Flight of the Green Bird

In the mystifying pathways of cyberspace, frantic exchanges were burning the airwaves. From Riyadh to Tehran, from Tehran to Riyadh, from Tehran to the Iranian embassy on Belmont Road, and from Riyadh to the Saudi embassy on New Hampshire Avenue, there was scurrying and shouting intermingled with Persian poetry and Arab pronouncements of righteous indignation.

“The Great Satan has won this skirmish, but in the end Allah shall put our souls into green birds and fly us to the rivers of Paradise.” said Zahedi. “Allah, blessed be his name, has fated that you and I and our people shall be together in the kingdom of heaven. We shall be martyrs for Islam, and we shall share rivers of wine, dark-eyed virgins, and respectful servant boys.”

“These upstart Americans; they do not know their place. We are an ancient people, the best of peoples, and we shall win in the end. Inshallah.” said the King. “We must find the informant. He is an apostate and he must be punished by the sword.”

“There is also a matter of business,” said Zahedi “We must change the traffic channels for the Alliance for Mid-East Peace and Prosperity. Our contact tells us that the Americans have found a way to track the money, and we must find a safer means to put our hands in their pockets. Peace be upon you.”

“Allah hu Akbar. “Allah hu Akbar.”

“Ash-hadu an-la, Ila-ha illallah

God is great. God is great.

I bear witness there is no God but God.”

At O’Hare, Golden Eagle 12, the newest Air Force jet and the pride and joy of the Air National Guard Unit at Scott, was fueled and ready to take off as soon as Griff rolled up to the gate. A cadre of uniformed men and a Secret Service team of four met him and immediately escorted him to the runway and up the movable stairs. He had removed his gold earrings and wore a long sleeved tee shirt to conceal his serpent tattoo. He looked scruffy but normal.

Inside, the plane was outfitted for the brass with comfortable tan leather lounge chairs surrounding a long oval conference table. He was led to a seat at the head of the table where a hot gourmet meal was waiting for him. An attractive female flight attendant in an Air National Guard uniform wheeled a full bar to him and asked what he would like to drink. The lead agent said Griff had sure earned a stiff drink. Griff said he was looking forward to a good dinner, but he’d just like a ginger ale though it wouldn’t bother him if they chose the booze. He said he knew they needed to debrief him, and they could begin whenever they chose. He was ready.

They landed at Andrews at 4 AM; Griff was taken in a military caravan directly to Camp David where the comfortable guest cabin, the Dogwood, was ready and waiting. Dawn was breaking as they reached the retreat. Bright patches of early sunlight flickered their way through the stately oaks and poplars that lined the winding roadway. As they rounded a sharp curve, orchards of wild cherry trees past their prime came into view and splashed the mossy green valley below with clusters of faded crimson blossoms. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt chose this magnificent enclave in the Catoctin Mountains for rest and relaxation, and for a sociable place for high-level meetings away from the din and distractions of the nation’s Capitol. With Roosevelt’s blessing, it was named Shangri-La after British author James Hilton’s mystical kingdom, and although its name had changed, it remained an earthly paradise isolated from the outside world. Surrounded by beauty and quiet, Griff began to relax.

Major General Dickey Ames who was assigned to Griff opened the cabin door and handed him an old-fashioned key. There was a terry robe and a change of clothes on the bed, and he gave Griff a cell.

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