Oliver Benjamin
They aren’t so friendly though—we had this Christmas get together
with them last year and they were rather snobby, but you know how
those French can be when…”
“This was no jewelry heist!” I interrupted. “It was just one
crummy ring! Can’t you get me some information on this woman? I’d
like to track her down and get my ring back!”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but that would be against policy. We can’t
divulge information on our passengers, but if you want to get in
touch with her and she calls and says she wants to get in touch with
you, we can arrange to exchange your addresses and phone numbers,
otherwise you’d have to go through your local police department
first.”
“In Los Angeles? But that’s on the other side of the world! How
am I going to fill out all the paperwork?”
“I’m so sorry, Sir, but for me to do anything she would have to
be acting suspiciously, in a paramilitary sense. I’m so sorry sir.
Goodb…”
“Wait, let me think. There was something. I don’t know…” I
hesitated. “She kept talking about the UDL, and how she belonged to
some group that was going to blow them up along with the tax
company, uh, the IRA I think it was, and, then she said that some
former KGB and CIA units were in on it too, and that it was all
financed by the JDL or something. I don’t know what it all meant,
though.”
There was a pause. “Oh, my,” said the voice on the phone, “that
sounds serious. Let me take your phone number and address down,
sir, in case we have to question you about this further. But don’t
worry, this will all be purely confidential, I promise you.”
I gave her my address at home, as I was planning on checking
up with my parents periodically. I would be home in a few weeks
anyway. Still, I knew that my chances were very slim. They would
turn up nothing on the old bitch, and she certainly wouldn’t want
them to release her information to the guy she stole a nice ring from.
The only way I could think of to track her down would be through her
numerous relatives, but I didn’t remember anything about them, and
seeing how Lyndon Johnson was dead, my search looked pretty
hopeless.
So I shuffled over to the railing and peered out over Dublin,
wondering what I was going to do, how I was going to find Charly. I
had paged her on the airport intercom, searched high and low and
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