Hostage

         by Jack Donovan    

    Barely awake, lying on a tile floor, Jean Seabyrd was staring at herself in the huge, dusty wall mirror, noting that the remainder of her soiled, but brightly clothed body lay on the floor beyond the mirror, hidden by the filthy urinal in the corner—American-Standard, would you believe?  Her mind chose to reject the sight by returning to the general situation at hand . . . Obviously, she had drifted off, and now, without her watch—recently traded for smokes—she was having difficulty generating a reality for herself beyond the underlying awareness that she was still imprisoned . . . a hostage of war!

   Automatically, she conjured the introduction: “Seabyrd—with a ‘y,’ Evansville, Indiana. Single, approaching 30, 5 foot 2, eyes of blue . . . but Oh, what those five foot can do! Graduate of Wayne ’74, major in Urban Management, specializing in Mass Transportation.  Imprisoned resident ‘guest’ in Siam as of August 10, ’75 . . . check.”

    Lying in the dim darkness, Jean studied herself once again in the mirror helped by the corridor light filtering constantly through her door’s metal ventilator strips. It careened from her soft features, only to return magically to her open eyes.

   She saw close-cropped dark hair—do-it-yourself shag—as it fell across the moist tan of her large forehead, reaching toward the soft line of dark eyebrows, a line that normally hid hints of emotion.  If they moved at all, it was a slight pivot at the temples, rising above or falling over her (magnificent) nose, a strong nose that bisected her face.  In the grey shadows, she discerned that dim ‘T’ shape . . . hardly pretty, she mused . . . more like a female ‘Groucho.’  That thought brought a slight parting of her heavy lips, and a view of her expensive teeth—braces long gone.

   As her mind cleared, she realized that a strange feeling had awakened her.  Slowly it came to her that something . . . some small thing had changed. Perhaps it was too quiet! Every part of her tightened . . . but why?  Of course, she well knew that she had become vulnerable, sensitive to any simple change in her meager environment. A sort of insane unreality, causing her to mutter to herself, “Relax stomach . . . wait. Just wait.”

   The room where she lay once had been part of the Executive washroom at the Embassy.  She had never seen this room before moving in.  In fact, she had never been in any men’s (or man’s) room before and now it was her home.  A rough, hastily erected cinder block wall just to the left of the first toilet stall effectively bisected (like her nose) the original room, making two similar, though not equal, ‘cells’.  Jean’s had the luxury ‘triple-sink arrangement,’ three sink bowls, two chrome soap dispensers (empty), two mirrors (one full-length next to the door), one urinal (unused) and one toilet stall—sans door.  The door had been cleverly welded to the metal frame of the one small window, creating a substantial security/sun shield.  The clothes hook had been removed to avoid its being used as a tool (to dig with or hang from).  Appropriately, a transient guest during contemplations past had supplied Jean with her only bit of décor. A cartoon ‘peanut farmer’ had been scratched into the enamel and though painted over it was still effective as a conversation piece.  The stainless steel shelf over the sinks held her few cosmetics, soap, tooth paste, tooth brush and her only piece of ‘imported’ furniture, a file cabinet/dresser containing her few personal things smuggled from her apartment.  Among them: clothes (Jean’s jeans), books (Thoreau and Bucky Fuller…no Galbraith), writing things and enough underwear to get along if washed every couple of days.  Such items dried on the Embassy roof where the ‘guests’ also caught the frequent sun infrequently (two hours in one of four shifts).  Two fluorescents still working out of four over the sinks, came on at 5 am and went off just as religiously at 9 pm.  She and Pam worked in the kitchen preparing food (rashly called that by some) for themselves and other ‘guests.’ Thus she, as member of the kitchen staff had to get up earlier than the rest.

   Pam Singleton, embassy translator (now co-cook), security clearance

C-3, occupied the other half of the ‘john’ or ’loo’ as she called it.  Pam was from England; married to Paul, still in England.  The girls had not known each other before the invasion but over the last months had the opportunity to talk briefly at work and on the roof when they were allowed to take the air together.  Once aware they were neighbors, Pam supplied Jean with a ‘marked’ deck of playing cards that allowed Jean to indulge in solitaire as well as receive and eventually send secret signals.  It was an ingenious use of 52 cards, each carrying a pin-hole code for letters, numbers, phonics and symbols.  Assembled as a new deck, they provided a language according to Mr. Morse. (Clever; thank you Sam B. and Pam C-3.)

   Finally, Jean rolled to her back on the thin mattress, reached back and up to tap lightly on the water pipe under the sink—thus opening the private line to Pam, who tapped back too quickly to have been asleep; “Wa rong”

Jean answered just as short, “2 quit”. Though their third floor ‘apartments’ faced the open interior courtyard furthest removed from the front of the Embassy, the constant harangue in the main yard could be detected (with an ear to the peanut farmer’s chest).  Sound that normally came through the window and ventilator seemed to be missing.  If she was correct about the time, then it was unusually quiet.  This was usually the time when the ‘guardian student’ guards gathered after the heat of the day to listen (and shout) as speaker after speaker denounced the ‘Imperialists.’

   “Ware cmrads” Jean spelled slowly.

   “makn bayb” Pam’s dry humor came back quickly, though Jean saw nothing to laugh about tonight. Waiting in the dark, her mind hooked on thoughts of her mother, Georgia. Her letters were consistently sad and bland, like HoJo in a strange town. Letters coming in looked like they went through the security shredder, but they smelled of Evansville and she needed that to remember her first escape. Georgia’s strained humor came through, attempting to cover the painful, long months of status quo: “Think of the book you can write when you get home … six months in Hell” It was light and encouraging at first, countering Jean’s bitterness. Georgia had even gone to Washington looking for hope, but as days grew into months her mother’s letters began to show subtle signs of depression and resentment. Both Jean and her mother had begun to wonder about their government’s position on the malignant regime.

   Though rambling thoughts filled her head, Jean was able to focus on the missing King…and his beautiful nose. She had met him once… at least she’d been in the same room with him.  A trade delegation had visited to sell diesel buses, and the King had spoken about trading the bus’s air conditioning for two-tone paint jobs (cool for cool . . . a ‘hawk-like seriousness combined with competent charm).  His gray hair was blued and beautiful; like a natural crown setting off the dark continental attire with white shirt and (always) the classic silk tie.  Jean knew, probably as well as anyone, the apparent initiative for Westernization that he spoke of as reform.  She also knew, first hand, of the need.  Living in one of the public housing developments on the outskirts near the Airport, she saw transportation of people and things in a total state of chaos.  The eight-lane Johnson Blvd., for instance, was equal to highways in the U.S., but cars, people and animals constantly clogged the road … (correction: between midnight and 3 am, no cars).  She realized, even then, his scale of living had escalated beyond reason.  He was wealthy, (real gold showerheads?) but she saw it as typical where continued power depended on purchasing power.  More recently, with lots of time to meditate (bor-r-ring), she had begun to place more value on the little discussions she had with friends in the past.  Her old roommate had been critical of the King, if nothing more than anger at the slow pace of the reformation and skillfully, subtly pointed in her inventory of the King’s ‘friends’.  Jean wondered if she had any part in the fanatic ‘student’ overthrow that caused the King to flee and the ‘friendly’ embassy to be made hostage for his return.  After all, she knew these people well.  She had lived here for almost three years.  Admittedly she hadn’t met too many in the last nine months (just as well, she wasn’t at her best).  But Jean knew they would not be easily persuaded (never pressured) to give up this madness.  Once committed to follow the fanatic element, retreat meant loss of face (like backing your camel up a one-way street).  The students had been sensible, even child-like in their handling of the hostages, but they were volatile.  A returning King might be met with respect if not outright adulation.  At a time such as this, one could not gauge the strength of the fanatics; the King might have more than his epaulets removed so he chose prudence over valor and stayed away … he needed everything he had. 

          Jean recalled the months of withdrawal and depression she suffered.  They ended only recently when a man, known only as Pluto, had visited her.  He advised her to be hopeful and patient, not to give the students cause for retaliation at a personal level (she had not) and not to worry (she had).  She worried about him.  Who the hell was he?  He said he was a friend.  Prove it!  (He did, later)  A study in dark hair and khaki, dusty boots and large moustache under a startling nose, she figured him as another student looking for a learning experience.  So far, she had been able to talk her way around any personal invasion, student or friend. 

          Jean envisioned him now in this same darkened room.  Half seated supporting himself on the edge of the sink, he spoke to her for what seemed a long time.  Thick hair, casually open collar and rolled sleeves were reassuring as he gestured with a glowing cigarette, creating a neon design in the dark between them.  Low and easy … almost too easy she felt … he spoke of the work being done to secure their release.  The Ambassador and several other first-floor staff had escaped just prior to the take-over and were even now hiding within the city.  He asked about the kind of work she was doing here (dietician) and how she felt about the whole experience so far (just peachy).  He asked about Georgia and attempted to draw her out about the President’s seeming ineptness in dealing with the situation.  All the things he asked could have been constructed to come from a friend or enemy.  The thing that continued to concern her as he talked (more after he left) was his ignorance of the ‘roof’.  Now, of course, she realized he did not need to have known. 

          Early on, the enterprising guests had set up an internal, covert operation to prepare for their own escape.  There was little problem getting information into the Embassy; getting it out was more difficult (like a piggy bank).  No one of them knew enough to be helpful to potential rescuers, and besides Pam’s telegraph system was limited to the three upper floors where the hostages were confined.  There was no interconnection between floors--only a single vertical water main that acted as a buffer.  That liability in the system turned out to be an asset after the fact, since it isolated the system from the guards on the first floor.  Messages were easily fed to the hostages since agents, like Jean’s Pluto, were salted into the student population during the first day of trouble while everything was in chaos.  Toothpaste tubes, toilet paper cores, and crushed cigarette packs all became potential message containers.  They were left in discreet locations for any one of the hostages to pick up.  These “litter letters’ were devoured and verbally transmitted to a message center person who, by random lot, stationed him or herself in a predesignated spot on the roof during exercise time. The captors had meant to outfox the hostages by selecting a random dozen from the total 63 guests for the two-hour rest periods. Sometimes messages might have to be circulated through a floor at a time before everyone was reached … two days, still better than the U.S. Mail.  Reversing the process produced a pile of data, opinions as well as hair-brained schemes.  Getting back to the agents was the problem.  They maintained tight cover so there was no one to receive a report and no ‘safe’ place that everyone had access to.

          It was Jean who took Pam’s communication setup the final step.  Guessing the Embassy could be seen regularly by satellite, she proposed they send up visual Morse messages using themselves for ‘dots’ and ‘dashes,’ sitting or lying on the roof.  Through the water pipe phone each person would know the prearranged message to be sent three days ahead . . . a word or phrase to be displayed during each of the four consecutive (rest) periods.  As far out as the proposal seemed, the group determined it was their best chance.  Four aching months later they were cursing Jean as they felt the pain, physical and emotional, of waiting in the hot sun . . . but praise moments later when word came through the pipes that they were being monitored.  Since that break-through they regularly sent answers to strange requests—how many captors, names if possible, precise location of the hostages, personal habits of the captors.  They knew State (Dept.) had plans of the Embassy; so structural data was limited to alterations, dimensions, and materials.  Once, out of simple frustration, they chose to spend two full days shouting, “Hurry Jimmy”.

          All too soon, the incoming questions stopped.  Their collective hearts beat faster … the entire building throbbed for a time … then slumped into cardiac arrest.  The rumor factory filled the vacuum as each slight change in routine signaled an impending … escape?  Jean got ill each time … smoking increased.  Mass trauma attended unevents like visits by UN delegates and the Red Cross. Shock set in with the impending visit of a hostage’s family.  The captors let them know the visitor was a special guest of the new government since the U.S. had unsuccessfully blocked the visit.

          Jean remembered the after-shock.  She had been washing when the door unlocked itself to admit a messenger.  After he told her in his too perfect English that Georgia, her mother, was coming that very day, she panicked.  Something’s happened to Dad, was all she could imagine.  Mixed feelings of fear and joy filled her as she stood holding a handful of dripping underwear.  Tears softened the rinse water that fell to the cracked ceramic floor.

          Later, not feeling a great deal better, she had stood in front of the Ambassador’s office, missing courage to turn the knob … (memories of principal’s office).

          The huge office seemed untouched by the forces that desecrated the rest of the building.  Though she had spent little time in the office, Jean saw the changes.  The flags behind the desk were different.  Glowing Siamese posters of the Priest who had taken charge of the new government had replaced portraits of Eisenhower and Carter.  His images hung mesmerizing each other across the room, but their eyes followed her as she advanced to the desk.  The man was certainly not the Ambassador … not the stereotypical hat and shades (Geo C Scott?).  The person seated ‘stage left’ did not seem to be her mother. At least, she didn’t look like Georgia.  Both sat unmoving as Jean crossed the carpeted room.

          “Georgia?  Mother?” Jean spoke.

          “Jeannie … My God, it is you” getting up slowly.  “What haven’t you done to yourself?” looking Jean up and down through tears.  Jean self-consciously ran fingers through sparse hairs as they spoke (at the same time), “How are you” then both smiled as they became aware … staring into each other’s moist eyes.  They held each other, but not too close.

          Georgia had, for all of Jean’s twenty-nine years, been more wife than mother.  Jean was the only child of the long and labored love of Georgia Connours and Mel Seabyrd.  Sweethearts in High School, Georgia’s decision to forgo ‘lettermen’ for the ‘bookworm’ Melvin was a constant source of irritation for the sportsmen in class but not for the Reverend (and Reverendess) Connours.  If, over the years, the love affair had suffered a ‘brown-out’, it wasn’t because Georgia hadn’t tried.  Jean knew now that the trouble had always been the drinking … something Dad had to do to survive the problems that life constantly provided.  His career potential, recognized by all, had been realized as he rose quickly through the ranks of the company of his first choice, the B&A railroad.  Georgia was the perfect mate as the climb became more precarious … she had charm.  Somewhere the job came to mean more to Georgia that to Mel.  Georgia got ‘high’ being with people; Mel just got “high.”

          There wasn’t much place in the relationship for Jean (a mistake, Georgia always claimed) until she and her father found mutuality in their feelings toward Georgia.  Self-pity in both of them (for different reasons) turned the corner of anger a few years back onto a street called resentment.  Jean believed her father when he blamed Georgia for the drinking and accepted the increased affection he began to provide (too enthusiastically at times).  Georgia tried to stem the tide of alienation as it congealed about her by doing more for them … going out of her way to be giving … all without success.  The more she did for them, the more they seemed to withdraw.  Jean’s therapist at Wayne had opened the door for Jean, bringing pain … and enlightenment.  Now she understood the dynamics of the Seabryd trio, but it would be a long time before that understanding could erase the resentments … especially towards Georgia.

          “How’s Dad?” she asked, praying . . .

          “Your father?” Georgia was surprised, “Why, he’s fine, of course.  Sorry he couldn’t come too, but with the changes at work, you know, it’s been a strain for him and they couldn’t let him go even for a minute.”

          “I understand” Jean said (she didn’t!) I was just concerned that you came to bring bad news.  Why are you here, then?  You don’t come half-way around the world just to comment on my appearance.”

“Certainly not.  I came to see what I could do to get you home.    If there’s anything that can be done I’m for trying it.  I’ve got so much to tell you and there’s so little time.  But, oh God, Jeannie, you don’t know how good it is to see you.”

          They had all but forgotten that the messenger was still there as they stood by the desk.  A gruff voice reminded them when he announced they would be left alone to visit, but by 5 pm they would be escorted to a dinner to be held . . . in the cafeteria . . . big deal.  The click of the door latch signaled his leaving.  It was echoed by the slow tick of the ‘Regulator” clock on the wall.  His abrupt departure had surprised them into silence, making Jean aware the room was not sound proofed.  Georgia knew it . . . and more; she had been thoroughly briefed.

          Jean remained silent as Georgia indulged her favorite sport, reporting on the relatives.  Jean’s attention was drawn back to her mother’s face as Georgia flew with the Seabyrds.  Eyes were sinking into her head … at only 57… bruising and darkening the flesh as they withdrew … tiny brown freckles … age spots … where the skin was unmarked.  She wondered if Mel and Georgia made love anymore.

        “Jean . . . Jeannie, have you been listening?” Georgia broke in on her thoughts.

          “Certainly”, Jean jumped, proving it by repeating the major highlights heard with the third ear . . . a defensive technique she took pride in.

          “Well, it’s important that you listen very closely.  I am not the same Mother you remember . . . I’ve changed.  I had to, just to survive.  Between your father who is killing himself slowly, and this thing with you, I had to do something.  I just couldn’t handle it anymore.  I looked for help and eventually found it.  I learned a lot about your father’s problem but more about mine.  I could not go on being everything for everyone.  I lost me somewhere and I had to find me (scavenger hunt).  For a while, I had to consider you dead for me to survive.  Once I began feeling better, I could leave Mel to his own problems and look at reality for me.

          Georgia went on to relate to Jean how her newly found sense of self allowed her to find the motivation to act.  She had attacked Washington . . . even the President, to demand action.  Though she was impressed with his appraisal of the situation and his intention to continue to work for release, she came away more determined than ever to act on her own judgment; thus the trip to the Embassy.  She was surprised, but renewed in her determination when she learned of the government’s action to block the trip to allow more time for delicate negotiations then in progress.  Jean was not impressed, but as she mused she saw Georgia (still talking) rise . . . as in a dream . . . and move past the desk to the wall clock.

          Jean’s eyebrows went up with her voice, “Mother, what are you doing?” she finished in a whisper.  Georgia’s upraised hand and shaking head had produced the desired quieting effect.  Completely absorbed, Jean watched Georgia open the clock face and move the minute hand straight up to read 4pm.  Was this Georgia’s insane way of hastening dinner, she wondered? Just then, the chime rang for the first time.

          Returning to her seat near Jean, Georgia spoke low but firmly into her ear, “No questions, Dear. This is a substitute bridge for your old one. You must install the new one on the morning of August 10^th . . . not before.                    Chime two!  “Quick, let me have the old one. They must not find it on you.” Chime three!

          Morning of the tenth—that’s the tenth! Carry the bridge in your mouth to the kitchen . . . remove it and stir it into the soup kettle.  Chime four! As the ringing ended and began to fade, Georgia became an Evansville matron again … the preceding moments seemed like a dream.

          Jean sat dumbstruck, holding the foreign thing in her hand; feeling the chimes inside her.  Reality returned when she saw Georgia still fighting with composure.

          “What in Hell am I getting into?” Jean muttered to herself.  “Whatever it is, it ain’t good.”

          By 7pm Mother had been force-fed both food and propaganda in quantity, hugged, and kissed good-bye.  Jean too quickly found herself back in her room trying to piece it all together.

          The new small two-tooth bridge was a duplicate of the one she had since high school.  Install it on the 11^th … this month? That was ten days away … ten long days … like Christmas.  I’m the wrong person … cramps in the gut … plain fear … why me, Mom?

          Those had been her thoughts then, nine days ago.  Now, lying in the dark, waiting to know what was going on she had no fear; she was damned near paralyzed.  She (and her falsies?) weren’t suppose to see any action until tomorrow according to plan, but the uneasy quiet of tonight said the plan, whatever that was, had already started.  She waited and waited in the dark, finally sleep overcame her anxiety and it became the 11th when she awoke.  

          The lights came on late that morning … so Pam told her on the phone … providing her news of last night.  Savoring her assignment, she avoided even looking at things she washed.  Finally, holding the new insert in her fingers, she tried to guess what ‘gift’ it held … drugs, poison, or explosives (stereo tape deck, M&M’s?).  Inspecting the denture-like thing, she wasn’t prepared to find … nothing … just a small, clean pair of porcelain “teeth”, nothing else.

          “Hey, Mom and Jimmy, stick with me as we give it a try” she whispered into the mirror as the knock came from the door. The escort had arrived to take her to the kitchen.

          In the kitchen—once she was alone save for Pam other prisoners, she strolled casually to the stove where the morning’s huge kettle of bean soup was being prepared. Pam was nearby slicing bread, but her eyes were focused on Jean. Undeterred, Jean checked to make sure that none of the guards were watching before proceeding to lean in and catch the aroma of the beans—before dropping the tooth bridge into the steaming vat. Then, casually she began her normal chores.

        After breakfast was complete the assembly was informed as a group that a major military invasion had been successfully repulsed by government troops yesterday.  (No wonder the silence last night)  They were shown corroborating pictures (skeletal helicopter remains) and copy (non-English) in Enghlab Eslami for August 10^th. 

          Later, on the roof together, Pam and Jean dismissed the incident as a hoax concocted by a naïve, militarily unsophisticated people. Though Jean agreed in her head, she felt a tightening in her mind questioning whether the reported failure was real and linked with her assignment.  If so, was she now discharged from further action? What action anyway?  Cra-z-ness!

          But crazy as the situation was to Jean, it had been a planned craziness.  Born out of desperation only weeks after the hostages were seized, the plan had ultimately received grudging approval from the President after all diplomatic avenues were found barricaded.  Once approved, however, an elaborate plan began to unfold in early spring, sending agents throughout the world.  Exhaustive evaluations came to focus on six of the hostages.  Final honing provided the ideal candidate . . . Jean Seabyrd.

          By June, agents were interviewing Georgia Seabyrd and Jean’s dentist in Evansville on the same day the carrier Enterprise received orders to proceed to the Cairo area.  The Secretary of State marked his calendar for an appointment with the Secretary General of the United Nations as long conference calls began between Washington, Edgely Chemical Research in Maryland and the World Health Organization in Geneva.  By July 4, Independence Day, everything was ready.  Georgia had her plane reservations, one way, as she and Jean would be returning as the guests of the U.S. government.

          By the evening of August 1, the main frame of the actual plan had been successfully realized . . . set for action on August 10-11.

           That morning, with breakfast complete, Jean felt bone tired from work. It had been frightening and difficult to act normal. Was it over?  Pain and cramps in her gut seemed to be coming real.  What a time to be sick!  When the lights went out Jean was retching into the sink and feeling a violent ‘call to the stall’.  Tears in her eyes kept her from even noticing the darkness.  “Oh, God, I’m not going to make it . . . Oh God! The prayer escaped her lips as she lost all muscle control.  Her body voided as she lapsed into unconsciousness.

                                            *   *   *   *

          Jean would never know how well she carried out her part of the escape plan.  Without waking she escaped from the Embassy and life itself at approximately 4am Middle East Time on August 12. 

          Throughout the Embassy the communicable virus (CV/NF-708E;E for Edgely) had done its job as planned.  Except for Jean.  The critical nature of most of the Embassy inhabitants (especially Jean) was established in short order.  Once the information was transmitted to the authorities of the new government, concern for the individuals, officers as well as the hostages, was transcended by the real difficulty of attempting to explain the consequent results to the world at large should a majority of the hostages expire.  Something had to be done and done fast.

          Emergency calls were placed to Stockholm, Geneva and even Cairo with veiled requests for help with a mysterious malady that had struck certain civilians in a remote section of the city.  Monitors in place on main trunk lines exiting the Middle East caught the signal.  Sirens echoed throughout the Enterprise as it moved slowly through the dark waters of the Persian Gulf.  Helicopter crews were awakened . . . engines tested.  Within moments after the last request for medical assistance went out, the now berserk government office received a special call (logged at 3:27 am, MET August 12) from the Secretary of the United Nations.  He spoke directly with the Priest—after a long wait.

State Dept. log/ 15 August – 01:12 am EDT

                   Operation Overbite completed on schedule …

                   All teeth checked OK … one cavity

State Dept. excerpt/ Enghlab Eslami, August 12

          HOSTAGES RELEASED

                   The government today took positive action in the cause of Human Rights by releasing all recently restrained foreign nationals to the security of the United Nations World Organization.  The unique gesture of reconciliation was made possible as a result of what the government sees as positive movement on the part of the U.S. in setting a date for Congressional Investigation of the deposed King’s finances and activities.