INTERMISSION “Good Morning, Bob Rowland, Sino-American Investments; how can I help you?” “It's your father, Robert. I thought that I'd give you a call, see how things are going. How's the Korean coming along?” “Hey, Dad, it's good to hear from you. Oh, and it's Japanese, not Korean.” “My mistake. I do get them mixed up.” “Now that we've got that cleared up, what's on today's agenda?” “Two things. First, we have hard evidence that Songbird is in direct contact with Soviet intelligence, which is actively searching for the hatchlings. It is possible that they have positioned an asset near Songbird, but the finding lacks confidence. Eyes open, but do not jeopardize your cover.” “Understood. We are approaching end of term; in three weeks, I will lose contact with Songbird until mid-January.” “We are committing additional resources to your sector, which leads to the second item. It is now confirmed that Songbird and Scarecrow are intimate. We expect our brethren to activate the beta protocol within the next twenty-four hours. Do try not to stumble over their feet.” “I'll do my best,” Rowland smiled. While the CIA had to work around its charter to engage in domestic operations, his own outfit suffered under no such constraints. Hidden in the budgetary shadows where funding took the preposterous form of six hundred dollar hammers and ten thousand dollar toilet seats, STD was merely the latest incarnation of an elite unit with a worldwide brief. In one form or another, it had been around for years, plugging the glaring hole that had emerged in the postwar intelligence superstructure. And, for a time, Songbird had been at once its most colorful and valuable asset-- the glue that held a multilingual unit together. The unit was dismantled when it became clear that Songbird would never return to the field, and the whole department got flushed less than two years later. But like a Phoenix risen from the ashes … “The description was generic,” Rowland went on to say, “but last night Songbird showed up on the local news … decorated, now crippled war hero. Sir, if the local press finds out about his daughter, odds are the story will go national; romance and tragedy make the news go round.” “Give me a heads up if it happens … highest priority. I don't want to reinforce the security detail … the island is a black hole in our budget … but ...” “I understand, Sir, but the girl is worth her weight in gold … her weight, and then some.” Rowland, code name Mister Pink, had spent a year on the island in a supervisory capacity. Remote, wind and storm swept, the abandoned Air Force radar installation had been home to the project for the past five years. No one could approach it by sea or by air, and as best they knew, no one had ever tried. “True. Now, moving on … give me an update on Eagle, Bluebird, and Raven. We're getting nothing useful on the tapes.” “Nothing to report on this end, either. Scarecrow is cozying up to Spitfire, but whether or not she is jockeying for leverage over Bluebird is unclear. There is a lot of recent activity at the Eagle's nest … furniture deliveries, for the most part. Purpose still indeterminate.” “Songbird has a meeting in the works with the Soviets in Athens, date yet to be decided. The Agency wants hard intel on Teheran, but it's the Russians who are pressing, and no one has a clue. It smells like horse trading, but the brethren are keeping their cards close to the chest.” “Makes sense. I'll talk to the Professor after class … find out whether he'll be holding office hours over the term break, that sort of thing. Maybe I can get a sense of his timetable.” “The brethren are getting nervous. He's rejected a mission to Poland, and he's ignoring overtures for another round of camel races in the Libyan wastes. Songbird knows everybody, and our colleagues have no backups to plug the holes when he calls it quits.” “Funny about that. But falling in love does tend to have an effect on one's priorities.” “Yeah. Keep on top of the goings on at Eagle's nest. If Songbird is moving in, security will soon be cluttering up the premises. Observe and evaluate, but again, do not risk your cover. He poses no immediate threat, and the Deputy Director can't sneeze without me holding a hankie to his nose. We've got it covered on this end; your job is to make sure that we have no nasty surprises out there.” Rowland stayed on the line until he heard the click, then he quietly hung up. If Langley was going to beef up its presence and his own department was sending reinforcements, the chances were good that someone would slip up and give the game away. The Professor was nobody's fool, and he was far too experienced an operative to be rendered deaf, dumb and blind as a consequence of falling in love. And God help the agent who makes the mistake of underestimating Songbird because of the diapers. Said agent will be returning home in a body bag. Bob actually liked Songbird, who was a first-class teacher. But there was no room for sentimentality in his business, and the man was a threat of the highest order. It was very much to be hoped, therefore, that a fatal accident was at least in the planning stages. One of STD's predecessors had staged a drunk driving incident to eliminate Songbird's parents, and it seemed like a scenario that could be used to sanction him as well. After all, Songbird did like to drink ... To excess.

"We'll see them again really soon, Buddy" Daddy says   "Come on, let's go inside and have lunch"     Daddy puts him in his high chair, and puts a bib around his neck.  Mommy and Daddy are having chicken sandwiches, and Daddy gets a bottle 3 jars of baby food for Benny: peaches, bananas and chicken.  He puts some baby food on the spoon, and starts feeding Benny his baby food while he eats his sandwich.  They are eating some of the same foods, but they decide to strain Benny's to make it easier for him.

INTERMISSION “It is not often that I speak with an American cousin. It is a pleasure to hear your voice. How are you, Vincent?” “Bene, Don Antonio … molto bene.” Spats had adjourned from the courthouse directly to his lawyer's office. The gangster took it for granted that the FBI was recording all of the calls from his home and office, but bugging his mouthpiece and then trying to introduce the evidence in a trial raised all sorts of thorny constitutional issues. Further complicating matters, the esteemed Jerome Goldstein, Attorney at Law, wasn't even on the premises. Whenever Spats showed up to make a call, Jerome conveniently remembered that he had an appointment down on the ground floor. Both his hair and his toenails were impeccable. “Confido che tu staia bene.” “Life is good, Vincent; life is good. Now, let us speak English. Your accent continues to offend me. How can I be of service?” “Don Antonio, I have had a most interesting morning. I was in court, and there made the acquaintance of a young man who claims to have done business with you. His name is Ian Grady … a Professor at one of our universities.” “Vincent, Ian is much more than a university professor. He is a very powerful man, with even more powerful friends. We have done favors for one another on more than one occasion. He is dear to my heart.” “This is good to hear, Don Antonio, for Professor Grady and I have come to an unusual arrangement. I am an honest businessman, but there are always questions. He assures me that in future I shall not be disturbed by the tax office, and he has promised me a safe journey to la mia terra natale … many such journeys. In return, he seeks but one piece of information.” “And what would this be?” “Shipping information. Food shipped in quantity one to three times a month on a fixed schedule. The destination will be isolated, probably remote and well guarded. The most unusual part of the order will be children's cereal.” “This is a most unusual request, even for our fratelli on the Potomac. Is there an explanation?” “He searches for his daughter … and others … taken from a village in Viet Nam, almost ten years ago. The children were taken; everyone else was put to death.” There was a long silence on the line while Don Antonio thought about Ian … thought about the indefinable air of sadness that had always cloaked his friend like a second skin. Finally, it made sense. “I will address the Council,” he thoughtfully declared. “We are searching for a Eurasian girl, about ten years old, perhaps in the company of other Vietnamese children about the same age.” “Mille grazie, Patron … mille grazie.” “Give me twenty minutes. I shall speak with Chicago. Do you know the number?” “It is committed to memory.” “Very good. Twenty minutes.” . . . . Spats glanced at the clock on the wall, then settled into a well appointed leather chair to peruse the Wall Street Journal. He managed his own stock portfolio, and he followed the market closely. It pleased him to see that his holdings continued to outpace the ruinous rate of inflation that the political elite daily inflicted on a suffering country. Twenty minutes later, he moved to the plush chair behind his attorney's heavy walnut desk, and dialed the number of a telephone booth in Chicago's Oak Park district. This was his only direct link with Tony Accardo, at once his mentor and the head of the Outfit, a syndicate that controlled broad swathes of organized crime from the Midwest to the Pacific coast. Spats laid it out for his boss: in return for one exotic piece of information, the CIA would get the IRS and the FBI off the Outfit's highly exposed back. But, Tony wanted to know, what about the ongoing investigation into the murders of seven thieves who had burglarized his family home in neighboring River Forest the year before? There was considerable heat. Spat's contact would make that problem go away as well, but only in return for payment received in full. The deal was far too sweet for the crime lord to turn it down. The word went forth, and throughout the country, the Outfit's underbosses got to work. The capi had lieutenants seeded throughout the trucking industry and food distribution networks; if what Spats Belmondo was describing was a recurrent order being filled anywhere in North America, they would uncover it . . . . Far to the west, in a time zone where the sun had not yet risen high into the sky to part the swirling mists, a small child sat quietly on rocky ground and gazed out to sea. She was ethereal, a willow, almost the youngest member of her tiny family. And she was different. She could see it when she compared the faces around her with the image that stared back at her from the mirror. Her face was longer, her eyes exotic, neither those of her brothers and sisters, nor those of the monsters who held them captive. She was slight, but she was also strong. It could not be otherwise, for fate had cast her to lead and others to follow. There had been three deaths, each the consequence of her failures. Eleven remained, and she would lose no more. And so she absorbed the strange tongues that challenged her, mastering them all so effortlessly. She thought it curious that no one else in her family could do this. They called her Anna, and she pretended this to be her name, but she knew otherwise. Once, she had had a different name, though she did not know what it might be. Inside her heart there was a gaping hole, in the place where she thought her mother to find. The emptiness spoke to her in its own way, telling her that her mother was forever gone, and would never again know the joy of holding her daughter in her arms. But it was not so with her father. The warmth of his presence filled her, carried to her in the hushed whispers with which her captors spoke of him, when the boat brought news from far away. She bathed in the wisps of fear that she saw in their eyes, knowing that he searched though he had yet to find. Songbird. They called him Songbird, and so she thought of herself simply as The Songbird's Daughter. She would make do until he came for her, and gave her back her real name, and with it those of her brothers and sisters. Her family. Each morning The Songbird's Daughter sat on the rocky ground, in the time allotted to her, and quietly gazed out to sea. Searching.

I can't imagine this story being almost over! There is so much tension and so much going on...and so much terribly wrong with this culture.