The Conspiracy
Thunder rolled and echoed through the culvert and rain pelted harder outside
the opening. Cinnamon Carter quickly wrapped a foldable rain bonnet she’d
kept in her purse around the tiny radio transceiver. It was her only link
to help and she was desperate to keep it dry. She couldn’t hear the
footsteps for the rain and thunder, but spotted the boots outside the drainage
pipe. She held her breath and plastered herself against the wall of the
culvert. Her expensive high heels were already soaked and ruined; her
silk dress was also covered with grime and algae and would never be clean
again. That was the least of her worries. If the man outside
the culvert spotted her she wouldn’t live long enough to throw out the dress.
She could see his knees flexing to bend down when another flash of
lightening occurred followed immediately by the din of thunder. She could
smell the ozone in the air and feel the static electricity on her skin.
The strike had been close and the man outside the culvert must have decided a
dry car was a better place during a thunderstorm than a wet ditch. Cinnamon
wished she had that option. Time was running out and she hoped the storm
would clear enough for her to contact the others.
The mission had gone well. The trap had been set for their
target. Everything had fallen into place with ease. The only thing
left was for her to distract a minor official of this Eastern European country
for an hour or so while Barney made a certain broadcast on the State’s
television station. The others were scheduled to leave the country during
that hour. Her own airline tickets were on the floor of the limousine she
had just exited abruptly when an hour of distraction and innocent flirtation
became a nightmare. The previously charming public figure began spewing
his hatred of Western women and their decadent ways. When he pulled out a
knife she did what was necessary to get out of the car, grateful that his
hatred of the western world extended to cars. She would have had little
chance of escaping a Rolls or Cadillac Limo if the owner didn’t want her to go,
but this Soviet model was designed to keep people out, not in.
She had found herself providing a different sort of diversion on a deserted
road on the opposite side of the city from the airport, with an early winter
storm adding rain and thunder. She clutched her transmitter and made an
attempt to send a signal. If Barney had left, she was in real trouble, in
an Eastern European country without passport, papers, or funds.
“Barney?” she spoke into the small transmitter hopefully. “Barney, it’s Cinnamon. I’m in
trouble.” She waited for a response then tried again.
“Barney? Barney, do you copy?”
There was a good deal of interference. A crackle of static echoed a
flash of lightening then she received a response.
Amid hisses and static she heard “—Cinnamon--
are you?”
“Barney, I’m in a drain culvert under the north road about six miles from
the hotel. I’m okay right now, but don’t know when it will be safe to
leave or how to get back.”
“—There – get you soon.” The static was so bad she could hardly make
it out.
She transmitted again. “I can hardly hear you, but I hope you’re
telling me you’re coming for me.” A close hit illuminated the culvert and
she saw the booted feet of the limo driver pass by again. She quickly
shut down the transmitter and slid further into the culvert. Any further
and she’d be nearer the other side. She curled up, trying not to shiver,
and waited.
When Rollin Hand had reached the airport he had found that one of his travel
cases had been left behind. He knew without a doubt that it was still in
the hotel room that Barney would be using for the rest of the day. Since
Rollin’s cover had combined his profession of acting, a travel case full of
makeup would not be questioned by the customs agents. Barney would not be
so fortunate. Rollin had changed his airline tickets for a later flight,
wandered casually past Jim Phelps to inform him of the delay and returned to
the hotel. He had just picked the lock on the hotel door and entered when
the transmitter had blinked for attention. Barney had not been in the
room and Rollin had answered Cinnamon’s distress call.
His heart beat faster and he felt the thrill of the adrenalin rush that
attracted him to this dangerous profession. But this time there was
something more. Cinnamon was more to him than a teammate in
trouble. He had never told her, but his attraction to her was more than
that of a friend. Beneath the flirting and playful banter they frequently
exchanged he had grown to love the intelligent, resourceful woman, and was not about
to let her come to harm. He opened his travel case and drew out a few
selected vials. He checked the closet and selected a pair of workmen’s
coveralls, then closed the case and locked the door. In the hotel lobby
he handed the case to the clerk at the desk, giving instructions for the case
to be sent to the airport and checked on his flight. Then he took a piece
of paper and left a note for Barney. The note was a string of numbers—a
prearranged code that an agent was in trouble and he was going to help.
That accomplished he walked out into the thunderstorm.
There was no traffic on the road. In the western world, a hotel of
this caliber would have a doorman eager to flag down a cab. No so here. At the corner a
motorbike was parked. The policeman it belonged to was taking refuge from
the storm in a nearby café. Rollin walked briskly to the bike, mounted,
kicked it into action and was away at top speed before the policeman had time
to turn from the counter and look out the window.
He rounded a block, heading south first to throw off the bike’s owner, then
circled back and headed out of town on the north road, checking his odometer as
he went. If Cinnamon was in trouble she might not have gotten a good
sense of her location, but he trusted her to be as accurate as possible.
At 5.8 miles he noticed a small creek that meandered down the hill and
underneath the road. The rain had increased the amount the amount of
water running through the culvert. He stopped the bike without turning it
off and walked down into the ditch.
Rain was still falling, and the water was rushing through the ditch.
He bent down and peered into the culvert. “Cinnamon,” he called as loud
as he dared. “It’s Rollin. Come on out.”
He detected movement and a soaked and muddy Cinnamon crawled out. “Rollin! I thought you were
gone. You should have been on a plane when I called.”
“My good luck,” he said with a smile. He took her hand and led her
back to the road. “I decided to take a later flight. Gives me time to rescue a damsel in distress.
Care to join me on a flight back to the States?”
“I’d love to,” she replied, staying close to be heard over the rain.
“But there’s a problem. I’ve mislaid my passport and airline ticket.”
He looked at her sharply, and she nodded. “It’s on the floor of the
limo I vacated rather abruptly. It’s a long story.”
He pulled the coveralls from under his jacket and handed them to her.
“Put this on. We’ll go to plan B.”
“Which is--?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve thought it up,” he replied with a smile.
She drew the coveralls on over her wet clothing. The rain was
beginning to slack off, but she would be wet again from the ride. She
thought they would head toward the city, but once she settled behind him on the
back of the motorbike he gunned it and headed north. Wet and cold,
Cinnamon huddled behind Rollin, her head against his back and arms around his
waist. The road wound through the mountains, vaguely in the direction of
the Austrian border. The sun was setting when the motor began to
sputter. They had driven through only a few small villages, but Rollin
hadn’t slowed down for any of them.
He turned off the cycle and they coasted down a hill off the main road and
into a small farmyard. The house wasn’t much more than a shack and the
barn was only slightly more sturdy
looking, but the yard was swept clean and two hay stacks stood like sentinels
on either side of the barn. Rollin guided the cycle behind one of the
stacks and helped Cinnamon off the bike. She was stiff from the cold and
the long ride.
“Would you believe we’re out of gas?” Rollin said lightly.
She held onto his arms for a few moments to get her balance. She
smiled, “That’s a very old line. Can’t you do better than that?”
“It’s also true.”
“That’s too bad. Now what?”
She was beginning to shiver and the occasional snowflake was beginning to fall
in place of rain.
Rollin pushed some of the hay aside and made a hole in the hay stack.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ve got to hide the bike.”
She curled up in the hole he’d made and he replaced the hay. Out of
the wind was warmer, but not by much. She could barely hear Rollin walk
away with the bike. The hay muffled all sounds and the farmyard was quiet
to begin with as darkness fell. When she did hear voices they were not
speaking English—or French, Spanish, German or Russian, the languages she was
conversant in. By the tone, there were two people, speaking quietly with
caution, but not animosity. The voices stopped beside the haystack and
Cinnamon held very still, trying not to shiver.
There was a long pause, then a rustling in the hay. Cinnamon prepared
herself to use every form of unarmed defense she knew, which was
considerable. She nearly struck out when she heard Rollin’s low whisper
in German, “Cinnamon, ich
bin mir.” He crawled
into the cramped hollow beside her, holding a blanket and a bundle of faded
cloth. She relaxed and following his cue whispered in German, “What have
you brought?”
“A change of clothes for you, not as glamorous,
but not conspicuous, and definitely drier.”
Without hesitating Cinnamon began peeling out of her wet clothes. She
accepted Rollin’s help in the cramped quarters and pulled on a shapeless top
and skirt, both well-worn but clean smelling. Rollin’s clothing had also changed, she could tell by both
touch and scent in the cramped dark quarters. He pulled the blanket
around them both and curled around her to provide extra warmth. He rubbed
her bare feet and tucked them against his calf. Lying womb-like among the
hay she relaxed against him, soaking up his warmth. Her shivering finally
stopped.
With his lips against her ear he quietly whispered in German, “I’ve given
the farmer an edited version of your story. We’re a German couple on
holiday. You attracted the unwanted attention of a minor government
official who was unhappy at being spurned. I managed to get you away from
him, but we fled on a stolen police cycle without our passports or money.
He’s going to help us get to
“How do you know the language?”
He chuckled softly, “My grandmother was born about fifteen miles from
here. You picked a good spot to find trouble. The farmer turns out
to be distantly related to her family by marriage.”
She started to ask another question, but he placed finger on her lips.
“We’re not out of danger yet. Stay quiet and try to get some sleep.
We’ll be up early.”
She nodded and laid her head against his shoulder. He held her close
had stroked her hair. Their shared warmth finally lulled her into an exhausted
sleep.
Voices woke her. Again, she could not understand them, but they did
not sound friendly this time. Rollin’s arms around her kept her from
moving. They held as still as possible. The voices came nearer, then moved off. The tapping
of wood against wood told of a thorough search of the barn. The house
must have been searched before she woke. Then they heard the sound of an
engine turning over, something large, like a truck. The noise of the
motor retreated, gears grinding as it pulled itself up the hill out of the
hollow the farm occupied and onto the road.
Rollin let out a sigh and relaxed. Cinnamon shifted slightly and put
her arms around him. He returned her embrace whispering quietly in her
ear. “They were looking for a woman, travelling alone, on foot. We’ll make it out
of this yet.”
Cinnamon lightly touched her lips to his with a smile of relief.
Rollin pressed his lips more firmly against hers, and felt her body respond to
him. Her lips parted slightly, and her tongue touched his lips
hesitantly. It was all the encouragement he needed. The kiss
deepened, threatening to consume them both. She shifted to a more
comfortable position, and his hands moved down her body, finding their way back
up underneath her skirt. Her own hands eagerly explored him and he knew
she was every bit as eager to bring their explorations to their logical
conclusion. Then she hesitated. He stopped immediately and asked,
“What is it?”
Her breathing was rapid. She was sitting astride him, their chests pressed together, their hands
underneath each other’s clothing. She moved her lips against his
ear. It was almost a caress as she spoke. “I want this, Rollin,
very much.” She hesitated. “But I don’t want my first time to be in
a hay stack.”
He felt her long lashes against his cheek,
and her breath hot against his earlobe.
He digested her words. Her first
time, not ours, but hers. She was so worldly. He had
seen her flirt with scientists and seduce
political leaders. She had played his loving wife on several occasions
and had played Jim Phelps’ wife as well. In fact, it had occurred to him
at some of those times that her relationship with Jim might be more close than
professional. “You’re—“
“A virgin,” she whispered reluctantly, and a bit apologetically.
His hear beat faster. “You’re right. It should be somewhere
beautiful, wonderful, as you are.” He pulled his hands away from thigh
and breast.
“I—I want to—“
“I know, but you’re right. We’ll just postpone this, until a more
appropriate time.” He shifted his position to remove her from his lap.
She was trembling, and he was not much better off, but he managed to soothe
her back to sleep. The sound of a creaking cart brought them both awake,
although Rollin would have sworn that he couldn’t possibly sleep. The hay
stirred as the farmer hissed for them to come out.
It was not yet dawn. The ox cart was a pathetic two-wheeled
contraption that looked as if it would barely hold the load of beets.
With a steady whispered stream of the odd and musical language the farmer
motioned to the front of the cart. As Cinnamon climbed on board she
realized that there was a false bottom and a dark little coffin-like space
beneath the seat. Her heart pounded. She looked back at Rollin.
Even in the dark he could feel her fear. He stepped up behind
her. Still speaking in German, he rubbed her shoulders. “He usually
smuggles in a little bit of contraband. The border guard is a cousin and
takes a cut. He won’t think about any outgoing smuggling. It’s the
only way.”
Cinnamon swallowed hard and allowed Rollin to help her into the cart.
Rollin crawled under the seat first then held her tight as she joined
him. She was sweating despite the cold and he murmured encouragingly to
her, his lips against her ear. The farmer sealed them into this small
space and Rollin pointed out the cracks between the boards in the floor.
He promised she would be able to see light as the sun came up. The oxen
began to move, jerking the cart forward. She suppressed a scream and spent
her time concentrating on not screaming. Rollin was doing everything he
could to keep them both alive, and she knew Rollin understood how difficult
this was for her. She was determined not to let him down. The trip
was long, stuffy and bumpy; uncomfortable in the best of circumstances.
Her claustrophobia made it interminable. Her breath came in gulps that
sounded too loud.
The stop at the border was brief and perfunctory. The farmer shouted a
short phrase, there was a reply muffled by the surrounding cart. Cinnamon
could almost see lights in the cracks in the floorboard. The sun was
coming up. They began to move again,
and soon found another discomfort: going downhill. They continued slowly,
steadily in the brightening day. Finally, the cart halted again.
The farmer removed the front wall and Cinnamon rolled out into the
sweet-smelling air of
She got her first looked at their benefactor. He was short and bald, a
smiling elderly man with chipped teeth. He nodded to her politely and
turned to Rollin to make a comment in short clipped sentences. Rollin put
his arm around Cinnamon’s waist and responded in kind. The old man
reached into the cart and handed Cinnamon a well-worn pair of wooden
clogs. She took them gratefully and slipped her feet into them.
Rollin steered her away from the cart as the old man climbed aboard and
continued on his way.
They stood by the side of the road while the cart disappeared around the corner.
Rollin explained, “He’s a regular in the market ahead and word might get back
that he was with us, if we ride in with him.”
Cinnamon nodded. The mountain air was cool, but preferable to the box
she had been in. It was a relief to see it leave.
“We’re about two kilometers away from the village. Do you think you
can make it?”
She looked at the odd wooden shoes which were pinching her toes already and
surveyed the gravel roadway ahead of them. It would not be pleasant, but
she could handle it. In answer, she took his hand and started walking.
End part 1