Love, Destiny, and Murder

Enter the Woman

5 - The Perfect Woman

April 2, 1998

Dear Mr. Harrison,

It has come to my attention that you have violated several written warnings about your professional behavior here at the University of Michigan. It is with great regret that the University has chosen to release you from your graduate responsibilities, effective immediately.

Your rights to be on any property owned by the University is also being removed.

If you wish to appeal this decision, feel free to contact the Registrar’s Office in writing.

Sincerely,

Dr. J.M. Schuler

President

I called Jones and Smith to report on my findings. We activated a Skype session so that we could see each other’s face as we talked.

“Well, gentleman,” I began. “I have some information and a good guess for you.”

With that, I emailed each of them a copy of the words and phrases that might be used by Iskandar, the notorious Mr. X.

“Take note of the phrase on line 5, please. “’The woman is without child.’” The two men looked a bit confused, just like me. Are these men from the same agency? Are they agents or analysts? And, why bring in a complete outsider like me?

“What does it mean?” asked Jones.

“Don’t know,” I replied. “Just that it is an unusual phrase he is likely to use. It’s not my decision, but I would run a search on this phrase and the rest of the list against intercepts and see if anything comes up.”

“OK,” murmured Smith.

“Any idea on his next move? I mean, from your special perspective,” asked Jones.

That’s right. Ask one crazy guy what another crazy guy is going to do.

“He’s on the move. Next stop,” I paused for dramatic effect, “North Korea.”

I was throwing this out on the table with no introduction to see how they would react. And, react, they did. Smith’s eyebrows went high. Jones went from looking at the list to looking at me in a flash. Neither said anything at first. That suited me just fine because I was counting.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi….

Near the end of the fourth Mississippi, Jones blurted.

“Why do you say that?”

Good, I got a nice strong reaction. I had finally touched a nerve. Now we are making progress. Where there is pain, there is much information.

Smith chimed in before I could answer. “Mr. Lay, it is vital that we know we can trust you.”

“Have I done something that indicates I cannot be trusted?”

“Well, no,” he said, “but we have to be absolutely sure of your loyalty.”

Loyalty? That’s a strange word to use. Strong possibility that careers are on the line somewhere in Washington.

“Scout’s honor,” I said, raising a three-finger salute.

“Be serious,” Smith commanded.

“I am. Humor is the most serious form of communication.”

That put him a bit off guard. He was trying to pull together a response when Jones interrupted.

“Is your conference room electronically secure?”

“Swept every day,” I replied as if anyone in the world would be interested in hearing something I said.

Jones and Smith looked at each other for a few seconds and then gave a mutual ‘What the hell’ shrug. Jones continued.

“This morning we received a report that Mr. X was seen crossing the border into North Korea two weeks ago.”

“Then he might be in the United States already,” I said. No one spoke for a few seconds. I broke the silence by saying what we were thinking. “Or, he is getting ready to enter.”

“Where will he enter?” asked Smith.

“Give me some time to ponder.”

“We are fresh out of time,” observed Jones.

#

Bobbie had dropped off the college records of Iskandar Robinson, our Mr. X. I laid the papers out so that I see the entire list of the courses he took. Two-thirds of them were chemistry and biology related. This included advanced lab work in genetic engineering and pesticide formulation.

Not good. That meant he had the skills to create powerful poisons, nerve agents, and genetically manipulated bacteria and viruses. Lots of avenues he could use to make a weapon of mass destruction. Also, he ranked very high in his class. I decided to call the university.

It was after five o’clock in the afternoon in England, but the phone was answered. The Dean of the college remembered Iskandar.

“He was a very bright lad,” he commented.

I pressed him for specific details.

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t think so. He seemed to always be focused on his studies.”

Not good.

“Did he ever fight or argue with other students?” I asked.

“No, he treated most people with great respect.”

“But, not everyone,” I suggested.

The Dean hesitated.

“He tended to ignore the women. Nothing you could put your finger on, but he didn’t treat them with equal respect.”

Also, not good.

We talked further, I thanked him for his assistance. I wished I could have asked him if Iskandar ever tortured small animals, but at this point, I had a pretty good idea of the answer.

#

At the outskirts of Dover, Iowa stood an old motel. It only had six rooms for rent and none of them had been updated in thirty years. Customers were rare and usually tended towards drug addicts looking for a place to hold a bender or lusty teenagers. The establishment’s owner had been dead for years, but his widow carried on maintaining the familiar pattern in her life.

When she didn’t show up to church that Sunday, a few parishioners dropped by to check on her well-being. They found her dead behind the office. Four stab wounds ruled out natural causes. The registration book and the petty cash were both missing. When the police examined each of the hotel rooms it appeared that one had been occupied recently by multiple people.

Next to the dead woman’s body was an eyeball. Forensic testing showed it had been preserved in alcohol and likely belonged to a woman, age 18 to 25, identity unknown.

#

To complicate this day further, my Landlady, Mrs. Philbert had invited me to one of her notorious dinner parties that night. Mrs. Philbert was a huge gossip and a matchmaker. She knew I was recently jilted and a prime target for her latest efforts. I couldn’t turn down the invitation because she held the power of eviction for deadbeats. And deadbeat is what I would be if the company went under.

The affairs held by Mrs. Philbert were notorious for the eclectic mix of people that showed up combined with the unusual dinners prepared by our hostess. Mrs. Philbert apparently used a combination of Pinterest and a random spice generator in her cooking. It is the rare individual that has had the honor of tasting grilled baby octopus with chickpeas or flame roasted ice cream sundaes.

Mrs. Philbert was technically a retired schoolteacher. However, she was not aware she was no longer in a classroom, and thus, did not need to project her voice when standing a foot from your face. She was also famous for telling you in detail what you should do with your life. This included written instructions on great places to visit in other states, even if you didn’t ask. However, it didn’t matter since most of the places probably went out of business years ago.

Therefore, at seven o’clock on the dot, I arrived at Mrs. Philbert’s apartment with a small offering of flowers. These she accepted with squeals of excitement and the mandatory hug. I am not a hugger. I do not like other people touching me, let alone grab me around the waist and squeezing a few seconds longer than called for by polite society.

With that over, she directed me to the other side of the room to introduce me to a few random people. A man that looked like he was homeless, a woman that was as tall as she was wide, and another man exhibiting the uncontrolled shaking hand of a long time anti-depressant user. All very nice, but I wondered which lucky woman was to be my match of the evening.

Just then, Mrs. Philbert looked towards the front door and announced in her usual loud voice, “And, here’s Natasha!”

I turned around to look and gave a quick twitch as I saw the most beautiful woman in the world. The surprise was so complete that it took nearly a second before I noticed that she was also wearing next to nothing. Earrings, necklace, what passed for a top, a s***h of fabric across her waist, and high heels. I’ve been in strip clubs where the girls wear more.

“Meet Mr. Lay, Natasha,” said the foggy sound of Mrs. Philbert from somewhere outside of my zone of attention.

I turned towards Mrs. Philbert with trepidation. Was this the woman she was trying to match with me? What new hell had I just entered?

Natasha strode confidently over in our direction. Her walk was just shy of a model’s strut and it showed off an amazing athletic body. Her hair was long and black. No makeup. She didn’t need any. She reached out and politely shook my hand.

By this point, Mrs. Philbert was escaping to the kitchen with a command of, “You two have a nice chat now.”

OK, I am a problem-solver, and this was indeed a problem.

I started the conversation with a romantic. “My name is Barnett, I live in building A.”

No reaction.

“Would you like to have a seat?” I asked as I motioned to a nearby chair. She took a seat.

“I work as a consulting engineer, helping people solve difficult problems.” I hesitated. “Not just engineering problems, but all sorts of problems.”

I was babbling while trying to keep visual contact with just her eyes. I was sure that just one look down would be the end of the evening for me. And, that’s when something occurred to me. Perhaps this outfit was her way of testing men. Well, at least it was worth a try.

“How long have you been an architect?” I asked. Now I got a reaction. Her eyes showed interest and she waved her hand as if to invite me to continue.

“Sometimes in my line of work I have to make an educated guess about someone. In your case, when I suggested we sit down you passed up on the Salvation Army special and went for the retro-trendy chair. You are wearing clothes that suit you and make a statement. Also, if Mrs. Philbert knows you that means you are likely on some sort of social committee, which implies a well-paid professional. Am I warm?”

She nodded. My heartbeat started to relax to somewhere below 140 beats per minute.

I spent the next several minutes, making a bad combination of small talk and self-description. She seemed to be genuinely interested.

“I’m babbling,” I confessed. “You are a very attractive woman and I am nervous around attractive people.”

She raised an eyebrow that seemed to ask, “Why is that?”

To this day I cannot explain why I suddenly decided to tell the truth, but I told her about my personality quirks, my troubled childhood, and my list of current medications. At this, she smiled.

Normally, an awkward pause would occur at this point as the man and woman each decide on whether to continue the conversation or bolt from the room. She stayed put, so I did the same. However, I was slowly becoming conscious of the fact that she had not spoken a single word. Was she mute? Not likely. And yet, she was communicating very effectively.

I sucked in a long breath and took a chance.

“By any chance, do you use everything but words to communicate as part of your core beliefs?”

She smiled and touched her nose, tipping her head slightly down in the universal gesture for “Bingo!”

With that, she took my hand and lead me to the dinner table.

6 - The Dichotomy of Taxes

Meijer Pharmacy

Rx: 77786976

Barnett Lay

2233 Lake Drive, Apt. 2

Grand Rapids, MI 49503

Take 1 Tablet by Mouth One Time a Day

Two If Needed During Panic Attacks

Imipram Hcl 50mg Tab Sand Qty 90 TAB

Refill - Infinity

The next day I received a phone call from my friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. They said that their boss wanted to meet me. I agreed and asked them where we should meet. They provided me with an address in downtown Chicago. I informed Wendy that we needed to go to Chicago for the day and that she should bring her purse. She would have plenty of time for shopping.

Twenty minutes later we’re in the car and on our way. It took us just three hours to reach downtown Chicago from our office. Wendy dropped me off at the curb and then shot off towards the miracle mile. Many Guccis were about to die.

I entered the gray limestone tower and took the elevator to the 14th floor. I was secretly hoping to myself that their boss’s last name is not Johnson. Otherwise, I was caught in some kind of white middle-class nightmare. Luckily, his last name was Ramirez. He was a short, overweight dark-haired man sitting behind the standard government issued desk. At least there was a plaque on the door letting me know that I was now in the company of the FBI.

“Mr. Lay. I’m glad you were able to join us today.”

“No problem, I was in the neighborhood,” I responded.

This did not seem to amuse him, and he offered no first name. He was the type of bureaucrat that I dread. The type of person that isn’t going to tell you anything more than he absolutely required. Unfortunately, that’s not to be of much help in this kind of a situation. But if I was here, I might as well play along.

“I understand that you correctly guessed that Mr. X was going to go to North Korea,” he began.

“That is correct,” I said. “A lucky guess.”

He did not seem impressed. In fact, he seemed downright irritated.

“This is a very serious matter Mr. lay,” he said.

“Trust me I am taking this matter very seriously. To the point where I must insist, we cooperate by sharing information.”

“We will tell you what you need to know,” he responded.

“Now you’re the one that’s not taking this seriously,” I replied. With this, I could see his face darkened to a nice shade of red. This is a good thing. The sooner I can convince him that he’s got to quit holding back on the information the faster we can solve his problem.

“Look, Mr. Ramirez, the only way to solve this problem is if we have all the data on the table. For example, I need to know if Mr. X left Pakistan by himself or if someone went with him.”

This produced a startled look on the face of Mr. Ramirez. “Why do you ask that?”

“Just asking.”

 “As a matter of fact, someone did leave Pakistan with him.”

“See, now we’re getting somewhere. Did this person happen to be an expert in any particular field?”

“Nuclear technology,” he responded.

There we finally got some data on the table. Now I can reward him with more data.

“Psychopaths do not boast. Mr. X here is saying he wants to kill millions of people. He is not boasting, he means it. He feels he’s superior to all other humans and his needs to demonstrate this to the world.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Ramirez. “I have profilers that have filled me in on the behaviors of a psychopath.”

“Except, in this case, he actually does have the educational background to pull it off. He is a trained biochemist and could easily produce a biological weapon if he had the support of a nation or well-funded group. Likewise, his companion could produce a nuclear threat. We will need more data to figure out which one they are pursuing.”

“We have people working on that,” said Mr. Ramirez.

“So, let’s move on. When Pakistan ejected Mr. X and his companion which country where they sent to?”

“The Pakistani authorities drop them both off at the Iranian border.”

“And how are they treated by the Iranians?”

“Badly. They tossed both out of the country after only two days.”

“And did a third person leave with him?”

“How did you know that?” Asked Mr. Ramirez.

“It fits the pattern. He is putting together a team, a team of experts that can help him carry out his plan. Each country is kicking them out so that they will have plausible deniability. And yet, I would propose that each of these countries is contributing materials and money to this team under the table.”

Mr. Ramirez looks positively nervous at this point. He was probably wondering if I was a member of the team. How could I know so much about these people with so little information? It was easy. Human behavior is ridiculously predictable. People will form one opinion of reality and then they stick to that for their whole life. Psychopaths are no different.

“I understand that Mr. X has entered North Korea,” I continued. “Any details on the entry?”

Mr. Ramirez hesitated. I could tell he was wondering just how much she should tell me. But finally, he relented.

 “The group initially went to China. The Chinese threw them out on the same day, at the border of North Korea.”

“Okay, I have one more question for you. Did anyone from China go with the group?”

“I cannot disclose that,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“That is the information I am not allowed to share.”

“In that case, I will just talk to myself.” Turning my head, I said, “Self, can you imagine that a Chinese national citizen accompanied this group across the border into North Korea?”

With that, I turned in my chair as if talking to someone seated next to me. “Oh, I would say it would be very bad if such a thing happened. It means four countries that aren’t exactly friends of the United States have just given a lot of resources to a team led by a psychopath.”

I turned the other way as if talking back to myself.

“That’s bad. And why do we keep calling him Mr. X when his name is Iskandar?”

Mr. Ramirez interrupted my conversation. “Are you going to help us or not?”

“I have to help you. None of you realize the trouble that already exists.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the only reason I’m sitting here is that one or more of those phrases I gave you scored a hit.”

Mr. Ramirez appeared genuinely startled. He leaned forward in his chair and adjusted his glasses to study me more closely.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Mr. Lay. Crazy person that is far enough away from the situation to see what is happening. The events we are discussing are happening too fast. That means it was planned in advance, is receiving serious support from multiple governments, and the next stop for our band of attackers is most likely this country.”

I let that sink in for a few seconds. Then I continued.

“Which phrase was a match?”

“Several of them, but the one about the baby was found three times. Each time from a cell call placed by Mr. X. Naturally, you will not reveal this information to anyone.”

I nodded in agreement. This was very bad. It meant whatever weapon they needed, they most likely had with them. Harrison could provide me with a good estimate of how long it would take them to sneak onto American soil and launch the attack.

“I want you to continue to supply us with information,” demanded Mr. Ramirez. “We will try to catch them at the border. In the meantime, say nothing and do nothing. We don’t need you running around trying to find them.”

“Trust me,” I assured him. “I have no interest in getting any more involved. I will use encrypted email to communicate. However, I need somebody to keep me up to date on what they are doing. The longer we can track their actions, the better I can predict their next move. Critical to all of this, I have to have access to your intelligence databases to have any chance of predicting their future movements.”

“You don’t have a security clearance,” he replied.

“Then get me clearance,” I demanded.

“You have a criminal record; we cannot get you clearance.”

We argued this point back and forth for a while. It was clear I wasn’t going to be allowed into the club. This information is only for a privileged insider, not a life failure with a criminal record.

At the end of the meeting, we shook hands. I would like to believe we have a nice tight agreement of secrecy. Unfortunately, this is America. Once two people know anything, it’s no longer a secret. Everybody finds out. And this situation was no different.

Mr. Ramirez would type up my comments and his observations in a report. That report would be checked by his secretary and sent on to the Director at the FBI. In the meantime, the secretary would discuss all of this with her boyfriend from down the hall in her office building. The same boyfriend that was turned by the Russian government more than five years earlier. He would be on the phone to Moscow before the report ever got to Washington DC.

Making an agreement with the government was going to cost me dearly. I knew it at the time, but I proceeded. Mr. X was becoming an annoyance. I knew he had enough smarts to evade government agents and pull off an attack. I had to show the government that I was smarter than Mr. X.

7 - Moscow and Art of Dating

TEXT INTERCEPT

Source: French National Intelligence

Location: Islamabad, Pakistan

Date: September 23

Time: 14:52:21 to 14:57:31 local time

How is the family?

                The baby is growing up so fast

Will you visit us soon?

                Yes

Will you bring gifts?

                Yes

May Allah bless you

High correlation to known Phones - Code Talk, factor r2 probability 87%

The next morning, I slept in. Wendy picked me up with the car at 10 AM. We stopped at the local Mr. Burger and I slammed down a traditional breakfast of hash browns and scrambled eggs. After a couple of cups of coffee, we headed to the office.

At 11:30 I received a text message from Natasha.

Natasha

                Are you the man I met at dinner?

That was an interesting opening. I was up for the game, so I replied.

Barnett

                I confess I am that guy. It was a pleasure to meet you.

Natasha

Excellent. Attached is my doctoral dissertation for you to review. This should help to better explain my lifestyle choice. Feel free to ask questions.

1 File Attached: Doc.docx (468 page Word document)

Okay, this should be interesting. Things were looking up.

#

Gregor Natavolo was a field coordinator for Russian intelligence. He worked in a Soviet-era concrete office complex on the outskirts of Moscow. The outside of his building matched the depressing, run-down appearance of the other dull gray buildings. However, inside it was laced with modern office furniture and state-of-the-art computers. The walls were painted a bright blue color, the same used on Russian submarines to help stave off negative thoughts while trapped in a tight space.

This department got preferential funding because they compiled the reports coming in from agents operating in the United States. Thousands of reports came in each day from every area of the country. The Russian government wanted to know the mood of the American people and the actions of their government.

Today’s report from one of his American contacts had caught his attention. A possible major terrorist attack on the United States is not necessarily in the interest of the Russian government. He picked up his phone and called the director of his department. He provided a quick overview of what had been reported from the United States. There was a moment of silence at the other end of the phone. Then the director spoke.

“You are sure of this?”

“Yes, Director.”

“Come upstairs right away,” he commanded. And with that, the phone went dead.

Gregor obeyed and headed upstairs with a copy of the file under his arm. Three flights of steps later he was at the entrance to the Director’s office.

“Sit,” said the director. Gregor sat.

Gregor waited. The director was paging through the report. He said nothing.

Then, without warning, the office door opened and in walked a man that Gregor had only heard about in whispers. The man was older but in excellent physical condition. He walked with confidence. He wore an expensive suit. His watch was a Rolex. The ring on his hand was awarded only to heroes of the former Soviet Union. He stared at Gregor.

“Is this the man who received the report?”

“He is,” said the Director nodding towards Gregor.

“Forget everything you saw,” said the well-dressed man. He saluted. “You are dismissed.”

Gregor hurried from the room. The report remained in the room. Gregor would never speak of this incident again. And he prayed that would protect him.

Once Gregor had left the room and closed the door the director turned towards the man.

“Sorge, what do you think?”

Sorge was one of Putin’s closest advisors. He was known for his ruthless efficiency in carrying out the wishes of the Russian state. No one wanted to see Sorge in their office, but here he was. He looked at the report and scowled.

Finally, he spoke. “This is bad. If this group kills a large number of Americans, we will likely share in the blame. I shall handle this myself.”

With that, the report and Sorge left the room. His mind was racing as he walked out of the building.

“This matches the reports we received earlier this week. We need to stop this team,” he thought to himself. As he entered his waiting car, he had another thought.

“I must talk to this Mr. Lay that seems to be able to predict their movements.”

Sorge picked up a phone in the car and called a secured number. He gave a short but exact set of instructions. Then he hung up and smiled. At least actions are now in motion. No more waiting and guessing.

#

Harris was back in his office working on Nancy. Nancy sat on the couch in his office. She was connected to Harris’ computer through a thick bundle of wires. Harris had the scripts I had worked up for the new Nancy. Using these and a new description of the product he could reprogram Nancy into a machine that would be much more marketable.

Alisha came into the room and was startled to see robot Nancy.

“Who’s this?”

“That’s Nancy. The newest product from our newest client.”

Nancy turned and greeted Alisha. “My name is Nancy. It is a pleasure to meet you…?”

“Alisha.”

“Alisha. What a nice name,” replied Nancy.

 “That’s pretty cool. What do they use her for?”

“p**********n,” said Harris.

“Come on, be serious,” answered Alisha.

“Well, originally for p**********n, but Barnett and I are rescuing her from her fate in a robot brothel and the arms of a creepy man.”

“Robotic what?” asked Alisha.

“Alisha, why don’t you sit here next to me?” offered Nancy.

Alisha took a spot next to Nancy on the couch. Nancy smiled at Alisha.

Harris, still punching the code into the computer, started to explain that he was reprogramming Nancy for a new and greatly expanded range in her personality. He was interrupted when he heard Alisha make a soft scream.

Harris looked up and Nancy had one hand on Alisha’s leg and the other was softly brushing Alisha’s hair.

“Your hair is so soft,” purred Nancy.

“What is she doing?” asked a nervous Alisha.

“Sorry about that. I haven’t removed the aggressive tendency yet. She’s starting to make a move on you.”

Harris paused Nancy. Her hands returned to the neutral position and she looked forward while she began to hum.

“That’s really creepy.”

“Yeah, we are trying to take the creepy out of her.”

Alisha retreated to the outer office.

#

Barnett

It was a pleasure to learn so much more about you. I am very impressed by the way you established the circular argument of modern feminism and yet was able to define a model of a fully realized woman.

Natasha

                Thank you

Barnett

Couple of quick questions.

1.            Did you, as Mrs. Philbert indicated after dinner, present your defense while completely naked?

2.            Did you defend it without speaking?

3.            Did you really receive an award for excellence?

Several minutes passed. No need for cat and mouse. Better to find out if she is really interested in me.

Natasha

                Yes, yes, yes.

Barnett

                Kudos to you. Well played. Can we meet to discuss further?

Natasha

                No

Barnett

                Would you like to read my Master’s thesis?

Natasha

                No

Barnett

                Can I stand outside your house and play Peter Gabriel songs?

Natasha

                No

Time for a new tactic.

Barnett

                Is there anything I can do for you?

Natasha

                Truth

Barnett

                No

Natasha

                Why not?

Barnett

                When I tell the truth, no one believes me.

Natasha

                Why?

Barnett

                The truth will set you free, not the rest of the world.

Natasha

                Hmmmm….

Barnett

                It is true that coffee tastes good.

Natasha

                Cute

Barnett

                I am free Monday after 7

Long pause. Did I score a point or not? More delay. Perhaps she got a phone call, or a customer came in. Or, I am a total i***t to expect any more answers.

Natasha

                Maybe

#

Dr. Gill at the University of Iowa was working late into the night. From the dead cornstalk, he had extracted several samples. Under the electron microscope, he found a virus he had never seen before in a plant or an animal. Worse still, it seemed to go through a life cycle. In some samples, the viruses looked the same. In another sample, the viruses were made up of five distinct shapes.

This was not a normal virus behavior. It appeared that the virus would change its surface characteristics to change how it infected the plant. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an infected plant before death. With several such example plants, he might be able to piece together how the virus changed during the infection phase.

It bothered him. He was tempted to think that this was an alien virus from outer space. His academic mind was aware that whatever it was it could represent years of research grants. At the same time, his body was begging for food.

The only choice was to get away from the microscope, get something to eat, and pick up the problem in the morning. On his way home, he stopped at a Waffle House. While he was pouring syrup over his chicken and waffles his mind was suddenly snapped back to the virus.

“Holy crap!” he said out loud. The waitress looked in his direction. “The thing is man-made.”

He pulled out his cell phone and e-mailed his Dean at the University.

Skipping formality and explanation, he blurted out, “The virus in the corn may be man-made. Who can we get to confirm?”

#

Monday night I was at the proper coffee shop at the appointed time. Natasha was five minutes late.

She wore an outfit that I assumed was for the office. A professional length black skirt, heels, and a suit jacket. Just a suit jacket. No blouse, no bra, and as far as I could see, nothing else. The jacket was held together by one button. Her hair was up and tightly wrapped. The overall effect was striking.

Apparently, she was a regular at this coffee shop. Instead of ordering at the counter like everyone else, a barista came running as soon as she sat down.

“The usual?” the Barista asked.

Natasha shook her head and gestured towards me. Ah, a test to see how I handle the situation. I went for the safe choice of Cappuccinos. Natasha didn’t look impressed, so I added, “…and make it an atomic brew.”

Natasha took a mild interest in this, a coffee drink off the menu. Not terribly exotic, but offbeat enough to be unique.

Once the Barista skittered away Natasha looked at me as if anticipating my next remark.

I told her the first sentence in your dissertation was interesting. “Feminism is built on the myth of an ideal woman, whose characteristics are based on fantasy and never clearly defined in the literature, let alone possessing a model of implementation.” In other words, if an ideal woman was ever created, she would invalidate the basic principles of modern feminism.

“So, you decided to become the ideal woman to demonstrate the circularity of their arguments?” I observed.

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows to indicate “meh.”

I drank a cappuccino to salute finding the answer to one of Natasha’s mysteries. She had proposed that a woman does not need to be empowered by anyone. In fact, a woman does not even need to justify her existence. A woman is so naturally powerful that spoken language is not needed for complete communications.

And that’s why she never talked. A glance, a wave, a movement of her body communicated everything. An intriguing idea. It seemed to work just fine for her. It forced me to pay close attention and that, in turn, made her a very effective communicator.

Now a good hour into our…well, whatever this was, and it was clear that Natasha wanted me to be fully aware of her lifestyle. I congratulated her on an excellent piece of academic work, but she was texting on her phone. I thought this was a bit rude until my phone started vibrating. The text was to me.

“Enough about me. Tell me about the woman that hurt you so bad recently.”

Mildly shocked I looked up and asked, “Who told you about that?”

A negative shake of the head.

“No one told you. You can read it in my face?”

That got a thumbs up from Natasha. So, I spilled my guts about my fiancé. Beautiful local girl, a year of dating then the engagement. Everything on course for a taste of happiness in my life. Then an older, wealthy man is touring her company, spots her, asks her if she wants a lifetime of comfort, and bang she is gone.

Not only a heartbreaker, but the dream of accomplishment destroyed. Nothing makes a man happier than capturing a woman as a trophy to be waved in the face of everyone he meets. Without the trophy, my life was more than meaningless. I fell into a deep depression for weeks. I didn’t sleep or eat.

Then, one day, something happened that changed everything. Natasha seemed interested in what happened that brought me back to the world of the living. I could tell her, but she would think I was insane. Therefore, I evaded. “Long story,” I said. “Perhaps another time. It involves a lot of travel to mystical places, sitting in the desert night with a Navajo shaman, that kind of stuff….”

Raised eyebrows from Natasha. I talked a bit about how life was better now. She, in turn, stood up, leaned over and placed a hand on my cheek. She smiled and paused, keeping the hand on my face. A wave of warm reassurance raced through my body. Then she turned around and left.

For a moment, I was stunned that she was gone. But I gradually noticed everyone in the coffee shop staring at me. I looked around the room and said in a raised voice, “What was that? Can anyone tell me what just happened? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

The women in the coffee shop smiled, shook their collective heads, and went back to their drinks.