Movement

Makenju and Queen Maryam walked south on Michigan Avenue, stopping to check in windows and take in the scenery.

“White man, across the street, raincoat, I haven’t spotted his mirror yet,” Makenju murmured.

Maryam’s head was covered, this time with a pink scarf, and she wore her usual oversized sunglasses. Her light green dress stopped at her calves, belted by a wide pink sash. Makenju carried her paper shop bag that contained her pumps, and she wore newly purchased walking shoes.

“What do we do?”

“Follow me.”

They walked further south, still casually stopping.

“Got him,” Makenju whispered. “Or her. Black woman, looking in the shop window a few doors ahead of us.”

“Oh. A taxi stopped at the curb. Makenju gently pulled the queen with him, and as the passenger alighted, he pushed Maryam into the cab. He climbed in himself and closed the door.

“Union station,” he said gruffly.

The driver was a dark man missing front teeth.

“Sure, man,” the driver pulled off.

Makenju looked at the driver’s displayed cab operator’s ticket and read his surname. Then he looked out the cab’s rear window.

“They just got in a blue Taurus. They are following,” he said softly.

“Where are you from, sir?” the cabbie asked.

Makenju told him. The driver laughed.

“I thought so! How long since you’ve been home?”

“Oh, we just arrived in the states a few days back. On holiday.”

“Is your wife…?”

“No, brother,” Makenju laughed, shooting Maryam a look to remain quiet, “I married an American.”

The driver laughed again. “Well, may I compliment your taste? She is very beautiful. Ma’am, if I may say so, and this isn’t just one African buttering up another’s wife, your beauty is rivaled only by that of our queen back home.”

Maryam smiled demurely. Makenju bit his lip.

“Union station coming up, Brother,” the driver said.

Makenju gave the man a twenty.

“We’re only going to be here for a minute. Can you pull around to the other side of the building, on Canal, and meet us there? We’ll be headed right back.”

“Be glad to,” the driver took the twenty and they alighted from the taxi. Makenju hurried Maryam inside the glass station, teeming with people, and watched as the cabbie pulled off. A few minutes later, the Taurus pulled to a stop and the man and woman got out, leaving the driver inside.

“Come on,” Makenju hissed, and they hurried to the Canal side of the building. Their taxi pulled off just as their followers were milling around the crowd in the station.

As they drove North on Canal, Maryam asked, “Is the Shark Bar still open?”

The driver hesitated, then answered amiably, “Not for a few years, ma’am, but they do still have private parties in the building.”

Makenju frowned at Maryam and said, “You can drop us off at the Randolph Street Metra station.” He placed another twenty on the front seat. “How is your family?”

The driver beamed. “My three girls are all in college. University of Illinois. That son of mine, he’s got his own restaurant.” He told Makenju the name and address. “Stop in sometimes. The food reminds me of home, somewhat.”

“You must be proud,” Makenju laughed as they pulled onto Michigan Avenue and headed south to Randolph.

“Immensely. Thanks, brother, Ma’am. See you around.”

Makenju scanned the street for any signs of followers and hustled Maryam down the stairs.

“Stop all that pulling me, Ibrahim,” the Queen said irritably.

‘Doing my job, Ma’am,” he growled back. They hurried up the concourse, where Makenju paid for two tickets southbound on a train scheduled to leave momentarily.

“Rush hour,” he said, “trains are running very regularly.”

They went through the turnstiles and down another flight of stairs. Makenju held Maryam close.

“Act like we’re together,” he said harshly.

Maryam looked at her bodyguard as if he was insane.

“You mean we’re not?” she asked with innocence.

In no mood for games, Makenju held her tightly and looked around the ramp and up the steps. Maryam leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Well, I guess this will do,” Myriam murmured.

When the conductor called, “All aboard!” Makenju grabbed Myriam’s hand and led her into the last car. They sat side by side in the jump seats. Makenju watched the doors.

Maryam leaned against him and whispered, “How long until we arrive?”

Makenju fought the urge to lean back against her. His eyes rested on the top of her head, then glanced out of the window.

“About an hour. It’s near the end of the line.”

“How will we get to the hotel?” Maryam took a deep breath and exhaled, further leaning into Makenju.

Before he could answer, her breathing was deep and even. He looked down. Maryam was asleep.

Muhammad was behind the wheel of the CTS, weaving in and out of traffic. Akbar sat beside him, looking like he swallowed an acid pill.

“They still back there?” Akbar’s door mirror offered a limited view of the street behind them.

“Not for long.” Muhammad took the ramp leading to Lake Shore Drive hard and the Cadillac shot to 95mph in an instant.

“Whatever they are driving won’t compete with this,” Muhammad laughed. Akbar noticed the needle hovering at 110.

“You’re gonna to this thing out?”

“Not ‘til we get to 191 miles an hour, mate,” Muhammad said calmly.

Akbar refrained from asking if the young man had hit that mark yet.

Minutes later, they were crossing 55th street, and Akbar slowed down to a respectable 75. He braked further then pulled over.

“What’s the problem?”

“Locals. No problem.”

A solid looking Chicago police officer strode to the driver’s side, hand on his weapon. Muhammad pushed the window button and shoved his diplomatic identification in the cop’s face.

“Where’s the fire?”

“Plates, Mate. National security. You’re not even supposed to be stopping me.”

The cop looked nonplussed.

“I clocked you at over a hundred, Buddy.” He glared at Muhammad and gave Akbar an evil look for good measure.

In response, Muhammad smiled, put the Caddy in gear and left rubber on the street. The cop hustled back to his vehicle.

“I think for good measure, I’ll blow a few of those lights,” Muhammad said good naturedly.

“I got his badge number and name.”

“Leave it,” Muhammad said with a laugh, “by the time he calls it in he’ll get enough guff from his boss. Bloke needs his job.” The CTS careened south on the curves of Cornell Drive and Akbar flew through the red light where Cornell met Stony Island, ignoring blaring horns.

“Chap lives over west,” Muhammad said, “but I’ve always wanted to try this sucker out on the Drive. Best expressway in Chicago.”

Akbar just shook his head.

Muhammad slowed within posted limits once he crossed 87th Street, and turned right at 95th and headed west.

“This fella is expecting her majesty,” he explained, “but he’s just going to have to settle for us.”

“Makenju thinks he knows more than what he told us at the embassy,” Akbar explained.

“Oh, sure,” Muhammad chirped, “why should he tell us everything?”

“I think we can convince him, “ Akbar grimaced.

“You don’t muscle his kind, Mate,” Muhammad said gently. “Some people are better as allies than as enemies. Summer strikes me as that kind of guy.”

“Did you sweep the car?”

“Myself. I found both of them. What? Do they think because we are Africans we just started playing this game?” Muhammad shook his head. “These are nice places over here.”

Summers lived in a large but modest looking brick home in the Beverly area, on Bell Street just off of 103rd Street. Muhammad parked in the street and undid his safety belt.

“Say, is it true about the major?”

Akbar eyed the younger man warily before speaking.

“Yes.”

Muhammad laughed. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask?”

Akbar exhaled and squared is shoulders. “It’s all true. Whatever you’ve heard, trust me, it’s bound to be true, and a whole lot of things that you haven’t heard but will are true as well.”

“Hmmm,” Akbar knocked on the door and reached into his coat for his identification. “Man’s got good taste, but a risk streak a mile wide.”

“Two miles,” Akbar grunted.

The heavy wooden door opened, and the large man that had accompanied Summers to the embassy look at them with no interest.

“Muhammad and Akbar from the embassy. Mr. Summers in?” Muhammad’s grin was so crazy that even Akbar had to laugh. A smile split the other man’s face as well.
“Come in. You’re expected.”

Makenju’s eyes alternated between Maryam’s face, the train doors, and the windows.

How strange life is, he thought. He shifted slightly, careful not to jostle and wake Maryam, and reached for his mobile. He dialed one handed.

Naomi answered the telephone at the hotel’s front desk.

“He’s in his office, Sir, may I help you? Very well, sir, please hold.”

Her long legs the envy of women decades younger, Naomi strode into an office just to the right of the reception area and stuck her head in the doorway.

“Theo?” She made a face. “Some man with a funny name, McMillan, Mackanaw…his accent is thicker than mine and he isn’t the friendliest. Line one. We’ll talk about that thing I saw in your briefcase later mister.”

Theo Morgan stretched and closed the window on his computer before punching the flashing button.

“Theo Morgan.”

“Thee-oh,” Makenju said calmly, “Makenju. You have space for us?”

“Yep. How long?”

“Undetermined. We need somewhere out of the way. Something with adjoining rooms.”

“I have adjoining suites.”

“Good. Cost is no issue.”

“Didn’t think it would be,” Morgan stifled a yawn. “When?”

“Twenty minutes. Can you have someone pick us up?”

“Hold on,” Morgan jammed the phone between his shoulder and cheek and called, “Naomi?”

Her chocolate face, framed by clouds of jet black hair, appeared instantly in the doorway.

“Were you listening?” Morgan whispered.

“Trying,” she whispered back.

Another whisper. “Stop leaning over like that, you’re exposing yourself.”

“Get outta my shirt!” Then, in a normal tone, “What can I do for you Theo?”

“Have Frank down at Five Star Taxi send a car to the train station for Mr. Makenju and his party.”

“How many people?”

“Just two,” Morgan spoke again into the telephone, “Just two people?”

“For now. Others will meet us later.”

“Fine,” Morgan returned the phone to his shoulder. “And Naomi?”

“Yes?”

“Put two suites upstairs in my name. They have to adjoin.”

“Credit card?”

“I’ll take care of that. If you can put the reservations in the system and make up the keys, I’ll take care of the rest. Thanks.”

Morgan returned to the telephone conversation. “Done. A Lincoln town car will be at the station when your train arrives.”

“Who is this man? How will I find him?”

“He’ll find you. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“Thank you Thee-Oh.”

“Yup.” Morgan replaced the receiver in the cradle, stood, and took off his suit coat. Forty pounds down, he thought ruefully, and still in a 48 jacket. He shook his head, loosened and retightened his belt, and placed his Zero Halliburton on his desk. Working the combination, he opened the briefcase and extracted a blued Colt.380 government model with walnut grips. He checked the safety before pulling the slider, and then jammed it in the back of his pants in the small of his back. He slipped back into his jacket and sat down.

“What an interesting day this is going to be,” he said aloud to the empty room.