Caribbean Holiday

Gus Bishop had retreated into cerebral privacy.

The woman at his side instinctively knew that the conversation lamp was out. Resisting the habit of tobacco, she composed herself. For the sake of this fabulous relationship, she would put up with a lot more than an occasional bout of introspection. Gus leaned forward, pulled the scrambler from its niche in the back of the front seat. He pressed a button for the frequently called number of his headquarters, spoke abruptly, "Jensen."

In moments Arthur Jensen responded, "Sir!"

"Go to Montreal. See Pierre Blauvelt. Buy the ten thousand acres south of Lake Athabasca that I looked at last month. Blauvelt was with me. The coordinates are 58010'N, 107020'W. The tract extends four miles south and east. Blauvelt wants $4 US an acre. Don't exceed $4.25. It's forest land in northern Saskatchewan that I can use for hunting."

Gus Bishop replaced the phone, turned to his companion, "A moment of business, Gwen. Shall we proceed?" he said rhetorically. He then pressed a button in the limousine's arm rest, spoke into the intercom, "Through the gate, please, and park fifty yards down the right hand lane."

Gwendolyn Frazier smiled acknowledgement. Through the windshield she could see that the service around a grave site was concluded, the people were standing and talking in groups before dispersing.

The security team's two cars and a van moved with Bishop's Mercedes. Two in front, one behind. Several of the mourners, noting the arrival of the aristocratic luxury car that in no way resembled the standard plebeian American limo, and three satellite vehicles, turned to stare. At a distance, in the wooded cemetery, other observers elatedly reacted.

"He is here," the leader spoke into his command radio. His men had similar hand sets. For security reasons, all were independent of the local cell phone net. "We will wait until the crowd breaks up. Surprise and energetic action will see us in and out of here with a compliant Augustine Bishop in our hands."

"What the fuck's that about?" the speaker, one Dom Colatari, grumbled.

"We do our job, Dom, that's all."

"The one I want complaining is that blonde babe. Geez, didy'a evah see anything that good?"

"Some other time. Today, it's just Bishop. No shooting except they shoot first. Above all, no civilians knocked down. Where'd you see the girlfriend?"

"A half hour ago when Solly and me picked them up at O'Hare. We was right there at the fence, when this Gus and his doll got off their little plane and walked to that big car."

* * *

The elegantly dressed widow greeted Gus and his companion. "You still do not believe in God?"

"Because I waited until the conclusion of the service? Mother," he kissed the proffered cheek, "who created God? But we mustn't discuss our religious differences at Dad's grave. Allow me to introduce Gwendolyn Frazier, late of the London stage. My mother, Emma Bishop, Gwen."