Warriors in Paradise (28 page)

I asked, “Jonathan, what do you have in terms of disguises?”

“I don’t have anything, but there is a theatrical supply store in Tysons Corner. I think we should first go there and buy what we need.”

“Well, I don’t think all of us should go. I will go and pick up a disguise for each of you,” Miranda said. She stood up, grabbed her purse and car keys, and started walking out.

Charlie said, “Wait, Mom. Let me give you some cash. You shouldn’t pay with your credit cards.”

Santi went down into the basement, got ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his backpack, and gave them to Miranda. She took them without a word and walked out of the house.

It was 12:00 noon.

She was back by 12:40 p.m. Jonathan and Santi had set up different kinds of breads, cold meats, cheeses, lettuce, sliced tomatoes, jalapeños, pickles, mayonnaise, ketchup, and potato chips on the breakfast table.

We all sat around the table and made ourselves sandwiches. Charlie and Santi made themselves these huge Dagwood sandwiches. I am a good eater, but nothing compared to those two. Miranda was still making herself an open-face sandwich when Charlie and Santi started making seconds. I have to confess that I had also finished mine, which was smaller than their sandwiches—but being truthful, perhaps not by much. I also made myself a second sandwich.

I am loyal like that.

After we finished our lunch by eating jalapeños dipped in mayonnaise, Miranda said, “Jonathan, come with me. You will be my first guinea pig.”

Fifteen minutes later, an old man with heavy glasses and an elegant Van Dyke mustache and goatee came down the stairs and asked Charlie to go up to his mother’s bathroom.

We were surprised; we could not see Jonathan in this old man’s face.

Miranda was good!

By three o’clock, we all looked different. My eyebrows were thick, my mustache was lush, and my hair was bright yellow. I looked like a handsome and much younger version of Dennis Rodman.

Charlie had a redneck cap, a ponytail, a flat nose, and a hillbilly beard. That was an improvement!

Santi looked like a Latin playboy, with a pencil mustache, shadowed and black-outlined eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and a huge Cyrano de Bergerac nose.

Miranda had a white Queen Elizabeth wig, elegant mother-of-pearl glasses, small diamond earrings, a string of pearls around her neck, and an elegant tea dress. She looked very British and upper class.

Nobody could recognize us. Miranda had done a very thorough and professional job.

We needed illusion to disguise our true intentions.

The field before the battle

Charlie, Santi, and I drove the Jeep to a series of high rises along Route 7. We parked and walked around the apartment buildings to the parking areas. We looked for cars that appeared to have been parked for a long time. There are always telltale signs, such as dust and dirt on and under the car. We selected four cars apart from one another. We switched the license plates around and took two sets with us. Back at the house, we exchanged the plates of the Cherokee and the Camry.

We were ready to survey the battlefield.

Miranda and Jonathan drove to the Mount Vernon Hotel in the Cherokee. The three of us followed behind in the Camry.

We arrived at the hotel thirty-five minutes later. Miranda and Jonathan parked near the entrance and walked into the lobby at a leisurely pace. We drove around.

The hotel sat majestically overlooking the Potomac River. It had a comfortable colonial statehouse atmosphere in the middle of an eighteen-hole golf course. The property extended for about six acres. A four-foot stone wall surrounded the property. It had six guarded entrances with hanging chains. We saw a nice two-story mansion in the same architectural style behind the hotel, Rupert Pattinson’s home. Most of the security was concentrated on the hotel front and sides. We didn’t see any motion detectors behind the exclusive resort.

We did not want to be noticed, so we decided to pass only once. While Charlie drove, Santi and I studied the layout and took photographs. After twenty minutes, we drove back to Jonathan’s; ten minutes later, Miranda and Jonathan walked in. We sat around the breakfast table to compare notes and decide on the next phase of our action plan.

The plan

“There is always a key piece to every puzzle,” I said, surprising them again, given that I was the one who normally talked the least. “We need to break into Rupert’s home and kidnap Terry, his son. The best time would be after sunset, about seven p.m. However, we need to be there half an hour before, because we will have to make our approach on foot. I suggest Jonathan and I make the approach, break into the house, grab Terry, and bring him back to the waiting vehicle driven by Charlie and Santi.”

Charlie said, “It is a fine plan, except you do not need two people waiting in the car. You need a third one going with you in case there are any difficulties with the hotel guards.”

“The likelihood of a confrontation with the men guarding the grounds is fifty-fifty. Thus, the four of us should go,” said Santi.

“So, what? We leave the car unattended?” asked Charlie.

“No. Miranda will be waiting for us,” answered Jonathan.

“No, my mother is not going to be involved in this,” countered Charlie.

“I’m already involved, son. And this is not your decision, it’s mine. Santi is right; the four of you should go in together. The plan needs to include me. So I will drive you in and out.”

I thought that Miranda was not so much a good soldier, but more like a worthy general.

These mothers of ours—God broke the mold when he made them!

We now had a plan, but reality often conspires against the best-laid out plans.

It was 4:30 p.m.

The meeting broke up. Santi went to the basement to call his mother and check up on Valentina. I went out into the backyard and called my mother in
Hartford.

By 5:45 p.m., we were dressed in our camouflage-black clothes and hoodies. Miranda didn’t need a hoodie. Her wig and glasses were all the disguise she needed.

Plan busted by reality

Miranda dropped us on a back road about three quarters of a mile behind the hotel’s property line.

She said, “Rather than parking here, I’ll drive by every fifteen minutes in order to be less noticeable.”

We nodded. There were no other cars or people on the road. The four of us got out.

Jonathan and I started first. Charlie and Santi walked toward the right and waited until we were forty yards ahead. We would not be arriving together. They would cover our rear to deal with any problems.

We were walking quietly at a good pace. I could not hear Charlie and Santi, but I knew they were nearby.

We arrived at the edge of the hotel property at 6:50 p.m. I could see the battle being fought between the last rays of sun and the approaching army of the night. There was a golden, steamy reflection ahead of us coming up from the lazy Potomac.

It was a stunning September sunset.

It was so beautiful that it hurt.

We couldn’t see any guards stationed at the back of the hotel. The approach to Pattinson’s house was going to be tricky. The approach was through an open garden of lush bluegrass with a few large trees scattered around. We would have to go in zigzagging from tree to tree until we reached the back of the house.

We waited under the shadow of the stone wall and watched.

A guard appeared and then walked around the house from left to right. Five minutes later, another one appeared and strode around in the opposite direction. We waited for twenty minutes, and the same pattern was repeated.

We waited until the point when darkness took the upper hand, that specific moment when you can no longer trust your eyes.

I started first. As soon as one of the guards turned the corner, I jumped over the stone wall and ran noiselessly and rapidly to the closest tree. As soon as I felt Jonathan close by, I moved again to the next tree. We did this for four minutes, and then we waited behind the tree closest to the house.

I whispered to Jonathan that I was going to go in through a second-story window. I had my magnetic gun and everything else I needed. We looked around. I couldn’t see or hear Charlie and Santi, but I knew they were there.

As soon as the second guard turned the corner, I ran toward the house, put my foot in a crevice, and pushed myself up to the ledge of the second story. I pulled myself up, and, crouching, I moved toward a window.

There was a feeling of coldness and hollowness of Pattinson’s house. It felt empty; there were no brightly lit rooms.

I checked the window and didn’t see any security sensors. It wasn’t even locked. I guess Pattinson felt secure with all the guards patrolling the property. He was wrong.

I slid the window up and went into a large, elegant bedroom, which I assumed was the master bedroom. I did not sense any movement or hear any sound, which strengthened my earlier impression that nobody was home. I moved into the hall and saw seven doors. I checked each one and found four additional bedrooms, a half bathroom, a linen closet, and a storage room. Two of the bedrooms belonged to Pattinson’s children.

I went in the boy’s room. The room’s decorations and wall posters confirmed Jonathan’s information that the boy, Terrence “Terry” Pattinson, was gay. A tiny refrigerator on a stylish black table sat next to his bookshelves. His laptop was on. I sat on his desk chair and checked his e-mails and calendar. Terry was on his way to one of the most famous gay bars in DC, the Blue Unicorn in Adams Morgan. I turned off the laptop, closed it, and packed it in its carrying case.

I went back to the master bedroom’s window. I waited until Jonathan gave me the go-ahead sign. I slid out of the window and closed it. I climbed down and landed softly on the grass. I ran behind the tree and waited with Jonathan until one of the guards appeared and turned the corner. We ran back the same way we had come without seeing Charlie and Santi.

It took us twelve minutes walking at a fast pace to reach the location where Miranda would be waiting for us. She arrived three minutes later. As we opened the doors, Charlie and Santi materialized out of the gloom and got in with us.

Jonathan said, “You guys are good.”

“We aim to please,” said Charlie.

It was 7:45 p.m.

I told them what I had found out, proposing to pick Terry up at The Blue Unicorn. I could sense that Jonathan was not very happy, but he kept his peace. We didn’t have any other alternative.

I remembered what John Lennon said about plans: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Miranda took George Washington Parkway, crossed over into Washington, DC, on the Fourteenth Street Bridge, and then went north on Seventeenth Street up to Connecticut Avenue. Five minutes later, we were in a parking lot in Adams Morgan, three blocks away from the Blue Unicorn.

I turned on the computer and showed everybody a picture of Terrence “Terry” Pattinson. He had small blue eyes on a round baby face with full lips.

We got out of the car, and I said, “No offense, Charlie, but you wouldn’t pass as a gay man even if your life depended on it.”

“No offense taken,” said Charlie. “But I do feel a little bit bad that you’re both going there alone—”

Santi interrupted. “We are not alone. There are two of us, more than enough, although I don’t really know how I feel about that! Do I really look gayer than Charlie?”

We all chuckled.

Good. We had not lost our sense of humor.

I continued. “We will go in and check the layout. You guys wait outside for us. We will text you if we need anything.”

We took our gloves and hoodies off. Miranda worked on me, removing my lush mustache. She then removed Santi’s large nose. He almost looked normal.

I guess we both did look a little gay: Santi like a mean Latin lover with his pencil mustache and his dark shadowed eyes, and I looking like a lighted match with my blond curly hair and thick eyebrows. We were both dressed to kill, in our black jeans and tight, black, long-sleeve T-shirts.

Santi and I left the garage.

Santi said, “This section of DC looks interesting.”

“Yes,” I said. “This is Adams Morgan, a DC neighborhood that turns into a French Quarter during the weekend, when all the diverse groups that make up DC society, along with out-of-town visitors, blend together. You hear American folk; Latin beats; Caribbean reggae; East, North, and West African rhythms. You eat McDonald’s hamburgers, chicken shawarma, enchiladas, lamb souvlaki, and vindaloo. You drink Budweiser, bourbon, sake, tequila, mojitos, and banana daiquiris.

“After three a.m., the police will be asking people to go back to their homes. The walking drunks will be stumbling across the bridge to the metro. The driving drunks will be walking around aimlessly looking for their cars, which took them an hour and a half to find a parking spot for, and now they cannot remember where. There will be girls crying on their cell phones with one heel broken and guys reminiscing their evening’s shouting matches.