Interlude (15 page)

Nichols was silent for a moment or two, as if he were mulling over a decision. “I'm going to put you in touch with one of my assistants.”

Betty didn't want to let him go without a more substantial promise. “Did you feel you could provide a cargo ship of milk, or were you just estimating an amount?”

Nichols said, “I'll do what I can. My associates and I need to do some research into procuring the milk . . .”

“We've found the milk in Switzerland, and we're in touch with a shipping company in Cyprus. The milk will go to Hezbollah's charitable foundation.”

“So you just want a check from me.”

“We need funding Mr. Nichols . . .”

“As far as I can see, Miss Casey, I can fund this project. I'll put you in touch with my assistant. His name is Ben Shapiro. Give me your number, and I'll have Ben call you.”

Betty hung up the phone and ran to Jim's office. “Jim!” She closed the door so no one could hear. “Arthur Nichols said,” she pulled out her pad and read his statement, word for word, “‘As far as I can see, I can fund this project.' He mentioned filling a whole cargo ship, Jim! If Ricky Simms comes through with his half a million dollars, too, this will be a bigger shipment than we could possibly have imagined!”

Jim smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Well, good! But let's keep moving forward with the other plans. We still don't know how to get word to Sheik Fadlallah, and we've got to get the milk from Switzerland to Cyprus. Good work, Betty! Maybe you're not such a bad fund raiser after all.”

The milk project was taking all of Betty's attention by now. She had officially become the project coordinator, since everyone else was responsible for OMI's normal operations, and that was fine with her. Organizing an international milk shipment was a lot more fun than writing a Ugandan Orphanage Report, especially since her heart was more involved in the outcome of the shipment. And she was finding each success exhilarating, which helped take her mind off her ongoing heartache. Even the smallest victory provided a respite from the otherwise disheartening battle.

About a week after talking to Arthur Nichols, Betty was watching television, absently flipping through all channels, as had become her habit. Suddenly she saw herself on the tube, talking to Ricky Simms.
Good grief, I forgot all about being on his show. Why am I crying?

She watched the interview with a growing sense of alarm.
I look like a blubbering idiot!
Simms' editors had done a masterful job of cutting out every intelligent word she had spoken, leaving only such things as, “I never dreamed anything like this could happen to me,” and “I don't want to live the rest of my life without him.”

I'll die if Jon ever sees this.

Of course Ricky Simms had asked her just the right questions to prompt her tearful responses, but those questions were nowhere to be heard. All that remained was a series of sniffing, sobbing sentences coming from an emotional wreck who looked very much like Betty. It appeared, for all the world, that she had parked herself in Ricky Simms' tasteful living room, pulled out a tissue, and begun to pour out her troubles to him uninvited— smudged mascara and all. She was mortified.

Mercifully, Simms' segue to the Lebanese children footage soon removed Betty from the screen. At that point, her phone rang. It was Joyce. “Betty, you poor thing! I've never seen you so upset. Why haven't you let your friends see all that pain?”

“Oh, Joyce, I'm so embarrassed. The interview was nothing like that! Some editor cut out all the questions and answers, all the positive comments—everything. All they left was the emotional part. I can't believe it—I look like a total neurotic!”

“Is your television still on? Look at what he's doing now.”

At that moment, the televangelist was imploring listeners to send donations to help the children of Lebanon. He referred to the hostage problems only indirectly. His focus was on “reaching out to the Middle East's innocent victims of man's inhumanity to man.”

Joyce was amazed by the tragic footage he was showing, as well as by his unabashed pleas for money. “Boy, what a tear-jerker. He's got to be tugging a few purse strings with that broadcast, Betty.”

“Well, he said he expected half a million dollars. But did you notice he didn't mention OMI or the milk project, Joyce?”

“Oh, it's okay. He probably just didn't want to confuse the donors. They're used to giving to him, not to us, so he's just representing us to them.”

Betty hung up the phone and turned off the television. She felt extremely foolish, and in a sense violated. The sight of women crying on Christian television was nothing new to her or anyone else, but she'd never aspired to be one of them. Yet there she was, baring her soul to who-knows-how-many million people.

Oh God! This is getting more and more absurd. First I'm in love and planning a wedding. Then Jon is kidnapped. Now I'm cowriting songs, crying on television, passing information to the CIA, and begging for money from billionaires. More and more people are getting involved, but Jon seems farther away than ever.

Something in her silent prayer reminded her of the Scripture her father had read to her at Christmas. Was it Psalm 18 or 118? She thumbed through her Bible.

There it is. Psalm 118.

It was the eighth and ninth verses that she was looking for. She wasn't quite sure why, but the words quieted her unrest and made her growing sense of mistrust just a little less acute.

“It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man. It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in princes.”

Good advice, Lord. I don't have too much trouble trusting you right now. But I'm starting to have my doubts about a few other people I could mention.

The telephone woke Betty at 7:00
A.M.
the next morning. It was Mike Brody in Virginia.

“How's my California girl?”

“Oh, I'm fine, Mike. Trying to stay busy. How are you?”

“I'm doing all right too. Look, I wanted to ask you some questions about Jon, if you don't mind.”

“Sure. Ask me anything you want.”

“Well, this may sound strange, but have you ever heard him say anything about drugs . . . drugs like hashish?”

“What? Why on earth would you ask something like that?”

The question made Betty squirm. That feeling of not knowing a lot about Jon always raised uncomfortable questions in her mind.

“Well, we know that Jon has a half brother in New Zealand . . .”

“A what?”

“A half brother, maybe ten years younger, Darryl Dixon. He says that he thinks Jon was involved with some Middle East drug trafficking in the early eighties.”

Betty was speechless. As far as she knew, Jon had never ever experimented with drugs, much less hashish, much less been involved in trafficking it. “Mike, that's absurd! Who is this half brother?”

“Well, he's an ex-con who just got out of jail himself.”

“When did he get out?”

“Three days ago. And from what I can tell, he's a chronic liar who likes seeing his name in the paper. He talked to a tabloid newspaper in Wellington. The authorities there passed the information on to us. The only reason I bothered you about it is because of the Badr brothers. Those guys are small-time criminals and have had their fingers in a few drug deals too.”

I can't believe I'm hearing this.

“Look, Mike.” Betty couldn't hide the edge in her voice. “I've already told you that Jon and I haven't discussed every aspect of our personal histories. But I've never known Jon to use drugs, and I certainly have never known him to sell them.”

“And he never mentioned a half brother?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Okay, Betty. I believe you. This was something that we had to follow up on. You know, no stone left unturned . . . Sounds like Darryl just wanted to be the celebrity-of-the-week. Since I mentioned the Badr brothers, tell me, have you heard from your postman in Lebanon?”

“Not since I . . . not since the last time he called, Mike.”

“Well, I guess you can chalk this call up as another fishing expedition for me, Betty. So since I've got you on the phone anyway, tell me what's happening. What are you doing with yourself?” Mike was his charming self now.

“Oh, I'm working on a special project for OMI . . . We're hoping to put a positive face on the things happening in Lebanon. Maybe show them that Westerners care for them a little more than they think . . .”

Don't tell him about Arthur Nichols.

“Betty, that's wonderful! You must be quite a woman to want to help the Lebanese under such unpleasant personal circumstances. What kind of project is it?”

“Oh, we're trying to ship milk into Lebanon for the children.”

“Are you all funding it yourselves?”

Don't tell him about Arthur Nichols.

“No, we're working on some outside funding.”

“Any success?”

Betty desperately wanted to drop Arthur Nichols' name to Mike. She wanted to impress him. And she also wanted to let him know that she had managed to squeeze some money out of a billionaire.

“Well, it's looking good. One television ministry in Dallas has promised to work with us and generate a substantial donation, and . . .

Don't tell him.

But Betty couldn't resist. “And Arthur Nichols has promised to help us.”

“Nichols?” Mike was cooler than she expected. “Really?”

“Yes. He told me he'd be able to underwrite the entire shipment.”

“Who are you sending the milk to . . . the Red Cross?”

“No, it's supposed to be go to the Hezbollah children.”

“Oh, so you'll ship it to the Red Crescent in Beirut?”

You're telling him too much.

“No, actually there's a charitable organization associated with Hezbollah. They'll be getting the milk.”

“When are you planning to ship it?”

“We hope to ship in ten days.” She took a chance. “Why don't you put in a good word for us with the powers that be, Mike?”

“I'll do what I can, Betty. That's quite a project. We could use some good will in Lebanon. Good luck, Betty. I'll be in touch.”

As Betty hung up the phone, she thought,
Now maybe he won't think I'm just an airhead from California with a drug-dealing boyfriend.

She drove to work triumphantly, with an I-guess-I-told-him smirk on her face. She walked to her office and with newfound confidence started calling her overseas contacts, firming up the arrangements for the milk shipment.

I wish Ben Shapiro would call. I need to know when the money's coming from Nichols.
She felt stimulated by her ongoing success and rather proud of herself, dropping names like Arthur Nichols around the CIA.

That afternoon Shapiro called.

“Is this Elisabeth Casey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The boss told me to give you a ring.”

“Yes?”

“We've been checking out this milk business.”

“Yes?”

“The boss doesn't think it's such a good idea.”

Betty's heart sank. Her face flushed. “There must be some mistake. I wrote down what he said to me. He said, ‘As far as I can see, we can fund this project.'”

“Right. Mr. Nichols said, ‘as far as I can see.' That means he was leaving it was up to me to do some investigating. And, frankly, I don't like what I'm finding.”

“What don't you like, Mr. Shapiro?”

“First of all, this Overseas Ministries International doesn't have much of a reputation. I couldn't find anyone who's ever heard of them. They've got no track record with anybody.”

“It's a small organization, but everyone here is honest, and . . .”

“And another thing, this Hezbollah connection. We've got no one on the ground in Lebanon who can get near them. We've got to be able to verify the arrival of the shipment. Mr. Nichols doesn't put money into things he can't verify, Miss.”

“So what's going to happen?”

“I can send you a $5,000 donation for your project. That's the best I can do.”

“Could I talk to Mr. Nichols again?”

“Mr. Nichols is unavailable, Miss. He's turned this over to me, and I'm saying $5,000—take it or leave it.”

“Well, of course we'll take it. It's just that we were expecting so much more; we've already made arrangements.”

“Well, maybe you can find some other funding. It was a pleasure talking to you, Miss. I'll put the check in the mail today. All the best.”

Betty dropped the phone. Against her better judgment she had told Mike about the milk project. Six hours later the Arthur Nichols promise had been rescinded. Had Brody betrayed her?

She slowly got to her feet and walked toward Jim's office, feeling defeated and ashamed. He hung up the phone just as she looked in the door.

“Betty, come in! You're doing such a great job on the milk project! What's happening today? Any more billionaires?”

She sat down and studied his face. “Jim, you're not going to believe this, but Arthur Nichols is sending us $5,000. Period. That's it.”

Jim seemed more aggravated than surprised. “I thought he said he would fund the whole thing, Betty.”

“He did. That's exactly what he said. But then he turned the project over to some assistant, and he said no.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yes. He said they'd never heard of OMI, they didn't have a way to confirm any contact with Hezbollah, and they couldn't verify the arrival and distribution of the milk inside Lebanon. Jim, I'm so sorry. I thought it was all settled.”

“What exactly did Nichols say when you talked to him.”

Betty looked at her pad again. “He said, ‘As far as I can see, we can fund this.'”