Killer Christmas Tips

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flattery, in my best Moose-and-Squirrel accent. “Sir, my innate shyness forces me to request that our time together be private.”
    By the way he raises an eyebrow at this unexpected modesty it looks like he believes that perhaps he really did find the only virgin on a website loaded with Slavic vixens. I guess he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt because he snaps his fingers at his bodyguard, who disappears into the cockpit with the pilot, closing the door behind him.
    I reward Melmud by loosening the top button of my already low-cut, floor-length tunic, revealing the lacy camisole beneath it.
    The plane hops over a cloud, giving me the opportunity to tumble against him. Oops! My hand falls in his lap in the hope of bracing my fall. I cover my mouth, as if shocked by this seemingly innocent action.
    But when our eyes meet, I lick my lips in anticipation.
    His response is Pavlovian in one regard. He’s panting for a treat.
    “In my country, we toast the holy union between a groom and his bride.” I lower my head. “Will you allow me to serve you, my honorable fiancé? Just a glass of water, of course.”
    He smiles and nods toward the kitchen galley. I bow slightly before gliding to a cabinet and pulling out two glasses.
    He is too busy loosening his tie and planning the tests that will prove my virginity to see me slide the medallion on my ring and release the drug into his drink.
    As I hand him his glass, he shouts, “ Prost! ”
    He passes out just as he had begun to slobber all over me.  Yuck!  I shove him off to the far end of the couch. I go over my mental checklist of everything on my list—
    Oh,  fudge!  I forgot to check the SFO duty-free shop for any Furbys!
    Note to self: get better at multi-tasking.
    But first things first. Buy time.
    I grab Melmud’s cell phone from his pocket and yank the subject’s SIM card from his phone. Then I dial Jack with the satellite connection on the wireless SIM card reader I’ve concealed in my valise.
    “How’s our little mail order bride?” he asks.
    “Cut the crap. I’ve just pulled out the SIM card. What now?”
    “Great! Arnie’s on the line, too. All you have to do is slip it into that little doohickey he gave you. When it’s done, uplink it, and  voila!  He’ll have access to a week, maybe two, of previous text messages and traceable cell numbers.”
    Uplinking the data on the SIM card takes much too long: all of six minutes, and I’ve still got an interrogation to conduct.
    By the time the upload is finished, Melmud’s Kickapoo Joy Juice has kicked in. 
    “Who is the Quorum?” My voice is gentle but authoritative.
    “Infidels. But they pay well for arms. Enough for me to buy the mansion next door to Oprah in Montecito. But Oprah’s dogs crap in my yard all the time. Still, I don’t mind. They are Oprah’s dogs! Some are Labradors, but there are also a couple of Springer spaniels. Not to mention the golf club in Montecito is top notch. I have a two handicap. Soon they will make me a member. I am sure of it.”
    Someone should have warned me SP-117 leads to diarrhea of the mouth. If this were just another extraordinary rendition, I’d have already given this dude a Cheney spa treatment and tossed him out the door.
    I start over. “Melmud, try to stay focused. What is the Quorum doing with heat-seeking missiles?”
    “Taking down a plane.”
    Like,  duh . At thirty-three thousand feet in the air, this guy better tell me something I don’t already know, or one of us is going to jump ship. I don’t want it to be me. “Where will it occur? On what day, and at what time?”
    “What I know is—”
    A sharp rap at the door stops him cold. That damn bodyguard!
    In Arabic, the bodyguard is telling his boss that we will be landing in five minutes. He wants to know if there is anything we need.
    Melmud is about to say something when I hiss, “Don’t answer!” I reach for my satellite phone. This time I dial Arnie direct.
    When he picks

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