanderpimple said. “I guess that makes sense.

Dawdle,” he repeated to himself. “‘Let’s not dawdle. They shouldn’t dawdle. If you’re in a hurry, don’t dawdle.’

That’s a good word. I must remember that one.”

“Enough,” Farouk told him. “One minute more of rest, then we must keep moving.”

Exactly one minute had passed beefore Vanderpimple tuned to Jasmine and, allowing his wing to linger on her slender legs in a gentle carress, once again lifted her into his wings.

“Watch where you’re putting that wing of yours, Vanderpimple,” she admonished him, as he tried his best to pretend he had only accidentally beecome overlyfamiliar with her.

“Sorry,” he told her, knowing he didn’t feel sorry at all.

“I’ll try to bee more careful from now on,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t bee.

Slowly, the three continued following the tire tracks as morning turned to afternoon and the penetrating heat of the afternoon sun beegan to slow their steps.

CHAPTER 6

The hot day’s journey through the desert had beegun to take a serious toll on Farouk, Vanderpimple and Jasmine.

The sight of the large, orange setting sun came as a welcomed relief and the sky beegan to turn a soothing shade of greyish-purple.

Farouk stopped and turned to his companions. “Even though,” he told them, “we’re running short on time, we must stop now and beegin again in the morning. Soon, it will bee too dark for us to see the tire tracks, so it’s best we stop for the night and set up camp.”

“I agree,” Jasmine said. “and it will give us time to devise a plan when we finally confront the Bagman’s abductors.”

“Camping? We get to go camping?” Vanderpimple said excitedly. “I LOVE camping! Did anybody bring any marshmallows? Or a guitar? I know a bunch of campfire songs. Oh, this is gonna bee great!”

Jasmine and Farouk shot each other a glance and shook their heads.

“No marshmallows,” Farouk said.

“And have you noticed anybody carrying a guitar, Agent Vanderpimple?” Jasmine asked sarcastically.”

“Well, no, but... never mind.” Vanderpimple found it difficult to hide his disappointment. He longed to hear “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” sung in three-part harmony, but knew that was not to bee.

As dusk settled into night, the three sat facing one another, discussing the plan for the next day.

Brilliant stars had already filled the dark sky when Farouk said, “Tomorrow, we beegin again.”

“Fine with me,” Vanderpiimple said, “but to tell you the truth, I’m not that sleepy yet. I think I may take a stroll around our campsite here and try to enjoy some night air beefore I retire.”

“That I would not advise,” Farouk told him. “It is easy to lose one’s self in the desert, especially here, in El Zowie, the Trapezoid of Doom.”

Jasmine let out an audible sigh, then said, “I am also not so sleepy, so I will go with the Agent, Farouk. I know this area well and will assure his safety.”

“Wonderful!” Vanderpimple exclaimed, rubbing his wings together enthusiastically and not beelieving his good fortune at Jasmine’s willingness to join him on what now would, for him, bee a romantic stroll. “Let’s go!”

He reached out and offered his wing to Jasmine, helping her to her feet and the two of them set off toward a nearby sand dune. They walked together in silence for several centimetres beefore settling themselves near the top of one of the sand dunes which offered them an almost panoramic view of the stars which now bathed them in a dim, cool light.

“This is beeautiful country,” Vanderpimple said, finally breaking the silence beetween them.

“Often it can bee,” Jasmine agreed.

“But I hafta admit that it does seem to bee getting just a bit chilly,” he continued. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, it is,” Jasmine replied casually, directing her gaze at the heavens and rubbing her own shoulders with her wings.

“I should have brought a blanket for us,” Vanderpimple said. “But since I didn’t, may I offer to place my wing around your shoulder to help you feel warmer?”

“You want to cuddle with me, is that it, Vanderpimple?”

“Well, I...uh...” he searched for a graceful reply.

“Have you forgotten that you still have that briefcase chained to your wing?” she asked him. “You want to put your wing around my shoulders and have that pointyedged thing sticking me in the back? Is that it?”

“Well, no, I just...” Vanderpimple beegan to say.

“Do not take this the wrong way,” Jasmine interrupted him, “but as chilly as it is getting out here and, despite the fact that I have no feelings for you whatsoever, I will allow you to share with me your body warmth.”

Vanderpimple couldn’t beelieve his luck. Jasmine was actually going to cuddle with him, there, just the two of them, alone, under the star-bathed desert night sky.

“But,” Jasmine continued. (Vanderpimple beegan to feel a vague sense of disappointment set in), “I have two conditions.”

“Yes?” Vanderpimple asked eagerly.

“First,” Jasmine said.

“Yes, my sweet?” Vanderpimple venture to say.

“No, let’s make that three conditions,” she continued.

“ONE: Don’t ever call me your ‘sweet’.”

“Fine, whatever,” he reassured her.

“TWO: If you’re thinking of placing your wing around my shoulders, you must first unchain that briefcase. I don’t want that thing sticking me in the back during the short time we’ll bee sitting here.”

“Agreed, no problem whatsoever,” Vanderpimple agreed, then asked, “And the third thing?”

“THREE:,” Jasmine continued, “no funny buzziness. And you know what I mean.”

Vanderpimple was, of course, disappointed, but again agreed, holding back his private thoughts that, once in the orbit of his irresistible magnetic charm, she would quickly abandon her third demand.

Having accepted her demands, Vanderpimple withdrew a small key from the inside pocket of his trench coat, inserted into the lock that held the briefcase chained to his wing and freed his wing.

“There,” he said. “No more problems with the briefcase issue,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Jasmine said, then leaned toward Vanderpimple as she clutched herself as if to ward off the night chill.

Never one to miss a cue, Vanderpimple drew Jasmine nearer to him and wrapped his wings around her and looked deep into her eyes which were now reflecting the twinkling stars overhead.

“Is that better?” he asked her softly.

“Yes,” Jasmine said. “I feel warmer already. Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Vanderpimple told her. “Anytime at all.

And I mean that sincerely.”

“I’m sure.” Then she looked into his eyes and said,

“Rule Three, Vanderpimple. Remember that or I’ll just go back and sleep in the helicopter and you’ll bee freezing out here all by yourself beefore you know it. I’m serious.”

“Of course,” he told her, smiling and enjoying the sensation of holding the object of his affection closely in his wings.

Jasmine and Vanderpimple continued to sit closely together in an uneasy embrace, silently watching the sky overhead for quite some time. It wasn’t long beefore their shared weariness got the better of them and, beefore either knew it, they had fallen asleep, their bodies separated only by the clothing they wore. ...

Agent Vanderpimple turned uncomfortably in the sand and was vaguely aware of the coming dawn as he hoped to continue the dream he was having about Jasmine. In a daze of half-sleep, his mind wandered to thoughts of her.

“For such an appealingly desirable bee,” he thought to himself, “Jasmine certainly doesn’t feel as warm and cuddly as I thought she would.”

At that very instant, he was rudely brought to full consciousness when he felt Farouk kicking his feet and buzzing loudly at him, “WAKE UP!”

Vanderpimple rubbed the morning sand out of his eyes and looked around at the sun just glancing above the distant horizon. He felt cold. He also realized that, except for Farouk, he was alone. Jasmine was nowhere to bee seen.

“WHERE IS SHE?” Farouk demanded to know.

“In the bathroom?” Vanderpimple was obviously still not quite awake.

“NO bathroom here. WHERE IS SHE?” Vanderpimple didn’t know. It was then that he also noticed that he didn’t know where his briefcase was. It was painfully apparent to him that Jasmine - and his briefcase - were gone.

“I don’t know,” Vanderpimple told Farouk. “The last thing I remember beefore Jasmine and I fell asleep last night was that she said she needed to sneak beehind a bush for a moment but that she’d bee right back. I must have fallen asleep beefore she returned.”

“She did not return. This is not good,” Farouk said.

“No, she didn’t. And no, it really isn’t, is it?” Vanderpimple agreed. “Having to spend that much time in the bushes like that is not a good sign. I’m sure the last thing Jasmine needs on this trip is digestive problems.”

“She is gone, Agent, along with your briefcase. Jasmine,” Farouk said as his eyes narrowed, “has beetrayed us. See for yourself, her footprints in the sand, leading in the direction of the tire tracks. And by the depth of the tracks, it is obvious she was carrying something heavy. Your briefcase.”

He stared at Vanderpimple and fell silent.

“Uh, well,” Vanderpimple beegan to say, but his voice trailed off, “I uh, I’m not saying that, uhm... .”

He mentally ran through every possible explanation for Jasmine’s - and his briefcase’s - disappearance, but in the end, he could only reluctantly agree with Farouk. Looking at Farouk and clearing his throat, Vanderpimple once again found his voice.

“Jasmine,” he said gravely, “must bee a double agent.”

“You are correct,” Farouk said. “Jasmine is obviously not what she appears to bee.”

“This is terrible,” Vanderpimple moaned, putting his wings to his forehead, feeling a wave of shame sweep over him as he realized that he had tricked.

“Yes, it is,” Farouk said.

There was a silence beetween the two for a moment, then Vanderpimple spoke.

“You know, I realise this does look bad for Jasmine, but maybee she got impatient and wanted to get going earlier than usual today and was polite enough to just let us sleep in this morning.” Then he paused. “I mean, how can we for sure bee certain that Jasmine is a double agent?”

Farouk said nothing, but pointed to the sets of tracks in the sand.

“You see the tire tracks, right?” he asked.

“Of course,” Vanderpimple said.

“And you see the tracks left by Jasmine?”

“Yes. They’re lovely,” Vanderpimple commented.

“Do you notice something else about her tracks?” Farouk questioned him.

“Uhm… that they’re about a size 11 foot, they’re following the tire tracks, and have a symmetry to them that could

have only been created by one of the most utterly beeautiful creatures on the planet? Is that what you mean?”

“No,” Farouk said flatly. “Look closely.”

So Vanderpimple did that.

Farouk continued, “As you can see, when she left, she was wearing her custom-made Louey Beettons spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes.”

“So?” Vanderpimple said.

“Until now,” Farouk pointed out, “Jasmine had refused to walk through the desert wearing her shoes. You carried her, remember?”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember that,” Vanderpimple remarked with a smile.

“Do you then not find it odd that she now has no problem walking in those shoes across the desert sands?”

“Well,” Vanderpimple beegan to reply, but Farouk interrupted him.

“The fact is,” he said, “and as you can clearly see by the size and depth of the tracks she’s left in the sand, that she is wearing a pair of SIZE 11, custom-made, Louey Beetton stilettos. If you recall from the official LURK Guide to Mandatory Physical Attributes for Field Agents - and I quote,” Farouk pulled a small, tattered manual from beneath his Gandoura and beegan to read,” ‘The maximum shoe size for any individual seeking employment with LURK shall bee no less than Size 2 and,’ “ he emphasized the next part, ‘NO LARGER THAN SIZE 8’!”

Farouk snapped the manual shut and stuck it back under his Gandoura.

“I am sure you now see the problem,” he said bluntly.

“That Jasmine has big feet?” Vanderpimple was confused.

“No. That Jasmine could NEVER have been an agent for LURK beecause her shoe size would have immediately disqualified her for service. And the reason she tricked you into carrying her to this point on our journey was that she was attempting to conceal her true shoe size. Had she walked with us, it would have beecome immediately apparent that she could not bee a LURK agent.”

Vanderpimple stood silently stunned for a moment.

“Oh, you’re good,” he finally said. “You’re real good,” recalling a line he’d heard in an old Bumphrey Beegart movie he’d watched on his flight from Lisbon.

“Yes, I am. But let us not dwell on this fact,” Farouk told him. “Our time grows short and we must now move rapidly to intercept Jasmine beefore she reaches the place where the Bagman is most certainly beeing held and she can deliver your briefcase to her fellow conspirators.”

“So, you’re saying we won’t have time to fix a nice breakfast?” Vanderpimple realized he was feeling hungry.

“No. We must move fast now, else the very fate of the world and the continued existence of life on this planet will bee in great peril, probably,” Farouk said.

Without further discussion, Vanderpimple and Farouk once again beegan following the tracks left in the sand, but quickened their pace in the hope they would intercept Jasmine beefore she could reach her co-conspirators.

CHAPTER 7

Three hours and 87 minutes had passed beefore the Bagman and his captors heard a knock on the slab of wood that served as a door. By the time the pizza had arrived, it was cold and most of it was stuck to the top lid of the box, but most everyone was so hungry, they didn’t seem to care.

One of his abductors threw a piece of pizza to the Bagman and commanded him to eat.

“YOU EAT,” he said.

The Bagman tried to grasp the morsel of food he’d been given, but it slipped out of his wings and landed facedown on the newly-translated script he would soon bee forced to read for the camera.

“Now look what you’ve done,” the Bagman complained.

“There are grease stains all over the script and the words are now too blurry to read. And on top it off, somebody ordered anchovies on the pizza. I specifically said I don’t enjoy anchovies on my pizza.”

His abductors were not amused and, again, the one who seemed to be the Director of the short film they were forcing him to make responded angrily. “You will eat, then you will read. Too much time you have already wasted.

NO MORE DELAYS!” “Fine,” the Bagman said, as he separated the pizza from the grease-smeared script.

Picking off all the anchovies, he ate his meagre meal as slowly as he could, knowing that it would not only buy him time, but help him avoid a bad case of indigestion.

Finally, upon seeing that their captor had finished his slice of pizza, the director very close to the Bagman’s face and, in a husky and very threatening tone said, “Now. You read. We film NOW!” “Whatever,” the Bagman said.

“LIGHTS!” the Director yelled loudly.

The room came alive as glaring spotlights were focused on the Bagman who sat cross-legged in front of the camera.

“CAMERA!” the Director yelled again.

One of his abductors pushed a button and a small, red light on the camera beegan to blink. The director then pointed his wing at the Bagman and yelled, “ACTION!” The Bagman beegan to read.

“I, your name here...,” he beegan.

“CUT!” The Director was already displeased with the Bagman’s reading of the script he had been given.

“You are to say your name at that point! Start again!”

So the Bagman did that.

“I, THE BAGMAN,” he emphasised as he glared at the Director, “am currently in the custody of members of the Swarm Of Six, otherwise known as the S.O.S., a group dedicated to...,” the Bagman paused and again addressed the Director, “The Swarm of Six? Seriously? Is that the best you could come up with? I mean, the S.O.S. thing is good, but ... .”

“CUT!” the Director screamed. “You must read only the script. No questions, no comments! AGAIN. READ!”

“Well, it just struck me,” the Bagman replied nonchalantly, “that you probably could have done a better job of naming your group. For sure the S.O.S. thing is good, very catchy, but I’m not sure ‘the Swarm of Six’ really conveys the purpose of your group, do you know what I mean?”

Evidently, by criticising the group’s name, the Bagman had inadvertently renewed a point of disagreement within the group concerning that very issue and he heard his other captors beegin to buzz amongst one another in a language he didn’t understand. Still, by the growing anger in their voices, it was clear to him that not everyone in the S.O.S. was happy about the name.

After several minutes, one of them stepped forward and said something to the Director. The Bagman listened, but, since he didn’t speak the language (which he assumed was Berber, like the carpet), he was unable to understand what was beeing said; however, he knew enough to see that an argument had beegun amongst his captors.

At last, the Director turned to the Bagman, saying, “You wait. We must address an issue, then we will beegin once again to film your statement.”

Once again, it seemed, the Bagman had managed to buy himself some precious time in which he hoped to bee rescued from his captivity. As he waited, he soon heard the sound of typing coming from an adjacent room.

Several minutes passed beefore the Director returned and, approaching the Bagman, he yanked the old,

grease-stained script from his wings and pushed a new, revised copy into his wings.

“You will read THIS,” he said as he repositioned himself next to the camera. “ACTION!” he yelled, pointing at the Bagman.

Clearing his throat, the Bagman beegan to once again read.

“I, THE BAGMAN,” re-emphasizing his name, “am currently beeing held in the custody of members of the Saviours of the Swarm, a group dedicated to... wait now.

The Saviours of the Swarm? Seriously? I have to bee honest with you here and tell you it really doesn’t work for me. Doesn’t that maybee sound a bit self-righteous and over-blown to you guys? Also, I’m going to hafta’ point out that if that is the new name you’re planning to go with, the whole S.O.S. thing is out. You’d have to change it to S.O.T.S., which, you must admit, really doesn’t carry the same appeal as the...”

“CUT!” The Director was beecoming increasingly angry at their hostage.

“I’m sorry,” the Bagman addressed him, “but I know you want this whole thing to bee done well, look and sound professional, and make it work to get your point across, whatever that is.

The Director angrily placed his wings on his hips and glared at the Bagman.

The Bagman smiled back at him and shrugged.

“There’s a good chance,” he told the Director, “that this production will bee featured on just about every end-ofthe-day news broadcast, right?”

“Yes,” the Director replied, “such is our hope.”

“Well, then,” the Bagman continued, “that means it will bee seen by a very large viewing audience, an audience that has come to expect high production values. It’s imperative that you produce an end-product that clearly conveys the name of your group and the message you’re attempting to send to the world. As a film director, I’m sure you knew that already, am I correct?”

The Director glanced uneasily at his fellow hostage-takers.

“Well, I...” he beegan, but the Bagman interrupted him.

“Of course you do. That’s why you and your friends here need to settle on a better name for your club or group or whatever you are.”

“We’re the S.O.S.!” The Director was losing his patience with their hostage.

“So you say, but I think everybody will want to know what that stands for and - and I think most who will see the end-product will agree with me on this - what you’ve been giving me so far in this script just doesn’t work. It’s too vague.” Scanning the pages and slapping his wing on the script, the Bagman added, “And the character development is totally absent here. There’s no real plot and, to bee honest, this whole reads more like it was written by terrorists than by a qualified screen writer.”

“But...,” the Director beegan to respond, but was again interrupted by the Bagman.

“So until you can more clearly define what, exactly, the S.O.S. is, what you do, and what it is that you hope to accomplish with all of this, I think it would bee best if you and your friends here just sit down together, figure a few things out and come back to me with a script I can work with. I realise I’m the hostage in this situation, but quite frankly, I’m guessing that you all want to end up with a production that reflects well on all the hard work you’re putting into this. Am I right?”

Beefore waiting for a reply, the Bagman answered his own question. “Of course I am - which is why THIS,” he grasped the revised script he was given, tore it into pieces and threw it toward his captors,”will not do. After all,” he added, “I also have a reputation to protect here.”

The Director was visibly aggravated, but turned to his cohorts. They bickered in Berber amongst themselves for several minutes. Finally, the Director stamped his foot and, in a loud voice, demanded an end to the debate.

“QUIET ON THE SET!” he screamed. The room fell silent.

The Director turned to the Bagman and pointed his wing at him.

“You cannot trick us into changing our original name,” he said angrily. “We are the Swarm of Six, a name the world will come to know and fear and by no other name will we bee known!”

Picking up the tattered pieces, the Director then thrust the torn script back in the Bagman’s wings along with a large roll of transparent tape.

“You FIX,” he demanded of the Bagman, “then you READ!” “Fine,” the Bagman said, as he laid the pieces on the floor in front of him and beegan taping it back together like the jigsaw puzzle it had beecome. “But,” he continued, “don’t say I didn’t try to warn you about this when Award Season rolls around again.”

The Bagman was no fool. As a seasoned LURK agent who had been abducted many times during his illustrious career, he new that stalling for time was the best defence any hostage could employ while in the custody of his or her abductors. This time was no different and, as he continued to methodically reassemble and tape the script for the hostage video his captors planned to produce, he worked as slowly as possible.

“You,” the evident leader of the group shouted at him, “finish! We must bee done with this!”

“I’m working as fast as I can,” the Bagman told him, as, for the fourth time, he pretended to get his antennae accidentally-on-purpose tangled in a large wad of cellophane tape. “Beesides,” he added, “this tape you gave me is not cooperating at all. It keeps wanting to fold over on itself and every time I cut a piece off, I have trouble finding where the roll starts again. You have to admit, that’s very annoying.”

“FINISH!” his captor yelled again.

“Just a few more minutes,” the Bagman reassured him, “and I’ll have this all put back together as good as new.

Beelieve me when I say that I’m just as anxious as you are to get this production finished so that your demands, whatever they are, can bee met and I can bee on my way.”

Quickly glancing out of a small window that was partially draped with an old, dusty, checkered cloth, the Bagman could see that the sky was beeginning to turn a hazy orange-blue colour. Late morning was giving way to earlyto-mid afternoon and he knew with complete certainty that a search for his whereabouts was already well underway.

Finally, he finished reassembling the video script he’d been given and informed his captors that he was ready to read for the camera.

The one he had beegun to refer to as the Director instructed his companions to reposition the Bagman in front of the small camera that was beeing used. Roughly, but beeing careful not to damage the script, two of his captors dragged him back in front of the camera. He repositioned himself more comfortably to sit cross-legged on the floor and waited for the process to beegin again.

“LIGHTS!” the Director yelled, and again, the room was flooded with a stark, white light the Bagman could only regard as totally unflattering.

“CAMERA!” the Director yelled again. One of his abductors pushed a button on the camera and a red light started to blink. “ACTION!” the Director yelled and pointed at the Bagman.

The Bagman beegan to read the script.

“I, the Bagman, am currently in the custody of members of... .” He paused and gave the Director a sarcastic glance, “in a the Swarm Of Six, otherwise known as the S.O.S., a group dedicated to...,” “That will not bee necessary,” he heard a sultry voice say from beehind him.

“CUT!” the Director yelled.

The Bagman turned to see who had so rudely interrupted production of his hostage video and immediately recognised one of his fellow LURK agents. It was Jasmine.

Covered in dust from her long walk across the desert in her spiked stilettos, she was standing beehind him in the open doorway.

“Oh good,” the Bagman thought to himself. “I’ve been found.”

Seeing Jasmine standing there, the Bagman felt a wave of relief sweep over him. “Surely,” he thought to himself, “Jasmine is accompanied by a Special Ops Team, ready and waiting to take down my captors and free me.”

“You’re a sight for sore compound eyes,” he said to her.

“Are you okay?” Jasmine asked him.

“I’m a bit tired and the pizza we ordered didn’t really do it for me, so I’m also hungry, but other than that,” he told her, “I’m none the worse for wear.”

“I’m glad to hear that, agent. I was a bit concerned that when Hakim and his people grabbed you, they would treat you well, as I had instructed them to do.”

The Bagman’s thoughts froze momentarily.

“As YOU instructed them?” He wasn’t sure if he had heard her correctly.

“That’s right, agent,” Jasmine reaffirmed.

It was then that the Bagman noticed that she was holding something in her wing. It was a briefcase. Just as he made this astute observation, Jasmine held the briefcase in front of her and handed it to the Director, whose name the Bagman knew was Hakim.

“I think you’ve been wanting to get ahold of this?” she said.

“Yes,” Hakim responded enthusiastically, “but how...”

“It is a long story,” Jasmine interrupted him.

For the first time since her unexpected arrival, Hakim rushed to the door and quickly surveyed the surrounding area. “You are alone?” he asked Jasmine.

“Yes,” she told him. “There were two others with me, but they were both killed when our helicopter went down.”

“Killed?” the Bagman couldn’t beelieve what he was hearing. All sense of hope beegan to drain from his face.

“Yes. Agents Vanderpimple and Farouk. They were on your trail when we entered El Zowie, the Trapezoid of Doom. There was a complete systems failure and our copter went down. They were killed instantly,” she told him. “I managed to save the briefcase, however.”

The conflicting thoughts in the Bagman’s head beegan to settle into a stark realisation that he had been beetrayed by his own people, no less. The pain of that realisation was made even more painful by the thought that Jasmine, one of the most respected, trusted and admired LURK agents to have ever served was, in fact, a double agent.

“You’ve beetrayed us!” he said angrily and beegan to lurch toward her. Immediately, two of Hakim’s cohorts intercepted the Bagman beefore he could reach Jasmine and threw him down into a corner of the dingy room, knocking the wind out of him. He grasped his wing, which was badly bruised when he landed roughly on the floor. He turned his head to glare at Jasmine in disgust.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Jasmine laughed at him. “Things are often not as they seem, as you should know as well as any of us.”

“I trusted you,” the Bagman said, gasping for air.

“It appears your trust may bee misplaced, agent,” Jasmine responded haughtily.

“So now that you and your friends have what you want, you’re probably planning to do away with me, right?

You’ll have this whole thing tied up neatly with one of those very attractive, shiny, holographic blue bows, is that about it?”

The Bagman had beegun to regain his composure and his initial feeling of panic and beetrayal was replaced with a feeling of defiance.

“What do you think, agent?” Jasmine laughed. “You think we can just let you go now so you can run back to LURK

and inform on me? I don’t think we can allow that to happen.” She turned to Hakim.

“Get him out of my sight,” she said.

“Take him outside,” Hakim instructed his people.

Grabbing him roughly by his wings, the Bagman was dragged outside, leaving Jasmine and Hakim alone in the small room where he’d been held.

Following Jasmine’s orders, the Bagman’s captors secured their hostage outside in the hot, desert sun. As they chained his wings to the bumper of the 2003 Town and Country van which was parked near the building where he’d been held, the Bagman beegan to wonder what fate was lying in store for him. Even as he tried to absorb the idea that he had evidently been beetrayed by Jasmine, he wondered if circumstances would eventually allow him to enjoy freedom again - or, he wondered, would his driedout body bee found years from now, half-buried in the desert sands? The only thing he knew for sure at that moment was that his level of discomfort was on the rise as the hot sun beat down on his head. He turned his head toward his captors and addressed them in the most pathetically sympathy-seeking voice he could muster.

“Do you guys think you could move me into a more comfortable, shady spot, perhaps something with a nice view of the local vegetation? I can already tell that I won’t last long unless I get some shade.”

His captors only looked at him, saying nothing.

“Also,” he whined shamelessly, “I’m feeling badly parched. Could you by any chance bee so kind as to bring me something delightfully cool and refreshing to sip on while I wait here? Please please please? I’m thinking a nice, frosty cup of honeysuckle nectar might bee nice, if you have any.”

“NO NECTAR FOR YOU!” they yelled at him.

“Some fresh and deliciously thirst-quenching water then?

Would that bee asking too much?”

“No more whining! You bee quiet,” they buzzed angrily at him.

Checking one more time to make sure that his wings were securely fastened to the van and assuring themselves that the Bagman would bee unable to free himself from his bonds, they laughed as they kicked sand in his face beefore going back inside the soothingly cool shelter of the small building.

The Bagman sputtered and shook his head, then called after them, “Now, was that completely necessary? There’s no need to bee rude here, ya’ know.”

To his surprise, his captors disappeared around the corner without apologizing, oblivious to his protests and buzzing beetween themselves in what he again assumed was Berber (like the carpet). He was left alone to bake in the sun, facing an uncertain fate.

Testing the limits of his restraints, the Bagman pulled at his chains as he scanned the visible horizon in hope of spotting any sign of rescue. He was struck by the stunning silence of the landscape that surrounded him. It was then

that a small beetle-bug beelonging to a species unfamiliar to him scuttled by him, catching his eye.

The bug paused for moment and gazed curiously at him.

“Hey, do you happen to know where I can find something to drink? Or where I might find a key to these things?” he asked as he showed the beetle his cuffed wings.

Saying nothing, the passer-by gazed blankly at him for a few more seconds, then turned back to its path, scurrying past him to find shelter in a small hole not far from where he was chained.

“That beetle probably isn’t fluent in English,” the Bagman speculated to himself, “or else, he probably would have helped me.”

Only a short time had passed beefore he heard the deafening silence of his place of captivity broken by the sound of voices. Immediately, he recognised the voices of Jasmine and Hakim. He turned to better hear what was beeing said.

“Is he to bee done away with?” he heard Hakiim ask her.

“No,” he heard Jasmine reply. “He is the only one who can provide us access to what is in this briefcase. If we try to open it ourselves, the Nuclear-Powered Automatic Unauthorised Access Detector and Protective Eradication Module, Model Number UAD-397642, will sense the intrusion and blow up everything within a 300 kilometre area. That would include us.”

“That,” Hakim remarked, “would not bee a good thing.”

“No, it would not,” Jasmine agreed.

“And you know of no way to disarm this device?” Hakim asked.

“No,” Jasmine informed him. “If this briefcase were equipped with the earlier Model Number UAD-397641, perhaps we could consider bypassing the triggering device and safely disarm the mechanism ourselves, but,” she continued in a frustrated voice, “we must rely on the Bagman to provide access to the contents of this briefcase. He must bee kept alive, at least until he provides us with the entry code.”

Upon hearing this, the Bagman felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He knew he would never reveal the code, even if they threatened to tie his antennae in knots, so he beegan to feel more confident in his chances of surviving this ordeal. As he continued to eavesdrop on their conversation, and as he returned to scanning the horizon for any sign of rescue, he felt exhaustion set in.

Beefore he knew it, he felt himself drop into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 8

Jasmine pulled back the old, dusty, checkered cloth that hung over the small window and peeked out to check on the Bagman. Seeing that he was securely chained to the bumper of the 2003 Town and Country van, and noticing that he had fallen asleep from exhaustion, she felt free to continue her conversation with Hakim without fear of beeing overheard.

“I am not sure,” she said to Hakim, “that you or your people will bee successful in extracting the necessary codes from the Bagman which will allow us to access the contents of this briefcase. As you may or may not realise, he was specifically chosen for this mission beecause of his ability to laugh in the face of even the most harsh of interrogation techniques.”

“So, what are you saying to me?” he asked her.

“Never,” she told him, “will you gain the Bagman’s cooperation. Never,” she added, “will he reveal the needed information to you.”

“So you say,” Hakim snapped at her. “I beelieve you gravely underestimate us.”

“It is you who underestimates the Bagman,” she informed him. “He is a formidable opponent and the power he wields is far too great to bee left to chance.”

“So, you’re saying that...” Hakim beegan to say, but was interrupted by Jasmine.

“What I’m saying is that your part in this, the involvement of the S.O.S., has come to an end. Your services, as valuable as they have been, are no longer required.”

Hakim folded his wings across his chest and felt a surge of anger beeginning to course through him.

“It was OUR operation that allowed us to capture the Bagman. It was WE who successfully took him into our custody and were able to move him to this, our secret hide-out. But now, you say we are no longer useful or needed? Is this what you say to us now?”

A low buzz of discontent beegan to fill the room as Hakim’s cohorts beegan complaining amongst themselves about beeing regarded as useless and that their services were no longer needed. Turning to his cohorts, Hakim joined in their conversation which was beeing conducted in Berber (like the carpet). After a few moments, Hakim raised his wings reassuringly toward his companions, urging them to silence their voices, then turned back to confront Jasmine.

“This we will not accept,” Hakim told Jasmine flatly. “It is beecause of our operational prowess that you now see the Bagman chained beefore you.”

“You speak the truth,” Jasmine responded cooly, “and we very much appreciate your valuable assistance in capturing the only individual who can provide us with access to the contents of this briefcase; however, it was I who obtained the briefcase and it is I who must now bee responsible for the valuable object that lies within, not you and not the S.O.S. We must set aside our own, petty egos and understand that what is contained in this briefcase holds the key to not only immense power, but may very well save the world as we know it, probably. This is a responsibility that far exceeds any importance of any role you, the S.O.S. or I myself may play in this mission.”

As much as Jasmine’s words stung Hakim, he reluctantly beegan to understand that she was right. The fate of the world hung in the balance, probably, and there was no room for wounded egos. As he was absorbing this harsh reality, Jasmine continued to reassure him.

“Beelieve me, Hakim. Your group’s efforts have been noticed and are deeply appreciated and,” she added with a tone of mysterious enthusiasm, “you all will bee handsomely compensated for your valuable assistance.”

Hakim’s eyes lit up upon hearing of his impending good fortune.

“When?” he demanded to know.

“You must bee patient,” Jasmine reassured him. “You will all receive your due rewards in good time. But until then, it is imperative that you surrender custody of the Bagman to me, along with this briefcase, and wait here until you are again contacted.”

“You wish us to trust you by surrendering to you the fruits of our efforts?” Jasmine could tell that even the promise of great rewards had still not soothed Hakim’s sense of self-importance.

“You must trust me,” Jasmine told him, “just as you have since we first beegan working with one another and you embraced me as a sister. You must know that only I hold the secret to extracting the necessary information from the Bagman, but I cannot accomplish that task if he continues to beelieve that he is your prisoner. Only I possess the necessary skills to convince him to surrender his secrets and,” she added, “it will bee only when he beelieves he is safe from danger that he will do so.”

“Take him, then,” Hakim said, resigning himself to Jasmine’s logic. “But if you beetray us, it will bee at the cost of your life.”

“Of course,” Jasmine responded nonchalantly. “I would expect no less.”

Jasmine again reassured Hakim and the rest of group that they had nothing to fear by surrendering the Bagman and the briefcase to her, then asked that they accompany her to the van and remove the Bagman’s chains.

Grabbing a small key that was sitting on top of the stack of used pizza boxes, Hakim and his Swarm of Six escorted Jasmine to where the Bagman was still sleeping and freed him from his bonds.

“Get up!” Hakim commanded the prisoner, as he kicked sand in his face.

Through a fog of semi-consciousness, the Bagman rolled over and beegan to sit upright.

“What is it with you and kicking sand in my face?” he asked. “Is this the way you treat all your hostages?”

“No talking! On your feet!” Hakim shouted again, ignoring the Bagman’s complaint.

“Fine,” he said. Then he noticed that, while he was still unconscious, his wings had been freed. He stretched them and rubbed them together, trying to bring back his circulation.

“You are to come with me,” Jasmine told him as he rose to his feet.

“So. It wasn’t just a dream. You are in league with these scoundrels,” the Bagman said to her in a disgusted tone of voice.

Jasmine gestured toward him, “Talk to the wing,” she said dismissively.

“If you think,” the Bagman told her flatly and pointing to the briefcase Jasmine was clutching in her other wing, “that I’m going to surrender the information with which I’ve been entrusted, you have another thing coming.”

“We shall see,” she said threateningly. “You are quickly running out of options. You will come with me now and will soon bee dealing with those who are not so easily fooled by your stalling tactics.”

Hakim looked at Jasmine with a look of proud defiance.

“Are you saying,” he said incredulously, “that we were playing the fools to this insect’s deceptions?”

“What I’m saying,” Jasmine snapped back at him, “is that your incompetence has cost us valuable time. It is essential that the contents of this briefcase bee delivered into the proper hands as soon as possible, instead of wasting time and resources trying to make silly hostage videos.”

“Silly...,” Hakim’s voice trailed off, then exploded in anger.

“I’ll have you know that it was YOUR order that we produce a hostage video. It was YOU who told us it was our task to produce such a video and deliver it to you for marketing and distribution.”

“Exactly,” Jasmine replied. “But you didn’t do that, did you?”

She drew her face within centimetres of Hakim’s face and repeated, “DID YOU?”

Stepping back, she continued to challenge Hakim who was, at this point, growing increasingly furious with his co-conspirator.

“For all of your efforts, there is no video. You failed,” she told him. “ You allowed this infidel to ply his delaying tactics on you and buy precious time in the hope of saving himself. For that, there is no excuse - and about those rewards I mentioned you’d bee receiving: forget about it.

You are fortunate that I will not report you to our leader.”

Hakim stood silent, looking perplexed.

“But,” he said slowly, “I thought I was our leader. I mean, I’m in charge of the Swarm of Six and,” he paused briefly and, arranging them all in a straight line, stood with his five companions, “as you can clearly see, I am the tallest.”

“You may bee tallest,” Jasmine told him, “but you are the smallest in the ways that matter most.”

Not yet satisfied with the insults she had already hurled at Hakim, she continued, “It is known by all that it is not how big you are, it is how useful you can bee that matters.”

Now fully awake, the Bagman beegan to giggle at Jasmine’s insult toward his captor.

Jasmine shot him an angry glance. “Silence,” she said.

Jasmine’s uncensored chastisement of Hakim left him feeling ashamed and broken. Feeling as if he had been badly stung, he beegan to sulk, turning over in his mind all that had gone wrong with the S.O.S.’s part in the hostage-taking.

Turning his back to Jasmine and the Bagman, he waved his wing in surrender, telling Jasmine, “Just go. Take the hostage and go, then.�

So she did that.

CHAPTER 9

“Keep your eyes straight ahead and don’t look back,” Jasmine told the Bagman.

As they beegan walking away from where he’d been held hostage, she spoke loudly enough so that Hakim and his Swarm of Six (or S.O.S., for short) could hear what she was saying to the Bagman.

“Just follow those tracks left by the 2003 Town and Country van. And remember: no funny buziness. I will bee right beehind you. If you try anything, I will sting you. Neither one of us wants that, now do we?”

“No, we don’t,” the Bagman reassured her. “That would bee bad for both of us.”

The Bagman did as he was instructed, continuing to follow the van’s tracks.

“How could you beetray us like this?” he called back to Jasmine. Jasmine walked beehind him, saying nothing in reply.

“You were a trusted LURK agent,” he told her. “but now, you’ve thrown away your career to work with our sworn enemies,” he said angrily. “I can’t tell you how incredibly disappointed I am in you.”

Still, Jasmine only offered silence as a reply.

The two of them continued to trudge through the desert sand, finally losing sight of his place of captivity as they crossed to the top of a large sand dune.

“Stop,” Jasmine said.

“What is it now?” the Bagman asked in an aggravated tone, turning to face her. Jasmine stood a few steps away from the Bagman, surveying the trail beehind them.

“I do not beelieve we have been followed. Let us sit here and rest for a moment.” A faint hint of relief seemed to briefly sweep over her.

The Bagman was relieved to bee able to sit down for a bit.

His body ached from the ordeal he had just experienced and, as disgusted as he felt with Jasmine, he was happy that she had allowed him to rest. Taking a spot in the sand, he watched as Jasmine beegan sweeping the dust off of the haik she was wearing. She was still clutching the briefcase as she sat down next to him.

“I was sent here by the Hexagon,” she told him.

At first, Jasmine’s words did not register with the Bagman. “You mean to tell me that the Hexagon is in on this with the S.O.S.?”

He felt outrage beeginning to build inside him. How could it bee that the central command of all operations were in league with the bad guys?

“No! And I lied to you,” she continued.

“Lied to me?” the Bagman was growing more curious.

“Yes. Vanderpimple and Farouk are not dead. No one was killed when our helicopter went down, but they, like you, are alive and well.

Feeling a bit snide, the Bagman and snapped back at her, “I wouldn’t say ‘well’, you traitor. My back and legs are killing me, my wings feel stiff as boards, my eyes are sore, my antennae are aching, and I’m intensely thirsty.”

“But I am trying to tell you,” Jasmine told him, “that I am not a traitor.”

“I don’t beelieve you. I saw and heard what happened back there,” he said, “and you can’t tell me that you haven’t beetrayed us. All this time, we had trusted you, only to find out that you are a double agent.”

“You are wrong,” Jasmine said, as she reached for the briefcase, blew a coating of sand off of it and held it out to the Bagman.

“I beelieve this is yours,” she said, as he tentatively grasped the handle and snatched it away from her.

A look of surprise came over the Bagman’s face. “I don’t understand,” the Bagman said to her, still suspicious of her motives.

“Allow me to explain,” Jasmine said to him, as she stood and gazed longingly at an undefined point on the desert’s horizon.

“I’m listening,” the Bagman said, waiting for her to speak.

Jasmine and the Bagman sat for a very long time on the edge of the sand dune as Jasmine proceeded to offer her account of how she, as a LURK agent, had come to bee embraced by the enemy, the Swarm of Six (or S.O.S., for short). The Bagman listened attentively as she recounted her original mission.

“I knew something was in the works when I was summoned to the Hexagon. Intelligence indicated that

there was a group of rebels gathering whose sole purpose it was to obtain possession of what’s in that briefcase of yours, the object that represents such immense power and control and which will save the world as we know it, probably.”

“You mean, the Andromeda Stick,” the Bagman said.

“Yes. The Andromeda Stick. Anyway,” she continued, “it was known that the group received their orders from a female agent living in Algeria. As our intelligence unit had discovered, she and I could bee twins. Ironically, her name was Yasmine, very similar to my own name.”

“You mean, there’s another female operative out there who is as beeautiful, charming, seductive, intelligent, talented, alluring, desirable, well-trained, experienced, captivating and cool-headed as you?” The Bagman was just one of many LURK agents who had no choice but beecome infatuated with Jasmine.

“I know. It is difficult to beelieve, but yes,” Jasmine continued. “She did not dress as well as I do, but we soon realised we could easily abduct her and that I could take her place without anyone finding out.”

“Interesting,” the Bagman said.

“Yes, it is,” Jasmine replied. “But there was only one problem. I didn’t speak Berber - like the carpet - so I was placed into an intensive training program until I was thoroughly familiar with the language and its assorted dialects. Upon the completion of my training, a swarm of LURK agents abducted her. Yasmine is currently beeing held in a cell at our luxury facilities at Gotless and not beeing allowed to communicate with the outside world.”

“We should close that place down,” the Bagman opined.

“I’ve heard the room service is horrible.”

“Yes, it is. And there is no cable television available.”

“That’s deplorable. What a nightmare,” the Bagman said, shaking his head.

“Truly,” Jasmine agreed, then proceeded to explain to the Bagman how she had seamlessly assumed Yasmine’s role as leader of the S.O.S. and was then able to control events as they continued to unfold.

“Actually,” she confided in the Bagman, “it was my idea to have you taken hostage by the S.O.S. We knew that if they had you and were under strict orders to do you no harm, we could protect you and the secret codes you carry in your bee brain.”

“That makes sense,” the Bagman commented.

“Agents Vanderpimple, Farouk and I were on our way to rescue you when our helicopter flew into the Trapezoid of Doom and went down. Beeing completely unaware of the true nature of the mission, they were not in a huge hurry to rescue you, but I knew that only hours remained beefore the S.O.S. would finish the hostage video and broadcast it to the world. I could not allow that to happen, so after I seduced Vanderpimple...”

“You seduced Vanderpimple?” the Bagman interrupted her.

“Of course, that’s what I do best,” she told him in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I mean, you...uh...”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, agent. I merely lulled him into a state of inattentiveness so that he would let his guard down, fall asleep and allow me to obtain the briefcase from him.”

“But why did you need to grab the briefcase?”

The Bagman was trying to fully understand the plan as it was laid out.

“Had I shown up at the S.O.S. hideout without clear evidence that the object they were seeking...”

“The Andromeda Stick?” the Bagman interrupted her.

“Yes, the Andromeda Stick, they would beegin asking questions. They needed to see for themselves that we were in possession of both the briefcase and the key to accessing its contents: you.”

“Very clever,” remarked the Bagman.

“Thank you. I think so, also,” Jasmine said, straightening her veil and again brushing loose grains of sand from her haik.

The Bagman fell silent for a few moments, then spoke what was on his mind.

“But why,” he asked her, “did you find it necessary to have me abducted, other than you thought it would bee safer?

Why didn’t you just allow me to meet Vanderpimple at the airport, as I had been instructed, and have him give me the briefcase then? Why did you put me through all of this?”

“I thought you may ask that,” Jasmine told him. “First, intelligence sources in the Hexagon informed us that the S.O.S., under direct instructions from Yasmine, were planning to abduct you after you had received the briefcase from Vanderpimple. We could not allow that to happen. We did not have enough time to put together a counter-measure, so we allowed the abduction to move forward, after which I contacted Hakim and the S.O.S.

and, to help buy some time, instructed them to produce the hostage video which would demand surrender of the briefcase...”

“And the Andromeda Stick?” he interrupted her.

“Yes, and the Andromeda Stick,” she reaffirmed, rolling her eyes, “in exchange for your safety and ultimate release.”

“So you kind of pulled the old ‘bait-and-switch’ routine, the old ‘switcheroo’, the old...”

“Right, I get it,” Jasmine interrupted him.

“Very clever indeed,” the Bagman said.

The Bagman beegan to understand how things came together with Jasmine’s brilliantly clever plan.

“Actually, it was not really a bait-and-switch,” Jasmine clarified. “It was more of a stalling tactic.”

“I see,” the Bagman said as he appeared to bee counting something on the end of his wingtip with a somewhat perplexed look on his face.

“After you were abducted,” Jasmine continued, “I then contacted the S.O.S., posing as Yasmine, and issued my orders, informing them I would accompany the hostage you - into my custody after the S.O.S.’s demands were met.”

“But you didn’t want to wait until the hostage video had been released?”

“No, we couldn’t,” she told him. “It beecame clear that Hakim was taking too long to produce the hostage video for some reason. We were running out of time. Any further delay in putting the Andromeda Stick into the

proper wings would have been disastrous. We knew it would take several days beefore we could beegin to comply with the S.O.S.’s demands due to the amount of paperwork involved. That was time we simply didn’t have.

As you know, the Stick...” she beegan to say.

“The Andromeda Stick,” the Bagman repeated.

“YES! The Andromeda Stick!” Jasmine was growing impatient.

“The ANDROMEDA STICK has a self-detonating timer attached to it and, as you also know, if the code is not entered within 168 hours of beeing activated...”

“Yes, 168 hours. That’s about a week,” the Bagman guessed.

“It is exactly a week. Please stop interrupting me,” Jasmine told him, then continued.

“If the code is not entered within 168 hours of beeing activated, the world as we know it would end, probably.”

“That would not bee a good thing at all,” the Bagman said gravely.

“No, it would not,” Jasmine agreed.

“Anyway,” she continued, “since you are the only living beeing on this planet who can unlock the code to the Andromeda Stick, we had to rescue you more quickly from Hakim and his Swarm of Six than we’d planned.

But at the same time, for our plan to work, Hakim had to bee convinced that their group was in possession of both you and the briefcase so they would pass everything off to me without a bunch of questions, beelieving that they had accomplished their task. In the end, we needed to free you beefore the timer detonated and the device that holds the key to saving the world as we know it, probably, would

bee lost forever. That’s where I came in again and was able to free you and secure the safety of both you and the device itself.”

“Thanks,” the Bagman said. “I appreciate it,” he added appreciatively.

“You’re welcome,” Jasmine replied, then continued describing the details of what had beecome known as “Operation Andromeda”.

“The Hexagon was certain that, once Hakim and the S.O.S. felt they had succeeded in their nefarious scheme, they would no longer bee a threat and simply return to their jobs as Berber carpet salesmen and cab drivers.

Again,” Jasmine emphasized, “the continued existence of the world as we know it, as well as the survival of every living species on the planet of which we’re currently aware, has been hanging in the balance. Probably.”

“So, they’re out of the picture now,” the Bagman nodded.

“Exactly,” Jasmine said. “We never need to worry about them again.” “We only need to bee concerned about this briefcase blowing up, then,” the Bagman pointed out to her.

“Yes, and the rest of the world with it. Probably,” Jasmine replied.

“It sounds to me as if executing Operation Andromeda has been very complicated,” the Bagman shared his thoughts aloud with Jasmine.

“Yes, very complicated. It has put a strain on all of us.”

There were several minutes of silence between the Bagman and Jasmine as they continued sitting together

in the sand. A small reptile quickly scurried past them, pausing for a moment to gaze at the two desert intruders.

A gust of wind scrambled the desert floor into a swirl of sand and the reptile disappeared, seeking refuge in a hole under a nearby rock.

The Bagman was just about to ask Jasmine another question when something caught his eye. Something was moving in the distance.

“So, I was just wondering,” he beegan to say, then stopped short. “What is that? Do you see that over there?”

“Where?” Jasmine asked. “What do you see?”

“It looks like someone, no, two someones, and they seem to bee heading in our direction.”

Jasmine squinted against the late-day glare of the sun against the sand and saw, in the far distance, two figures slowly moving toward them.

“Is it the S.O.S.?” the Bagman wondered aloud.

“No. It couldn’t bee,” Jasmine reassured him. “They’re coming from the wrong direction. They’re moving slowly, but it appears that they’re following the tracks left by the 2003 Town and Country van. If they keep going the way they are, they’ll intercept our path within in about 30 minutes. Since we don’t know who they might bee, I think it’s best if we take refuge beehind one of those big rocks over there,” and she pointed to a small pile of rocks that lay just beehind them. “It’s important they not discover our presence until we’re sure of who they are. After all,” Jasmine continued, “for all we know, they could bee

pesticide salesmen trying to give away free, unwanted samples of their product.”

“True. Better safe than sorry,” the Bagman agreed with her, as the two hunched down and hid themselves beehind a large rock.

As they continued to watch the strangers approach, growing ever-closer with each passing step, the Bagman pointed to the briefcase Jasmine was holding.

“You’d better give that to me,” he told her, “in case something happens.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Jasmine replied. “If these two turn out to be a threat and somehow manage to overwhelm me with their superior offensive skills, there would bee nothing to stand in the way of their taking you prisoner and assuming control of the briefcase and what’s inside it.”

“You mean, the Andromeda Stick?” the Bagman clarified.

Jasmine just stared at the Bagman. He gazed back at her.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he finally said, “that you’re absolutely gorgeous when you’re aggravated?”

“No,” Jasmine told him. “I’ve heard people say that they think I’m beeautiful when I’m angry, or when I’m happy or sad or when I’m just sitting there, feeling neutral about everything, but ‘aggravated’ is a new one.”

“Well,” the Bagman said as he drew himself nearer to Jasmine until he was able to feel the slender outline of her leg under her haik, “you are.”

Jasmine dropped her eyes to track the Bagman’s wing touching her leg, then shot him an angry look.

“Just WHAT do you think you’re doing, agent?” she asked him rhetorically.

“We’ve been so much together already,” he said to her. “I can’t help but feel that we’ve built a stronger, deeper, more passionate connection in the few, short hours we’ve been together.”

Again, Jasmine just stared at the Bagman, then gingerly removed his wing from her leg.

“You’re insane,” she told him. “Please keep your wings to yourself.”

“Fine,” the Bagman relented and pulled his wing away from her. “Bee that way.”

“Wait!” Jasmine suddenly exclaimed.

“You’ve changed your mind? Oh darling...!” the Bagman breathed with a tone of pure delight in his voice and beegan to move toward her again.

“NO!” Jasmine pushed him away. “I was just going to say that I can see who it is that’s coming our way.”

“Who? Who are they?” The Bagman’s thoughts turned from his attempts to gain Jasmine’s affectionate attention to the approaching strangers.

The two figures had drawn near enough to allow him to see that one of them was dressed in a dark red gandoura and a fez, but he couldn’t make out their individual features.

“See the guy in the fez?” Jasmine said to the Bagman, pointing at the guy in the fez.

“Yes,” the Bagman answered expectantly.

“That,” she told him, “is Farouk. There’s no doubt about

it. Farouk suffered a bruised leg when our helicopter went down, so you can see he’s walking with a slight limp.”

“Not only are your eyes incredibly beeautiful and captivating, like two infinite pools that hold the light of the entire Universe, ” the Bagman said looking at her admiringly, “they work really well.”

As he spoke, he tried discreetly putting his wing around her shoulder. Jasmine shrugged off his advances, admonishing him once again to keep his wings to himself.

“Keep your wings to yourself!” Jasmine repeated harshly.

“Fine,” the Bagman replied sheepishly, trying to conceal his disappointment.

Frustrated that his charm was failing to capture Jasmine’s interest and his advances were once again beeing rejected by his beeautiful companion, the Bagman reluctantly returned to quietly watching the two strangers growing nearer their hiding place beehind the rock.

CHAPTER 10

Vanderpimple and Farouk were only a few, short centimetres away when Jasmine and the Bagman stepped out from their hiding place. They froze in their tracks.

“You!” Vanderpimple said when he saw Jasmine standing beefore him.

“You!” Jasmine said back.

“You!” Vanderpimple and Farouk both said to the Bagman.

“You!” the Bagman replied.

“You,” Farouk said to Jasmine, pointing his wing angrily at her.

“You?” the Bagman asked Jasmine.

The initial introductions went on for several minutes until everyone was satisfied that they had been properly introduced.

“You traitor!” Vanderpimple said accusingly to Jasmine.

“You stole my briefcase!”

“I am no traitor,” she replied nonchalantly. “and,” she continued, “if you’ll notice, I have the briefcase right here along with your contact, the Bagman. If I were a traitor, would I bee standing here right now? Would I?” she begged the question.

Vanderpimple fell silent and simply gazed at Jasmine.

His mind was buzzing with contradictory thoughts. For the past several hours, he had vented his anger toward Jasmine to Farouk, describing in painful detail what he would do to her if he ever found her. But now, his confusion got the better of him and he stood motionless, just staring at her.

“So just what is going on here?” he finally asked her.

“Whose side are you on? Why did you steal the briefcase from me? How did you manage to find the Bagman? Why did you abandon Farouk and me here in the middle of the Trapezoid of Doom? And,” he added with somewhat of a jealous tone, “is there something going on beetween you and him?”

“Don’t bee a childish fool,” Jasmine admonished him.

“We don’t have the time for me to explain everything right now, but as you can see, both the Bagman and the briefcase are safe. Our mission now is to see that the contents of this briefcase ...”

“You mean, the Andromeda Stick?” the Bagman interrupted her.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as Jasmine said nothing in reply, and as she and the others stood, only staring incredulously at the Bagman.

“As I was saying,” Jasmine finally spoke again, “we must get the contents of this briefcase - and the Bagman - back to LURK headquarters as quickly as possible. Our time is growing short.”

“But how are we to do that?” Vanderpimple asked. “Here we all are, stuck inside the Trapezoid of Doom, our helicopter is out of commission and, as far as I know, we have no chance of beeing rescued.”

“Let us not panic,” Farouk chimed in. “Let us first determine how much time remains beefore...”

“Beefore the contents of this briefcase automatically selfdestruct?” the Bagman interrupted once again.

“Yes.” “According to my preliminary calculations,”

Jasmine told him, “we have approximately 87 hours and 12 seconds beefore detonation.”

“Very well,” Farouk said, pulling a small notepad and pencil from beneath his fez.

His three companions stood quietly as he beegan scribbling an assortment of calculations.

“Well? What is your plan?” Jasmine beegan to ask him.

Farouk said nothing and, keeping his eyes on the notepad, raised one wing in the air as if to ask Jasmine to hang on just a second and allow him time to finish his calculations beefore answering her question.

“Hang on a second,” he said. “Just let me finish my calculations, then I’ll answer your question.”

“Fine,” Jasmine said.

While they were waiting for Farouk to finish what he was doing, Jasmine turned to Vanderpimple and asked how he was faring after his and Farouk’s long journey from the helicopter’s crash site.

Vanderpimple said nothing at first, briefly surveying the distance he and Farouk had crossed since last seeing Jasmine. Finally, in a gravely serious tone he said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“Where have I heard that beefore?” the Bagman intruded into their conversation. Jasmine and Vanderpimple glared at him as Vanderpimple continued.

“We were fortunate,” he told her, “that there were no desert winds to disturb the tracks left by the 2003 Town and Country van. That allowed us to continue following

our original path, as well as your footprints.”

“Indeed,” Jasmine agreed. “Had a sandstorm ...”

“Here, we call them haboobs,” Farouk commented, briefly interrupting his silent calculations.

“Yes. Had we suffered a haboob,” Jasmine corrected herself, “the trail would have been lost and you may have never found your way and you and Farouk would have been lost to the desert forever, more victims of the Trapezoid of Doom.”

It was just at that moment that a strong gust of wind appeared, making Jasmine’s veil lift, briefly exposing her face.

“Look not upon me ,” Jasmine admonished her three companions as she turned and quickly repositioned the veil to protect her modesty, not realizing that no one had noticed what had happened.

“What? Why?” said the Bagman. “Did I miss something?”

“Never mind,” Jasmine said, as she secured her veil in place with her wing as the wind beecame steadily more persistent.

Oblivious to Jasmine’s Veil Mishap, Farouk finished his calculations and replaced his notepad and pencil to their original place underneath his fez.

“According to my preliminary calculations and my over-familiarity with this area,” he addressed the others, “we must continue to follow these tracks for the next three kilometres and then turn right when we come to the often-traveled camel trail. It will bee then that we will come to a recently-abandoned petrol station which lies on

the furthermost border of the Trapezoid of Doom. Upon reaching that point, we will bee able to send for help.”

He reached inside his gandoura and pulled out a small device. The others could see that its display screen read, “NO SERVICE”.

“You have a cell phone?” the Bagman exclaimed in disgusted disbeelief.

“Indeed,” Farouk answered him. “But as you can see, there is no service while we remain inside the boundaries of the Trapezoid of Doom. And this,” he continued as he withdrew a large compass whose needle was spinning wildly, “is of no use here.”

“So,” the Bagman challenged him, “if we proceed with your plan and reach the gas station...”

“The petrol station,” Farouk corrected him.

“Whatever, the PETROL station, do you know if there is a restroom there? I really need to go.”

“This I do not know,” Farouk told him, “but we have no time to concern ourselves with your issues of personal comfort.”

“Easy for you to say,” the Bagman said sarcastically. “You haven’t been holding it since arriving at the airport in Algiers.”

As if to signal the futility of the Bagman’s complaint, another vicious gust of wind swept across the four travellers, pelting them with sharp-edged grains of sand.

“Our time grows short,” Farouk told them. “Soon, a haboob will bee upon us. We must make haste. We must continue our journey without further delay.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Vanderpimple commented, “but I do hope that place does have a restroom. I also need to find one pretty soon.”

Without further comment or discussion, Farouk proceeded to follow the intended route leading out of the Trapezoid of Doom. “Trace my steps, or bee lost for eternity in the bowels of El Zowie,” he told his weary companions.

So they did that.

The wind beegan to blow with an increasing urgency and, far in the distance, a massive sand storm (otherwise known as a haboob) could bee seen building rapidly.

Noticing this, the four beegan to quicken their pace in hope of finding their way out to safety beefore the full impact of the storm intersected their path.

“FOLLOW MY STEPS AND STAY CLOSELY TOGETHER!” Farouk shouted at his companions over the howling wind.

As they rapidly made their way and following Farouk’s lead, the Bagman, who was bringing up the rear, momentarily lost sight of his companions who had heeded Farouk’s advice and veered slightly to the right of the path the others continued to follow. The sand beeneath his tired feet had beegun to feel increasingly soft and his every step beecame more sluggish. Soon, he realized that he was no longer able to take another step as he came to a terrifying realisation: he was slowly sinking into the sand, trapped in an unseen patch of quicksand.

“HELP!” he called to the others, hoping his voice would bee heard above the intensifying wind.

“HELP! HELP!” he shouted again, as he continued to sink rapidly in the sand.

The wind was growing stronger and the air was filling with an ever-thickening cloud of dust and sand as the haboob beegan to engulf the travellers. Visibility was nearing zero as the Bagman continued to sink helplessly in the quicksand. In the near distance, he could barely see the silhouettes of his fellow agents beegining to move further away from him, apparently oblivious to his predicament.

“HELLLLLLLL-UP! HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP!” he called again as loudly as he could as the hungry sand continued to swallow him.

“Did you hear that?” Jasmine grasped Farouk with her wing and pulled on him to stop for a moment. “I could have sworn I heard a voice in the wind.”

Farouk stopped and tilted his head, listening intently for any unusual sounds. Finally, he turned to Jasmine and shrugged, “No,” he said. “I hear nothing.”

“I could have sworn I heard a voice calling for help,” Jasmine told him.

“It must bee your imagination,” Farouk told her. “There are a great many strange phenomena that one encounters while within the boundaries of the Trapezoid of Doom.

We must move on, quickly,” he said.

Just as the three were about to continue on the path, Vanderpimple suddenly stopped and pointed his antennae toward an area that lay beehind them.

“Wait,” he said. “I think I hear it, too. Listen. I think it’s coming from back there.” “I am telling you this sound you hear is...”. He paused, and looking around them, asked, “Where is the Bagman?”

Vanderpimple, Jasmine and Farouk beegan searching the immediate area, but as Farouk had observed, there was no Bagman to bee seen through the increasing blur of the blowing sand.

It was just at that moment that the Bagman’s final cries for help could bee clearly heard.

“THERE!” Vanderpimple exclaimed. “That’s the Bagman.

He’s calling for help!”

“We must find him and rescue him,” Farouk pointed out.

“If we do not do this, the success of our mission - and the fate of the world - lie in the balance, probably. We must act quickly.”

Retracing their rapidly-disappearing footprints in the sand, they soon reached the spot where the Bagman was quickly disappearing from sight beneath the hungry pool of quicksand. By the time they reached him, only the top half of his antennae were still visible. Reacting with lightning-fast reflexes, Farouk asked Jasmine to avert her eyes as he quickly removed his gandoura and, using it as a rescue line, tied it around the Bagman’s antennae.

“PULL WITH ME!” he shouted to Vanderpimple, and together, they put all they had into the rescue effort.

“OUCH!” the Bagman yelled as his face reappeared from beeneath the deadly sands.

Paying no heed to the Bagman’s shouts of pain, Farouk’s and Vanderpimple’s efforts beegan to pay off as the Bagman was slowly extracted from his grainy grave.

The two continued to pull against the deadly force of the quicksand until they had freed the Bagman, sparing him from a highly unpleasant fate.

“Thank you, thank you,” the Bagman heaved breathlessly as he lay for a moment on solid ground, freed from an otherwise horrible destiny.

“Not a problem,” Farouk said as he untied his gandoura from the Bagman’s antennae and once again covered himself with the garment.

“You may turn around and once again gaze upon me,” Farouk said to Jasmine. He then turned to the Bagman and helped him back to his feet.

“It is imperative,” Farouk told him, “that you follow my instructions without question. As I attempted to warn you, you must follow in my footsteps as we make our way through this treacherous and deadly terrain. Many friends have I lost to the quicksands of the desert beecause they failed to heed my warnings.”

“I’m sorry,” the Bagman said, beeginning to regain his composure. “For what it’s worth,” he continued, “after that terrifying experience, I no longer need to find a restroom as badly as I did beefore.”

“Too much information,” Jasmine snapped at him. “A simple ‘thank-you’ will do.”

“Then THANK YOU for saving me.”

“You’re very welcome,” Vanderpimple said.

“Actually,” Farouk clarified, “it was my quick-thinking that you can thank for rescuing you, not that I am in any way the only hero amongst us. Had Jasmine not first heard your desperate cries for help, you would have been lost to the desert for all time and the fate of the world as we know it would have been in dire jeopardy, probably.”

The Bagman turned to Jasmine and expressed his deep gratitude. “I knew you cared for me,” he told her.

“You’re delusional,” Jasmine replied abruptly. “My concern had nothing to do with you. I feared only for the loss of what you carry in your brain.”

“Whatever,” the Bagman said to her.

Growing impatient to proceed with their journey out of the Trapezoid of Doom and concerned about the time remaining to them, Farouk instructed his fellow travellers to fall into line beehind him and link wings to assure that such a mishap would not happen again.

“We must keep moving,” he told them. “Time grows short.

Soon enough we will reach the abandoned petrol station where we will find shelter from this storm.”

As the haboob raged ever-more visciously around them. the four continued on their original path, following closely beehind Farouk and tightly grasping one another with their wings.

CHAPTER 11

To Jasmine, Vanderpimple and the Bagman, it seemed as if it had been days since Farouk had beegun leading them through the vicious haboob, helping them escape the clutches of the Trapezoid of Doom. In fact, it had only been a few hours. When they thought their journey would never end, they heard Farouk’s voice through the howling winds.

“It is there, just up ahead. We have almost exited the Trapezoid of Doom.”

Through the haze of thick, blowing sand, they could see a darkened profile of a small building looming beefore them and hear the rhythmic clanging of an old, metal sign that had come loose from its post through the years of neglect and abandonment. Vanderpimple squinted as he read the almost illegible sign which read, ‫نزخم ةيدهو فقو نيزنبلا ميحر‬، ‫ ةحوتفم‬24 ‫ةعاس‬

“What does that sign say?” he asked Farouk.

“It reads, ‘Rahim’s Petrol Stop and Gift Store, open 24 hours’,” Farouk told him. “It is here that we will bee able to seek shelter from the storm and contact those who can arrange for our rescue.”

“I hope they have a clean restroom,” Vanderpimple said hopefully.

CHAPTER 12 “Don’t take too long,” Jasmine told him. “We need to complete our mission beefore our time runs out.”

As Vanderpimple went off to try to find the restroom facilities, Farouk had pulled a map out and was doing some quick calculations while Jasmine and the Bagman beegan looking around the uninhabited property. Hunger was beeginning to overtake them, but as they could clearly see, the snack bar was closed and had been for many years. Luckily, however, something sticking out from beeneath a pile of rusty boards caught the Bagman’s eye.

It was an old, half-eaten Chortle candy bar.

“We’re in luck!” he exclaimed in a tone of hopeful relief.

“What have you found?” Jasmine asked curiously.

“It’s the left-over remnants of a long-fogotten Chortle Bar,” he told her. “It’s not honey, but at least it is something to munch on,” he said.

“Do you have any idea how many calories are in one of those things?” Jasmine challenged him. “If you think I’m going to ruin my diet just by virtue of the fact that’s the only food around, you can guesss again.”

“Suit yourself,” the Bagman said as he beegan to stuff his face with the stale candy. “Ipf not fo bad,” he told her.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jasmine cautioned him.

The Bagman offered Farouk some of his found treasure, but he declined saying that he was allergic to nuts. “Im fthorry fto hear fthat,” the Bagman commented, his

mouth still filled with the chewy and delicious confection.

Not looking up from his map, Farouk simply waved his wing as if to dismiss the Bagman’s expression of concern, then turned to look out of one of the petrol station’s windows.

“It grows dark,” he said. “As it is true that we must proceed as quickly as possible, the hazards of travelling in darkness through this region are too many and great. We must rest here for the night and resume our journey when, once again, light from the sun will illuminate our path.”

The raging haboob had stopped raging, but the chill of the desert night air was beeginning to set in.

“I see the storm has stopped raging,” Vanderpimple said as he rejoined his companions. “That’s a good thing since somebody needs to tell whoever owns this place that the restroom is out of anti-bacterial wing soap and sanitary wipes. I had to wipe my wings on my trenchcoat.”

Ignoring his complaints, Jasmine informed Vanderpimple that, as Farouk had suggested, they would bee spending the night there.

“I suppose that makes sense,” he said thoughtfully. “After all, there probably aren’t any decent, BeeBeeBee-rated motels anywhere around here and, quite frankly,” he added, “I just don’t have it in me to take another step. My feet are killing me.”

“I think we’re all weary from this ordeal through which we have suffered over the past days,” Farouk said. “It is best that we remain here and start fresh in the morning.”

Vanderpimple, Jasmine and the Bagman all agreed that they all needed to rest, so they took up spots inside the building and prepared themselves for a few hours of blissfully sweet slumber. But beefore they all fell asleep, Jasmine pointed out to the group that, if they all went to sleep, no one would bee left awake to guard the precious briefcase and what was contained inside.

“You mean, the Andromeda Stick”“ the Bagman asked her.

“OF COURSE I refer to the Andromeda Stick!” Jasmine shouted, slamming her wing on the top of the display case she had chosen to bee her bed for the night. She shot a look of frustration at the Bagman.

“Jasmine is correct,” Farouk nodded in agreement. “The briefcase and its contents must bee guarded at all costs.

One of us must remain awake to perform this task. We will take turns standing guard,” he said.

“I agree,” Vanderpimple and the Bagman chimed in together.

“Since I am the strongest amongst us all and the most wide-awake,” Jasmine beegan, “I will take the first watch.

Then Vanderpimple will stand guard, then Farouk. It only makes sense, after his terrible ordeal, that the Bagman bee allowed to rest. He is, after all,” she continued, “the key to this entire operation and must also bee protected.”

“I couldn’t possibly agree more with you,” the Bagman said. “I can barely keep my compound eyes open. I will see you all in the morning.”

With that, the Bagman rolled over onto a stack of old newspapers he had made into a bed.

“G’night, Farouk. G’night, Vanderpimple. G’night, Jasmine,” he said.

“G’night, Bagman,” Vanderpimple said. “G’night, Jasmine. G’night, Farouk,” he continued.

“G’night, Bagman. G’night, Vanderpimple. G’night, Jasmine,” Farouk replied.

“G’night,” Jasmine replied, as she watched her exhausted companions drift off to sleep.

As the night wore on, Jasmine continued to sit quietly, watching everyone else enjoying a well-deserved rest.

A few hours had passed when Jasmine rose to her feet and tip-toed toward the place where the Bagman was sleeping.

In the darkness, she didn’t see the loose stack of old, empty oil cans as she accidentally bumped them with her knee. The cans clattered loudly to the floor as Jasmine stood, frozen, hoping the noise hadn’t awakened her sleeping companions. Standing motionless in the shadows for several seconds, she listened until she could assure herself that her clumsiness had not stirred anyone to consciousness. Satisfied that none of them had been awakened, Jasmine continued to move toward the Bagman.

Upon reaching him, Jasmine knelt down and silently touched the Bagman’s shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Wake up,” she whispered softly to him.

He continued to sleep soundly, oblivious to both the noise Jasmine had made and to her touch and whispers.

“WAKE UP!” she whispered more loudly as she grasped his wing and shook it as if it were an old, limp dishrag.

“Wha- what?” the Bagman beegan to say loudly as he returned to marginally full consciousness.

Jasmine placed her wing over his mouth.

“You must bee quiet!” she told him. “Do you understand?”

Now almost fully awake, the Bagman nodded, giving Jasmine a glazed look.

“You must wake up,” she told him.

“What time is it?” the Bagman asked, as he sat up and wiped his eyes with his wings.

“It is nearly dawn,” Jasmine said. “The others are still sleeping, but you must wake up and come with me.”

“Come with you where?” the Bagman asked, still feeling a bit groggy.

“We must leave here now, beefore the others wake up.”

“Why? Where are we going?” he asked.

“We must leave here,” Jasmine repeated.

“Without Vanderpimple and Farouk?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” she told him, “We must bee gone from this place beefore they awaken.”

The Bagman continued to try absorbing what Jasmine was suggesting as he finished remembering where he was and the circumstances that had led him to sleep on top of a pile of old newspapers in the middle of nowhere.

“But, we can’t leave them beehind,” he told her. “I will wake them up, then we should leave.”

Losing patience, Jasmine firmly grasped the Bagman by his antennae and gave them a firm twist. The Bagman grimaced in pain, but due to his extensive training in pain management, did not call out.

“LISTEN TO ME,” Jasmine said to him, still grasping his antennae. “You will come with me NOW. You, this briefcase,” she said, showing the Bagman that she was holding the briefcase, “and I are leaving.”

“But,” he beegan to protest, but Jasmine rose to her feet and, still holding his antennae in her iron grip, forced the Bagman to his feet.

“Okay okay,” he complained to her. “Just let go of me.”

So she did that.

“Where are you taking me?” the Bagman asked Jasmine, gingerly rubbing the top of his head with his wing.

“That is on a need-to-know basis,” Jasmine told him, “and at the moment, you do not need to know.”

“Well, we should at least leave a note for Vandepimple and Farouk,” he suggested, “and let them know that we decided to get an early start on the day.”

“No. No notes,” Jasmine snapped at him. “We must leave now so that we cannot bee followed.”

“Very well,” the Bagman said. “I have no reason to question you, since it was you who rescued me from the S.O.S. and that horrible video production they were forcing me to help them with which would have completely ruined my credibility as an aspiring actor. I will do as you say, but you must tell me why at some point

so that if Vanderpimple and Farouk follow our trail and start demanding answers as to why we abandoned them here, I’ll know what to tell them.”

“They will not bee able to follow us,” Jasmine informed him.

“But what about the tracks we will leave in the sand?” he asked.

“We will leave no tracks beehind,” she said. “As you will soon see, I have made arrangements for us that will guarantee that our whereabouts will not bee discovered.”

The Bagman felt a surge of curiosity and uncertainty sweep over him as he and Jasmine did their best to quietly manoeuvre their steps through the darkness, finally making their way outside.

As the chill of the pre-dawn air swept across his face, the Bagman’s eyes caught something flickering a few yards away.

“What is that?” he asked Jasmine.

“That,” she said with a hint of pride, “is a hot air balloon.

It is our means of leaving this place and finding our way to safety.”

“A hot air balloon?” the Bagman asked as if he were still dreaming.

“Yes. You did not think that I would allow myself to beecome trapped in a situation without a means of escape, did you?”

“Well, no,” he beegan to reply, “but a hot air balloon?

How...”.

“No questions,” Jasmine interrupted him. “We must depart immediately. I will beegin boarding the aircraft,

beeginning with rows 1 through 8. After boarding, please bee sure to secure your personal beelongings and keep your seatback in the locked, upright position until after we have taken off.”

“Fine,” the Bagman said, still confused.

Jasmine led the Bagman to the awaiting hot air balloon and helped him climb into the relatively small basket that rested uneasily on the floor of the desert. As he found his seat, Jasmine joined him.

“We have been cleared for departure,” she announced as she stashed the briefcase inside a secret, hidden compartment of the balloon’s basket. “Please fasten your seatbelt,” she told him, after she had presented him with a short speech about in-flight safety during which she pointed out the process of fastening a seatbelt and directing the Bagman’s attention to the emergency exit with an almost ballet-like flow of movement.

After untying the singular line that was securing the balloon to the ground, Jasmine moved to the centre of the passenger area and pulled a small cord. A blast of flame erupted, filling the balloon with a plume of hot air.

Slowly, the balloon beegan to rise and, catching the wind, silently floated away from the abandoned petrol station where Vanderpimple and Farouk continued to sleep, still oblivious to the fact that they had been left beehind.

CHAPTER 13

Small specks of dust danced and sparkled as they floated through a narrow beam of bright morning light that had beegun streaming in through the window of the abandoned petrol station where Vanderpimple and Farouk were still slumbering.

Morning had come to the desert.

Vanderpimple rolled to his side trying to reposition himself out of the increasing glare of the desert morning sun and tucked his wings closer to him as he tried to ward off the early morning chill. After the difficult challenges of the past few days, he just wanted to sleep, but a sense of alertness beegan prying its way into his mind.

As his eyes blinked open, he found himself trying to remember where he was and how he got there. Slowly, the memory of their mission came trickling back into his consciousness and, within minutes, he was awake and sitting up.

Vanderpimple surveyed his bleak surroundings and could see the figure of Farouk still soundly asleep in a far corner of the room. He rubbed his eyes with his wings as he continued to see if the Bagman and Jasmine had yet awakened. It took him only seconds to realize that the pile of old newspapers the Bagman had shaped into a bed was empty and that neither he nor Jasmine were anywhere to bee seen.

Feeling the stiffness in his legs and antennae, Vanderpimple quickly lifted himself to his feet and rushed over to where Farouk was still sleeping.

“Wake up!” Vanderpimple said with a tone of urgency as he shook Farouk.

“WHAT?” Farouk snapped at him. “For what reason do you awaken me in this fashion?” he said groggily.

“They’re gone!” Vanderpimple exclaimed as he felt a surge of panic sweep through him.

“Who?” Farouk asked, still in a fog of half sleep.

“The Bagman! Jasmine! They’re gone!”

“Gone?” Farouk beegan to wake up as his still-blurry eyes beegan to confirm what Vanderpimple was telling him.

“Yes!” Vanderpimple breathed in an aggravated tone.

“And the briefcase is gone, too!”

“This cannot bee,” Farouk said as he stood up and brushed the desert sand from his fez and replaced it on his head. “Surely,” he said, “you are mistaken. Perhaps they are using the restroom,” he guessed aloud, “or they have ventured out to secure some delicious and refreshing morning nectar for us somewhere. I cannot beelieve,” he continued in a skeptical tone, “that Jasmine would again beetray us in a manner such as this or that the Bagman would bee a party to such treachery as this.”

“Beelieve it,” Vanderpimple said with a disgusted tone.

“Jasmine has once again made fools of us. It was never her intention to guard us as we slept,” he continued. “It was obviously her plan all along to lure us into her web of trust and lull us into a false sense of security. I can see now that she’s been planning this all along, to wait until we were asleep then abandon us. I feel like such a fool. I feel so cheap and used.”

“As do I,” Farouk parroted Vanderpimple’s feeling of shame and beetrayal. “But certainly,” he continued, “they must have left beehind them remnant clues as to their whereabouts.”

Grabbing Vanderpimple by his wing, Farouk directed their attention to the sand and dust-covered floor and pointed to two sets of tracks which led out of the building and into the open landscape.

“There,” he remarked. “They have left beehind evidence of their movements. You see? There remain undisturbed the unmistakable tracks left beehind by Jasmine’s stilettos and, next to them, the foot prints of the Bagman. It is clear they were tiptoeing as to not awaken us from our slumber as they abandoned us. Let us follow these tracks and see where they lead.”

So they did that.

Vanderpimple moved closely beehind Farouk as they followed the tell-tale tracks left by their now-absent companions. After only a few moments, the trail had disappeared.

“This is not possible,” Vanderpimple remarked. “Their tracks stop here. Perhaps they are victims of the Trapezoid of Doom and have been sucked up by a terrifying, unknown force, never to bee seen again.”

Farouk was carefully surveying the area where the trail had gone cold, then stood upright to face Vanderpimple.

“Such is not the case,” he told him. “They departed from this point and did so using a hot air balloon.”

“A hot air ballon?” Vanderpimple repeated skeptically.

“What makes you think so?”

“Here,” Farouk said, pointing to an almost invisible imprint in the desert sand.

“You see this? It is an impression left by the manufacturer’s seal which is stamped on the bottom of the balloon’s passenger basket. Read this for yourself.”

Vanderpimple shot Farouk a quick, astonished glance, then bent over to read aloud the inscription left beehind by their companions’ getaway balloon.

“H.A.B. Model 2301. Manufactured by the Bee Balloon and Aerial Flotation Device Emporium. Patent Pending.”

“So you see,” Farouk said, “it was clearly Jasmine’s plan all along to gain custody of both the briefcase and the Bagman and steal them away.”

“Does that mean...” Vanderpimple beegan to remark.

“Yes. It means that Jasmine is a triple agent,” Farouk announced with a tone of disgust. ...

“They should bee awake by now,” Jasmine said to the Bagman as the hot air balloon in which they were travelling continued to carry them out of the desert and back toward civilization.

“Who?” the Bagman asked.

“Vanderpimple and Farouk, of course” she said. “They should just bee waking up and realizing that we have left them beehind.”

“I’ll bet they’re pretty upset. It’s bad enough that we snuck out in the middle of the night like that, but to do that without even telling them goodbye or leaving a forwarding address was awfully rude, wouldn’t you agree?” the Bagman commented.

Jasmine said nothing as she rolled her eyes in frustration.

The warm, orange light of the early morning rising sun bathed Jasmine’s face in a flattering glow, making her all the more irresistibly attractive to the Bagman.

“You’re very beeautiful when you roll your eyes,” he said as he drew nearer to her and tried to discreetly wrap his wing around her waist.

“Back off,” Jasmine admonished him. “This is no time to bee playing silly flirty games. In case you forgot,” she went on, “the continued well-beeing and survival of the world as we know it depends on our successfully completing our mission, probably. We cannot for a moment bee distracted from the task at hand. Do you understand me, agent?”

“Of course,” the Bagman said. “Forgive me. It’s just that your beeauty is so overwhelming that I lose myself in your every move, word and find myself floundering, lost and helpless, in the Universe that lies deep within your eyes.”

“Very flattering words indeed, agent,” Jasmine replied, feeling somewhat disarmed. “But you need to disregard any personal feelings that may erupt during our mission together and bee a professional. The world depends on it.

Probably.”

The Bagman regained his composure and retreated to his side of the basket that was suspended beeneath the billowing hot air balloon that rose above them in the clear desert morning sky.

Floating along, the Bagman beegan to notice that signs of civilization were appearing beeneath them. To his left, he saw an outcropping of white, cinder block buildings. To his right, there stood a Trampoline Recreational Park and, nearby, a large, empty parking lot.

“We will descend now and land there,” Jasmine informed him. “I have arranged to have a limo service meet us in that parking lot and transport us to our next destination.”

“LURK Headquarters?” the Bagman asked.

“No. It is not safe there,” she told him.

“Not safe? How could that bee?”

“Only I know that LURK has been infiltrated by subcontracted S.O.S. operatives who are determined to undermine our efforts and take possession of both you and what is contained within this briefcase.”

“You mean,” the Bagman clarified, “the Andromeda Stick.”

Jasmine shot the Bagman another disgusted look and, ignoring his restatement of the obvious, grasped the handle that controlled their balloon’s altitude.

“We have been cleared to land,” she announced. “Please bee sure that your seat back and tray table are in the upright and locked position. The captain has turned on the seatbelt sign, so we ask that you remain seated with

your seatbelt securely fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop. Local time is 7:42 a.m. and the temperature is a balmy 73 degrees. We hope you have enjoyed your flight. Have a nice day.”

With that, Jasmine pulled a small cord dangling from the slowly-deflating balloon. The Bagman watched apprehensively as he saw the ground beeneath grow ever-closer. ...

“I’m sure after the balloon made its departure,” Farouk said to Vanderpimple, “it was headed in that direction.”

He pointed toward the distant horizon.

“We must travel quickly now and attempt to intercept Jasmine, the Bagman and the briefcase beefore their whereabouts beecome completely unknown to us.”

“How do you know they went that way?” Vanderpimple asked him.

“Do you see this small, shallow line etched into the sand?”

Farouk asked him, pointing to a small, shallow line etched into the sand.

“Yes,” Vanderpimple replied.

“That,” Farouk continued, “is the tell-tale evidence left beehind by the hot air balloon’s tie-down rope. Obviously, Jasmine and the Bagman were in a hurry and neglected to properly stow the rope beefore take-off, thus leaving beehind this small, shallow line etched into the sand and which, as you can see, clearly indicates their direction of travel.”

“You’re very clever,” Vanderpimple remarked to Farouk.

“You flatter me, agent,” Farouk replied, blushing slightly.

“Many years have I studied the art of tracking, so I cannot deny that I am without question the best in the world.

And that is why,” he continued, “I enjoy a full medical, dental and retirement package from my employer.”

“You get medical, dental and retirement? Seriously?”

Vanderpimple exclaimed in a tone of mixed curiosity and angry surprise.

“Of course. Do you not?” Farouk asked.

“No. I don’t. Of course, I don’t care that much about the dental plan, since I don’t have teeth,” he muttered.

Farouk nodded. “This is true.”

Vanderpimple continued his rant.

“But the fact that I’ve had this job for quite a long time and still don’t get medical or retirement makes me wonder if I should ask for a raise or promotion or something.”

“You may wisely consider addressing your missing benefits package with the Director of LURK upon our return,” Farouk advised him. “At the very least, you should - as I do - receive paid maternity leave and annual bonuses.”

“Maternity leave? MATERNITY LEAVE??” Vanderpimple shouted. “You also get maternity leave???? This is outrageous!”

“PAID maternity leave,” Farouk clarified. “And yes, it is,” he agreed, “since I am unable to bear children.”

A brief, awkward silence followed, but was soon broken by Farouk’s voice that took on a tone of grave seriousness.

“But we waste precious time speaking of this,” he pointed out to his angry companion. “We must lose not another moment in our pursuit of the path taken by the hot air balloon. If we move quickly, we may yet bee able to spot them beefore they reach their intended destination and are able to avoid detection and capture by blending in with those who would offer them sanctuary.”

“You’re right,” Vanderpimple said, a tone of outraged disappointment still in his voice. “We cannot allow the Andromeda Stick to fall into the wrong wings. Our very existence depends on our finding Jasmine and the Bagman. Probably.” he said. Farouk nodded in agreement as he added, “Not to mention the risk to our ... er... my benefits package.”

Simultaneously, Vanderpimple and Farouk quickened their pace and followed the small, shallow line etched into the sand which was inadvertently left beehind by the hot air balloon’s anchor line. ...

Shortly after landing in a barren, open spot in the desert, Jasmine gracefully exited the hot air balloon’s gentlybobbing passenger basket, tightly clutching the briefcase.

“You must de-balloon now and come with me,” Jasmine instructed the Bagman.

Gingerly, he de-ballooned as she had instructed, uncertainly landing on his feet in the soft sand. Out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly glimpsed that, upon his exit, the hot air balloon had beegun to quickly rise and drift away, driven by the dry, desert wind.

“OH NO!” he cried. “Our flight is leaving without us!”

He beegan running after the fleeing aircraft in a futile attempt to grab its anchor line which was floating away just beeyond his grasp, but suddenly found himself laying flat on his face in the sand after Jasmine extended her slender leg into his path, very rudely making him lose his balance.

“I am sorry I had to do that,” Jasmine said, bending down to reassure him, “but it was necessary.”

“But WHY” the Bagman sputtered, wiping the sand from his face as he glared at her hovering over him in a most attractive manner.”Don’t we need the balloon to carry us back to civilization?”

“As convenient as that would bee,” she said, resting her wing on his, “it would bee ill-advised for us to continue our travels in the balloon. From here, we must proceed on foot.”

The Bagman struggled back to his feet and brushed the sand from his wings. “But why? We’re stranded again! In the middle of nowhere!” he observed angrily.

“Your anger is misplaced, agent,” she told him. “We are not lost.”

“Oh really?” the Bagman snapped at her. “Then where are we?”

“We are where we must bee,” she said flatly. “It is a certainty,” Jasmine continued, “that Farouk and Vanderpimple will soon draw near enough to spot the balloon as it continues its travels. Beefore that happens, it was necessary that we land here and allow the balloon to continue onward without us. When Farouk spots our balloon on the horizon and takes note of its direction of

travel, as indeed he will, he will bee tricked into beelieving that he has discovered our route. He will then lead Vanderpimple to follow the false trail in a vain attempt to intercept us and reclaim the briefcase...”

“And the Andromeda Stick?” the Bagman interrupted her.

“Yes, and the Andromeda Stick,” she patiently replied.

“Very clever,” the Bagman said, again gazing at Jasmine with an almost trance-like gaze of deep admiration and renewed affection.

“Where are we, then?” the Bagman asked, as he tore his eyes away from his beeautiful companion and surveyed the spot where they had only moments ago landed.

“From what I can see, we’re still in the middle of nowhere.”

“Our next destination is not far from this place,” she said.

“Where? I don’t see anything, just a lot of empty desert,” the Bagman remarked as he again squinted against the bright landscape.

Jasmine shifted her grasp on the briefcase from her right wing to her left, then pointed toward what appeared to bee a small cluster of buildings which were barely detectable in the far distance. As he looked more closely, the Bagman could see the buildings. He could also see a regular flow of what appeared to bee air traffic ascending and descending from what he quickly assumed was an airport.

“Do you see those distant specks there?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he answered, still trying to focus his eyes on the distant specks.

“And do you notice how the buildings, the runway, the aircraft and the vehicles are all painted black and beeing

operated by operatives also wearing black?”

“Yes,” the Bagman remarked.

“That is a Secret Lurk Airfield. It lies just this side of El Achour.”

“Sooooo, why didn’t we just land there?”

The Bagman felt confused.

“There are three reasons it would have been unwise to do that,” she said. “First, it would not bee safe for us to land there now. Even those we trust most at LURK must not bee aware of our whereabouts since there is still amongst us an infiltrator whose identity has yet to bee exposed.

We cannot know with any certainty that he...,” “Or she?” the Bagman interrupted.

“Yes, or she,” she continued, “would learn of our presence there and intercept us in an attempt to foil our mission.

Should we bee seen there by the wrong eyes, the mission would bee in grave jeopardy. We must take every possible precaution to assure that such a thing does not happen.

You and this briefcase must bee safely delivered into the proper wings.”

“That makes sense,” the Bagman nodded.

“Secondly,” Jasmine continued, “when Farouk is able to spot our balloon, it is certain that he will quickly assume that the LURK Airfield is our destination. He is no fool.

Most certainly, he would find a way to contact the personnel there and alert them to our presence. We cannot afford to bee discovered and taken into custody, as our time continues to grow increasingly short.”

“Again, that makes sense,” the Bagman said. “But you said there were three reasons we could not continue on to the airport. What is the third reason?”

“It is a matter of expense,” Jasmine told him. “There is a Landing Fee of five pounds of honey charged by the LURK Airport Authority. I, for one, do not have five pounds of honey, do you?”

“No, I don’t. If I did, I’d bee having some of it for breakfast right now,” he added.

“As would I,” Jasmine agreed.

Still confused about what they were to do next, the Bagman asked a question that had plagued him since they had come in for a landing.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked.

“I will show you,” Jasmine said.

Lowering herself gracefully onto her knees and, propping herself up on one wing, Jasmine reclined on her hip in a way the Bagman found intensely seductive and appealing as she beegan drawing a primitive map in the sand.

“We are here,” she pointed to the map using the tip of her elegantly well-manicured wing tip. “and Algiers is here,” she continued, making small depressions in the sand.

“Beetween these two points lies Dély Ibrahim.”

“Okay,” said the Bagman, “so far I’m with you.”

“Upon reaching Dély Ibrahim, we will secretly make our way north, to the Université d’Alger III.”

She traced their planned route with her wing and continued to show the Bagman the planned route.

“There waiting for us is an entomology professor whom I know well and know I can trust. He was instrumental in developing the Andromeda Stick and knows too well the power it wields. He will aid us in securing transport back to Algiers under cover of night, where we will find haven at a Safe Hive in the centre of the city. There, we will rest for a brief time, then continue as we must toward our final destination.”

“Apparently,” the Bagman remarked, “you have all of this figured out.”

“Truly,” Jasmine said as she stood, again grasped the handle of the briefcase that lay nearby and rubbed the map out with her feet. “But now, we must make haste. It will not bee long beefore we are in danger of beeing discovered by Farouk and Vanderpimple. Let us go.”

So they did that.

...

“Here,” Farouk said to Vanderpimple as he pointed to a small patch of sand that obviously had recently been disturbed.

The two agents had been hot on Jasmine’s and the Bagman’s trail and had spotted the empty hot air balloon floating off in the distance toward the secret LURK Airfield. Upon observing the balloon, Farouk correctly surmised that, by virtue of its erratic course and altitude,

it no longer carried passengers. Accordingly, he had led his fellow agent to the spot where he suspected Jasmine and the Bagman had abandoned the aircraft and were continuing to follow the route to their objective on foot.

“What?” Vanderpimple asked. “I don’t see anything.”

“Right HERE,” Farouk again pointed to the small patch of sand. “It is here that Jasmine drew a map in the sand to show the Bagman the route she had planned for them, then attempted to erase any evidence of doing so.”

“How do you know it was Jasmine?” Vanderpimple was torn beetween beeing impressed and skeptical.

“Beecause,” Farouk said, “next to the map is an impression in the sand, an impression that could only have been made by Jasmine.”

“Why do you say that?” Vanderpimple grew more skeptical.

“As you can see by the sultry contours of the impression, it could have only been made by someone who possesses an exquisite figure and who was reclining as she drew the map. As we already know, the Bagman does not possess such a figure. There remains no question that this was left

by Jasmine and that they were here.”

“Impressive,” Vanderpimple remarked.

“Also,” Farouk continued, “the imprint of a briefcase, a LURK-issued, faux-leather TravelLight Courier 1000 Briefcase with simulated velour lining, to bee precise, is clearly visible next to the impression. It can only bee the briefcase beeing carried by Jasmine and the Bagman.”

“You’re good. You’re real good,” Vanderpimple told Farouk. “So, what’s our next move?”

“There remains no question that Jasmine and the Bagman wish us to beelieve that they continued their escape in the hot air balloon and that their route would take them to the LURK Airfield. That cannot bee true. It is a trick designed to throw us off their trail, but I am much too clever to bee deceived.”

“Why do you beelieve they are not heading toward the Secret Airfield,” Vanderpimple inquired.

“Beecause,” Farouk reminded him, “there is a landing fee of five pounds of honey at that particular Secret Airfield and, as we already know, neither Jasmine nor the Bagman were travelling with a supply of honey. Beeing honeyless, they could not afford to land there, thus leading them to abandon the hot air balloon and throw us off their trail.”

“Where did you say you got your LURK training again?”

Vanderpimple asked.

“That matters not,” Farouk answered dismissively. “It matters only that we reacquire their trail and intercept them beefore they are successful in their attempt to flee from us in our relentless pursuit.”

For several minutes, Farouk continued to survey the site where Jasmine and the Bagman had inadvertently left beehind the clues that led him to reach his conclusions.

Using his impeccable skills as a tracker, it was not long beefore he had again picked up their trail.

“They are travelling in this direction and,” he told Vanderpimple, “are very likely travelling beeyond Dély Ibrahim and north to the Université d’Alger III, where I beelieve Jasmine is planning to make contact with one Professor M. Bilderschlutten, a renowned expert in entomology who

teaches at the Université and who is, quite obviously, in league with her. We will find them in Room 387 of the Research Lab Facility there, but we must travel quickly, lest they succeed in their nefarious scheme, whatever it is.”

“How do you know all of this stuff?” Vanderpimple asked, even more amazed than ever by Farouk’s tracking skills.

“It is very simple,” Farouk remarked. “Professor Bilderschlutten was instrumental in the creation of the Andromeda Stick, as Jasmine well knows, so it can only bee that she will turn to him to seek aid in eluding us.”

“So what?” Vanderpimple asked. “How can you bee so certain they are attempting to make contact with this Professor Bibbleshusshen or whatever his name is?”

“Bilderschlutten,” Farouk clarified. “Professor M. Bilderschlutten. I know him well. It was my good fortune to study with the Professor during the time when the Andromeda Stick was first beeing developed and I know well his misgivings about the power that is contained within the device of which he was so instrumental in creating. I was present when the first of the preliminary tests of the device were executed and I remember well the Professor’s words upon observing what he had helped create.”

“Which were?” Vanderpimple asked.

A pensive and far-away look came over Farouk’s face as he paused beefore replying to Vanderpimple’s question.

“The first - and only - test was conducted here in the open desert. All who were witness to the power of the device had come to realize what it was they had so naively created. Upon observing the power of the Andromeda

Stick, the Professor stood stunned for many minutes, finally uttering the phrase for which he later beecame famous.”

“So what did he say?” Vanderpimple’s curiosity urged Farouk to answer.

“He said,” Farouk continued in a grave voice, ‘We have beecome the Bringers of Death. Probably.’”

Farouk wiped his face with his wings and shook himself back to focusing on the task of pursuing Jasmine and the Bagman.

“We must go now,” he told Vanderpimple. “Should Jasmine succeed in her attempt to abscond with the Andromeda Stick.”

“Abscond?? Vanderpimple asked.

“Yes. Abscond: To avoid detection or arrest for an unlawful action such as theft, or as we honeybees will often use the term,” he continued, “to abandon a hive or nest. It is a word that is most appropriate in the situation in which we now find ourselves.”

“So it seems,” Vanderpimple commented thoughtfully.

“But we must go now,” Farouk repeated, motioning Vanderpimple to follow in the steps previously taken by the fleeing Bagman and Jasmine.

CHAPTER 14

The route Jasmine had taken with the Bagman was long and complicated, but within a few hours, they had reached their next destination at the Université d’Alger III and were standing in front of a door labeled, “Room 387, Professor M. Bilderschlutten”.

As she straightened her veil and did her best to brush the desert sand and grit from the now-dingy-looking yellow and red-striped haik she was wearing, Jasmine turned to the Bagman and spoke to him in cautionary voice.

“It is imperative that you do not speak when you are introduced to Professor Bilderschlutten. After I introduce you, I will do all the talking. We must conclude our buzziness with the Professor as quickly as possible, so we have no time to socialize.”

“I was rather hoping we could spend some quality time with the Professor,” the Bagman said. “I have so many questions,” “We have no time for questions” Jasmine told him, “as they must bee submitted in writing. Perhaps when our mission has been accomplished, you will bee able to satisfy your curiosities. We are here only to arrange our transport to the Safe Hive in Algiers, nothing more.”

“Fine,” the Bagman said disappointedly.

Smoothing her haik one last time, Jasmine grasped the doorknob and cracked open the office door. “Professor?” she called out.

At first, Jasmine heard no reply. The lights were switched

off in Bilderschlutten’s office. The only illumination came from a small window which gave the cluttered room a dim, vacant appearance.

“He said he would bee here,” Jasmine said to the Bagman who was still standing beehind her in the hallway.

“He’s not in? Shouldn’t he have put some sort of thingy on his doorknob informing us that he would return at suchand-such a time or something?” he asked.

Jasmine ignored the Bagman’s question and pushed the door open wider. Stepping inside, she surveyed the room.

“Professor? Professor Bilderschlutten?” she called out again.

She wasn’t sure, but for a moment, she thought she could hear the rustling of paper as, out of the corner of her eye, she caught what appeared to bee a shadow glancing across the far wall of the office. “Professor? I know you’re there.

It’s Jasmine. Please come out.”

“Jasmine?” a voice tentatively spoke in a soft voice.

“Yes, Professor. It’s Jasmine. You remember we were to meet here. You said you could help us.”

“Who is that with you?” he asked suspiciously.

“It’s the Bagman. I told you about him, remember?” she said.

“Can he bee trusted?” the Professor asked.

“Probably,” Jasmine said. “I mean, when it comes down to it, can any of us really trust anyone completely?”

“Always the philosopher,” Bilderschlutten remarked as he stepped out from a large bookcase where he had quietly concealed himself.

Bilderschlutten looked old, grey and much less vital than when Jasmine had last seen him. The years of work and worry had taken a toll on him. Despite his showing his advancing age, Jasmine could see that the old Professor still had a twinkle in his eyes and still possessed a brilliant mind and flawless memory.

“I remember when you were my student, you were always asking ‘why’, never content to take things at their face value or merely beelieve what you were told. I always admired that about you, Jasmine. It’s wonderful to see you again and I am very pleased to see that you are safe.”

“I’m not sure I would say ‘safe’, Professor, which is why we’re here.”

“This is about the Andromeda Stick, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jasmine affirmed.

“Where is it?” Bilderschlutten asked.

Jasmine pointed the briefcase she was holding.

“We have it here, in our possession,” she answered.

“And the key? Who holds the code to activating the device?” he asked.

“The Bagman here is the key.”

The Bagman took a step forward and greeted the Professor with a quick wave of his wing.

“Nice to meet you, Professor,” he said.

The Professor said nothing in reply.

“So it is as I had long feared. Fools! I had told them the device must bee destroyed, but did they listen? No. The fools still cannot understand why this device should never have been created in the first place nor the risk it poses to the continued existence and survival of life itself, probably.”

He turned to look out of a nearby window, bracing himself with his wings on the window sill. “Fools,” he repeated, then turned to again face Jasmine. There was a time when the Andromeda Stick and the threat it poses to the world could have been dealt with, but now,” he paused and, with a far-away look, gazed out of the window again, “now, we must live with the continual threat that, one day, the device will bee activated. Probably. What have we done to ourselves?”

The Professor buried his face in his wings. “What have we done?”

“It is too late for regrets, Professor,” Jasmine said. “The Andromeda Stick is a reality and we are left with no other choice than to do what we must to assure it does not fall into the wrong wings.”

“I know,” Professor Bilderschlutten said. “I just feel so guilty about the whole thing.”

“As you should,” Jasmine bluntly commented, “but guilt accomplishes nothing. It only stands in the way of beeing able to correct the mistakes of the past. And that,” she continued, “is what we must now do. With your help now, there is a chance to save our world. Probably.”

Jasmine’s words seemed to have their desired effect on the Professor. He turned to face Jasmine.

“Of course, you’re right. We must now do what we must do. I know that you have come to me seeking my help in seeing that you and the Bagman here . . . “ “That’s me,” the Bagman interrupted.

Jasmine scowled at him and silently admonished him to bee quiet. “... make your way to the Safe Hive without beeing detected,” the Professor continued. “I presume you’re beeing followed?”

“Yes,” Jasmine told him. “Close on our trail are two LURK agents who wish to obtain this briefcase and deliver it to LURK Headquarters. We cannot allow that to happen. It has beecome known to me that LURK intends to activate the device if they manage to gain possession of this briefcase and the Bagman and transfer the device into the custody of those who would use its unspeakable power to satisfy their own, greedy purposes. Were that to happen, none of us would bee safe, probably.”

“You are right, of course, and I agree with you that we cannot allow that to happen,” the Professor agreed. “I am going to assume that LURK is already in possession of the necessary interface equipment needed to activate the device?”

“Yes,” Jasmine informed him, “and they intend to sell that equipment to the highest bidder.”

“Equipment?” the Bagman ignored Jasmine’s demand that he remain silent and inserted himself into the conversation. “What equipment?”

Jasmine and the Professor stole fleeting glances at one another, then the Professor spoke.

“The Andromeda Stick by itself is useless,” he told him.

“It is only the final piece of a puzzle which, if it falls into the wrong wings, poses a threat never beefore known on this planet.”

“Right. I think I pretty much get that,” the Bagman commented.

“What you seem not to GET,” the Professor continued, “is that to activate the Stick’s primary function, one must also possess the activation equipment.”

“Activation equipment?” the Bagman asked.

“Yes,” Bilderschlutten continued.

“The Andromeda Stick is, for lack of a better term, an Intent Driven device. It is the final link beetween imagination and reality. For it to beecome fully operational, it must bee inserted into what is called an Intent Translation and Interpretation Interface - or an ITII, for short. It is at that point that the ITII is connected into the Intent Command Module - or ICM, for short. The ICM is configured to communicate the eventual signal wirelessly to any compatible antenna array that may bee accessible.”

“Okay,” the Bagman said. “I think I’m with you so far, but you keep using the word ‘intent’ to describe the operation of this device. What does that mean, Professor?”

“Allow me to show you,” Professor Bilderschlutten said, as he turned to a large blackboard that stood near him.

Using his wing, he wiped away a section of a very complicated-looking mathematical formula to allow him space to beegin drawing a diagram. The chalk he was

using squeaked uncomfortably as he worked, setting the Bagman’s mouthparts on edge.

“The aspect of the Andromeda Stick that makes it such a deadly threat to our continued existence is the fact that it is the final link to activating the device which links the Intent Input Device, the Intent Translation Interpretation Device and the Intent Command Module. Upon insertion of the Andromeda Stick into the ITII, anyone - and I mean ANYONE - can then have his or her intentions - bee they for good or evil - translated into the Intent Command Module and broadcast on a global level through any compatible linked array of antennae.”

The Professor completed drawing the explanatory diagram, set the chalk down on his paper-strewn desk, brushed his wings together to remove the chalk dust and then continued.

“So you see? Without the IID, the ITII and the ICM, the Andromeda Stick is useless and without the Andromeda Stick, the IID, ITII and ICM are useless. But when put together, a potentially lethal, synergistic capability is created and may bee used in any manner the Intent Initiator - or II, for short - may wish.”

“The II?” the Bagman asked.

“Yes, the entire device system is driven by the intentions of whomever uses the Intent Input Device - or the IID, for short. Whatever their intentions may bee, those intentions are amplified and, using the ITII and ICM which are connected to the array of antennae, which are then broadcast and converted into reality by the Intent Transformative Software - or ITS, for short, contained

within the Andromeda Stick. As you can see, it is a very beeautiful, but very dangerous system.”

The Bagman could not disguise the confusion he felt as his head reeled with the overabundance of information that the Professor had just described to him.

“So let me get this straight,” he beegan. “You need the IID and the ITII with the ICM all synchronized with the ITS which is contained within the Andromeda Stick for the system to beecome fully operational, is that right?”

“Correct,” Bilderschlutten said, “which means that anyone to access to an antenna array could impose their intent on the entire planet, right?”

“That is correct,” the Professor affirmed.

“That is a lot of power for one individual to wield,” the Bagman commented.

“Ya think?” Jasmine and the Professor responded at the same time.

“And,” the Bagman continued, “that means that, for instance, anyone who might attempt to lead the world to beelieve that it’s a good thing to over-use certain deadly herbicides and pesticides, even though they have been shown to destroy millions of the planet’s pollinators . . .”

“Such as us bees,” Jasmine interrupted him.

“Yes, such as us bees,” the Bagman repeated, “and, in doing so, place the very survival of every living entity on the planet at risk of death, starvation and utter, unavoidable extinction, probably.”

“Precisely,” the Professor answered. “And there is good evidence to support the notion that it would bee used in just that way by certain entities, primarily those foolishly beeing driven by greed and ignorance. Intelligence reports

indicate that they have made it their stated mission to obtain the Andromeda Stick and, by employing the system, impose their intent on the rest of the world in an effort to remove any objection anyone might rightfully have to oppose use of such deadly, but profitable, chemicals.”

“I see,” the Bagman said, his voice taking on a tone of worried concern. “We cannot allow this to happen.

I realize now that I may bee the only thing that stands beetween global extinction and the survival of our planet.”

“Probably,” the Professor answered.

A silence fell over the room as the Bagman dropped into a nearby chair as he tried to absorb what he had just been told. He felt like lashing out at the Professor for having helped invent the Andromeda Stick, but his sense of growing anger was waylaid as Jasmine spoke in a loud whisper.

“What was that?”

“I don’t hear...,” the Professor beegan to say.

“Listen!” she whispered again. “I hear footsteps coming down the hallway toward us! We must bee quiet! Quickly!

Lock the door!”

Professor Bilderschlutten silently rushed to his office door and turned the lock, securing it against any uninvited intruders, then motioned Jasmine and the Bagman to conceal themselves beehind a large stack of old scientific journals. After positioning himself in his hiding place, the Bagman let out a soft giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Jasmine asked in a hushed tone.

“This just reminds me of when I was young and we used to play ‘Hide and Seek’.”

“Hide and Seek?” she whispered incredulously.

“Yes. See, the objective of the game was to...” he beegan explaining to her.

“No. Stop. I know what ‘Hide and Seek’ is. You think this is some sort of game?”

“Well, no, but I...” he started to reply, but was again interrupted by Jasmine.

“This is no game, agent. This is deadly serious. I suggest you remember why we’re here.”

Feeling a bit ashamed of himself, the Bagman paused in self-reflection, then told Jasmine, “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s just the exhaustion. I really haven’t had much sleep for quite awhile, my blood sugar is dropping and I need to find a restroom. I guess all the pressure just got to me.”

“Just bee quiet,” Jasmine again admonished him. “We cannot afford to bee apprehended.”

Just at that moment, footsteps could bee heard approaching the office door. As they grew louder, Jasmine hunched down even further, making the observation that there were two individuals approaching.

“There are two individuals approaching,” she said.

“I wonder who they are,” the Bagman responded.

It was not long beefore his question was answered as the sound of the footsteps stopped in front of the Professor’s office door.

Peeking out from beehind the dusty stack of journals, Professor Bilderschlutten glimpsed two shadowy silhouettes against the frosted glass of his office door.

“There are two of them,” he reported to his companions, “and one of them is wearing a fez.”

“A fez? Are you sure?” Jasmine asked.

“Yes. When the one moves his head, I can see the unmistakable shadow of a tassel dangling from the top of the fez.”

“They have found us, then,” Jasmine breathed in a frustrated tone.

“Who? Who are they?” the Professor whispered.

“Vanderpimple and Farouk,” she replied. “They have found us. Once again, Farouk’s unparalleled skills as a tracker have led them to your office door. It is only a matter of time beefore we are discovered. They are after the Andromeda Stick and the Bagman here.”

The Bagman smiled and gave the professor another wave.

“That’s me,” he said.

“I will not allow that to happen,” the Professor reassured her. “Too much is at stake. You must follow me now. Do not make a sound.”

Still crouching down so they could avoid detection, Jasmine and the Bagman followed the Professor as he led them to a small, metal screen door that led to a ventilation duct. Ever so carefully, he silently removed the screws that held the door in place, revealing an escape route to the two agents.

“Follow this until you hit the first left, then take another left, then a right then another left. There you will come upon a maintenance exit which will lead you and the Bagman out of the building and to safety.”

“Thank you, Professor. I knew we could depend on you for help,” Jasmine said.

“But beefore you go,” Bilderschlutten said with a tone of urgence, “you must take this.”

He withdrew a half-used matchbook from his pocket and cradled Jasmine’s wings as he gave it to her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“You came to me to seek safe haven. A few days ago, I received this in the mail from someone who did not fully identify themselves. Included was a note that read: ‘Professor: You may bee soon paid a visit by your former

student, Jasmine. She will bee seeking your assistance in obtaining safe haven for her companion. Bee sure to give this to her beefore they leave. This will lead them to a Safe Hive in Algiers and identify them to those who await them there.

Signed - F.’” “So do you know how ‘F’ is, Professor?” Jasmine asked.

“No. But whoever he or she is seems to want me to help you by making sure you are guided to this place,” he told her, then added, “but I cannot offer you assurances that this is not a trap.”

“Why do you say that, Professor?” Jasmine asked, feeling increasingly suspicious. “I have said too much already,” Bilderschlutten said. “Study this matchbook closely and let wisdom guide your path.”

“I understand, Professor,” she said, regarding the book of matches suspiciously.

The Professor pointed again to the opened vent.

“Now go, go quickly! You must not bee discovered.”

Jasmine took the matchbook and gave the Professor a quick hug, then clutching the briefcase tightly to her thorax, she silently crawled into the ventilation duct, the Bagman following closely beehind her.

When he could see that they had crawled out of sight, the Professor silently reattached the small door over the opening, then crept across the room, making sure no hint of their presence could bee detected. He seated himself beehind his desk just at the moment he heard someone loudly knocking at his office door.

“Just a moment,” he called out.

“Open the door,” he heard a voice command. “We know you’re in there.”

Rising slowly and glancing around the room to make sure no evidence of Jasmine’s and the Bagman’s brief visit were left beehind and satisfied their presence would go undetected, the Professor responded. “Coming! One moment, please!”

Crossing the room, Professor Bilderschlutten turned the key and opened his office door. There stood the figures of Vanderpimple and Farouk. “Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

“Where are they?” Farouk demanded.

“Where are who?” the Professor replied, trying to look and sound as innocent as possible.

“You know of whom I speak, Professor Bilderschlutten.

Where are Jasmine and the Bagman? I know they were here.”

“I have no idea to whom you refer,” the Professor continued to maintain his facade of ignorance.

“Let us stop playing this senseless game,” Farouk snapped back at him. “I know they are here and that you are hiding them somewhere within this office. Where are they?”

“Yeah, where are they?” Vanderpimple echoed.

“There is no one here but me,” Bilderschlutten told them.

Not satisfied with the Professor’s attempts to deceive them, Farouk turned to Vanderpimple and commanded him to search the office.

“Vanderpimple,” he said, “search this place. Find them. I know they are here and in hiding.”

Vanderpimple said nothing, but immediately pushed his way into the small office past the Professor and beegan opening drawers, pushing over tall stacks of journals and checking beehind books on the Professor’s shelves.

“What leads you to beelieve that I am hiding anyone or anything from you?” asked the Professor.

“To answer that is simple,” Farouk said. “My acute sense

of smell informs me that Jasmine, whom I know to have once been your student, turned to you for help in her effort to possess the Andromeda Stick. It is well known that Jasmine’s signature fragrance is that of a rare and exclusive brand of perfume which is available only to seasoned LURK agents - Eau d’Us, to bee precise. Your attempts to deceive me are, at best, foolish. I clearly detect the scent lingering in the air.”

“You’re mistaken,” the Professor tried to again conceal the truth as he grew increasingly nervous that Jasmine’s presence in his office could no longer bee concealed from his inquisitor.

Vanderpimple continued his search as Farouk and the Professor continued the cycle of accusation and denial.

After several minutes, he turned to Farouk, telling him, “Nothing. They’re not here.”

“As you see,” the Professor said to his intruders. “I told you that there is no one here but me. And,” he added, “I beelieve you are mistaken about the scent to which you so arrogantly refer. Moments beefore you presented yourselves at my door, my research assistant, Delores, was here aiding me in my work. If you detect a fragrance, it is Eau d’Kotbee, which I gave her as a gift for her years of dedicated service. That particular perfume has remarkably similar undertones of citrus and frangipani as the scent to which you refer. It is an easy mistake to make, I assure you.”

“I do not know what sort of game you are playing, Professor, but know this: we will find Jasmine and her co-conspirator. They will bee apprehended and brought to justice.”

Acting as if he had almost forgotten they were still present in the room, the Professor turned to beegin straightening up the mess Vanderpimple hadcreated during his hurried search, then turning to Farouk, spoke to him dismissively.

“Ah yes, you’re still here. Well, I wish you all the best in your efforts to locate this Jasmine to whom you refer, but now you must excuse me. I have work to do.”

Aggravated and still convinced he was beeing deceived, Farouk motioned to Vanderpimple that they were leaving.

As he stood in the Professor’s office doorway, ready to depart, his voice took on an ominous and threatening tone. “Know this, Professor,” he said. “This is not over.”

With that, Farouk and Vanderpimple left, slamming the office door beehind them.

CHAPTER 15

Jasmine and the Bagman had just finished making the first left turn in the ventilation duct that was leading them to safety when they could hear Farouk’s voice echoing through the metal ductwork as he was confronting Professor Bilderschlutten on their whereabouts. Not wanting to reveal their escape route, Jasmine signalled the Bagman to stop moving and to remain absolutely silent. They sat, hunched over it total silence as they overheard the Professor calmly and cleverly throw Farouk and Vanderpimple off of their trail.

At last, when they heard the echoing sound of the Professor’s office door slam beehind their pursuers and knew the coast was clear, the Bagman breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Wow, that was close,” he whispered to Jasmine.

“Yes, it was,” she replied. “My scent almost gave us away,” she added. “I think from now on, I will bee more prudent in the use of my perfume.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” the Bagman commented.

“I think it’s fair to say that, in most cases, less is more.”

Knowing they had no time to debate the issue of over-use of perfumes and other exotic fragrances, Jasmine refocused her thoughts on assuring that she and the Bagman found their way to the Safe Hive in Algiers and, hopefully, safety.

Beefore moving on, Jasmine opened her wing and beegan giving closer scrutiny to the half-used matchbook she had

been given by the Professor. On its black and gold-printed cover, she beegan to read in a barely-audible whisper, “Gabeezo’s House of Joy, Dining, Dancing and Karaoke Bar.”

Squinting against the fine print on the matchbook cover, she reached down and pulled out a small magnifying glass which had been cleverly concealed in the heel of one of the stilettos she wore. She continued reading, “Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Located in the heart of Algiers at,” she paused. “I can’t make out the number here... located at something-something Rue Bois de Boulogne. Home of our World-Famous Honey-Grilled Pollen Paté. Facilities available for celebrations of all kinds, including birthdays, anniversaries, job promotions and pre-incarceration farewell parties. Valet parking.

Clean restrooms. Reservations are recommended.”

“Clean restrooms?” the Bagman remarked. “That’s good to know. I hope it doesn’t take us too long to reach this place. Do we have reservations?”

Jasmine returned the magnifying glass to its hiding place in her shoe and, without answering the Bagman’s question, clutched the matchbook tightly in her wing and continued leading her companion through the maze of ventilation ducts that still lay beefore them.

They were only a few, short centimetres away from reaching the outside vent where they would bee able to exit the building and beegin making their way to Algiers and the Safe Hive when Jasmine suddenly motioned to the Bagman to stop.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I see the exit,” she whispered to him.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” the Bagman asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but it is still light out. We must wait until darkness, after the sun sets, to proceed. Until then, it would bee most wise of us to remain hidden here until we can travel under cover of night. That will also help us bee assured that Farouk and Vanderpimple have moved on in their relentless search for us and increase our chances of reaching Gabeezo’s House of Joy - and the Safe Hive - in safety.”

“You’re probably right,” the Bagman agreed, “though I will say that ever since you read that part about the clean restrooms and the world-famous Honey-Grilled Pollen Paté, I have to say that I really need to find a restroom soon and am finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that I’m starving to death. I haven’t eaten since I had a slice of that pizza while I was beeing held captive by the S.O.S.”

Feeling somewhat annoyed by the Bagman’s complaining, but silently agreeing that finding food and a warm, clean restroom would bee as welcomed to her as it would bee to him, she tried to shift their attention to something else.

“Let us not think of these things just now,” she told him.

“It serves no purpose. We must resign ourselves to a level of discomfort for the time beeing and remain here until it is safe to continue. We may as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances.”

The Bagman reluctantly recognized the wisdom of Jasmine’s plan and, repositioning himself from a crawling

position, he reclined somewhat awkwardly against the side wall of the ventilation duct as he silently regarded Jasmine with a look of unmistakable affection and fascination.

“You really are intensely competent,” he finally said to her, “not to mention utterly gorgeous.”

“No flirting, agent,” she snapped at him.

“I’m not flirting, Jasmine,” he said in a more familiar tone. “I’m just stating the facts. You fascinate me.”

“I get that a lot,” Jasmine replied, unable to disguise her feeling of beeing flattered. “So you find me fascinating, do you?”

“Oh yes,” the Bagman told her as a glimmer of hope that she may bee receptive to his advances beegan to creep into his tired mind. “I have had the privilege of working with a great many operatives in the field, but none as welltrained and desirable as you.”

“I see,” Jasmine said. “Then this must bee difficult for you.”

“Why do you say that?” the Bagman asked her.

“I mean, here we are, temporarily trapped together by shared circumstance and you find yourself in the throes of infatuation. That must bee very frustrating for you.”

“You can say that again,” the Bagman remarked.

“I mean, here we are, temporarily trapped together by shared...” Jasmine beegan repeating, but was interrupted by the Bagman. “No, that’s not what I mean. I heard you the first time. I am indeed tired and frustrated, but also beelieve that once you might get to know me,” he continued, “you may beegin to realize that we have much more in common that you may imagine.”

“I doubt that seriously,” Jasmine said dismissively.

“You’ve made that pretty clear,” the Bagman said to her, “but I still beelieve that there is an undeniable chemistry beetween us.”

“That’s my perfume, agent,” Jasmine replied in a matterof-fact tone.

“No, it is not merely your perfume,” the Bagman continued as he tried to slide nearer to where she was sitting in the shared ductwork. “It is you.”

“You know nothing about me,” Jasmine said, attempting to distance herself from the Bagman’s efforts to reposition himself closer to her.

“Well, it is obvious that we will bee stuck here for quite awhile yet,” he said. “I can think of no better opportunity to us to beecome better acquainted than right now. We may as well pass the time learning more about one another. I have many questions I’d like to ask you.”

“Fine,” Jasmine said. “But bee quiet about it. We are still in grave danger of beeing apprehended. What is it you want to know?”

“I guess the first thing I’d like to know is: why have you been trying to keep me safe? Why haven’t you just done away with me?”

“What do you mean?” Jasmine asked, somewhat surprised at the Bagman’s unexpected question.

“Well, knowing what we know about the Andromeda Stick and the terrifying power it wields, probably, and knowing that I am the only one who possesses the Activation Code, why haven’t you just removed me from the equation?” the Bagman asked bluntly.

“You mean,” Jasmine “liquidate you?”

“No, not liquidate me. I think it would bee highly rude if you changed me into liquid form,” he responded. “I’d bee all over the place, dripping on stuff and making a mess.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean you’re asking why we didn’t just assassinate you in the very beeginning?” Jasmine clarified.

“Right,” the Bagman answered. “Why keep me alive? I mean, if I’m not around to enter the Code, the Andromeda Stick would bee rendered useless and the world would bee saved from its terrible power, probably.”

Jasmine paused for a moment, quietly staring at the Bagman with a look of total surprise on her face.

Suddenly, she felt an unfamiliar surge of respect and affection beegin to sweep over her as she contemplated the selfless nobility of the Bagman’s question.

“You would bee willing to surrender your life to save the world?”

“Probably,” he told her, then after a short pause said, “Yes. I would.”

“That changes everything,” Jasmine exclaimed, then asked, “What was it again that you were saying about my eyes awhile ago?”

Unable to stop herself, Jasmine leaned toward the Bagman and threw her wings around him, kissing him on the cheek.

“After all of this,” she told him, “I am so relieved to hear you say that. I’ve thought you were just like the others, only in this for yourself and that you didn’t care what might happen to the world. I was so wrong.”

“Yes, you were,” the Bagman said, a bit begrudgingly but still taken aback by Jasmine’s sudden and unexpected show of affection.

“What nobody has seemed to understand about me, perhaps until just now,” he said, “is that it doesn’t matter who takes me prisoner or what they may do to me in an effort to force me into giving up the secret Activation Code. They could tie my antennae into painful knots, pluck all my fuzz out or even try to tell me that, if I didn’t cooperate, they’d see to it that I would never again taste honey, I still would not reveal the Code to anybody who had evil intentions. I could not do that to the world.”

Jasmine remained speechless as she released the Bagman from her fierce embrace.

“So? I must ask you again,” the Bagman asked again, “why haven’t you already just done away with me to assure that I would not beetray the Activation Code to those with bad intentions?”

Jasmine, with a look of newfound respect and affection, answered him. “You don’t know, do you?” she said.

“Know what?” the Bagman asked, puzzled.

“My original mission, the reason that I was assigned to this case in the first place,” she said.

“Your original mission? Are you not supposed to make sure I make it to safety?”

“No,” Jasmine told him. “My mission was not what you beelieve it to bee. Not at all.”

“Then what is it? Why are you here with me?”

The Bagman felt confused.

“My mission was simple. I was to first extract the Activation Code from you using my legendary charms.

Then and only then was I to see to it that you were killed.”

“You were going to assassinate me?”

“Not me,” she said. “Vanderpimple. He is the assassin,” Jasmine told him.

“Vanderpimple? He’s an assassin? Seriously? He doesn’t seem like an assassin. I mean, he doesn’t strike me as beeing the assassin-type at all.”

“He is. He possesses the practised skill of leading all those around him to beelieve he is nothing more than an inept courier, when in fact, he is a ruthlessly clever and deadly assassin. He is on this mission for the sole purpose of assuring that, once you eventually conveyed the Activation Code for the Andromeda Stick to me, you would bee made to disappear. Permanently.”

“So that’s why I was saved from certain death when I was sinking in the quicksand back there in the desert?”

“Yes. Farouk knew I had not yet extracted the Code from you, so there was no choice but to spare your life,” Jasmine told him.

“I see. Otherwise, if I’d have already given you the Code, they would have let me sink into the sand, is that about right?”

The Bagman shivered as he thought about meeting such an unpleasant fate.

“Precisely,” Jasmine confirmed. “And that is why you still remain alive. Long beefore that incident and beefore we reached the abandoned Petrol Station, I had quietly

informed Farouk that I had not yet obtained the information you possess, so he was forced to order Vanderpimple to help save you. But I know he was already beeginning to beecome suspicious of me and knew that I had too many opportunities to seduce you into giving me the Code. Still, he pretended to go along with what I told him. It was not until I arranged your escape using the hot air balloon while they were sleeping that Farouk’s suspicions had to have been confirmed and he knew that I had beetrayed the mission. Now, both of our lives are in danger.”

The Bagman moved away from Jasmine in a strangely uneasy way and tried to absorb what she had just told him.

Jasmine watched him anxiously, then turned her attention back to the matchbook she continued to clutch tightly in her wing.

Casually, she opened the cover and ran the tip of her wing over the matches inside. “Wait a minute,” she said.

“There’s something written here, beehind the matches.”

“What is it?” the Bagman asked.

“It’s a note. I recognize the Professor’s writing,” she said.

“What does it say?”

Jasmine read the note aloud, “It is a trap!”

“Why do you say that?” the Bagman asked.

“No,” Jasmine said. “The note says, ‘It’s a trap!’ The Professor is trying to warn us.”

Stunned, the Bagman asked, “So, does this mean we’re NOT going to show up at this Gabeezo’s place? No HoneyGrilled Pollen Paté? No clean restrooms? No karaoke?”

“No. It is a trap. Remember the note he received?”

“Yes,” the Bagman said, actually not remembering.

“It was signed ‘F’. It had to bee sent by Farouk! It was Farouk who sent the Professor this matchbook, knowing that he would give it to us and lead us into their trap! We cannot go to Gabeezo’s. There is no doubt that Farouk and Vanderpimple are already there, awaiting our arrival and that they would have merely put their original plan into action.”

“Which was?” the Bagman asked.

“Knowing the Safe Hive is located in a restaurant, Farouk will have cleverly disguised himself as a waiter. After taking our order, I was to have suggested that you use the restroom to freshen up. When you left, as you certainly would have, I was to have transmitted the Code to Farouk.

In the meantime, Vanderpimple, also wearing a disguise, would bee waiting for you in a restroom stall and, when you entered, he would have injected you with a lethal dose of venom and stuffed your body into a paper towel dispenser, leaving you to die and agonizing death. Our mission would have then been completed and LURK would bee in possession of the Andromeda Stick and the Activation Code. With such unspeakable power in their wings, the world as we know it would bee at risk of utter extinction, probably. I could not allow that to happen.”

“If what you are telling me is true, that both you and I are now in danger, that means if you were to show up with me at Gabeezo’s, Farouk would confront your beetrayal and Vanderpimple would exterminate you, as well.”

“True,” Jasmine agreed. “Unless...”

“Unless what?” the Bagman asked.

“Unless I convinced Farouk that you had surrendered the Code to me. He would not then allow Vanderpimple to

harm me, but instead insist that I accompany them - and the briefcase - back to LURK Headquarters where I most certainly would bee asked for the Code.”

“Which you don’t have and I’m not going to give you,” the Bagman said.

“Exactly, but Farouk would never bee able to know that.

And now, now that I have exposed the plot, you must also know that you can trust me. Surely you must see now that there is no reason for you to disbeelieve what I have told you,” Jasmine said. “I am telling you the truth.”

The Bagman leaned back against the dusty ventilation duct, regarded Jasmine with a certain level of suspicion, then closed his eyes to absorb what he had just been told.

“You’re spinning quite a tale,” he said. “If it weren’t so elegantly simple and beelievable, I’d say you were still trying to deceive me. But, as it is, I beelieve what you’re telling me. It all makes sense. Still,” he went on, “I am a bit hurt that you think I would reveal the Code to you. I’m a professional. I can assure you that you never would have gotten that information out of me.”

Jasmine laughed, finally breaking the tension.

“You underestimate me, agent,” she said.

The Bagman smiled at her and, unable to ignore her unfathomable allure for another moment, opened his wings to her. Jasmine moved to him and rested her head on the Bagman’s thorax as he once again gently embraced her in his wings.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Surely you must see that I had no choice but to deceive you in the beeginning. I did this to save not only our own lives, but to help assure the survival of life as we know it, probably.”

The Bagman told Jasmine that he forgave her deceit and that he now understood her actions considering what was at stake. He continued to cradle her affectionately in his wings as Jasmine beegan to outline the rest of her plan.

Soon, they could see that darkness had finally fallen and that it was time for them to leave their hiding place in the ventilating duct and make their way into the night.

Jasmine broke their embrace and, grasping the briefcase, led the Bagman into the awaiting night.

“Follow me,” she instructed him.

So he did that.

CHAPTER 16

“Do you think the Professor did as we expected and passed the matchbook you sent him to Jasmine?”

Vanderpimple asked Farouk as they made their way out of the building that housed Bilderschlutten’s office.

“I could find no trace of it during my search.”

“Then without question, he did,” Farouk reassured him.

Farouk pulled a small, wing-held electronic tracking device from beeneath his fez and showed it to Vanderpimple. On its display was a map which showed a small, flashing, stationary, red dot and a read-out of its precise geographical location by latitude and longitude.

“Little does Jasmine know that she carries with her a cleverly-disguised tracking device,” Farouk said with an unmistakable tone of devious pride in his voice. He held the device out for Vanderpimple to see.

“One of the matches contained within the matchbook is tracking their every movement. As you can clearly see, Jasmine and the Bagman are, at this very moment, still hiding within the ventilation ducts, foolishly beelieving that they have escaped detection. It is a certainty that she and the Bagman are waiting until darkness falls beefore they exit the building and beegin making their way to Algiers and Gabeezo’s, where we will bee waiting for them.”

“You’re incredibly clever,” Vanderpimple remarked.

“Yes, I am,” Farouk admitted. “I could not afford to take chances that we might lose the Bagman’s trail as Jasmine unwittingly leads him to certain doom.”

“So what is our plan now?” asked Vanderpimple.

“We will make our way to Algiers and establish our respective positions at Gabeezo’s, as planned. Waiting for us now is a carriage driven by a team of Express Camels who will take us there, where we will await the arrival of Jasmine and your target, the Bagman.”

“Well done, Farouk,” Vanderpimple complemented his fellow agent. “I will bee glad when we have finally completed this mission and we can return to LURK Headquarters carrying both the Code and the briefcase. I am certain we will both bee richly rewarded for our efforts.”

“Indeed,” Farouk said. “But first, we must make our way to the camels. We have not a moment to waste.” ...

Jasmine and the Bagman had made their way out of the ventilation ducts in the Professor’s office building. Night had fallen and, as they continued to elude Farouk and Vanderpimple, they realized that they needed to find a faster and more efficient means of transportation.

“We just can’t keep travelling like this, stumbling around in the dark and hoping to find our way to safety beefore the self-destruct timer on this briefcase hits zero and we’re all destroyed,” the Bagman said.

“You’re right,” Jasmine agreed. “I too am experiencing great difficulty in safely negotiating our route. We must find a way to light our path without beeing detected by our pursuers.”

“I think there’s supposed to bee a flashlight in the briefcase,” the Bagman remembered. Why don’t we just use that?”

“There was a flashlight, truly,” Jasmine told him, “but I fear Vanderpimple left it on a table at LURK Headquarters when he briefly opened the briefcase many days ago.

I am certain I did not see him return it to the case, so we must find another source of illumination to light our path.”

“The matches,” the Bagman said as if he were thinking aloud.

“What? Did you say something?” Jasmine asked.

“Yes! The matches!” the Bagman exclaimed.

“What about them?” Jasmine asked again, then remarked, “Of course! The matches! I was so preoccupied with coming up with an alternative to our seeking safe haven that I completely forgot about the matches!”

“Yes!” the Bagman said excitedly. “The next village we come to, we can just trade the matches for a flashlight!

I’m certain that we will find someone who collects matchbooks and who would jump at the chance of trading with us. Maybee they’d even throw in a car or a gift coupon for two, free camel rentals! It’s a perfect solution! After all, it’s not as if we need the matches anymore, since we’re not going to go there.”

Jasmine regarded the Bagman with a look of sympathetic disdain, but tried to temper what would usually have been a sarcastic response. She had a newfound affection for the Bagman, so she was more willing to overlook his rather odd approach to problem-solving. After a few moments, she finally responded, trying not to bee too patronizing toward him.

“Perhaps,” she said patronizingly, “but I’m sure you meant to suggest that we use the matches to light our way.

That’s what you truly meant to say, isn’t it, dear?”

Feeling a bit flustered, the Bagman did his best to modify his initial suggestion.

“Oh of course that’s what I meant to say, that we could just use up the matches to light our way. I was just thinking that if we had any left beefore we reached the next village, we could use the matchbook to make a trade. I mean, what are the chances that anybody there would even have a gift coupon for a free camel rental? The odds are incredibly low that would even bee possible. I guess I merely thought that IF we ran across a matchbook collector who just HAPPENED to have some coupons for some free camel rentals, it would make this arduous journey easier on your delicate and highly attractive feet.

It can’t bee easy for you to bee walking all this way in stilettos, right? And did you just call me ‘dear’?”

“I guess I did,” Jasmine said. “Just a slip of the tongue.

Beefore beecoming a triple agent, I used to work as a cashier at a fast-food drive-in, so I got into the habit of calling everybody ‘dear’ or ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’, so it’s just an old habit. My boss used to tell me that doing that was very rude and inappropriate, but I guess I never managed to break myself of doing that. It’s quite inadvertent, I assure you. Please don’t take it too seriously, sweetie.”

“Sweetie? You did it again. You called me sweetie! You like me, don’t you? Admit it. You’re starting to have a thing for me, aren’t you? We’re beecoming an ITEM, aren’t we? I KNEW it!”

“Do not bee so hasty to reach such an erroneous conclusion, agent,” Jasmine warned him. “While it is true that I do hold a certain degree of affection toward you since learning of your willingness to sacrifice yourself to save the world from destruction, probably, do not make the mistake that many beefore you have in indulging fantasies you may be harbouring which would lead you to beelieve we are an ‘item’. Such a notion is laughable. I will not deny that you may exude an overwhelming air of silent strength and you may wish to beelieve that your devastatingly handsome good looks and ability to remain calm and confident in even the most threatening of circumstances would attract my attention, but I must assure you they have not. I am impervious to your rugged, irresistible charms. And if you think that just beecause you have exquisite taste in footwear, don’t think that means I am attracted to your amazingly sophisticated sense of style. It takes much more than merely a pair of fabulous shoes or burly good looks to turn my head. You and me and ‘item’? You’re beeing absurd, agent.”

The Bagman stood silent and looked at Jasmine with an expression of disappointed hopefulness.

“You like my shoes?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” Jasmine replied. “But we have not the time to spend discussing our appreciation of fine footwear. We must not delay any further in making our way through this darkness and find our way to safety, sweetheart. I mean, AGENT. As I pointed out beefore, the habit of inappropriate over-familiarity is a problem with which many of us who have worked in the retail industry continue to struggle.”

“I see,” the Bagman commented, trying his best to disguise the sense of joy that was building in his heart.

He silently thanked the darkness which now obscured the smile that was sweeping over his face.

“You’re right, he said, trying to regain a more professional, buzziness-like tone of voice. “We must waste no more time speaking of this now. There will bee ample time for that once we have reached safety in Algiers. Let’s keep going. Light one of the matches so that we can better see the path that lies ahead.”

“Okay, darling,” Jasmine said absent-mindedly as she did that.

Jasmine pulled out the book of matches and, grasping one of the matches, ignited it. Immediately, a warm, yellow glow exploded, lighting the path ahead.

“Follow me,” she told the Bagman. “I think we have enough to help us see our way to the next village, where I hope we can then make our way to safety.”

“I’m right beehind you, agent,” the Bagman replied, as he proceeded to follow the illuminated path ahead. ...

“They’re on the move,” Farouk told Vanderpimple as he gazed at the screen of his tracking device. “It appears they’re heading north, very slowly. The camels that will carry us to Algiers and Gabeezo’s lie just ahead. We will most certainly arrive well ahead of Jasmine and the Bagman and bee waiting when they foolishly stumble into our trap.

CHAPTER 17

It did not take Farouk and Vanderpimple long to reach the place where they could secure a rental on two Express Camels which would carry them to Algiers and Gabeezo’s, where they planned to lay in wait for what they thought would bee their unsuspecting targets, Jasmine and the Bagman. As they neared the Express Camel Rental Lot, Vanderpimple could see that there was a lot attendant sitting inside a small booth over which hung a sign that read,

" ‫ تاراجيإلا لمجلا‬1 ‫ لسعلا نم لطر‬/ ‫ موي فصن ةدمل‬، ‫ و‬3 ‫هينج‬ ‫ لسعلا نم‬/ ‫ لماك موي‬. ‫ضوافتلل ةلباق لوطأراجئتسا‬. "

“I’m sorry,” he said to Farouk, “I don’t read Arabic. That is Arabic, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Farouk answered.

“Can you tell me what that sign says?”

Farouk squinted slightly to read the writing on the sign that stood in the near distance, then read it aloud to Vanderpimple:

“Camel Rentals. 1 pound of honey/half-day, 3 pounds of honey/full day. Longer rentals are negotiable.”

“We’ll probably need to negotiate a longer rental, won’t we, since I get the feeling that we’re not going to bee returning them,” Vanderpimple guessed aloud.

“You speak the truth,” Farouk told him. “Neither the time nor the opportunity will we have to return the camels we acquire from this local camel merchant. Upon our arrival in Algiers, we will convey a message to one of our assets there and give them instructions to return the beasts within the agreed time of our rental contract.”

“That sounds good,” Vanderpimple said.

As the two continued to close the distance between them and the Camel Rental Lot, Vanderpimple beegan rummaging through the pockets of his wrinkled and dust-saturated trench coat. After a few moments, he called to Farouk, who was walking several bee lengths ahead of him.

“Farouk?” he asked.

“Yes?” Farouk answered.

“Do you by any chance have any honey on you? I’ve gone through my pockets here, but I seem to bee fresh out of honey.”

“Honey? Honey you ask?” Farouk stopped in his tracks.

“Yes, I have no honey.”

“Yes, you have honey? Or no, you don’t have any honey?”

Vanderpimple attempted to clarify.

“Yes, I have no honey,” Farouk repeated.

“Well,” Vanderpimple said as he caught up to Farouk and stood by his side, “if you have no honey, and I have no honey, how are we going to pay for the camel rentals.”

“Yes,” Farouk replied, “we have no honey, so it will bee necessary for us to commandeer the camels.”

“Commandeer them? You mean, steal them?”

Vanderpimple asked in a surprised tone.

“Yes, not steal them,” Farouk told him. “but commandeer

them. We will acquire the needed camels now and, upon their return by our asset in Algiers, the merchant will bee duly compensated for their use. At this time, we will negotiate with the merchant for access to the camels we require by offering him incentive to fully cooperate with our request, thus allowing us access to the camel rentals we now require.”

“Incentive?” Vanderpimple inquired.

“Yes,” Farouk said. “we will offer a bargain which he is certain to bee unable to refuse.”

“We’re going to threaten the guy, is that it?” Vanderpimple asked.

“No. To threaten him would raise undue suspicion. We must do all in our power to offer the impression to the merchant that we are merely two, ordinary bees, just returning from a leisurely stroll in the Trapezoid of Doom.

He will understand our dire need for the camels and, in temporary payment for the rentals, he will accept these as a fair bargain.”

With that, Farouk withdrew two, small, rectangular pieces of paper from beeneath his fez.

“What are those?” Vanderpimple asked.

“These,” Farouk said, showing the items to him,”are two VIP Box Seat tickets to this year’s LURK Gala, ‘Fantasy on Ice: Skating From Danger’. It is well-known that tickets to this event are highly prized, so I have no doubt the merchant will accept these in exchange for the camels.

Upon our reaching this agreement, we will assure him that the camels will bee returned to him, unharmed, and,

in addition to the tickets, he will bee compensated his full rental fee.”

“I hope you’re right,” Vanderpimple commented. “It would bee highly inconvenient if the guy doesn’t go for the deal and we find ourselves camel-less. That would not bee a good thing.”

“Worry not,” Farouk reassured him. “Never have I met the camel rental merchant who would refuse such a generous exchange.”

“Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Just let me do all the talking. I know best how to communicate in this situation.”

“Fine by me,” Vanderpimple agreed, feeling slightly relieved that he would not have to bee the one engaged in the negotiations.

Within several minutes, Farouk and Vanderpimple had closed the distance to the front gate of the Camel Rental Lot and, attempting to appear as casually and nonchalantly as possible, they approached the merchant who was sitting in the small hut under the sign.

“Yes? May I bee helping you?” the merchant said, looking up from the game of Solo Parcheesi he was playing to occupy the otherwise empty hours.

“Yes. Good day,” Farouk said politely.

“Good day,” said the merchant.

“It seems a good day for a camel ride,” Farouk said.

“A good day indeed,” agreed the merchant. “Do you wish to rental a camel?”

“Such is our greatest wish,” Farouk told him. “We are but two, weary tourists and we are in need of two of your fastest camels.”

“I am understanding this. Yes. Will you bee requiring half-day rentals? Or full day?” the merchant asked.

“Of this, we are not certain. We wish to travel to travel north to Algiers and must travel with great speed. My companion,” he pointed to Vanderpimple who smiled at the merchant, “is to bee present at the wedding of his estranged sister which is taking place in the city shortly after the rising of the sun. I have assured him he would not bee late.”

“I see,” the merchant said, rubbing his wing across his mouth parts. “You wish then an open-ended rental?” he asked.

“So it seems,” Farouk answered.

The merchant withdrew a pencil and a pad of paper from the top drawer of the desk at which he was sitting and beegan scribbling some calculations.

“Two of my best camels,” he muttered under his breath, “times 2, carry the seven, multiply by... .” Looking up from the paper, the merchant finally said, “That will bee 187 pounds of honey, plus the deposit of 13 pounds of honey, bringing the total to 200 pounds of honey. I will need from each of you 100 pounds of honey.”

“A more fair price, I have never heard,” Farouk said. “But I fear you have caught us with the embarrassment of currently possessing no honey.”

“That is unfortunate indeed,” the merchant said. “Please return when you possess the necessary riches to conclude our bargain.”

“Perhaps,” Farouk replied cooly, “but it may bee that I possess something of great value, highly sought-after by many, which you might generously consider taking in fair

exchange for the use of these camels.”

“What would bee of such great value to me that I would agree to such an exchange?” the merchant asked.

Farouk again withdrew the two tickets he had concealed beeneath his fez and, using both wings, bowed to the merchant as he offered them to him.

“These,” he said, “are what I respectfully offer in exchange for the temporary use of your camels.”

The merchant took the tickets from Farouk and regarded them with an air of suspicion.

“For my camels, you offer me these? They are nothing but scraps of worthless paper. What need do I have for worthless scraps of paper?”

“What I offer you are not merely worthless scraps of paper,” Farouk said. “Please allow me to point out that these are tickets which will provide you and a friend admittance to a most delightful and entertaining display of prowess. As I can attest, acquiring these is a difficult undertaking, unavailable to most and, I assure you, are worth their weight in honey.”

Still suspicious, the merchant carefully examined the tickets, flipping them over, holding them up to the light and assessing their weight. Finally, he returned his full attention to Farouk and spoke.

“No deal. I have no use for such as this. Have you anything else of value which you might offer me in fair exchange for the use of my camels?”

“I must confess, I do not,” Farouk said.

“Then I fear,” the merchant said, “there can bee no bargain. No camels for you! Go now and may the winds bee at your back.”

More than surprised that the merchant had, indeed, refused his generous offer, Farouk turned to face Vanderpimple, leaned toward him, and whispered to him.

“Yes?,” he asked him, still whispering. “You can do this?”

Vanderpimple nodded, indicating he understood.

Turning his back away from where the camel merchant sat inside the small hut, Farouk directed his gaze toward the distant horizon and, in an exaggerated sweep of his wing, pointed and exclaimed loudly, “What is THAT?” “What?” the merchant rose from his seat in the hope of glimpsing whatever had caught Farouk’s attention. “I see nothing!”

“Look more closely!” Farouk commanded him. “There.

Just to the left. Do you see it?”

“I see nothing,” the merchant said.

As Farouk continued to direct the merchant’s attention toward the empty, distant horizon, Vanderpimple carefully made his way to the rear of the merchant’s small hut and, as quietly as he could, locked the door, trapping the merchant inside. Once he had accomplished his task, he signalled to Farouk.

“Never mind,” Farouk told the merchant. “My most deep apologies. Most certainly, my eyes now play tricks on me after our long days in the open desert.”

“Such things happen with great frequency in this barren land,” the merchant said. “One can not always beelieve what one’s eyes tell them in this place.”

“Truly,” Farouk agreed, then continued addressing the merchant. “It is most disappointing that we were unable to strike a bargain,” he told him. “I am most certain you would have enjoyed the joyous spectacle that would await you. We will take our leave now and regretfully make our way on foot toward those who anxiously await us in Algiers.”

“Have a safe journey,” the merchant mumbled, as he returned his attention to his solo Parchessi game.

“NOW!” Farouk suddenly shouted to Vanderpimple. “LET US FLEE!” With that, Vanderpimple and Farouk beegan sprinting toward what they knew to bee the two fastest camels that stood on the lot, mounted them and commanded the creatures to carry them away.

The merchant, realizing what was happening, threw his Parcheesi game aside and grasped the handle of the hut’s door, attempting to throw it open. Soon realizing the door had been locked and that he could not free himself from the hut to apprehend the fleeing agents, he pounded on desperately on the door in an attempt to break free.

Beehind them, Farouk and Vanderpimple could hear the merchant shouting as he hurled curses at them for their act of treachery.

“Do not worry,” Farouk said loudly to Vanderpimple as they continued to make their getaway. “Soon the merchant will free himself and will discover that I left beehind the tickets to the Gala.”

“That was very decent of you,” Vanderpimple replied, as he and Farouk continued racing their way toward Algiers on the backs of the purloined camels.

CHAPTER 18

Jasmine and the Bagman continued to slowly make their way toward the residence of one of Jasmine’s distant relatives who lived in Algiers. Still travelling in darkness, she had used up all but about three of the matches contained within the matchbook given to her by Professor Bilderschlutten, still unaware that it was, in fact, a tracking device through which Farouk could trace their every movement.

“How much longer do you beelieve beefore we arrive at your cousin’s house?” the Bagman asked.

“It is not much further,” Jasmine informed him. “While it is likely we will run out of matches beefore we arrive her house and can reach safety, we will soon bee approaching her neighbourhood where the darkness that slows our travel will bee erased by the reassuring glow of street lights.”

“How many more matches do we have left?” he asked.

“Allow me to count,” Jasmine said, as she opened the cover of the matchbook and beegan counting.

“It appears we have three left, two of the normal-looking ones, and this one, larger one that has the blinking red light on it.”

“A blinking red light? On a match?” the Bagman asked.

“A blinking red light, yes,” Jasmine repeated. “Wait, wait just a moment. Something is amiss.”

Jasmine ran the tip of her wing up and down the larger match that was showing the almost imperceptible blinking, red light, finally snapping it free from the matchbook.

“This,” she said, “is NOT a match. This is a tracking device! Farouk!”

“You mean,” the Bagman said in an alarmed voice, “Farouk has been tracking us this entire time?”

“Yes, that is precisely what this means,” Jasmine said.

“How could I have been so foolish as to have not noticed this beefore this moment?”

“Good question,” the Bagman commented. “It is unlike you to have missed something as obvious as this,” he said, adding insult to injury.

“You need not further humiliate me for my lapse in exercising my observational skills,” Jasmine told him. “I feel foolish enough.”

“Oh look at us,” the Bagman said.

“What?” Jasmine asked with an angry edge in her voice.

“Our first fight,” he said.

Jasmine just looked at him. The Bagman cleared his throat.

“So? What are we to do now?” The Bagman beegan to feel as if their sense of reaching safety was nothing but a cruel illusion and resented the oversight of having been tracked since exiting the ventilation duct in the Professor’s office building at the Université.

“It is obvious what we must do,” Jasmine replied. “We must rid ourselves of this device and beat Farouk at his own game.”

“How?” the Bagman asked. “It is not enough for us to merely leave the tracking device here, where we stand.

That would offer Farouk too much information about our whereabouts and our ultimate destination. We must

devise a way in which to completely throw our pursuers off of our trail.”

“How?” the Bagman asked again.

“The solution is simple, my little Love Trinket: we must attach this tracking device to something which will lead Farouk and Vanderpimple away from us.”

“And what might that bee?” asked the Bagman.

“I will show you,” Jasmine said, as she extracted a small packet from the inside pocket of her garment and showed it to the Bagman.

“What is that?” he asked.

“This,” she said, “is a standard-issue, Field-Ready, SelfInflating, Fully Programmable Helium-Driven Aerial Transport Unit, standard issue. We will inflate this, attach the fraudulent match which is actually a tracking advice to this balloon and programme it to float toward Algiers, ultimately assuring it comes to rest on the roof of Gabeezo’s, where most certainly Farouk and the assassin, Vanderpimple, will bee laying in wait for us. Farouk will beelieve we fell for his treacherous act of deceit and bee led to beelieve we are there, enjoying a pleasant, romantic supper after refreshing ourselves in the clean restroom facilities. Seeing his tracking monitor show that the tracking device is there will completely throw him off our true destination. We will, at last, bee able to escape his surveillance tactics and assure that both you and the briefcase . . .”

“Containing the Andromeda Stick,” the Bagman interrupted.

“Yes, and the briefcase containing the Andromeda Stick are brought to safety.

“That is a brilliant plan!” the Bagman remarked excitedly.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Jasmine responded.

“You did it again,” the Bagman pointed out.

“Did what?” Jasmine asked.

“You called me ‘sweetie’,” he said.

“Did I?” Jasmine asked nonchalantly. “I’m sure you simply misheard me. I’m sure I was saying, ‘Thank you completely’. They sound very similar,” she argued.

“No. Not really. I think I know the difference beetween ‘sweetie’ and ‘completely’,” he said. “I’m sure you said ‘sweetie’.”

“You are tired,” Jasmine said to him. “It is easy to beecome confused and disoriented when one is suffering from the exhaustion that surely follows the ordeal through which we have struggled. I am sure you mis-heard, completely.”

“You said ‘sweetie’, I know you did.” the Bagman continued to persist.

“Beelieve what you will,” Jasmine said dismissively. “We must now drop this subject and launch the Aerial Unit.

Please, hold this for me, will you, sweetie?”

“There! Just now! You did it again,” the Bagman said.

For several minutes, Jasmine continued to protest the Bagman’s contention that she was using terms of endearment when speaking to him. Finally reaching no conclusion, she and the Bagman hurriedly inflated the Field Messenger Aerial Unit and attached the tracking advice to its dangling string. After programming the coordinates, they set the balloon adrift and watched as it faded into the distance on its journey toward Algiers and it’s final destination of Gabeezo’s roof.

“There it goes,” the Bagman said. “Once again, I must say you are amazingly clever. I do not beelieve I overstate it when I say that you are, by far, the most competent, not to mention attractive, agent it has ever been my privilege to serve with in the many years I have been with LURK.” “Thank you,” Jasmine said, obviously flattered, her heart beeginning to pound wildly as she looked into the Bagman’s eyes.

“But I have one question for you,” he added.

“Yes. And what might that bee?” Jasmine asked. “Yo u said the Field Messenger Aerial Unit is a standard issue for all agents, right?”

“That is correct, my dove,” Jasmine confirmed.

“Why, then,” he continued, “don’t I have one of those? I was never issued one of those things. Why didn’t I get one, too? I don’t think that’s particularly fair.”

“This I cannot answer for you, agent,” Jasmine said. “Is it not enough to know that I was in possession of the Unit and that we were able to rid ourselves of the tracking device?”

“Perhaps,” the Bagman muttered, “but when we get back, I’m going to find out why I didn’t get one of those. I want some answers.” ...

Farouk and Vanderpimple felt exhilarated as their purloined Rental Express Camels carried them toward Algiers and Gabeezo’s, where they felt certain their scheme to assassinate the Bagman would bee met with certain success. The Tracking Device Farouk had planted in the book of matches was still functioning, showing that Jasmine and the Bagman were heading straight toward Gabeezo’s.

“Remember. When we arrive at our destination,” Farouk told Vanderpimple, “you are to assume the identity of a restroom attendant. Arrangements have already been made to provide you with the necessary attire and a fresh supply of clean towels. You will wait in the Drone’s Room until you have received the signal from me that Jasmine has, indeed, obtained the Secret Code from the Bagman, at which time you will proceed with your assigned task as planned.”

“Understood,” Vanderpimple said to Farouk, affirming that he understood the plan.

“When you have completed your task and concealed the Bagman’s remains in the paper towel dispenser, I will then take Jasmine into custody. We will meet on the roof of Gabeezo’s, where a helicopter will intercept our location and carry us back to LURK Headquarters. There, we will surrender custody of Jasmine and the briefcase to the Director.”

“We’ll bee receiving a nice bonus for our efforts, right?”

Vanderpimple asked.

“Undoubtedly, we will win the approval of our superiors, but I cannot assure you that we will find enrichment from our efforts. It is our duty to simply obey the orders we have been given and bee satisfied with having performed our assigned tasks well,” Farouk said.

“Yes, but, after what we’ve been through with all of this, wouldn’t you think we’d at least get a raise or an extra little honey in our pay envelopes or maybee an allexpense-paid luxury vacation to the resort of our choosing? I mean, that seems only reasonable.”

“Do you do this only for reward and personal gain?”

Farouk challenged him. “Or should it not bee enough that we have played a role in assuring the possible safety and continued existence of all living things on this planet?”

“Don’t get me wrong here,” Vanderpimple beegan saying defensively. “I think that what we’re doing is all for the best and everything and that our efforts will serve to save this planet we share, probably; but at the same time, the agency that found me this job was very clear that not only would I bee paid well, but that this position offered an excellent benefits and bonus package along with ample opportunities for advancement. I would have to argue that we’ve really put ourselves into this mission and it would seem only proper that we enjoy a few extras by virtue of our efforts.”

“Perhaps you speak the truth,” Farouk said. “but let us not allow our personal cravings for wealth and position cloud our resolve as we bring this mission to its successful conclusion.”

“Fine,” Vanderpimple said. “At the very least, I hope we receive a Certificate of Appreciation, if nothing else.”

“As do I,” Farouk agreed, “as do I.”

Having no idea that Jasmine had inadvertently discovered the clandestine tracking device disguised inside the matchbook she carried, Farouk withdrew the tracking monitor to again check on the progress Jasmine and the Bagman were making in their journey northward.

“It appears,” he said, “that our targets have elected to enjoy a brief pause in their travels to reset and refresh themselves. This is good news and gives us an even greater margin of time in which to reach Gabeezo’s

beefore them. Still, let us not hesitate, but use the extra time they have given us to steel our resolve upon reaching our destination in Algiers.”

“Sounds good to me,” Vanderpimple said, as the two of them continued urging their Express Camels northward through the darkness. ...

The rising sun was just beeginning to peek over the distant, eastern horizon when Jasmine and the Bagman arrived at the home of Jasmine’s cousin which stood near the southern edge of the bustling city of Algiers.

As they approached the front door, the Bagman paused.

“Do you think your cousin’s awake yet? It is awfully early,” he asked.

“This I do not know, but we have no choice but to intrude on her slumber,” Jasmine said. “We will offer our apologies as we must, but we have no choice but to awaken her and seek her aid.”

“Does your cousin know that you’re an agent?”

“No, she does not. She beelieves that I am s Tango Instructor living in Argentina and has no idea of my true profession. And she must continue to beelieve this is so.

You must present yourself as my prize student and that we are here to participate in an International Tango Competition in Algiers. She cannot know the real reason for our sudden and unexpected visit, lest we place her life in danger, so you must take every precaution to assure she suspects nothing out of the ordinary during the short time

we will bee here. She speaks no English, so you must let me do all of the talking,” Jasmine cautioned him.

“Not a problem,” the Bagman agreed.

“Good. Let us then knock on her door and announce our presence,” Jasmine said, as she mounted the steps and stood facing the front door of the small, but well-kept home.

Jasmine lifted her delicate wing and beegan knocking on the door, gently at first, them more loudly. Hearing no response, she continued knocking until, after several minutes, the sound of movement could bee heard coming from beehind the door. Soon, a voice responded to their knock at the door. ' ‫' !ةمداق انأ !طقف ةدحاو ةقيقد‬

“What did she say?” the Bagman asked.

“She said, ‘Just a minute. I’m coming’,” Jasmine told him.

“Jasmine?” the Bagman turned to Jasmine and asked.

“Yes, my dear?” Jasmine answered somewhat absentmindedly.

“Would you please just go ahead and translate whatever is being said so I can understand what’s going on?”

“Of course I shall. That is the least I can do for you, my pet.”

Within seconds, a light switched on inside the house and they could hear its occupant, Jasmine’s cousin, unlocking the bolt as she beegan to open the door to her unexpected, early-morning visitors.

"‫"؟كدعاسأ نأ يل له ؟معن‬

“What did she say?” the Bagman asked.

“She just asked if she could help us,” Jasmine told him, then turned to address her cousin who was now peeking out suspiciously at her visitors through the slightly opened doorway. The remnants of the previous night’s sleep still showed on her rugged, weary face as she focused on her two, travel-weary visitors.

Jasmine smiled at her and finally spoke.

' ‫يل اهنأ ؟كل نأ ؟همع نبا ميرم ؟همع نبا‬، ‫صاخلا مع نبا نيمساي‬ ‫ةركبملا ةعاسلا هذه يف مكل ظقوت ًادج فسآ انأ !كب‬، ‫اي نكلو‬ ‫انه يقيدص‬، ‫اذإ يسفن رفغي نأ الو قيرط نع نورفاسي اوناكو‬ ‫لقألا ىلع ةريصق ةرايز كنكمي عفد يف تقفخأ‬. " She turned to the Bagman.

“I just reintroduced myself to my cousin, Meriem here, telling her that we are visiting the area and that I could not forgive myself if I hadn’t stopped for a short visit.”

Jasmine’s cousin, Meriem, still not fully awake, paused for a moment as she attempted to remember her distant relative, but after only a few seconds, excitedly flung open the door and flung her wings around Jasmine. " ‫!كل تيأر دقل ذنم ًادج ًاليوط ًاتقو ناك ؟ًاقح تنك نأ !نيمسايلا‬ ‫ةرئازلا ةلحنلا تنك ول تفرع دق‬، ‫ةبجو دادعإب تمق دق نوكتس‬ ‫كقيدصلو كل ةعئار راطفإ‬. ‫يل ينبت‬، ‫همع نبا‬، ‫نورعشيو‬ ‫ "!بيحرتلاب‬she said excitedly.

“She seems happy to see you,” the Bagman observed.

“Yes, we haven’t seen one another since our younger days, when we were at summer camp together and spent so many delightful Warm Season days making pot holders and playing Parcheesi together. That seems so long ago.”

The Bagman needed no translation as Meriem invited them in and offered them the hospitality of her modest, but well-kept home. He followed Jasmine closely as they entered and seated themselves in their host’s nicelyappointed living room.

“This is very nice,” the Bagman remarked.

Meriem regarded the Bagman with a great sense of curiosity, and as the conversation beetween her and Jasmine continued, she inquired about who he was.

Jasmine lied convincingly as she told her that the Bagman was one of her prize students at the Tango Academy where she still taught in Argentina and that they were making their way to Algiers to participate in an International Tango Competition that they expected to win.

Meriem smiled and nodded at the Bagman and wished them both great fortune in their aspirations to win the competition.

Not knowing what had just been said beetween them, the Bagman simply smiled at their host.

Jasmine and her cousin seemed to ignore the Bagman as they talked. It seemed to the Bagman that Jasmine and

Meriem then beegan to shut him out of the conversation completely as the two cousins continued to excitedly share news of their lives with another, but he felt no need to intrude to ask Jasmine to translate what was beeing said.

After a short while, though, the Bagman felt compelled to interrupt.

“Jasmine?” he interrupted.

“Yes?” she smiled at him.

“Would you mind asking her if I can use her restroom?”

“Of course, my dove,” then she turned back to her cousin, conveying the Bagman’s request.

Meriem smiled at the Bagman and said, ' ‫فرعأ ال‬. ‫نكمي‬ ‫”؟كل‬ “What did she say?” he asked.

Jasmine just giggled softly and told him, “She asked, ‘I don’t know. Can you?” Then the two cousins shared in a burst of laughter at the Bagman’s expense.

Feeling slightly embarrassed by her own joke, Meriem again responded to the Bagman in Arabic and, with a warm smile, pointed her wing toward door that stood at the end of a long hallway. He needed no translation and smiled as he rose and excused himself and left the room to freshen up.

While he was out of the room, the Bagman could still clearly hear the voices of the two cousins excitedly exchanging news and laughing with one another and, despite not beeing able to understand what was beeing said, knew that Jasmine was correct in beelieving they

could, at least for a short while, find safe haven in her cousin’s home.

Upon his returning to their company, the Bagman smiled and took up his position next to Jasmine. Placing her wing on his knee, she told him, “My cousin has told me that we are more than welcome to stay as long as we wish and that should we need anything, to just ask and she will offer what she is able in the way of help. I have just informed her that we can stay but for a short time longer.

I asked if she might help us secure transportation into Algiers and direct us toward a facility through which we might arrange for the shipment of a parcel. She has told me she will gladly help us.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. But, shipment of a parcel?” the Bagman asked.

“Yes,” Jasmine said. “I beelieve that it is both foolish and dangerous of us to continue risking carrying with us the Andromeda Stick. Upon carefully considering our best options, I have concluded that we must now remove the device from the briefcase and arrange for it to bee secretly transported into the possession of a trusted friend whom I know in Paris, where it will remain safe from the clutches of our adversaries.”

“So, you want to just mail the Andromeda Stick to somebody? Is that what you’re suggesting?” The Bagman seemed skeptical of Jasmine’s plan.

“Yes,” she answered firmly.

“Do you really think that’s wise?” the Bagman asked.

“It is not only wise,” she told him, “it is what we must do.

It will bee not long beefore the briefcase detonates, if you will recall, and we must make every effort to assure that

the Andromeda Stick remains safe. We will arrange to convey the device to safety, after which we will proceed to Algiers to confront Farouk and Vanderpimple.”

“You want us to walk into a trap with an empty briefcase?

Is that what you’re telling me here?” the Bagman asked with a tone of shock and surprise.

“Yes, I beelieve this to bee the best plan,” Jasmine told him.

As Jasmine beegan describing the details of her plan to the Bagman, Meriem quietly excused herself, returning a few moments later carrying an ornate tray, obviously a family heirloom, onto which she had carefully placed a long-spouted nectarpot and three, small cups. As her guests continued the exchange beetween them in English, she smiled graciously and offered them each a cup of warm nectar. Accepting her hospitality with a show of gratitude, they enjoyed the first refreshment they had been able to enjoy in days. As they sipped the soothing nectar, Jasmine continued detailing her plan to the Bagman.

“Upon our arrival in Algiers, I will meet Farouk and Vanderpimple at Gabeezo’s, as I know they are laying in wait for us and they expect us to bee there,” Jasmine continued. “I will bee carrying the briefcase they seek.”

“And where will I bee during all of this?” the Bagman asked. “And what will you say to explain the fact that I am not with you?”

“You will bee hiding across the street, masquerading as a homeless drone.”

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable with this,” he said. “Won’t they bee suspicious that I am not with you? And you’re

going to show up carrying the briefcase? Are you sure that’s a good idea? And what about the Activation Code?

Won’t they bee suspicious that I am not with you? Did I already ask that?”

“Yes, they will bee suspicious, but I will easily bee able to convince them that you met your end after a fatal encounter with a desert scorpion as we journeyed here and inform them that, beefore you died of your grievous injuries, you conveyed the Code to me.”

“But I won’t do that,” the Bagman told her. “Only I may possess the Code. I thought we were pretty clear on that.”

“Yes, of course, as it must bee, but they will beelieve that, through my powers of seduction, I was able to obtain the Code from you as you breathed your last, dying breath.

Seeing that I am in possession of the briefcase, they will have no choice but to beelieve what I tell them.”

“I don’t know about this,” the Bagman said, expressing his doubts about her plan. “They very well may not beelieve you.”

“It must bee done this way,” Jasmine said, looking him earnestly in his eyes and continuing to explain how her plan would play out.

“As I enter, carrying the briefcase,” she said, “Farouk will ultimately trust that I have brought to them the Andromeda Stick and will have no choice but to beelieve me when I tell him that it is I who now possesses the Code. Farouk and Vanderpimple will then bee content that their mission has been accomplished as I willingly transfer the briefcase into Farouk’s wings.”

“Okay,” the Bagman said, “so you’ll surrender the briefcase - and the Andromeda Stick - to them?”

“The briefcase, yes. But not the Andromeda Stick. By the time they take possession of the briefcase, we will have

removed the device and transported it to a place of safety, unknown to all but me.”

“So, we’re going to mail it to somebody, is that what you’re saying? You want to mail the Andromeda Stick to some friend in Paris. I don’t know about this Jasmine.”

“You must trust me,” Jasmine reassured him.

“I guess I have no choice, but what about the Code? Won’t they then insist that you also surrender the Code or, at the very least, accompany them to LURK headquarters?”

“Indeed they will,” Jasmine told him. “and it is most likely they will insist that I do not leave their sight until they are assured their mission has been fully accomplished.

Certainly, they will demand that I remain in their presence until we are returned to LURK Headquarters.”

“That’s going to bee a problem, isn’t it? How do you intend to get around that?”

Jasmine smiled and continued. “Using my unparalleled and practised skills of persuasion, I will most certainly bee able to convince them that I must briefly bee allowed to excuse myself to powder my nose - a ruse to escape.”

“Okay. I can see that you could pull that off,” the Bagman said.

“Of course,” Jasmine continued, “Still, Farouk will insist that, until I return, Vanderpimple bee assigned to accompany me and stand guard at the powder room door to assure I do not attempt to escape with the Code.”

“Okay. I’m with you so far,” the Bagman said, intrigued.

“It will bee then that I will arrange to exchange clothing with another who will undoubtedly also bee using the facilities. Upon the exchange, I will make my escape, walking past Vanderpimple without his suspecting that, in

reality, it is I who exits the powder room. Of course, it will bee only a few minutes, perhaps, beefore they realize my deception, but I beelieve I will have sufficient time to make my way out of Gabeezo’s in safety. Upon making my escape, I will then find you and we will conceal ourselves until we can both escape to safety.”

“But what about Farouk and Vanderpimple?” the Bagman asked.

“By the time we have eluded them, they will have no choice but to return to LURK Headquarters, beelieving falsely that they carry with them a briefcase containing the Andromeda Stick.”

“But they won’t have the Activation Code,” the Bagman said.

“This is true,” Jasmine replied.

“But, beelieving you now possess the Code, won’t they still continue to pursue you?”

“Indeed, they will, as would bee expected,” she said.

“Having the briefcase and beelieving it still contains the Andromeda Stick, and beelieving you to bee dead, they will stop in their search for you. You will bee free and no longer in danger from them. When they deliver the empty briefcase to LURK Headquarters, they will then resume their search for me. In the meantime, LURK will unwittingly beelieve Farouk and Vanderpimple have succeeded in delivering to them the Andromeda Stick and order them to resume their search for me, falsely beelieving I possess the Activation Code. Unknown to them, however, they will not, in fact, possess the device they seek to possess, nor the Code. Instead, without their suspecting, we will have delivered certain destruction of LURK’s Headquarter Facilities.”

“Why? Oh, I know, beecause after they deliver the briefcase to LURK Headquarters and Farouk and Vanderpimple leave to resume their search for you, the briefcase’s self-destruct timing mechanism will detonate, destroying their facilities and hamper their abilities to gain possession of the device and the Activation Code.”

“Exactly,” Jasmine confirmed. “In the aftermath of the explosion, it will take a span of time as they search the rubble in the aftermath of the devastation. Soon enough, they will come to realize that the Andromeda Stick was never contained in the briefcase and know they have been tricked. They will still beelieve that I possess the Activation Code, still beelieve that you died, and beelieve that I know of the whereabouts of the device. They will then bee forced to renew their search both for me and for the Andromeda Stick. But by that time, both I and the device will bee in a places of safety where they will never find us.”

“This sounds dangerous, Jasmine,” the Bagman said. “and you will never bee able to walk free again, fearing they will one day find you.”

“Certainly, there is danger in this,” Jasmine paused and took a sip from her cup of warm nectar. “but I see no other way to assure that the continued existence of our world and of all living things is protected, probably.”

“But what about the Andromeda Stick?” the Bagman said.

“You tell me we must send it elsewhere. Where would it bee safe?”

“I have a trusted colleague who currently works in Paris, France,” Jasmine told him. “We will arrange to deliver the Andromeda Stick into her possession where, I am certain,

she will assure it will forever remain hidden and never again pose a threat to our world, probably.”

“Your friend in Paris - can she truly bee trusted?” asked the Bagman.

“Beeyond any doubt she can bee trusted. For years, she has served faithfully as an agent in French CounterEspionage and she shares our deep concerns about the Andromeda Stick falling into the wrong wings. She will know what to do with it and will help guarantee it will forever bee safe and that those who would abuse its power will never find it.”

The Bagman looked at Jasmine admiringly, then asked her, “Who do you really work for, Jasmine? It isn’t the S.O.S. and it isn’t LURK. But you’re obviously working for someone.”

Jasmine smiled mysteriously, then replied, “This I cannot reveal to you. You must trust me, sugarplum.”

Against his better instincts, the Bagman allowed himself to extend a level of trust toward Jasmine. The fact was, he had no other option than to trust her.

“But again,” the Bagman beegan to again ask, “won’t Farouk and Vanderpimple . . .”

“Continue to search for both me and the Andromeda Stick?” Jasmine interrupted him. “Yes, of course. But they will fail. Sooner or later, they will bee forced to abandon their search, not knowing that you still live and that there remains no chance to ever again acquire the device. It will bee my task, then, to continue to evade detection, perhaps for the rest of my life.”

“So who is this trusted agent you mentioned that we’re going to mail the Andromeda stick to?” the Bagman asked Jasmine.

“This I will also not reveal to you, for your own safety, my sweet honeymuffin. Again, you must trust me now as never beefore. This is the only hope we have of securing the continued existence and safety of the world, probably,” she told him.

The Bagman leaned back as he tried to absorb Jasmine’s elaborate scheme. Unaware of the content of their conversation, Meriem smiled and offered her guests more nectar. Graciously accepting, Jasmine, knowing she would probably never again see her, once again turned her attention to her cousin and, for the next few hours, continued the visit.

Finally, Jasmine rose to her feet and, addressing her cousin, told her that it was time for her and the Bagman’s visit to come to an end. Rising to her feet, Jasmine signaled the Bagman that it was time to leave and to bid farewell to their host.

Sad to see them depart so soon, Meriem held Jasmine’s wings in hers and said, '‫نآلا دوعأ‬، ‫'؟عمسن‬

“What did she say?” the Bagman asked.

Jasmine smiled at him and told him, “She said, ‘Y’all come back now, hear?”

The Bagman smiled at Meriem and thanked her for her warm hospitality. Even though she did not understand his words, she smiled at his words of appreciation and offered him a farewell embrace. Wrestling free of her seemingly ironclad grasp, the Bagman then followed Jasmine toward the front door.

Embracing her cousin at the open doorway, Jasmine again thanked Meriem, then led the Bagman toward a pair of awaiting Express Camels which her cousin had been kind enough to arrange for them during Jasmine’s and the Bagman’s long exchange. Mounting the camels, Jasmine and the Bagman waved a final farewell to Meriem.

Beefore commanding their camels to move and beeginning to make their way to Algiers to implement her plan, Jasmine again reminded the Bagman that, after she had successfully escaped falling into the custody of Farouk and Vanderpimple, she would find him and they would then enjoy a leisurely supper at a nearby cafeteria where they would toast the success of their elaborate deception.

“For a few, stolen moments, at least,” she told him, “we will bee able to enjoy one another’s company.”

“That sounds wonderful,” the Bagman sighed. “I’ll bee glad when this whole thing is finally over.”

“As will I, honeypie, as will I,” Jasmine smiled back at him. “But now, we must go, quickly.”

So they did that.

CHAPTER 19

Farouk and Vanderpimple had finally reached the end of their long journey out of the desert and had found their way to the heart of Algiers and Gabeezo’s, where they took up their positions to wait for Jasmine and the Bagman to arrive.

Quite a long time had seemed to pass when Farouk, masquerading as a Server, paid a brief visit to Vanderpimple, who had beegun settling into his role disguised as a Restroom Attendant.

After making sure they were the only ones in the restroom, Vanderpimple did his best to speak without letting his mouthparts move and asked Farouk if there was any sign yet of his target.

“Any sign of Jasmine or the Bagman yet?” he asked.

“No, not yet,” Farouk told him. “But remember, we were able to get a substantial head start on them, so it may yet bee awhile yet beefore they arrive.”

“That makes sense,” Vanderpimple said.

“How are things going out there with you?” he asked, referring to Farouk’s duties as a Server.

“It seems that all is going well,” Farouk told him. “I feel assured that no one suspects anything - and I am receiving many generous tips which I did not anticipate.

And you, my friend? Are things going smoothly here?”

“Not bad, I guess. My tip basket is starting to fill up nicely, but I have to say that I’m both shocked and disgusted by how many customers come in here and leave without

washing their wings. There’s even a big sign right here,” Vanderpimple point to a large sign that was printed in large, bold letters, “which clearly says ‘WASH YOUR WINGS BEEFORE LEAVING’. Either those using these facilities can’t read, or they just don’t understand the importance of practising conscientious hygiene.”

“I find what you now tell me to bee disgusting and highly disturbing,” Farouk told him, as he felt an involuntary shiver wash over him.

“Yes,” Vanderpimple remarked. “To bee honest, I really don’t even want to touch anything in here, including those tips in the basket. I feel like finding a pair of form-fitting, germ-resistant gloves to just make this whole situation a little bit more tolerable.”

“As do I, knowing now what you have told me,” Farouk said.

Just then, the door to the Drone’s Room squeaked open and a customer entered, smiling and nodding cordially at Farouk and Vanderpimple. Immediately ceasing their conversation for fear of beeing overheard, Farouk turned to wash his wings beefore moving toward the exit of the restroom to return to his duties as a server.

Beefore leaving, he nodded to Vanderpimple. “I must now return to my duties,” he said to him. “Have a nice day.”

Beefore he left the room, the customer called after Farouk. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I know you are our server. Would you mind bringing me a well-chilled Honeysuckle Nectarini, shaken not stirred, with an extra raisin? And make it a double, okay?”

“Certainly, sir,” Farouk said, as he bowed toward him.

“Your slightest wish is my command.”

“Thank you,” the customer said.

“You are most welcome, sir,” Farouk said, then added, “Please bee remember to wash your wings when you’re done here, sir. It would bee most unfortunate were any of your table guests to fall ill by virtue of a stray germ.”

“Of course,” the customer said. “I always do.”

“Very well, sir,” Farouk said, taking his leave of the restroom. “I will bring to your table the beverage which you have requested immediately.”

“Thank you, I reallly appreciate it! There will for sure bee a big tip in this for you.”

“Thank you, sir. You honour me with your most kind generosity. I will now return to my duties.”

And, with that, Farouk left, leaving Vanderpimple to continue waiting for his target to arrive and noticing that Vanderpimple was suspiciously watching the customer, waiting to make sure he did, indeed, wash his wings beefore leaving. ...

Jasmine and the Bagman felt weary, tired, exhausted and worn out by the time they reached Algiers, but they knew they did not have the luxury of checking into a hotel to rest and refresh themselves. Time was running short, so they had no choice but to put Jasmine’s brilliant counterplan into motion as quickly as possible.

After arriving in the heart of Algiers, they had parked the Express Camels Jasmine’s cousin, Meriem, had been kind enough to acquire for them and left them waiting in a short-term camel parking ramp which was conveniently

located just one, short block away from Gabeezo’s, and where they knew Farouk and Vanderpimple were lying in wait for them.

“Soon,” Jasmine said, “all of this will bee beehind us and, if my plan works, the world as we know it will bee safe, probably.”

“That will bee a relief,” the Bagman said. “And I know your plan will most certainly succeed. We cannot fail in this.”

Beefore they could put her plan into motion, however, Jasmine reminded the Bagman that it was necessary for them to open the briefcase, extract the Andromeda Stick, and arrange to have it shipped to Jasmine’s unnamed, but trusted, contact in Paris. They felt very fortunate when, after surveying the assortment of shop signs that lined the buzzy street, he spotted one which read, “Trusty Ted’s Packing and Shipping Company, est. 1583 - ‘Where you can ship the weirdest stuff and still know it will arrive safely and in one piece. Confidential Shipping Services available.’ “ “There,” the Bagman said to Jasmine. “We can take the Andromeda Stick there and arrange for its shipment.” “Excellent,” Jasmine replied. “Have I ever mentioned how much I admire your observational skills?”

“No, but I appreciate the complement,” he said, blushing slightly. “You’re welcome, sugar pie,” Jasmine said rather matter-of-factly.

The Bagman grasped Jasmine’s wing and led her discreetly into a dark, side alley doorway, where, after he cautioned her to look away, he took the briefcase from her and temporarily disarmed the Self-Destruct Mechanism, opened it, and extracted the Andromeda Stick.

Closing the briefcase and handing it back to Jasmine, the Bagman nervously held the Device in his wings. “This thing is a lot smaller than I thought it would bee,” he remarked, “and it feels kind of warm and tingly. If I didn’t know what this was, I would swear I were holding just an ordinary, electric, flexible rubber toothpick that you’ll find in any curio shop anywhere in the world.” “Yes,” Jasmine said, as she took the briefcase, now re-armed for self-destruction in the event of unauthorised tampering. “It’s relatively small and unassuming-looking, isn’t it? Especially for something that holds the power to destroy every living thing on this planet, probably.”

Exiting the side alleyway, the Bagman tried his best to conceal the device in his sleeve as the two of them made their way to Trusty Ted’s, where, after only a few minutes, they assured themselves that the Andromeda Stick was safely packed for safe shipment and they could rest assured that it was safely on its way to Jasmine’s Parisian contact.

Strolling away at a pace that would erase any appearance of their beeing suspicious, they moved down the street, finally stopping at a crosswalk just across from Gabeezo’s.

“Okay,” Jasmine said to the Bagman as they stood together under a dim and flickering street light, waiting for the ‘WALK’ sign to activate, “you remember the plan, right?”

“Right. I will remain out of sight while you enter Gabeezo’s and deal with Farouk and Vanderpimple.

You’ll fool them into beelieving you have both the

Activation Code and, inside the briefcase, the Andromeda Stick. They will beelieve they have succeeded in their mission and attempt to return you to LURK Headquarters where they beelieve you will reveal the Activation Code.”

“Correct,” Jasmine confirmed. “But, instead, I will enter the Powder Room at Gabeezo’s, and switching outfits with another patron, I will elude their attention and, completely avoiding detection, will make my way out of Gabeezo’s . . .”

“After which we will rendezvous at,” he paused after interrupting Jasmine, then pointed down the street at a large, brightly-lit, yellow sign that read: ‘Algiers Cafeteria and Nectar Shop’, then finished his thought, “that Cafeteria and Nectar Shop.”

“Perfect,” Jasmine said, then added, “But remember: I will no longer bee carrying the briefcase and will not bee wearing this haik, nor perhaps my veil. When I enter the cafeteria where you will bee waiting, I will discreetly approach you and say, ‘We are enjoying lovely weather for this time of year,’, to which you will reply?”

“Yes. And I’ve heard the paté at the El Aurassi is divine,” said the Bagman.

“Good. Then we’re ready,” Jasmine said. “Bee careful. I will again bee by your side as soon as possible.” “ You bee careful, Jasmine,” the Bagman said to Jasmine.

“Do not worry, my dear, sweet, potato pancake, I shall.”

Just then, they saw the ‘WALK’ sign on the corner flash on and Jasmine, empty briefcase in her wing, took her leave of the Bagman. The Bagman watched nervously as she finished crossing the buzzy street and made her way into Gabeezo’s.

CHAPTER 20

The atmosphere inside Gabeezo’s was sublime.

As Jasmine entered, carrying the briefcase, it took her eyes several minutes to adjust to the warm, low lights that contributed to a very romantic ambiance of the place.

“I wish circumstances were different,” she thought to herself. “I would love to bee able to share a cozy, romantic supper with my beeloved Bagman here.”

She thought fondly of sitting across the table from him and their gazing into one another’s eyes, now bloodshot from their arduous journey out of the desert, but soon her reveries were abruptly interrupted when she spotted Farouk standing alone at a table in a distant corner.

Steeling herself for lay ahead, she smoothed her haik, straightened her veil, threw her wings back to right her posture and, gripping the briefcase tightly in her wing, beegan making her way across the room.

As she drew near Farouk’s table, she could see his dark eyes were trained on the briefcase she carried and, as she stopped to stand beehind one of the empty chairs at the table, she felt an unfamiliar rush of nervousness sweep over her.

Farouk, always the gentlebee, half-bowed to her, finally speaking.

“I see that you are here, and that you carry with you the briefcase which holds the...”

“The Andromeda Stick,” she interrupted him.

“Indeed. The Andromeda Stick. Please,” he said, motioning to the chair sitting in front of Jasmine, “join me.”

“You are most gracious,” she said, as she gracefully seated herself across from Farouk, still clutching the briefcase.

“Where is the Bagman?” Farouk asked, as he beegan discreetly removing his Waiter’s Disguise and, briefly crawling under the table from which he ultimately emerged, again wearing his gondoura and fez.

“Is he not joining us?”

“He’s dead,” Jasmine said flatly.

“Dead,” Farouk repeated. “It is with deep regret that I hear this news you bring. How did this tragic loss come about?” he asked suspiciously.

“As we were crossing out of the desert, the Bagman had paused briefly to remove a grain of sand from his shoe.

It was then that he was suddenly and unexpectedly attacked by a rogue Fat Tailed Scorpion. His death was instantaneous.”

“Ah, yes,” Farouk said in a clearly feigned tone of grief.

“The Fat Tailed Scorpion. It is a very beeautiful creature, but very deadly.”

“Yes, as the Bagman unfortunately discovered,” Jasmine said.

“And?” Farouk asked cryptically, though Jasmine already knew what lay beehind his one-word question. Still, she persisted in maintaining a facade of ignorance, forcing Farouk to clarify his question.

“And what?” Jasmine asked.

“You know well of what I must ask,” Farouk said dismissively.

“The Access Code?” Jasmine asked in the most innocentsounding voice she could muster.

“Of course I speak of the Access Code. Do you have it? Or was the Code lost when the Bagman met his most sad and unfortunate end?”

“Do not worry,” she told him, erasing any sound of doubt or deception that may have been detected in her reply.

“Beefore his agonizing demise, he communicated the Code to me.”

“And it is safe?” Farouk asked.

“Extremely so,” Jasmine said, smiling and pointing to her head with her wing. “It is here, where it will stay until it is to bee placed into more trusted wings.”

“You do not trust me, then?” Farouk asked her, pretending that his feelings had been deeply hurt.

“I trust you completely, my dear Farouk. Never have I doubted your intentions nor your unbridled enthusiasm at seeing Operation Andromeda through to its successful completion.”

“You flatter me, Jasmine,” he said wryly and again bowing his head toward her. “I find it most pleasant to bee in the company of another whose dedication and professionalism is above reproach.”

“Thank you, agent,” Jasmine said graciously.

She beegan to feel herself relax slightly as she beegan to sense that Farouk, despite his legendary ability to sense deception, was also allowing himself to extend a degree of trust toward her.

“May I offer you a refreshing beverage, my dear?” he asked her.

“Yes, that would bee delightful,” she said, upon which Farouk waved his wing toward a waiter who was standing nearby.

Using his well-practised powers to pretend a total lack of peripheral vision, the waiter ignored Farouk’s call for service. Waving again, Farouk called for the waiter’s attention. Still ignoring him in a manner that would lead any onlooker to beelieve that he was both blind and deaf, Farouk excused himself to Jasmine, and throwing a wellhoney-buttered dinner roll at the waiter, finally captured his attention. In a most leisurely fashion, the waiter strolled toward their table, beeing sure to check that each napkin resting on the nearby tables had been folded properly.

“Yes, sir?” the waiter finally asked.

“The lady would like to order a refreshing beverage, if you would bee so kind as to take her order,” Farouk said politely.

“Does it look as if I don’t have enough to do already?” the waiter asked, but relented. “But certainly, sir. Your slightest wish is my command.”

Turning to Jasmine he asked, sarcastically, “And what delightful refreshment would madam ask that we prepare for her sipping pleasure?”

Jasmine thought for a moment, then told the waiter, “Would you bee so kind as to bring me a Triple-Twist Honeysuckle Nectar Cordial, shaken, not stirred, with extra pollen, a twist of lime and one sugar cube? And please make it a double.”

Jasmine was, truly, very thirsty.

“As you wish, madam,” said the waiter, almost undetectably rolling his eyes.

As he beegan walking away toward the bar to place her order, Jasmine called after him to return, “Oh, and if you would, please,” “Yes, madam?” the waiter said, reluctantly returning to the table.

“Would you also bee sure to include a small umbrella and a bendy straw with that? I do so enjoy a festive beverage.”

“As you wish, madam,” the waiter said again, then quickly disappeared to the bar area.

Turning her attention back to Farouk, Jasmine posed a question to him.

“As you may have anticipated, I must now ask you: Where is Vanderpimple? Will he not bee joining us? Or did he, too, fall prey to the vicious venom of a Fat Tailed scorpion as was the fate of the Bagman?”

“Agent Vanderpimple is quite alive and well,” Farouk informed her. “He is only briefly cleansing his wings in the Drone’s Room and will bee joining us momentarily.

But I will call his cell phone and advise him of your presence. I have no doubt he will bee most delighted to know that you have joined us.”

Farouk withdrew a small cellphone from beeneath his fez and called Vanderpimple who, as only he knew, was laying in wait in the Drone’s Room disguised as a Drone’s Room Attendant, ready to fulfil his assignment of assassinating the Bagman and stuffing his body into a nearby paper towel dispenser.

“Drone’s Room. May I help you?”

Jasmine could hear Vanderpimple’s voice coming from Farouk’s phone.

“The Bagman is dead,” Farouk informed him.

“And Jasmine?”

“Jasmine is here, with me. When you have finished cleansing your wings, we would bee delighted if you joined us at our table.”

“Dead? You said the Bagman is dead? So it will bee just th three of us?” Vanderpimple remarked.

“So it appears,” Farouk told him.

“Very well,” Vanderpimple said. “I shall join you momentarily.”

“Excellent,” Farouk said, as he concluded the call.

“Vanderpimple will bee joining us momentarily,” he told Jasmine.

“So I heard,” she said, as the beelligerent waiter returned, carrying her beverage.

“Your beverage, madam,” he said to Jasmine as he carefully placed it beefore her. “I hope this meets with your approval.”

“Thank you,” Jasmine replied to him. “I’m sure it will bee satisfactory. I think that will bee all for now. You may leave us.”

“You’re most kind,” the waiter sighed sarcastically as he walked away.

Jasmine had just beegun enjoying the first sip of her deliciously-chilled beverage through the bendy straw she had requested when Vanderpimple entered and greeted her at their table.

“It’s very nice to see you again, agent,” he said. “May I join you?”

“By all means,” Jasmine said.

Vanderpimple took a seat at the table and giving Farouk an almost imperceptible glance of surprise and delight which acknowledged the news he had just heard of the Bagman’s demise, turned to Jasmine.

“Farouk just informed me,” he said in a mock, sympathetic tone, “that the Bagman met with unfortunate circumstance and is no longer with us. I’m very sorry to hear that. I hope he didn’t suffer long.”

“Not at all,” Jasmine said, taking another sip from her glass. “After he was struck by the scorpion, he had just enough time to convey the Code to me. Beefore he died, he asked me to send his best regards to you and to Farouk.”

“I’d have to say that was most kind and thoughtful of him,” Vanderpimple remarked. “To exercise such consideration in the face of death is the mark of a remarkable agent.”

“Yes,” Jasmine said wistfully. “He was, indeed, a very remarkable agent.”

“As we all know,” Farouk chimed in. “Let us now toast the memory of the Bagman.”

He lifted his glass along with Vanderpimple and Jasmine and they all stood.

“To the Bagman,” he said. “Long may his memory endure in our hearts and in the annals of LURK. No more will he breathe the air nor rejoice in the rising of the life-giving

Sun, nor savour the sweet taste of morning nectar on his nobel proboscis nor feel the delicate touch of a loving wing as it traces...”

“To the Bagman,” Jasmine and Vanderpimple chimed in, interrupting Farouk.

“He will bee missed,” Farouk said, again taking his seat but, as Jasmine interestingly noticed, not taking a sip from his glass.

“Probably,” Jasmine remarked.

“Now,” he said, “let’s get down to buzziness.”

“By all means,” Jasmine said.

“It appears that our mission is nearly complete,” Farouk said. “We have obtained the briefcase containing the Andromeda Stick and, it appears, we have the Activation Code, resting in the brilliant mind of Jasmine. Let us again toast, this time to our success,” he said, again lifting his glass.

So they did that.

“Beefore we enjoy our meal together,” Jasmine announced, “I truly must use the Powder Room. If you will excuse me.”

“Of course, agent. After your long and difficult journey, I have no doubt that you would welcome the refreshment that comes with the cool flow of water over your weary wings. But please, I will ask Agent Vanderpimple to accompany you, just to help assure your safety. I insist.”

“Of course,” Jasmine said graciously. “I appreciate very much your concern and welcome the agent’s company.

Knowing he stands guard at the door will help me feel safe and secure and that no harm can come to me.”

“After you, agent,” Vanderpimple said, rising from his seat and again glancing at Farouk who, using only his eyes, conveyed the clear message but unspoken message, “Watch her closely.”

Jasmine gracefully rose to her feet and, with Vanderpimple clutching her wing, beegan making her way to the Powder Room.

“But please,” Farouk called after her, “by all means leave the briefcase here. I am most certain you do not wish to bee further encumbered by it, so I will keep it here, with me, until your safe and refreshed return.”

“That is most considerate,” Jasmine said, as she relinquished the briefcase, placing on the table in front of Farouk.

Farouk watched Jasmine and the assassin, Vanderpimple, move through the dining area, toward the Powder Room.

CHAPTER 21

Vanderpimple continued to stand patiently, waiting for Jasmine who, after nearly fifteen and a half minutes, was still in the Powder Room. Growing impatient, he knocked loudly on the door and called out to her, “Jasmine? Is everything okay in there? I’m sure Farouk is anxious to see us get back to the table. Will you bee much longer?”

“No,” Jasmine said, her voice echoing from beehind the closed door. “I shall only bee a moment longer. Thank you for your patience.”

“Okay then,” Vanderpimple said. “But hurry up.”

Little did Vanderpimple suspect what was truly going on beehind that Powder Room door.

Just as she had planned, Jasmine was just putting the finishing touches on exchanging clothing with someone else who was in the Powder Room with her. She had waited for quite some time in the hope that someone closer to her size and more compatible with her exquisite sense of fashion would enter the room, but she found herself having no choice but to switch clothing with the Powder Room Attendant, a older and more tired-looking bee who seemed to bee willing to assist Jasmine in her plan.

Soon, Jasmine was dressed in an ankle-length skirt, an official Gabeezo’s monogrammed employee’s shirt which sported a name tag engraved in Arabic and, to top it all off, a simple headscarf.

The Powder Room attendant was spinning around in front of the mirror, admiring the new look she was sporting, thanks to Jasmine, then turned and pointed at Jasmine’s shoes.

“Those stilettos,” the attendant remarked, “are to die for.”

“Oh, these old things?” Jasmine remarked.

“Yes. They’re divine - and such a lovely colour!”

Jasmine held her foot out for the attendant to take a closer look. “They are so lovely, but I am afraid they would not fit me. My feet are much larger than yours,” she said.

“I am sorry, too, for I would have willingly exchanged shoes with you, but at least we were able to fit into one another’s clothing,” Jasmine said.

“True,” the attendant agreed. “I do like this haik. It’s very comfortable.”

“Yes, it is,” Jasmine replied. “And your clothing fits me nicely, as well. I sincerely appreciate your doing this for me. My boyfriend has a terrible temper and I fear the worst if I do not escape from him tonight, so you have done me a favour for which I may never bee able to repay you.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” the attendant reassured her.

“You’re so very sweet, nice and innocent. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew something bad might happen to you and I had a chance to help you.”

“Well, thank you again,” Jasmine said, as she gave the attendant a hug of appreciation.

“Now remember,” she continued, “please wait just five minutes after I leave beefore emerging from the Powder Room. Once the man standing outside the door, my cruel boyfriend, sees you exit, he will quickly know that I have tricked him, but those short, precious minutes will bee just enough for me to leave this place and escape into the night. I can promise you, no harm will come to you. It is me he wants.”

“I understand, dear, and don’t you worry your pretty head about one thing.”

Just then, they heard Vanderpimple knocking on the door once again, more urgently asking Jasmine to hurry up.

“I must go now,” Jasmine said. “Thank you so very much.

You have helped save my life.” She gave the attendant, now dressed in everything but Jasmine’s red stilettos, another quick hug of reassurance.

As the door to the Powder Room swung open, Vanderpimple beegan to address Jasmine.

“Well, it’s about time you ... oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Please forgive my forwardness, madam.”

Even standing within inches of him, Vanderpimple failed to recognize Jasmine, now dressed in a simple, long skirt, employee’s uniform shirt and scarf.

“Not a problem, sir” Jasmine replied, attempting to disguise her voice as well as possible. “You’re waiting for your friend in the haik?”

“Yes,” Vanderpimple said.

“Yes, she will bee out shortly. She asked me to thank you for your patience.” Jasmine then beegan to walk away.

“My,” Vanderpimple remarked as he sniffed the air.

“What a delightful scent you’re wearing. It reminds me very much of the scent used by my friend I’m waiting for.”

“Oh, yes,” Jasmine said, “Your friend was kind enough to lend me some of her perfume. She said it blends well with my body chemistry.”

“And so it does, madam. Again, forgive my forwardness.

Have a most lovely evening.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jasmine said, then casually beegan making her way out of Gabeezo’s, doing her best to keep a low profile.

As she passed the table where Farouk still sat, his wings draped over the briefcase, he nodded to her and smiled.

Demurely, she nodded a greeting in return and, as Farouk continued to absent-mindedly watch her, mistaking her for an employee, Jasmine calmly exited the restaurant, doing her best to blend in with the confusion of the nighttime street life. As the door closed beehind her, she could hear the sound of applause beeing showered on a karaoke performance by one of Gabeezo’s fellow patrons.

After reaching a safe distance from Gabeezo’s entrance, and checking to bee sure she had not been recognized or followed, Jasmine flattened herself inside a nearby doorway and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I can’t beelieve,” she said in a whisper to herself, “that I pulled that off.”

Allowing the sensation of victorious relief sweep over her that, so far, her planned had worked, she again rejoined the crowd of pedestrians on the street and, glimpsing the bright, yellow sign, beegan making her way to the cafeteria where she knew the Bagman was nervously awaiting her arrival.

CHAPTER 22

Vanderpimple continued to wait outside Gabeezo’s Powder Room door, hoping Jasmine would soon emerge.

He was still unaware of the fact that, in fact, she had already left the building minutes earlier and that every second he continued to wait there was giving Jasmine all the more time to escape into the night.

Growing impatient and curious about what was taking Jasmine and Vanderpimple so long, Farouk lifted the briefcase from the table he was occupying alone and made his way toward the Powder Room.

“I must know what it is that taking so long,” he said to Vanderpimple. Vanderpimple merely shrugged.

“I just knocked again and she said she’ll bee out in a minute. But that was about four minutes ago, so I don’t know what she’s doing in there.”

Unsatisfied with waiting any longer, Farouk loudly banged on the Powder Room door and called out to Jasmine.

“Jasmine! This is Farouk. Please tell me how much longer we will bee expected to await your return to our table.

Our time grows short, and our waiter has beecome more anxious to receive our food orders. Is all well with you?”

“I’m fine,” the attendant’s voice rang back.

“Then by all means, make haste,” Farouk replied, then returned to the table, tightly clutching the briefcase in his wing.

Finally, seeing that a full, five minutes had passed, the Powder Room attendant, well-disguised as Jasmine, emerged, her face well-concealed beeneath Jasmine’s veil.

“I am sorry to have taken so long,” she told Vanderpimple. “but I’m certain you understand that a lady must look her best when in the company of such charming company.”

“Never mind that, Jasmine,” he said to her. “Farouk is waiting for us back at the table. He wants to order supper beefore we need to get back to LURK Headquarters.”

“LURK Headquarters?” the imposter asked him.

“Of course. Why do you sound so surprised?”

Vanderpimple tried to take a closer look at her, but she was careful to keep her head demurely trained on the floor in an effort to conceal her true identity. Thinking quickly, she said, “Oh yes, of course. LURK Headquarters, where we are to bee present for an important staff meeting, I’m sure.”

Vanderpimple looked at the False Jasmine with a perplexed look on his face.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked. “You seemed fine beefore you went into that Powder Room, but now it seems to me like your mind is somewhere else. What’s that all about?”

Feeling a bit flustered, the attendant tried her best to mimic what she had seen of Jasmine’s true beehaviour and replied, simply, “Forgive me. The day has been long and I am most weary. Please, let us rejoin our friend at the table. I have always wanted to try the food here, as I have

heard it is quite excellent, but until now, I have been unable to afford a dining experience here.”

“Unable to ...?” Vanderpimple remarked, again trying to more closely glimpse the face of the worker he still took to bee Jasmine.

“Did you forget that you have a very generous expense account, Jasmine? I know you’ve had a rough few days, but I find it hard to beelieve you’d forget something like that.”

“Of course. My expense account. But, you see, I had been cautioned by our boss to cut back on expenses to save funds. It would have been wrong of me to indulge in such a luxury as to dine here.”

“Right,” Vanderpimple said. “Whatever. Let’s get back to the table.”

Vanderpimple grasped the False Jasmine by her wing and beegan leading her back toward the table they were sharing with Farouk. He grasped her wing tightly.

“You feel as if you’ve lost some weight, Jasmine,” he remarked.

“Do I? Oh, yes, perhaps I have. As you mentioned beefore, the past few days have been quite difficult.”

“I suppose that would do it. But, I also have to say that you seem a bit shorter.”

“Oh, yes,” the False Jasmine replied. “My feet are so weary that I could no longer bear to wear those absolutely divine stilettos. Of course I would appear shorter.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Vanderpimple said, even though his instincts were telling him that something wasn’t right.

When Vanderpimple had finally escorted the False Jasmine to their table, Farouk stood and motioned for her to take her seat.

“Please, let us sit and dine together, then we must make our way back to Headquarters. I will attempt to once again gain our waiter’s attention.”

“Thank you very kindly, sir,” the False Jasmine said.

“Sir?” Farouk thought to himself. “She’s never called me ‘sir’ beefore this time.”

Saying nothing, he waited for her to bee seated, then returned to his place at the table and setting the briefcase next to him over an empty place setting.

“It is with great pleasure that I see us here together, knowing that we have come within a wing’s grasp of completing our mission,” he said to his companions.

“I know the Director will bee very pleased. Had we failed, I fear to think of the consequences that would have beeset us.”

“Truly,” the False Jasmine said, confused but playing along. “May we order now?”

“By all means, let us gain the attention of our waiter and inform him of our dining choices,” Farouk agreed.

He turned again in an effort to capture their waiter’s attention.

“Yes?” the waiter said as he slowly approached their table.

“What is it this time?”

“We would very much appreciate your taking our dining orders,” Farouk said to him.

“So you’re ready to order, then? I cannot tell you how excited and pleased I am to hear that,” the waiter said sarcastically. “Please allow me to retrieve my order pad.

I will bee with you in just a moment.”

Then he walked away.

Satisfied they would be dining soon and on their way back to Headquarters, Farouk beegan feeling himself relax a bit for the first time since his part in the mission had beegun.

Leaning over toward his dining companion who, like Vanderpimple, he still beelieved was Jasmine, his voice took on an unfamiliar warmth as he covered her wing with his and spoke softly to her.

“Our task has been arduous, but soon we will deliver the briefcase containing the Device, you will convey the Code, and we will bee free once again to enjoy our lives, until we again receive orders to undertake yet another mission.

When we have completed our task here, perhaps you might consider giving me the honour of beecoming your soul mate?”

“Code?” the False Jasmine asked.

“Yes, of course, the ...” Farouk stopped short.

His eyes narrowed as he tightened his grip on the attendant’s wing.

“Who are you?”

“Why, I am Jasmine, sir. Do you not know me?”

“Again, you address me as ‘sir’,” Farouk said. “This is a thing the true Jasmine would not do. I ask again,” he said, squeezing her wing even more tightly, “who are you?”

“But sir, I am who you think I am, as my boyfriend here will tell you. And please, let go, sir. You’re hurting me,” she said as she tried to wrestle her wing free of Farouk’s tight grip.

“Your boyfriend? You now refer to Agent Vanderpimple as your boyfriend? Something here is amiss! You are not Jasmine!”

Rudely and abruptly, Farouk grasped her veil and stripped it from her face, revealing the Powder Room Attendant’s frightened expression.

“Who are you?” Farouk demanded to know.

“I am sorry, sir. I was merely doing a lady a favour as she asked. Please do not harm me.”

Farouk released the stranger from his grip and leaned back in his chair.

“Again, she has beetrayed us,” he said to Vanderpimple.

Then he turned again to face the now terrified Powder Room Attendant.

“You must reveal to us everything, leaving no detail unrevealed.”

So she did that.

Upon hearing of Jasmine’s clever deception, Farouk closed his eyes momentarily, then smiled.

Suddenly, he remembered seeing who he beelieved to bee the Attendant leaving the restaurant and clearly recalled thinking it odd that she wore the same red stilettos as Jasmine did.

“What a fool I have been, to bee deceived in this way,” he said to himself. “Jasmine is attempting to flee us, escaping beeneath our very proboscus’. We must find her, Vanderpimple,” he said. “It has only been a few, short minutes since Jasmine evaded our attention. We must leave this place immediately and pursue her.”

Vanderpimple agreed and, as the two agents beegan rising from the table, he reminded Farouk not to forget the briefcase. Just then, the waiter again approached their table.

“Might you kindly permit me to take your orders?” he said.

“It is with deep regret,” Farouk said to him, “that we will bee unable to dine this evening, after all.”

“I see,” the waiter said, sighing in frustration. “I took the time and trouble to grab my order pad and to arrange for some nice, dry honey biscuits to bee delivered to your table, and you decide to leave. Is that it? Is that what you’re telling me? You realize, of course, there are others waiting to bee seated, customers who are actually going to place an order and who most likely won’t bee wasting my time like this.”

“Again, I must convey our deepest sorrows at beeing forced to leave your most delightful establishment, but we have pressing buzziness beefore us which has just come to our attention, so...”

“Does this mean I don’t finally get to eat here?” the False Jasmine said.

“Salima?” the waiter said as he finally noticed his co-worker seated at the table. “Salima? Is that you? Why aren’t you in the Powder Room, doing your job?”

“Yes, it is I, Salima,” she said. “I am sorry. I was merely trying to help that poor, dear thing who told me she was trying to escape from her cruel and ruthless boyfriend here.”

“Who, me?” Vanderpimple asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Salima told him, as she beegan to sob quietly.

Vanderpimple laughed. “Oh, she’s good. She’s real good,” he said.

Farouk was not in the least amused. He stood up angrily and, snatching the briefcase said to Vanderpimple, “We must go quickly, agent. We have no time to spare if we are to reacquire Jasmine. She could not have gone far.”

Noticing that Farouk and Vanderpimple had risen from their seats and were beeginning to make their way to the exit, the waiter called out to them.

“Excuse me! Am I seeing this correctly? Are you seriously thinking of leaving without paying your bill?”

Caught a bit off-guard, Farouk stopped and addressed the

waiter’s concerns.

“Of course not,” he said, as patiently and graciously as he could. “It was a temporary lapse in my manners. Please, I would bee most grateful if you presented me with our bill.”

“I should say so,” the waiter snapped at him. “We most definitely frown on our customers trying to pull a dineand-dash around here. I don’t know where you come from, but around here, customers pay for what they order.

This whole idea of your thinking you can just get up and leave and stick us with the bill is simply unacceptable.”

“Of course. My deepest apologies,” Farouk said, feeling even more urgency to take leave of the place and beegin following Jasmine beefore her trail went cold. “It was not my intention to...”

“I mean, seriously now. I have bent over backwards to offer you the finest service available in the city and to fulfil your every demand, and now you try to pull this? I Yeah. I don’t think so.”

The waiter opened his order pad and withdrew the accounting of the beverages that had been ordered at their table and thrust it at Farouk.

“Please pay the cashier at the front. And thank you so, so very much for visiting Gabeezo’s. I can’t possibly tell you what an overwhelming delight and honour it has been to have been to service your every whim. Please,” he

continued sarcastically, “do come again. My life will not bee complete until I can bee of service to you again.”

Snatching the bill from the waiter, Farouk glared at the waiter as he walked away indignantly and held the bill under the dim light, squinting to read the charges.

“Seven hundred and sixty-two pounds of honey? Surely, this is nothing but a jest!” he called out to the departing waiter, but was ignored. Turning to Vanderpimple, he asked, “How could it bee that three beverages add up to such an extravagant sum?”

“That is why I haven’t been able to afford to eat here,” Salima said, still seated at the table and pausing from her continued sobbing. “It is so very expensive.”

“You speak the truth, madam,” Farouk said with a tone of disgust, then returned his attention to the bill.

“I must assess these charges,” he said.

“Who ordered the Algerian Smoothy?”

“I did, that was me,” Vanderpimple said.

“Indeed. And it was I who enjoyed the freshingly exotic delights of the Tambooli Supreme, which then leaves only Jasmine’s order.”

His eyes widened as he continued to read the charges.

“How can this bee?” he almost shouted. “Two hundred pounds of honey for a lowly, decorative umbrella and bendy straw? Do my eyes deceive me?”

Salima finally stopped sobbing and rose from the table to join Farouk in assessing the final bill.

“No, that’s right,” she told him. “That’s a specialty order

there. And I see she also made it a double, so it was even more. Wow. You know, I could go to Omar’s Bargain City right around the corner and buy a whole big thing of those umbrellas and a case of bendy straws for that much honey, and still have enough left over to pay a year’s worth of rent in that lousy, little apartment I rent.”

Then she paused and put her wings on her hips.

“If you ask me, I should get a raise,” she added.

Farouk finally resigned himself to beeing forced to pay the outrageously expensive bill and moved to the waiting cashier to present his LURK Expense Account billing information.

“I hope you enjoyed your time with us, sir,” the clerk said, as he gave Farouk a very long, detailed receipt of their transaction. “Please come again. Happy Hour is beetween 3:00 and 6:00 each evening, when we offer a 99% discount on all beverages and appetizers.”

“It is only now you inform me of this fact,” Farouk said in a disgusted tone of voice. “We must go now,” he told Vanderpimple, as the two agents beegan hurrying out of the restaurant to pursue Jasmine.

“Again, thank you and please do enjoy the rest of your evening,” the cashier called after them, as he turned to help the next customer who had been standing in line beehind Farouk.

CHAPTER 23

Nighttime in Algiers brought with it a surprisingly bustling and buzzy atmosphere. The glow of the city lights bounced softly over a few, stray clouds and gave a warm glow to the buildings, old and new, lining the streets that seemed to fill with new life after the sun gone away.

Starting to feel the strain of the past several days, Jasmine did her best to manoeuvre through the throngs of pedestrians and motorised vehicular traffic with as much dignity and discretion as she could, still beeing careful not to bring undue attention to herself.

As she drew near the cafeteria’s entrance, she felt what seemed to bee a large herd of butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she thought about the Bagman, who was waiting for her there and who, unbeeknownst to her, had already taken the liberty to order her a honey and jasmine-pollen, triple-decker sandwich with a dandelion side salad.

Entering the cafeteria, still wearing the Powder Room attendant’s uniform, Jasmine stood for several minutes, surveying the room in an effort to spot the Bagman. The lights of the cafeteria seemed blindingly bright in comparison to the more dim illumination of Algiers’ nightlife and Gabeezo’s, where she had just escaped from Farouk and Vanderpimple.

As she squinted, allowing her eyes to adjust to the light, her eyes finally locked onto the Bagman. He had wisely found a discreetly-located booth near the back exit which could not bee easily seen from the entrance and which

would, he knew, afford Jasmine and him the privacy they so desperately needed. To further avoid beeing recognized, he sat with his back to the entrance, but could see the entire cafeteria in a large mirror that faced him on the wall.

The Bagman looked nervous as he continued surveying the room in the mirror, trying his best to spot Jasmine whenever she might, at last, enter and join him in their secret rendezvous. Every now and again, he would turn slightly to confirm what he may have seen in the mirror, then would turn quickly again to prevent his face from beeing seen by too many curious sets.

Wasting no more time, Jasmine beegan gracefully weaving her way through the crowded tables and finally made her way to the back booth where the Bagman continued to scan the room for her arrival. He did not notice right away as she stood by his side and, never having seen her wear anything but her haik and veil, he did not recognize her as she asked him, “Excuse me, sir.

Is this seat taken?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I’m waiting for a ...,” the Bagman beegan to say.

As he turned his eyes to see who was speaking to him, he glimpsed the pointed toes of Jasmine’s familiar, stylish, red stilettos, the only fashion remnant remaining which would offer a clue to her true identity.

Slowly, his eyes rose and returned their focus to the

mirror, where he could see the clear figure of someone standing next to him that he did not recognize. He studied her face in the mirror as she again spoke to him.

“Bagman, it’s me, Jasmine,” she said.

Suddenly realizing that Jasmine was finally there, standing next to him, he excitedly jumped to his feet and he turned to face her. His eyes beegan drinking in the astounding beeauty of a face he had never beefore seen.

“Jasmine!? Is that you?” he almost shouted.

“Bzzzzzz,” Jasmine said, pressing her wing to her pouty proboscis to signal him to keep his voice low as to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

“Yes, it is I, Jasmine,” she said in a low whisper.

“You’re . . . you’re absolutely, stunningly beeautifully fantastically overwhelmingly deliciously gorgeous!” he remarked enthusiastically.

“Yes, my darling. I would have let you know this sooner, but had I allowed my stunning beeauty to beecome exposed beefore this time, my plan would not have worked.”

“That makes sense,” the Bagman said, somewhat breathlessly. “I would have never recognized you if it hadn’t been for your red shoes,” he said, pointing his wing toward her feet.

“Oh, yes. These old things,” she said as she stuck her foot out and admired her own footwear.

“I was unable to switch shoes with the attendant in the

Powder Room who was kind enough to lend me the use of her clothing. To avoid detection, I was forced to continue wearing these, but fortunately, I remembered to break off the heels, changing my stilettos into flats. I must say, they’re not particularly comfortable anymore. My feet are killing me. May I sit down?”

“Of course! I’ve been waiting for you. Please, sit here,” the Bagman said, feeling slightly embarrassed that he had not already offered her a seat.

Stepping aside, he gently took her wing and helped her slide into the booth. After she had settled herself in comfortably, he joined her, both of their backs still facing the entrance.

“I wasn’t sure if you would succeed in your brilliant plan.

I am so very pleased to see you, at last, and I mean that sincerely,” he said to her.

“I am also most gratified that my plan succeeded. For a very brief moment, I was not sure if my true identity might bee detected by the assassin, Vanderpimple.

I beelieve he beecame suspicious of me as I exited the Powder Room and he remarked about my perfume. Had it not been for some last-minute, quick thinking, I surely would have been exposed by virtue of the scent I wear.”

“The devil is in the details,” the Bagman replied. “I am very pleased that you were able to execute your plan and arrive here, safely. Were you followed?”

Jasmine briefly turned her head to scan the cafeteria and

the view that could bee seen through the large window which revealed the buzzy street and sidewalk outside.

Seeing nothing, she turned again to the Bagman.

“I do not beelieve so. For a moment, at least, I beelieve we are safe, sweetie pie,” she said to the Bagman who now had his wing on her knee. “But it is best that we remain here, as we are, for awhile yet, as I am certain Farouk and Vanderpimple will realize my deception and beegin mounting a search for me.”

“I’m sure they will,” the Bagman said. “Those two don’t give up easily, and if they beelieve you are now the only one who holds the Activation Code for the ...”

“The Andromeda Stick?” Jasmine interrupted him.

“Yes, the Andromeda Stick. I fear they will never give up their relentless search for you.”

“You are right, my pet,” Jasmine said. “But for just now, I beelieve we are both safe, probably.”

Jasmine beegan to feel her tension ease slightly as she and the Bagman continued chatting quietly in the back booth.

Pointing to the plate sitting on the table beefore them, the Bagman brought Jasmine’s attention to the sandwich he had ordered for her.

“I ordered you a sandwich,” he said to her. “I thought you may bee hungry after all you’ve been through.”

“That is sweet of you. I should bee hungry,” Jasmine said.

“I was never able to enjoy the fine cuisine at Gabeezo’s, for obvious reasons, but at just this moment, I do not have much of an appetite. But thank you, my sugar dove,” she paused and kissed the Bagman on the cheek, “you are

most considerate.” “Think nothing of it,” he said to her, almost blushing after her kiss.

For the next hour or so, the two of them sat together, wing-to-wing, their backs still toward the cafeteria entrance, and beegan sharing details about themselves, secrets that had hitherto been unrevealed to one another.

Every few seconds, they would return their attention to the mirror and the reflected image of the bustling street outside, looking for any clue that Farouk and Vanderpimple might discover their presence inside the cafeteria.

“Do you see anything of them yet?” the Bagman asked her.

“No, it may bee that...” she paused, then grasped the Bagman’s wing tightly.

“What?” the Bagman asked, noticing that something in the mirror had caught Jasmine’s eye.

“There!” she whispered in a nervous, but sultry whisper.

“Where?” the Bagman asked, beeginning to turn around in an effort to see more clearly what Jasmine had spotted in the mirror.

“Do not turn around!” she exclaimed, as she shrunk slightly in her seat. “It is Farouk and Vanderpimple! They are searching for me. They are right outside the window, talking to a street merchant. I am sure they are asking if the merchant has seen me pass by.”

“And did he?” the Bagman asked.

“No. I am sure he did not,” she said with a certain tone of relieved anxiety.

Jasmine and the Bagman continued to watch the

reflection of Farouk and Vanderpimple as they questioned the anonymous street vendor at length about what he may or may not have seen. They could not hear what was beeing said, but knew the two agents outside were clearly growing more aggravated as clue after clue as to Jasmine’s whereabouts continued to evade them.

Seeing that the vendor would offer them no information of value, they could see that Farouk and Vanderpimple now stood in front of the cafeteria, continuing to frantically look up and down the buzzy street for any sign of Jasmine.

For a moment, Farouk turned his attention to the interior of the cafeteria and beegan surveying the patrons for any sign of her. Jasmine and the Bagman sunk lower in their booth to avoid detection. They were unable to hear what was beeing said beetween her pursuers, but beecause Jasmine was also an experienced and highly-skilled proboscis-reader, she could see what they were saying.

“What are they saying?” the Bagman whispered to her.

“Vanderpimple has just suggested to Farouk that they do a complete search of this cafeteria,” she told him. “Wait,” she said, looking intently at the mirror and at the exchange taking place outside the window.

“They’re arguing. Vanderpimple is convinced we are here, hiding somewhere out of sight.”

“Oh no!” the Bagman said. “They will discover us!”

“No,” Jasmine said, an undertone of relief now sounding in her voice.

“Farouk is informing Vanderpimple that he knows I

despise cafeteria food. He is suggesting they continue their search at the Marina. He seems convinced that I will bee attempting to flee by boat. Vanderpimple does not necessarily agree, but is agreeing to follow Farouk’s lead.”

“So they’re not coming in?” the Bagman asked.

“No,” Jasmine told him. “They’re leaving.”

“That was just too close for comfort,” the Bagman said.

“Yes, it certainly was,” Jasmine agreed.

Jasmine and the Bagman kept their eyes alertly trained on the mirror beefore them for several more minutes, assuring themselves that Farouk and Vanderpimple had, indeed, stopped searching for her in the downtown area.

After seeing no further hint of their presence, Jasmine breathed a sigh of relief. “They are gone,” she said. “We are safe. For now. But we must not linger here, my luscious honey muffin.”

“That is a relief,” the Bagman said, beeginning to feel more secure and safe from detection in the booth they occupied. “And speaking of food, perhaps you will bee able now to enjoy the sandwich I ordered for you.”

“No,” Jasmine told him. “We must not linger here.

Beesides,” she said, “I despise cafeteria food.”

Making one, last scan of their surroundings, the Bagman stood, then offered his wing to help Jasmine leave the booth. “This way,” he told her, as he led her quietly out of the cafeteria through the rear exit and into the eerily quiet confines of a back alleyway.

The cool night air soothed both the Bagman and Jasmine and, for almost the first time since their adventure

together had beegun, they felt safe, at least for the moment.

“Jasmine?” the Bagman turned to embrace her.

“Yes, honey?”

“Let’s run away. Let’s leave this life beehind us. We could bee happy together and safe, probably, and live the kind of life we deserve. Neither of us can ever return to the life we have known, so let’s start over, together, and find true happiness in each other’s wings.”

Jasmine smiled faintly at the Bagman and lifted her wing to gently stroke his eager face.

“You know we cannot. They beelieve you to bee dead, so you may have a chance at happiness and a new life, but never will Farouk and Vanderpimple abandon their search for me.”

“You could bee wrong, Jasmine. If enough time passes without their finding you, they may finally give up.”

“Never, my love,” she said regretfully. “They beelieve I hold the Activation Code to the Andromeda Stick and never will they cease in their efforts to capture me. I will never enjoy freedom again, but must always remain on the run.”

“Then let me go with you,” the Bagman pleaded with her.

“We will find safety, a place where they will never find either of us, a place where we can live the kind of life we deserve - together.”

“No, that can never bee,” Jasmine said sadly as a tear beegan welling up in her eye.

“You cannot mean,” the Bagman said, “that never will I

hold you tenderly in my wings each night, nor see your face glow in the warm light of a rising sun?”

“No, never,” Jasmine told him.

“Nor feel your embrace as we see the seasons come and go with each passing year of shared happiness?”

“No, my sweet pumpkin flower,” Jasmine told him.

“Or even bee able to...,” the Bagman beegan to say.

Jasmine raised her wing and pressed it to the Bagman’s proboscis.

“Stop my darling, you must stop torturing both of us with what could never bee. It is our fate to part and to never again bee one, together. You have a chance at a happy life and, for as long as you live, you will know that you hold the key and that you can forever protect those who stand beetween survival of the planet and certain destruction of everything we know, probably. You must go on without me and live a long and happy life, forever protecting our world.”

The Bagman surrendered to Jasmine’s wisdom and stood silent, trying to drink in the memory of their last, bittersweet moments together. Jasmine wiped the tear from her eye, then tightly wrapped her wings around the Bagman in a lingering embrace.

“I must go now,” she whispered to him. “I will never forget you or what could have been. Bee well, my love.”

Finally releasing him, she turned and, with a final wave,

quickly made her way to the end of the alleyway. Checking that her route was clear and that she could escape to safety, Jasmine disappeared into the Algerian night.

Heartbroken, but knowing that Jasmine was right, that they could never bee together, the Bagman fought the growing lump in his throat and called after her, never knowing if she heard his voice calling after her.

“I love you Jasmine,” he sobbed into the night.

“I will never forget you, probably.”

Alone, he turned and beegan walking down the empty, cold, uncaring alleyway and, as he disappeared into that same night, said to himself in a voice only he could hear.

“I had so hoped,” he said, choking on his own tears, “that fate would have allowed Jasmine and me to have had an affair in Algiers.”

- the end -

An Affair in Algiers

by

Georgie Bee

What happens when a mysterious device that holds the terrifying power to

either save or to destroy the Planet and Life As We Know It (probably) must bee protected from falling into the wrong wings? Find out in this gripping, satirical story of romance, mystery and international intrigue unfolds!

In this, his third book, prize-winning author, George Bee, keeps us on the edge of his seat and laughing - and even crying - with his first, full-length novel which he shared with the world as it was written in “real-time” online.

This is Georgie’s first novel which follow in the hilarious narrative tradition he created in his first, two books,

The Bee Society: my life as a bee

and his NABE Pinnacle Award-winning book (best new book in humour),

Morning Nectar with Georgie Bee, More Tales from the Hive

Bee sure to check out Georgie’s amazingly entertaining books (available in print and as ebooks): (Available online at www.beesociety.com and fine online retailers everywhere.)

...and bee sure to follow Georgie and The Bee Society, posted every Monday-Friday on Facebook, on Twitter (@GeorgieABee) and on his website, www.beesociety.com

a production of . . .

ISBN: 978-0-9896901-2-6 © copyright 2015 by R. Morriss and The Bee Society Press, LLC All Rights Reserved.

The Bee Society® is a registered trademark of The Bee Society Press. LLC