Phoenix Ascending, Part 3

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From: sullivangm@aol.com (SULLIVANGM)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.smoking
Subject: Story:  Phoenix Ascending, Part 3 of 4
Date: 29 Dec 1996 13:05:21 GMT
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[Note - contact address for this author now msulliva@asacomp.com]


Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking.  If you find any of
this objectionable, try "Alt.Dr_Seuss.Fan-Fiction" instead.

Copyright 1996 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may be
copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others only. 

DEDICATION:  To Linda, with love.

Author's note:  This is a sequel to my previously posted story "Dying for
a Cigarette."  For a full understanding (if it's possible), I suggest you
read that story first.


"Phoenix Ascending"  Part Three of Four


Part Three:  Deceivers and Betrayers


11.  9 January, West 147th Street, 11:15 PM

Flinn haunted his apartment like a ghost, fraught with anxiety and hurt,
chain smoking through his isolation.  Finally, he could stand it no
longer.  He called HQ.

Mendoza was there, as he always seemed to be.  Flinn suspected that he
didn't have a home.  He asked for the day's "movements report."

"Jake are you sure you want to hear all this?"  Mendoza said.  "She's
fine, no problems today."

"Out with it, Pete."  Flinn was afraid of what was coming, but he had to
know.

There was a pause.  "Okay, compadre, you want it, you get it.   We picked
up her trail at the Javits.  She was seen speaking to an Ahvram
ben-Mordechai, an Israeli national here on business.

Monkey business, Jake thought.  "Go on."

"She had dinner with him at the Caf  Pierre.  Right now, she's in his room
at the hotel.  The officer-on-site reported no signs of coercion, but he's
not in there with them.  You want the room number?"

"No, Pete."  Flinn couldn't remember ever hurting like this.  Those damned
tears were trying to break out again.  There was another long pause.

"Listen, Jake, I wasn't going to say anything about this now, but when I
ran the check on ben-Mordechai, a few things didn't look quite right. 
It'll take some time, but I'm going to dig a little deeper on this guy. 
I'll call you if I come up with anything."

"Yeah, thanks, Pete.  I really appreciate..."    

"Don't mention it.  Payback will come along any day.  And Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Try to get a little rest.  You sound beat."

Beaten was not a bad word for it.


12.  10 January, Fifth Avenue, 1:57 AM 

This had been a mistake, Natalie thought.  She was sitting up in bed in
the darkened hotel room, smoking thoughtfully.  Beside her Ahvi slept,
oblivious.

She drew in smoke, hoping for the reassurance she had come to rely on from
it.  It had not helped her earlier.  She exhaled invisibly in the dark. 
She felt rotten.

The dinner had been wonderful.  They had had cocktails and then Ahvi had
ordered the prix-fixe seafood meal, which included a different wine served
with each of its five courses.  She was not accustomed to drinking so
much.  At one point as the meal progressed, she had noticed that Ahvi
barely touched his liquor or wine.  That hadn't stopped her, though.  No
indeed.

Ahvi had seemed charming, witty, worldly-wise, like no one else she had
ever met.  How much of that was the alcohol, she wondered, and how much
him?  She had found herself melting into his smile, his charm, his
Mediterranean good looks. She had been hooked like a 16-year-old fish on
her first date in the big city.  Even Nattie shouldn't have been so naive.

When he had suggested at last that they go up to his room, she had
followed like a kitten chasing a ball of twine.  Not a single objection
had she voiced.

Ahvi had conducted his lovemaking with only the most perfunctory of
foreplay, had served his own pleasure quickly, distractedly, and had
promptly fallen asleep.  She had been left unsatisfied and frustrated. 
Not like Jake.  Sweet Jake, who seemed by comparison to treat her like a
rare treasure, always considerate of her needs before his own.  Ahvi had
used her like a jar of Vaseline, a mere masturbatory accessory.  She felt
betrayed.  Worse, she was herself a betrayer.  She had abandoned Jake for
this stranger, so she could feel independent, and ended up being driven
like some neglected automobile.

Quietly, she slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb him.  She wanted
to wash his smell off her, clean his fluids out of her body.  Nude, she
padded silently to the bathroom.

There was a little water on the floor and she slipped as she entered.  She
just managed to grab the edge of the pedestal sink to prevent a nasty,
noisy fall.  As her fingers dug under the sink's edge, she felt something
out of place.

Natalie closed the bathroom door and switched on the light.  She squatted
to peer up under the sink.  Something was taped up there.  Without her
contacts she could not make out any details.  She reached up and pulled at
the taped mass.  It came away easily and noiselessly.

It was a gun, a small, automatic pistol like Flinn's Baretta, but an
unfamiliar make.  It had been carefully hidden in a place where even the
maids were unlikely to notice it.

Was it just her, she wondered, or did every girl stumble across a man's
weapon on their first date?

Natalie didn't know why Ahvi would have a gun so carefully hidden in his
room.  Maybe he worked for Mossad.  Maybe there was a darker reason.  In
any event, she wasn't inclined to take any chances.  Facing one armed
killer per month was more than enough.

Natalie switched off the light and opened the bathroom door.  She could
wash up later.  The room's closet was right outside the bathroom, one of
its sliding doors standing open.  She slipped the pistol into her coat
pocket.

She heard a stirring from the bed.  Ahvi mumbled, "Natalie?  Where are
you?"

She stepped out into the room proper, heart pounding.  "I was just getting
cleaned up, Ahvi.  I'm sorry, but I have to go.  My sister's expecting me
tonight yet."

"S'okay," came the indistinct reply.  Like he gives a shit, Natalie
thought.  Well, she had no intention of being here when he found his gun
missing.  She dressed quickly in the dark, returned to the bathroom, and
restored her contacts.

As she was fetching her coat, she noticed a pair of blue coveralls hanging
in the closet.  They looked like a workman's uniform, out of place beside
all of his European-cut business suits.  She was moving to inspect them
more closely when she heard Ahvi stir and mumble again.

"G'night."  She withdrew her hand.  He wasn't really awake, but her luck
might not be endless.

"Good night," she said as she left.  And thanks for nothing, asshole.

The officer-on-site saw her leave the hotel from his unmarked car parked
across Fifth Avenue.
He picked up a clipboard and noted the time.  Natalie started walking
north on Fifth.  Probably going to her sister's, he thought, it's just a
few blocks away.  He would follow anyway, just to be sure she got there in
one piece.


13.  10 January, Sixth Avenue, 10:05 AM

Persephone Jones entered her boss's glass-walled office, breathing a sigh
of relief at the scent of the foul fumes within.  Burt Kowalski, Senior
Copy Editor for the New York Post, was one of a very few smokers left at
the paper who had the pull to ignore the building's smoke-free status, at
least in his own office.  His preferred poison was an endless string of
cheap cigars, one of which was burning in his mouth as she entered.

Persephone, or "Persy" as she preferred, considered herself a throwback. 
She pictured herself as an intrepid "girl reporter," always on the track
of the big scoop in some black-and-white 1940's movie.  Kowalski, with his
green visor, eternal cigar, and gruff manner, fit her image of an editor
quite nicely.  Better still, he was always willing to let her grab a smoke
in his office, if she had at least a vague business excuse for being
there.  Today, her excuse was 24-carat gold plated.

Kowalski raised an eye from his cluttered workspace as Persy perched,
uninvited, on the edge of his desk.  He suppressed a smile.  He always
enjoyed the kid's visits even when they were a waste of time, but he would
be damned before he let her know it.  Persy was 26, five-foot-three, with
long, wavy-blonde hair, a cute little-girl face, and an arresting figure. 
She dressed like some Lois Lane-type, not like the other women here who
wanted you to forget they were women at all.  She must have something
today, he thought, because she was obviously in no rush to blab her reason
for the interruption.

Persy fished out her pack of unfiltered Chesterfield kings and stuck one
in the corner of her mouth.  Knowing there was no point in waiting for
Kowalski to offer a light, she fired her own match.  Smoke flooded her
mouth. She pulled out the cigarette and a large cloud of uninhaled smoke
escaped, too much to recapture since she was already way past "full."  She
breathed in the rest, then let loose a liquid stream from mouth and
nostrils across Kowalski's desk, beating back his cigar fumes.

Kowalski knew she'd be exhaling the remnants of that puff until she took
another.  She smoked like no woman he'd seen in 30 years or more.  He
cleared his throat in his best warning-growl manner as Percy took another
unhurried drag.  Enough of the show, time for some brass tacks.

"Chief," she started, smoke pouring out from her nose and lips as she
smoked.  "I've hooked the big one!  I can prove that Lt. Flinn didn't
shoot the ASK-man!"

Kowalski grunted.  Persy had been on this kick since the night of the
shooting, when she had gone rooting around in the trash at One Police
Plaza.  He liked that kind of initiative, but she had not come up with
anything printable as yet, even in the Post. "Go on." He said around the
cigar, in a voice like grinding gravel.

"It was the woman, Kelly, who shot him.  That coat I found was hers, and
I've got two cops who swear they saw Flinn holding it at the scene."  She
let loose with another flood of smoke.  Between the two of them, it would
be getting hard for anyone outside to see in, Kowalski thought.  Much as
he hated to do it, he punched on the smoke-eater.  The last thing he
needed was another damned complaint.  The smoke-eater was fighting a
losing battle, though.

"The coat was brand-new and had a big hole in the right pocket, with
powder burns all around it," Persy continued. "From what I've gotten from
the ME and some other Joes down at HQ, I'd say she not only shot him, but
she did it before Flinn got there at all!"  Smoking furiously, she
detailed all the dirt she had found.

"Not a bad circumstantial case," said Kowalski.  "But keep in mind that
Flinn and Kelly are heroes in this town, and a story like this won't bring
any sunshine into their lives.  They'll get nothing but sympathy and we'll
get nothing but shit if we leave just one hole for them to wriggle out
of."  Persy looked like she was holding her breath, but smoke was still
escaping slowly from her nostrils.  "I want you to get a statement from
both.  See if you can squeeze out an admission, or at least a non-denial. 
Kelly will be at the benefit tonight, of course, and Flinn probably won't
be far behind.  Try to catch them after the show."  He paused, his eyes
returning to the desk.  "Oh, and yeah, good work, kid."

Persy beamed.  Kowalski didn't object when she stayed for a second
cigarette.


14.  10 January, Javits Center, 2:11 PM

The boats and RVs were gone from the main hall.  Large motors growled as
massive partitions slid together or slid apart, reconfiguring the space
for the benefit show.  Bleachers automatically unfolded and descended from
the glass ceiling 30 stories overhead.  Linked groups of folding chairs
were being laid out in blocks across the bare floor, forming long rows and
aisles that would soon be crowded with the curious and the oblivious.

A group of workers was erecting a towering stage at one end of the hall.
The platform was crowded with massed banks of amplifiers, and at its rear
was a high framework supporting an 80-foot-square plastic backdrop.  On
the backdrop was printed:  "First Annual Benefit for the New York Violent
Crime Victims Aid Center." 

One of the workers in the stage area was Ahmad Rachmani, dressed in his
fresh coveralls and wearing a badge bearing his photograph.  There were
many security guards and even a few police around, but none took special
note of Rachmani.  He looked quite at home here.

He climbed the scaffolding under the stage platform, carrying his gym bag.
 When he reached the platform's bottom he checked for curious eyes,
finding none.  He removed a flat, black box about two feet square and
peeled a wax paper covering from its surface.  He pressed it firmly to the
bottom of the stage.  It stuck.  He flipped a rocker switch on one side of
the box, arming the device. That switch would not move again.  He began
his descent.  It was done.

The ST-7 explosive had a number of interesting properties, some useful to
this application, some not.  Originally developed by the Israelis of all
people, it produced an almost perfectly spherical blast wave with
remarkably even overpressures at the wave's expanding frontier. 
Consequently, it did not have the rending, tearing effect on small objects
characteristic of other plastic explosives,  which detonated less
symmetrically.

This quality, along with ST-7's high molecular weight, made it an ideal
reaction-moderator and trigger for nuclear devices.  Rachmani longed for
five kilograms or so of metallic plutonium to coat with the explosive. 
Then he would give New York a real show-stopper.  Sadly, such a triumph
would have to wait for another day.

Because of its efficiency in transforming blast energy to pure momentum,
ST-7 was a "cool" explosive, not recommended for incendiary applications. 
This was a small matter, however.  The prime feature of ST-7, and his
reason for selecting it, was the fact that it was five times as powerful
as any other RDX-based explosive.  Few would be leaving this hall alive.

At the bottom of the scaffold, Rachmani paused to inspect his work.  The
device would detonate automatically at 11:00 PM, with no further action
required on his part.  There was, of course, no betraying LED countdown
display to attract unwanted attention, like in all those stupid "bomber"
movies.  There was nothing, in fact, to distinguish this device from any
of the other electronic equipment scattered about.  A very educated and
alert eye might detect the oddity of its location, but he was sure no such
eyes were about.  The police here seemed to consider this duty something
of a lark.

Again, his work had been accomplished with ridiculous ease.  As he moved
toward the locker room a foreman called out to him.  "Hey, Dave!  Don't
forget to fasten down those partition switches!  The locks and keys are in
the tool box, stage right."

"Sure thing!"  Rachmani called back in his best American accent. "David
Schwartzman" was the name printed on his counterfeit ID badge.  He wasn't
sure exactly what the instruction meant, and he had no intention of
exposing his ignorance.  As the foreman's attention turned elsewhere,
Rachmani proceeded on to the locker room to change.

All that remained now was to return to his hotel and enjoy the show on
television, like everyone else.


15.  10 January, East 23rd Street, 4:05 PM

"Next!  Number 13, you're up!"

Bluebelle Loving took her place on a barstool in front of a red velvet
backdrop.  She was dressed in a sleeveless, black-silk evening dress,
wide-brimmed hat with short veil, and long, black leather gloves.  Hot
kliegs provided romantic backlighting which would serve to increase the
visibility of her smoke.  She took a B&H Menthol from a pack on the small,
round table near the stool and fitted it into a long cigarette holder. 
There was also a tall candle burning on the table, which she was to use
for a light.

Bluebelle was piqued.  When she arrived at the studio, she had been
outraged to see her "friend," Charlotte Devereau, also in line for an
audition.  So what if her smoking was better than Bluebelle's!  That was
no reason to try to ace her best friend out of a job!  She had dug this
opportunity up, not Charlotte!

Bluebelle would just have to nail this job down right here, right now. 
Charlotte was number 14.  Bluebelle looked at the director, who sat in the
typical chair between two immense video cameras.

"Do you want me to talk?" she asked.  "To read any lines?  I've had acting
lessons..."

"That won't be necessary, Miss...Loving.  Just show us how you smoke,"
said the director.  "Okay, now, ready?  In three, two, one...action!"

Bluebelle placed the mouthpiece of the holder in her teeth and leaned over
to get a light from the candle.  She was so careful to keep her eyes on
the camera that she almost slipped off the stool.

Recovering, she managed to get her light.  She leaned back slowly, eyes
flashing provocatively, pulling hard at the holder.  It took a moment
before the smoke traveled its length and entered her mouth.  When she had
a perfectly enormous mouthful, she removed the holder, drew in, and
exhaled a long stream at the camera.

She liked the way smoke curled from the mouthpiece and how her exhale
sparkled in the bright light.  However, at the very end, some smoke caught
in her throat.  She didn't cough out loud, but the last of her exhale came
out in an abrupt burst that she didn't think would look very sexy on the
tape.  Not a great start.

"All right, Miss Loving, let's have a profile view."

Determined to regroup, Bluebelle took a long drag from the holder.  She
removed it and inhaled as deeply as she could.  She turned her head away
from the camera, chin raised, and blew a lovely cloud into the lights. 
Now this was more like it!

"Very nice.  How about a French inhale on the next puff?"

This might be a problem.  Although she had practiced diligently, it had
only been two days since she started smoking.  Charlotte, that bitch,
hadn't helped her at all.  Taking another deep drag from the holder she
gave it her best shot.  She let some uninhaled smoke escape her mouth,
then tried to breathe it back in through her nose.  Some of the smoke may
have made it, but some also drifted up her cheek and into her right eye,
making her blink several times.  She tried to recover with a nice, slow
exhale from her mouth and nostrils, but she was afraid the effect had been
spoiled.

"Oh...kay," said the director. "Let's try a few rings."

This would definitely be a problem.  Charlotte could manage smoke rings,
but Bluebelle was still without a clue.  She drew at the holder once more,
trying to think it through. She inhaled.  She arched her tongue against
the roof of her mouth and tried to snap out the smoke in short bursts. 
Instead, she ended up sticking her tongue out at the camera.  She heard
some muted, hurtful laughter as the smoke escaped desultorily from her
lips.

"Thank you, Miss Loving, that will be all for now.  We'll be in touch."

She fled the studio in tears.


16.  10 January, Javits Center, 9:23 PM

Natalie stood by the foot of the left risers leading up to the stage. 
With her in a small knot were Marcia and the Risling family. Dorothy was
positively radiant in her junior prom dress, a beatific glow in her eyes. 
Natalie was also resplendent in a new, pale blue gown.  Both girls had
received the skilled attention of Master Beautician Beth, who was also
backstage.  

The ambient noise was too loud for conversation; "Toe Jam," a popular
heavy metal band, was grinding out its set 25 feet above them.  Natalie
silently thanked Marcia for booking several top acts on such short notice.
 Surely she and Dorothy would never had drawn a sellout crowd of over
40,000 all by themselves.

Marcia had also arranged for live television coverage on a Manhattan CATV
leased-access channel.  It was a one-camera, low-budget affair, but it
would help spread the message...and Natalie's public exposure.

Natalie nervously lit a cigarette as she reviewed the notes for her
speech.  Marcia had told her she could safely ignore the ubiquitous "no
smoking" signs, at least while backstage.  This was good; otherwise, she
would have had to duck outside occasionally, and that was no easy task.

Natalie drew in the sustaining smoke and paced to the near wall.  She
noticed a long-handled switch mounted beside a thick partition wall now
fully withdrawn into its niche.  Odd, she thought, that there wasn't some
sort of guard on that switch.  One yank and the partition would slide
across the floor, separating the stage from the audience.  Well, she
certainly wouldn't be pulling it.


17.  10 January, West 147th Street, 10:05 PM

Flinn was watching the benefit on cable, lost in a haze of depression. 
The last band, some group called the "Violet Girls," had just finished
their set and the speakers were up next.  Flinn had barely noticed that
the Girls had all smoked during their set, raising scattered cheers from
the audience when they lit up.

As technicians raced across the small screen, rearranging equipment and
installing a low podium,  Flinn debated whether to watch Natalie's speech
or not.  It would hurt him to see her.  It was also her moment, her night
of triumph, and he would hate to miss it.

Flinn was still undecided when the phone rang.  He considered letting the
machine take it, then picked up.

"Jake?"  it was Mendoza.  "Glad I caught you at home.  Look, we just
confirmed that 'Ahvram ben-Mordechai' is a cover, a fake identity!"

"What?"

"The Israeli embassy finally admitted that he wasn't one of theirs.  In
fact, his description is a close match for a bad guy they've been hunting
for quite a while.  An Iranian terrorist, in fact.  A bomb specialist."

"Jesus!"

"He's still at the Pierre, apparently.  I assumed you would want in on the
bust."

"Pete, I love you!  Let me be the one to hit the room, and alone, okay?"

"Now just a minute, Jake.  I treasure your love, don't get me wrong, but I
only got the Israelis to hold off their dogs by telling them we weren't
sure where he was.  If it's who they think it is, he's a very dangerous
customer."

"He doesn't know from dangerous.  He hasn't met me yet.  I can handle it,
Pete.  Don't make me make it an order."

"All right, Jake, it's your funeral, maybe for real this time.  I'll give
you a few minutes head start.  I'm sending for backup though, SWAT
included.  I'll have them on every exit and the rooftops.  If he moves,
they move."

"Okay, Pete, thanks!  I'm on my way!"

"Just don't forget to knock first."  Mendoza was always a stickler for the
rules.


18.  10 January, Javits Center, 10:22 PM

"Hello, New York!  I'm Natalie Kelly!"

The audience responded with cheers and foot stomping.  A few had left when
the music ended, but very few.

"You've all read and seen my story before.  I'm not here to repeat what
you already know.  Instead, I want to tell you about a young woman named
Nattie, the woman I used to be.  Nattie was afraid of everything.  She was
a victim, the helpless prey of everyone she met.  She was grass before the
knife of people like the ASK-man.

"Nattie died last Christmas, gone forever like any other victim of violent
crime.  Her fear killed her.  That's when I was born, me, Natalie.  I
refuse to live in fear!  I refuse to let anyone terrorize me!  I refuse to
let anyone else RUN MY LIFE!

"My message to you tonight is that we must ALL refuse to be victims!  We
must ALL be predators and not prey.  That doesn't mean we should become
victimizers ourselves.  It means we must be strong, we must refuse to
fear, we must be ourselves!  The true predator does not hate, does not
oppress others, because he is secure in his own strength.  Only by being
strong will we convince all those false predators to KEEP THEIR DISTANCE!"

"We are all guilty of trying to run the lives of others.  I was, even when
I was still Nattie, a girl who never dared to say an angry word to anyone.
 I manipulated others passively, by being dishonest, by staying silent
when I should have spoken.  I thought that was being strong.  Instead, it
led only to weakness, fear, and death.

"Some of us dislike other races, other religions, other ways of expressing
ourselves.  This is the way of the prey, not the predator!  The predator
respects other predators for their strength, their beliefs, their
individuality.  The predator increases life, not death! 

"Even after I became Natalie, I still tried to rule the life of another. 
I was wrong.  If you're listening, Jake, please know that I love you.  I
always will. 

"I am, like many others, a smoker.  It's part of who I am.  The ASK-man
hated me for this, and sought to make me, to make all smokers, his prey. 
He is gone now, but others share his beliefs and continue his efforts in
more subtle ways.  I ask you all, smokers or not, to refuse to fall prey
to this sort of hate, this discrimination!  I say SMOKE THEM IF YOU HAVE
THEM!"

Natalie fetched a cigarette and lighter from beneath the podium.  She
placed the cigarette in her lips and lit it.  She took the longest drag of
her life, inhaled, and blew her smoke out across the audience.  Then she
gave a pre-arranged signal.

From the top of the high framework behind the podium a new backdrop rolled
down, covering the old.  It was an 80-foot white square, printed with a
green circle.  Within the circle was the image of a burning cigarette.

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