Primary Target

51

Tanned and refreshed after their leisurely vacation in St. Thomas, Jackie and Scott invited Greg and Maritza to join them for a relaxing weekend in New Orleans. Even though Scott, Maritza and Greg were still recuperating from their injuries, the foursome enjoyed their tour of the Vieux Carré. What they hadn’t seen Friday night, they saw the following morning, including Jackson Square, the French Market, Royal Street, Dixieland Hall, and the expansive Riverwalk.

They wrapped up the pleasurable tour with a river cruise on the magnificent Natchez. With a calliope playing a jaunty melody and its huge paddle wheel thrashing the muddy Mississippi, the colorful steamboat had glided downriver past charming moss-draped oak trees and Chalmette Battlefield. By the time Natchez returned to the Riverwalk, the quartet had worked up a voracious appetite.

Repairing to a small, quiet restaurant, they dined on dirty rice and plump links of freshly grilled Louisiana-style sausage, tender and tangy in a rich roux-based sauce. Framed black-and-white photographs hanging on the brick walls depicted a variety of scenes of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras circa the 1950s and 1960s.

Greg’s curiosity finally got the best of him. “Okay,” he said, looking at Scott and Jackie. “What’s the story on Farkas?”

Scott glanced at Jackie and shrugged. “You know as much as we do.”

“Come on,” Greg insisted. “Did they kill him or not?”

Dalton swallowed a sip of cold beer. “Hartwell says they found the ejection seat fairly close to the plane, but there wasn’t a body or a parachute anywhere for miles around the crash site. That’s all I know, honestly.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Maritza said as she caught a whiff of the tantalizing aroma of blackened catfish. “Farkas got away, and he isn’t finished with his mission.”

Jackie nodded in agreement. “Apparently, the president agrees with you. That’s why he’s running the country from Raven Rock.”

“If Farkas is still alive,” Scott drawled as he listened to the four-four rhythm of Dixieland jazz drifting through the open door, “he’s probably apoplectic over what has happened to Iran and the other sponsors of terrorism. That could make him even more dangerous.”

Greg listened to the enchanting music and thought about Farkas. “I think the little bastard’s ego is crushed — his reputation is tarnished. He didn’t assassinate the president.”

“That’s right,” Scott said with obvious pleasure. “But one thing is for sure. He won’t stop trying until someone takes him out.”

A faint smile edged Jackie’s mouth. “Hey, guys, lighten up. The airlines are flying again, the stock market bounced back, and we haven’t had another terrorist attack since the president demonstrated his position on the issue.”

“Yeah, we’re on vacation.” Scott smiled, then let his attention drift toward the languid hoot of a tugboat plying the Mississippi. “Let’s have another round,” he said as he caught the attention of their waitress.

“I’ll second that,” Greg exclaimed with an easy smile.

Relaxed and mellow, Scott listened to a sidewalk band belt out Count Basie’s “One O’Clock Jump” while another melancholy hoot from a tugboat drifted up from the river.

Scott glanced at his fishing buddy. “My favorite — Count Basie.”

Greg gave him a perplexed look. “You mean the vampire guy?”

“Exactly,” Dalton said with a grin. “How’s the rehab going?”

“Better than I figured,” Greg said enthusiastically. “Two more weeks and I’m going to be wetting a line in the Gulf of Mexico.”

A small, thin man sitting alone at the bar swallowed an oyster and darted a glance at the wall mirror. He was looking straight into the faces of Maritza Gunzelman and Scott Dalton. Downing another raw oyster, the man with the long white hair and thick white beard carefully wiped his hands on an oversized cloth napkin. He adjusted his sunglasses, then tossed some money on the cluttered bar and donned his French beret. Khaliq Farkas smiled inwardly and walked out of the restaurant.