The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 5
From an altitude of several hundred feet Lake Leman was a trite cliché: a platter of deep blue, engirdled by small villages and a smattering of towns, with patches of verdancy in between. Safely tucked inside the landing plane, the small giant and the tall dwarf were shaded from the merry early-morning sounds of drowning swimmers, birds being sucked into airplane turbines, and somnolent automobiles crashing into each other. The plane landed.
On the runway.
After passing rapidly through customs, the two operatives headed toward the train station adjoining the Geneva airport, and boarded the train to Lausanne. Forty minutes later they heard the conductor’s trilingual voice over the loudspeaker. “Prochain arrêt, Lausanne. Nächste halt, Lausanne. Next stop, Lausanne.” They disembarked, descended into the short subterranean passage, and came up again inside the main lobby.
“The taxis are over there,” said the small giant and pointed to the right, as the two stepped out into the cloudy morning, their yet cloudier bodies not at all pleased with the jetlag.
The tall dwarf handed a note to the cabbie. “We need to get to this address in Lausanne,” she said.
The cabbie took a look at the piece of paper and remarked in some unidentifiable East-European accent, “This is not Lausanne, this is St. Sulpice. Very close. Very close.”
“Whatever,” said the tall dwarf. “Just drive.”
After ten minutes of coursing through the city — its prevalent European architecture so different than what they were used to — and another ten minutes cruising along the lake, they arrived at their destination.
The lakefront villa fronted the lake, in addition boasting a garden full of nature, and a mailbox reading: Annabelle Doe. The two colleagues entered through the unlocked gate, walked the few yards to the front door, and rang the bell.
“I’ve heard that tune before,” mumbled the tall dwarf just as the door opened to reveal an older and female version of the president.
“Bonjour mademoiselles,” said the woman, her demeanor friendly and open.
“Good morning, Mrs. Doe,” replied the small giant. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
“Sure, sure. Please, don’t just stand there, do come in. You must be tired after the flight.” She led them into an elegant living room, wherein the newest articles of decor were the two guests. As if answering their surveying looks, Mrs. Doe said, “My father brought most of this stuff over from Sweden when he emigrated to Switzerland right after the Grand War.”
“I knew that bell sounded familiar,” cried the tall dwarf. “It’s the Swedish national anthem, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, I’m surprised you’d recognize it,” delighted Mrs. Doe.
“My grandfather, Armageddon Baggins, was half Swedish on his mother’s side,” explained the tall dwarf.
“Baggins? Interesting. Anyway, I’m sure you’d like something to drink — perhaps coffee?” said Mrs. Doe. “Oh, and I’ve some delicious freshly baked croissants from the local boulangerie.”
“Sounds perfect,” drooled the small giant, as she and her friend settled down in two plush armchairs.
A few minutes later, with steaming mugs in hand and a corbeil of croissants the likes of which can only be found in the vicinity of France, they were ready to attend to the purpose of their mission. The tall dwarf decided it was time to push forward.
“Mrs. Doe, as you know we’re here investigating your son’s case, and we’ve got a few questions.”
“You haven’t yet found the War Treaties, then?” smiled Mrs. Doe, and — upon noticing the looks on the operatives’ faces — added, “My son and I have no secrets from each other. Including state secrets.”
The tall dwarf nodded gravely, and continued. “I understand your family hails from Sweden?”
“Indeed. My father emigrated from Sweden before I was born. He used to joke that it was like not moving at all, since people always confuse Sweden and Switzerland. He met my mother at the Harvest Festival in Morges — that’s a small town close by — and they were married after a swift courtship of fourteen years. I was born in this country but when I was eight years old Queen Hitter rose to power and my father decided we’d be better off on the other side of the Atlantic. I’m glad he kept the house, though. I think I’ve always considered it my real home, and knew all along I’d come back to it one day.”
“Which you did, upon retiring from your position as John’s press assistant five years ago?” asked the tall dwarf.
“Yes. It’s hard being away from my son, especially now that he’s head coach. But, well, there comes an age when you start thinking about the end — and where you’d like to be when it arrives.”
The small giant nodded understandingly. “Was your father happy here? Did he ever consider going back to Sweden?”
“My father hated Sweden. He’d always say, ‘never again the north’.”
“But he did change his name from Henrikson to Le Nord — French for The North.” Mrs. Doe looked slightly taken aback.
“Please, Mrs. Doe,” said the small giant gently, “we’re professionals. Finding out your maiden name was a task for novices.”
“It’s just that … Well, I haven’t heard that name in such a long time.” She withdrew into herself, mumbling, “Le Nord, Le Nord.” Then, gazing longingly at a portrait of an elder gentleman, she sighed. “Oh, papa … Papa …” A protracted silent moment ensued. Finally, Annabelle Doe regained her composure, and said, “My father chose Le Nord as a constant reminder.”
“Reminder of what?” asked the tall dwarf.
“Of staying away from the north, from Sweden.”
“Why?”
“He never said. I think even my mother remained ignorant of this fact until her very last day.”
The next question was one both operatives had not been looking forward to. “Mrs. Doe, forgive me for this intrusion, but we feel it is necessary for the ongoing investigation.”
The small giant braced herself. “You had an illicit love affair, did you not?”
For a moment the two thought Annabelle Doe would die on them, right then and there. To their relief, she quickly recovered.
“For John’s sake,” whispered Doe. “My God, it’s been so long, almost forty years now. Such a cliché, really: husband hard at work, lonely wife in need of attention. The affair didn’t last long. I ended it, deciding to fight for my marriage.” A fiery look blazed in her eyes for a brief second. “I made the right decision.” In a softer voice she repeated, “The right decision.”
“One last question, Mrs. Doe,” said the tall dwarf. “A daughter was born of your affair, right?”
“Yes,” said Doe in a low voice.
“And her name?”
Annabelle Doe hesitated for a moment — but only for a moment.
Then she told them.
“Hi hon, may I enter?”
Apoka Lipps set her personality level to “low” — she rarely had use for a higher setting.
“Miss Lipps?” asked the woman at the door.
“Sure thing, hon. We spoke earlier on the phone. You must be Mrs. McGregor.”
“Yes, yes, come in.”
Rarely a need to go beyond “low”.
The interior of the house, located in a fashionable neighborhood of the Washington area, was very tidy.
“I don’t even know why I agreed to meet you. I mean, Noro isn’t exactly my favorite person on the planet,” stated Christina Cohen-McGregor, wife of Ibrahim McGregor, and daughter of billionaire contractor Jesus Cohen.
“Don’t take it too personally,” smiled Lipps as she swayed into the living room, and seated herself as though she were Lord and Lady of the manor rolled into one. “Except for Noro, nobody knows why they agree to see me. But they do. Oh, how they do.” Lipps crossed her legs and motioned the other woman to the sofa. “Please, do sit down. I won’t be long. How’s Hiroaki these days, by the way? Still into kidnapping consenting young girls?”
Christina Cohen-McGregor was seething, but nonetheless sat down as ordered.
“Would you mind getting me a Coke? Make it a Regular, please,” purred Lipps. McGregor rose without a word and came back a moment later with the dark beverage.
“How sweet of you, hon.”
“Stop calling me hon!”
“Okay, sweetie pie. Now, let’s get down to business. You know something happened the night before yesterday at Eve’s work, don’t you?”
Christina had a resigned look on her face. “Yes,” she said.
“And where was Eve?”
“Right here with us!” came the answer in a flash.
“Now, now, let’s not rush into things, sweetie pie. Think about what you say before you say it. If you lie to me, you might end up being accused of treason, and I don’t think Daddy would like that, now, would he?”
Christina seemed utterly confused by the essence of the woman opposite her. “Eve … She …”
“Go on, dear, the truth will set you free. Even more important, it’ll make me very, very happy.”
“Eve was here,” Christina finally blurted out, “but she came in very late — at three twenty-seven in the morning. I know, because I woke up as she passed by the bedroom and noticed the time on the digital clock over on Ibrahim’s side.”
“Must’ve been after the nightly meeting,” mused Lipps. “And she hadn’t popped in before that, say, between eleven o’clock and twelve-thirty?”
“No. We went to bed around one o’clock, and she still hadn’t returned home.”
Lipps rose from the sofa. “Thanks, hon.”
Christina Cohen-McGregor remained seated as the Woman left, still not sure what had just taken place.
“Fenestra? Fenestra Gates?” The industrious man behind the desk lifted his head and caught sight of the sight at the doorstep. As their eyes met, Lipps thought in disappointment, This is getting too easy.
It was past noontime of the third day after the theft. A perky Lipps along with two jetlagged operatives were seated in Myx’s living room. They’d just finished recounting their respective tales.
“Well,” said Myx, “you’ve all done decent jobs.”
All three perked up — “decent” was the highest accolade in the detective’s vernacular, and one rarely dispensed.
“What now?” asked the tall dwarf. “We still haven’t found the missing documents, and I for one do not see at all where we head next.”
“Next,” said Myx, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “we gather all players at the scene of the crime — as dictated by tradition.”
“To what end?” cried the tall dwarf exasperatingly.
“I thought that was clear,” replied Myx with a smile. “I know where the War Treaties are.”
