Titus Ray Thriller Box Set, page 12
part #1 of Titus Ray Series
As I approached the office, I overheard two Middle Eastern students arguing in Arabic over a missed rental payment. My senses went on alert, but they paid no attention to me as I approached the reception area.
A heavy-set woman with beads in her hair looked up from her computer and asked how she could help me.
“I’m Titus Ray. I have an appointment with Professor Franklin at eleven o’clock.”
She focused on her computer once again. “He has a student with him. Please take a seat.”
Fifteen minutes later, a young Arab man with a Quran under his arm left Franklin’s office, and I was told to go in.
Professor Franklin sat at his desk in the center of the room. Behind him was a bank of windows providing a sweeping view of the campus and the well-kept grounds. However, my eyes were immediately drawn to the man at the desk rather than to the beautiful scenery behind it.
As I gazed on Franklin’s expensive blue suit, which fit his thin frame perfectly, I immediately realized I could have worn my Armani suit and not felt overdressed in the room with him. Franklin was at least in his sixties, with thick, silver-colored hair swept up and away from his high pale forehead. When he arose from the desk and moved forward to greet me, I wondered how many times someone had described him as a “distinguished-looking gentleman.”
“Mr. Ray, I’m Dr. Paul Franklin.”
He had a weak handshake.
“I’m happy to meet you, Professor. You can call me Titus, though.”
“Let’s have a seat over here.”
He indicated two upholstered chairs next to a wall of freestanding bookcases. The shelves were packed with numerous textbooks and journals on foreign relations, human rights, and international affairs. Interspersed among the books were distinctive souvenirs from around the world, plus several framed photographs of Paul Franklin with former Presidents and other recognizable dignitaries. There were also pictures of him with people I assumed to be family and friends. Not surprisingly, I spotted several copies of the Quran.
As I was about to take a seat, Franklin said, “I don’t have much time. It’s nearing the end of the semester, and I’ve got exams to grade. Let’s make this quick.”
Once again, I had the feeling Franklin was irritated with me. I decided to play the role of a gracious guest and charm him with my winsome personality.
“I’m sure it must be a busy time, Professor. Would it be more convenient for us to meet in about three or four weeks?”
He started walking back over to his desk. “Let me look at my calendar.”
While I waited for him to find his calendar, I looked at some of his personal photographs. The most recent ones were candid shots of him playing with several small children—presumably, his grandkids.
Displayed in a prominent position, however, was a framed portrait of Paul Franklin as a young man. It was obviously taken on his wedding day. His wife was extraordinarily beautiful, and I told him so when he came back over to the seating area with his appointment book.
“Your wife is very beautiful.”
“She's dead.”
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry.”
“The Israelis killed her.”
I didn’t bother to mask my surprise. “The Israelis?”
“I’ve been told you're a Middle East expert, Mr. Ray, so I'm assuming you know about the Sabra Refugee Camp Massacre?”
“Yes, of course. It happened back in the early 1980s in the middle of Lebanon’s civil war. If I remember correctly, members of the Phalange party entered a Palestinian refugee camp and killed over three thousand people.”
As I recited this account, his face turned to granite.
“Those were Christian Phalanges, Mr. Ray,” he said, spitting out the correction, “and they were aided in that massacre by the Israelis.”
“How so?”
“The Israelis sealed off the camp and prevented anyone from entering while the killing took place.”
I couldn’t dispute his well-documented facts, so I asked quietly, “How was your wife killed?”
At the mention of his wife, he turned away from me and looked up at their wedding picture. He didn’t speak for almost a full minute, and I considered mumbling something about calling him later, but finally, he turned toward me and told me the story. His voice took on a monotone, as if he’d recited the tale a thousand times before.
“In 1980, I was the cultural affairs officer at our embassy in Beirut. I’d joined the diplomatic corps when Eloise and I were first married, but she hadn’t been happy at our previous postings in Germany or Japan. She wanted to be in a country where she could make a difference. She was thrilled when I took the position offered to me in Lebanon, and she immediately went to work trying to aid the thousands of Palestinian refugees being displaced by the civil war.”
At this point in the story, his voice broke slightly, but then he straightened his back and hurriedly finished the account of his wife’s death.
“She happened to be in the camp the day the Israelis sealed it off following the assassination of the Lebanese President. The Israelis allowed the militant Christians to enter the camp and seek revenge on the Palestinians for killing their President. Eloise’s body was found a day later. She’d been killed trying to protect some helpless child.”
“Again, Professor, I am so sorry for your loss.”
“I left the Foreign Service after that and raised my two daughters by myself.” He nodded toward the other family photos. “I now have four grandchildren.”
“I’m sure they bring you lots of happiness.”
“Yes, they do,” he agreed.
Then, he shook his head. “But I don’t want them growing up in the kind of world we live in today. I want something better for them—a world without conflicts. Everything I do here,” he gestured toward the campus scene outside his windows, “is an effort to influence tomorrow’s leaders. Someday, I hope one of them will implement the right solution.”
What exactly would that solution be? Perhaps a world free of Jews? If that’s what he thought, then the cultured, distinguished Paul Franklin could be as dangerous as any Islamic terrorist plotting the next attack.
* * * *
As I drove away from the University, the sky was dark and cloudy, exactly like my mood. I was scheduled to meet with Professor Franklin again in four weeks, and I was thankful I didn’t have to see him again until then.
However, I certainly had a better handle on why he was a bitter, angry old man who hated Israel and the Jews.
No doubt, both sides in the Arab/Israeli conflict had committed atrocities, yet Franklin had failed to mention that the Israeli commander, who had been responsible for closing down the Sabra Palestinian camp, had been forced to resign his position for the indirect part he’d played in the massacre. On the other hand, when Islamic extremists intentionally put their followers aboard airliners and blew up Americans on 9/11, they were considered heroes and cheered by Muslims around the world.
I wondered if Franklin’s personal loss had so affected his thinking that he was unable—or perhaps unwilling—to see the stark differences in the two sides. But more than that, I wondered if his desire to get rid of the Jews was purely theoretical, or was he actively looking for a way to make it practical?
That question started to haunt me.
When I returned home, I fixed myself a meal of ham, fried potatoes, and cornbread, but the moment I took the cornbread out of the oven, a movement at the patio door caught my eye.
I raced over to the glass door and slid it open.
“Get out of here! Get!”
The puppy bounded away from the door and scampered across the backyard. The moment he arrived at the lake, though, he sat down and stared at me.
I stared back.
Because the dog wasn’t wearing a collar, I wondered if he’d been dumped along Tecumseh Road by some city dweller who didn’t want him. Maybe they thought the dog could survive on its own or find a friendly homeowner to take him in.
Since I wasn’t a homeowner or friendly, I decided the dog would have to survive on his own.
I slid the door closed and hurried back inside.
Just before sitting down, I glanced out the kitchen window. The dog was nowhere to be seen, but the wind I’d noticed earlier had picked up and the sky off to the west was dark, almost black in color.
About halfway through my meal, I turned on the television and watched the local news. The commentator had a certain twang to his voice that I was beginning to associate with Oklahoma. As I thought about how Danny was starting to add this twang to his own speech pattern, the weatherman suddenly got excited.
“Those of you living in the northeast part of Norman in Cleveland County need to take your tornado precautions immediately.”
He sounded very serious.
“Radar shows a funnel on the ground moving due east. Go to the lowest level of your home and stay away from windows. If you have a storm shelter, go there now.”
“Seriously?” I said to him, feeling paralyzed for several seconds.
Another weatherman, identified as a “storm spotter,” was following the tornado, and he began describing it in detail.
At that point, I took my plate and my bottle of water and headed toward the garage, grabbing a portable radio off the kitchen counter on my way out.
As I passed by the patio doors, I heard the dog barking outside.
“Sorry, pooch,” I yelled. “You’re on your own.”
Once inside the garage, I opened the door to the storm shelter and turned on the battery-powered light and fan. When I went back over to a workbench to pick up the food provisions I’d placed there, I heard the dog yapping yet again.
But, by the time I got back over to the storm shelter, all I could hear was the wind howling. I made my way down inside the gray box and placed my food and the radio on one of the narrow benches attached to each side of the shelter. Then, I figured out how to pull the door closed.
Seconds before latching the door, though, I made my way back up the stairs and into the kitchen. Pulling open the patio doors, I grabbed the rain-soaked dog and scrambled for the shelter. When I rounded the corner of the garage, the lights went out.
Inside the shelter, the dog was whimpering and shaking like a wet leaf. I quickly took off my new dress shirt and wrapped him in it. Then, I started trembling.
I was sure I could hear the winds howling outside, even though I was six feet underground. I even pictured the walls around me being sucked up inside the whirling mass. Trying to distract myself, I reached over and offered the dog a piece of cornbread. He gobbled it up.
“You like my cornbread?” I asked him. “I don’t even like my cornbread. I guess that makes you a . . . Wait, I’ve got it. That makes you a corndog!”
I suddenly realized how stupid I sounded and started laughing.
Was I really sitting in a steel box in the middle of Oklahoma, holding a smelly mutt, and cowering from a storm? What was the matter with me? I had hunted down terrorists in Iraq, trained recruits in Pakistan, run a network of assets in Afghanistan, and collected intelligence in Libya. However, here I was, humbled and frightened by the sound of screeching winds coming across the prairie in America’s heartland.
I opened the bottle of water, took a sip, and then poured some in my cupped hand for the puppy. He lapped it up.
When he was finished, he stared at me expectantly, as if I might know what to do next.
“Maybe we need to see what’s happening out there,” I said, switching on the radio.
The announcer said the tornado, after briefly touching down in some rural areas, had lifted back up in the rain-wrapped cloud. No one was reporting any injuries or damage, but some homes in Norman had lost power.
“I think that’s us, dog.”
He cocked his head to one side, jumped up on the bench, and grabbed the ham off my plate. After quickly devouring it, he looked up at me and started to pant, giving me the distinct impression he was grinning at me.
Maybe he liked my jokes.
We climbed out of the storm shelter into a pitch-black garage. After stumbling around and finally locating a flashlight, I vowed to prepare an emergency kit before the next storm hit.
As soon as we entered the kitchen, though, the power came back on.
I located a couple of plastic bowls. One I filled with water; the other I filled with ham and cornbread. Then I placed both of them on the floor.
I named him Stormy.
Chapter 14
On Sunday morning, I decided to attend Bethel Church. My decision surprised me, because I was pretty sure I’d feel uncomfortable in an auditorium full of people.
One time, I had inadvertently seen what Carlton had written about me in the margin of a report: “Works well with people; would prefer not to.”
I didn’t disagree with his analysis of my personality; I wasn’t a people person.
However, early Sunday morning, I changed my mind about going to church.
I had just finished my daily Bible reading. As I thought about how much my faith was being strengthened by reading it, I suddenly remembered standing in the Mardel’s store all alone and asking God for guidance to choose the right Bible. That’s when I’d noticed Kristi Stellars. If it hadn’t been for her advice, I might never have chosen a Bible. As I thought about that encounter, it occurred to me she had also urged me to attend her church. Perhaps her invitation was God’s guidance as well.
My parents had never gone to church, but Carla and I had been taken to Vacation Bible School by a neighbor when I was in the fourth grade. All I could remember about that experience was that I’d eaten a couple of red snow cones and made a raft out of Popsicle sticks. That was because a character in the Bible—a man named Paul or Saul; I can’t remember exactly which one—had been shipwrecked.
I chose to wear my Armani suit to church because a suit was what I usually wore whenever I attended funerals or weddings. However, after parking my car and walking through the church parking lot, I noticed how many of the men going inside were dressed in casual clothes.
When I entered the church foyer, I was immediately greeted by several older men handing out programs. They were dressed in suits also. I relaxed then, knowing I hadn’t violated some dress code by my formal attire. However, I was troubled by the fact that all the suit-wearing guys were all so much older than I was, whereas the jeans-wearing guys were about my age.
Right then, I made a mental note that the next time I came—if there was a next time—I would leave the Armani suit in the closet.
It wasn’t hard to find the auditorium because I simply followed a crowd of people going in the same direction. Once I got inside, I couldn’t help but notice the bustle of activity. It wasn’t quiet and ethereal like a funeral. Instead, the place was buzzing with conversation and laughter.
I chose a pew about halfway down the center aisle, and as soon as I sat down, singers filed into the choir loft located on the speaker’s platform. When they were all inside, the music director stepped to the pulpit and asked everyone to stand and sing with him.
The words to the songs were projected onto two large white screens. Because I wasn’t much of a singer, I just read the words and listened. After the music ended, the pastor gave a welcoming speech with a particular emphasis on any visitors in the congregation. Then he instructed everyone to greet one another.
At that point, I definitely wanted to leave the building. However, once the minister, Pastor Dawson, began delivering his sermon, I decided to stay.
When his message ended, Pastor Dawson invited those who had further questions to see him after the service or call him for an appointment. Because I was trying to sort through all the questions I had about his sermon, I was surprised to hear him make this offer. How would he ever have time to do anything but answer questions, if everyone had as many questions as I did about his message?
Another pastor came to the pulpit. He made an urgent announcement for volunteers in the church’s Connections ministry. Although I was certain I didn't want to get “connected” with anyone, I followed his instructions and looked on the back of the program for the list of ministries needing volunteers. There were openings in The Clothes Closet, a service for needy children, in Golden Years, a meal-delivery outreach to seniors, and in English Learners, a program for non-English speakers.
The pastor urged his parishioners to consider helping out in one of the programs. He said doing so would be a blessing to someone.
I tucked the program inside my Bible and left the building.
* * * *
As I pulled through the security gate and started up the driveway at my house, Stormy ran out from behind the garage and raced my Range Rover to a stop. He started jumping around so excitedly, it made me wonder how he would act if I’d been gone for a whole day.
All during lunch, I kept thinking about the Connections announcement. Finally, I picked up the phone and called Susan Steward.
“Hi, my name is Titus Ray. Could I speak with Susan Steward, please?”
“This is Susan.”
“Hi Susan, I was in your church this morning when the pastor made the announcement about getting involved in the Connections ministry. I noticed you and your husband are sponsors of English Learners and that you need another volunteer.”
“That’s right. Are you interested in volunteering, Mr. Ray?
“I really need to know more about the program before committing to anything.”
“Okay, sure. Are you familiar with the national ESL program?”
“No, not really.”
“ESL is an acronym for English as a Second Language. It’s a program for non-native speakers of English. Our participants come from the OU community and most of them are relatives of students studying there. The ESL material is already written by the national headquarters, so it’s very easy to teach. In fact, my husband, Tucker, and I do most of the teaching. As a volunteer, you would simply serve as one of our aides.”
