A short time later, Liz calls. “Hello Mama.”
“Lizzy, I know this must be hard for you, but please hear me out.”
“I’m listening, Mama.”
“I need to see you, Lizzy. Now.”
“I’m in Kathmandu,” Liz replies dryly.
“I’m in New Delhi; I’ve been here for three years. Lizzy, I work in a world of secrets, and you’re a CSS Agent. You of all people know what it means to be covert, even with the ones you love.”
“But seven years, Mama? Seven years. I thought you were dead.”
“Will you come tomorrow? I have flights booked from Katmandu. You can bring your friend if you wish.” There is a long pause.
“Lizzy?”
“Yes Mama.” Liz is silently crying. “I will come.”
*
Kathmandu to New Delhi is only a 45-minute flight. Liz is quiet. She wants me to come for support but isn’t talking.
“Not to pry, Liz,” I venture, “but you’ve told me that Voodoomama traffics in human organs and makes potions and elixirs that simulate death and turn people into zombies. Should I be concerned?”
Staring out the airplane window, Liz states flatly, “She’s a doctor and a biochemist.”
We land, and her agent instincts kick in. Liz moves cat-like through the crowd to a dark corner and surveys the room. After a few minutes, she walks right up to a woman completely covered in a traditional East Indian dress.
“Hello Mama.”
The woman hands Liz prayer beads, “Hi Lizzy. So good to see you. Follow me.” We all headed out of the airport into a waiting limousine.
“You never quit, do you Mama?”
“No, I never quit.” She drops her veil and flashes a radiant smile. If I weren’t already in love with Liz, I’d fall hard for her mother.
“So this is Zac. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“As it is you, Miss Duran,” I reply.
The capital of India, New Delhi is a city built upon cities. There are at least eight historical Delhis, each constructed on, or near, the ruins of its predecessor. The result is a modern-day citadel that’s dotted with ancient monuments, many said to be haunted by djinns (spirits). Within, a population of almost 22 million people battle the hectic streets and alleys with carts and cycle-rickshaws, with cows and monkeys, with shoppers and with beggars, with street-food sellers and market traders. Honking cars, vans and scooters provide an endless orchestra of sonic chaos.
We drive out of the city madness to a large well-staffed estate in a gorgeous gated community reminiscent of Beverly Hills. Voodoomama removes her Indian garb to reveal a statuesque, shapely figure. The mansion is filled with antiquities.
Voodoomama turns to me. “Zac, do you mind? I want to spend a little time with Lizzy. Please feel free to enjoy the pool. Swim trunks and the fully staffed bar and kitchen are at your disposal. I even have a box of El Ray Del Mundos. Please, I want you both to relax and enjoy your time here.” The women disappear.
She has my favorite cigar. Now let’s see if the bartender can mix my favorite drink, a Vesper Martini. The bartender doesn’t even wince at the word Vesper. I watch as he pours two parts Vodka, one Part Gin, and a dash of Lillet Vermouth, vigorously shaken, into a chilled martini glass with a whole sliced lemon. It’s exquisite. We exchange grins as he sets the box of El Ray Del Mundos on the bar. He clips one, warms the tip with a lighter, and hands me the cigar as I puff it to life. This guy’s good. I saunter over to enjoy the pool view, very James Bond, sans the bevy of scantily clad Bond girls.
*
Meanwhile, I later learn from Liz, the distance between Voodoomama and her disappears. There is an ineffable bond between mother and daughter that, even if broken, heals itself with love. They quickly catch up on the past.
“What happened in Oklahoma? Why did you get Zac involved when that wasn’t the directive?” Voodoomama asks.
“Something was wrong,” Liz replies. “I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but Zac’s appearance gave me the opportunity I was looking for. And I was right. I trusted my team explicitly, like family, and when we discovered Doc was a mole, that’s when everything began to unravel.”
“He’s not part of our world Lizzy. There’s too much you can’t disclose.”
“That’s exactly why Zac and I connect so well. Secrecy and deceit are the currencies of my profession and yours. But Zac is honest. He couldn’t deceive me if he tried, unlike everyone else in our world.”
“What else did you learn?” Voodoomama questions.
“That General Madison is and has been manipulating the government programs he oversees for personal gain.”
*
By the time Liz and Voodoomama reappear, I’m two Vespers and two ice-cold vodka tonics deep, floating on a raft. I hear their echo in the distance; they laugh like children.
“Hey Zac!” Liz brays. I give ‘em thumbs up and the ladies twitter.
Whatever spell Voodoomama has put on Liz, I approve. “C’ mon Zac, it’s dinner time,” Liz chimes.
Voodoomama has changed into a bikini and sheer wrap, revealing a stunning figure. Although she’s 29 years older, she could easily pass as Liz’s sister.
As we enter the dining room, Liz sees a sword in a glass case. “You still have the Saber of Fate,” she says, smiling at Voodoomama.
“I keep it with me everywhere I live,” her mother replies in a severe tone.
Liz opens the glass case which houses the sword and an ornate black box. She opens the box, taps its handle to something in the box, then pulls the saber out of its sheath.
“Be careful, Liz.”
Liz explaines. “This is the only one ever made, and it’s over 1500 years old. Made of mysterious alloys that make it lighter than aluminum yet stronger than titanium and the blade is sharper than a modern-day razor. Only its owner can use this sword; no other can remove it from its sheath. When presented to the Chinese warrior emperor who commissioned it, he beheaded the artisan with the sword so no other would be forged.”
Liz walks over to a tall, thick candle in tall silver candelabra on the dining room table and takes a swing with the sword.
“Ha, you missed,” I laugh.
Liz taps the candle with the tip of the sword and falls to the floor, cut so cleanly that the sword strike hadn’t moved it. She puts away the sword and pulls out the black wooden box, opening it to reveal a petrified hand and an ornate silver ring with Lapis Lazuli stone.
“It’s the emperor’s hand with the Keystone ring,” Liz states. “Only the wearer of the ring can remove the sword from its sheath; otherwise, it’s locked. This sword has slain tens of thousands, toppled dynasties and commanded great wealth.” Voodoomama chimes in, “Both the ring and sword are made from the same unknown alloy, and when they come in contact, there is a magnetic reaction. When in its sheath, there’s a positive-negative magnetic force so strong the sword can’t be removed. When touched by the ring, it reverses polarity and glides easily out. I’ve had the sword and ring examined by many scientists, but none can explain it.”
We sit down at the dinner table. “Ok… So, Voodomama,” I begin, “what is it exactly that you’re doing out here in India?” The ladies look at each other and smile.
“Zac, my daughter likes you, and the last thing I want to do after all these years is to be dishonest or deceptive with you. I can’t talk about it, ever. So let’s talk about you. What’s next for the international moto/photo-journalist?”
“Well, I need to focus on our Himalayan travel story. The guy who runs Himalayan Roadrunners met his wife on a trek to Mt. Everest 24 years ago. She was his Sherpa; they married, had a son and lived in both Kathmandu and Vermont. I’m writing an in-depth feature on being Tibetan and American, and the politics and conflicts of culture.”
“Interesting,” she replies. “I’ve read your ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycling China.’ Well done. I liked your personality profiles and perspective on the current Chinese economic state. You look into the heart of the cultures you visit and that’s commendable. You’re both welcome to stay here as long as you wish, but if I may make a suggestion… The owner of this house has a beautiful home in Nice, France that’s staffed year-round. He never goes there, and it’s a shame. He has an extensive motorcycle collection, all maintained. It would seem to be the perfect place to settle in for several months, finish your Himalayan story and write a few more. Liz, you speak French of course, plus the south of France has far better weather and food than India.” They laugh.
“Mama taught me how to ride at age 7.”
“Lizzy was bored with bicycles. I got her a Honda 90, and she started winning motocross races at 10 until she eventually got kicked out.”
“Yeah, I was running over all the boys, literally. Hit the sweet spot on the inside corner full throttle, the rear tire spins into the bike next to you, and they go down.”
The girls howl in glee. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I like it. We spend the next several days relaxing and it’s very healing for Liz, as if she and her mother were never apart. All of our belongings are sent from Kathmandu and we’re booked for a flight to Nice, France.
“When will I see you again?” Liz anxiously asks.
“Soon. I will be in Nice next month.”
They hold a long hug; I can tell Liz is hiding her tears. We board the plane to France and again, she is quiet. I guess I better get used to the silent treatment while airborne.
We land at the Nice International Airport (Aeroport de Nice Cote d’Azur) located 20 minutes west of the city center and settle into a quiet taxi ride.
I love motorcycling in the south of France. Nice, Cannes Monte Carlo all have stunning coastal roads that skirt the French Riviera. The rolling hills of the Provence and the twisting mountain roads of the Alps are all within a day’s ride and is some of the most spectacular motorcycling in Europe. The Col de Turini in the French Alps is one of the most famous balcony roads—hair-raising lanes cut into the sides of sheer cliffs—in the country. The French Rivera reminds me of home, Malibu and the Pacific Coast Highway.
We pull into an estate that makes Voodoomama’s mansion look like a guest house. “Holy shit, who are these people?” I exclaim.
Liz retorts, “We probably don’t want to know.” We settle into one of the spacious bedrooms, but I am dying to see this so-called motorcycle collection. One of the staff takes us along a path to a separate barn-sized building. There must be a hundred motorcycles here. I can hardly breathe; this moto-journalist has died and gone to 2-wheeled heaven.
“Most will run, with a little TLC,” the caretaker of the collection says in an almost indecipherable French accent. As I walk down the line, I can name almost every bike and year. My god, it’s a 1915 Cyclone. Only 300 Cyclones were built, and only eight originals are known to exist. The Cyclone has a massive 1000cc engine and is able to hit 125 mph.
“Look, Liz! Two black Ducatis, just like yours!”
She kneels to examine the serial numbers. “These are mine. When did they arrive here?” she asks the caretaker.
“Three weeks ago,” he replies.
“So that means Mama had this all planned before we even went to the Himalayas. How could she have known? Damn her. Do you now understand whom you’re dealing with, Zac? El Rey Del Mudos, my Ducati’s… We are in the South of France for a reason. A far bigger picture is being painted, and we’re merely brushes in the hands of a master artist.”
*
Curiosity, the catalyst of great journalism, has me investigating every room in the mansion. Many are locked while curio cabinets filled with antiquities and other valuables are left open. The dining room drawers are filled with ornate silver cutlery. It is the library housing thousands of books, though, that intrigues me. Sitting at a massive oak desk, I find all the drawers locked. Then I spy something lying face down inside a bookshelf cubby, in perfect line of sight from the desk’s plush high-backed chair yet hidden from view elsewhere in the room. It’s a photograph of Dick Cheney, General Madison and the President in the oval office. I show Liz and ask, “Do you think this could be Cheney’s home?”
“That makes perfect sense. He could easily afford to live this lavishly.”
“Why do you think Voodoomama sent us here?” I wonder.
Liz shakes her head in distrust. “I do not doubt that we will find out soon enough.”
