Shaken & Stirred

By E.L. Haines

Everybody knows that drinking often leads to trouble. Nobody expected it to lead to actual terrorism.
While cruising around the opulent Arabian peninsula, Sparrow innocently orders a top-shelf margarita that happens to be a top-secret coded signal. Here's the twist: the two secret agents on board accept this as proof that he's one of them.
Now Sparrow might have a lot of secrets, but he's no secret agent. His only goal is to save the ship from terrorists before that secret is spilled.
But the mission turns sour when two high-profile terrorists capture both of the real agents. So Sparrow needs to shake things up. Stir up trouble.
Can our diminutive drinker save the day? It's worth a shot.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.L. Haines
• Release date: Jun 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201471781

Book preview

I

Cruise Day 1 (Friday): Dubai, U.A.E.

Visit the city that grew from a small fishing village to the commercial center of the Middle East.

Home of the world’s tallest skyscrapers (including the Burj Khalifa), the Dubai skyline is like none other. Dubai also boasts archipelagos of the world’s only custom-designed, branded islands.

Whether you shop in Dubai’s historic souq markets, or in their expansive modern malls, be sure to bring your wallet. As the ancient Arab proverb claims: Daba Dubai (they came with a lot of money)!

Chapter One

If you’re going to order a drink on a cruise, I had naively told myself, you might as well do it right.

Would you care for a margarita, sir? asked an elegantly-dressed female bartender, likely of Eastern European descent. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a professional ponytail, and her blue eyes were piercing but still friendly. She carried a small tablet with which she took our drink orders. This type of tablet was remarkably versatile, and carried by most of the service crew on the cruise ship. It had a card slot in the side that could read the financial information encrypted on my Cruise Card, the all-purpose ID card that each passenger carried. It also had a thumbprint scanner, because only my thumbprint could decrypt that information.

I hung my ubiquitous cane on the edge of the bar and climbed into one of its tall barstools. The Bar Macaque was a prestigious establishment on one of the top decks of the Queen Otrera, a magnificent ocean liner operated by Majesty Cruises. I had recently come into some money, a scenario that wasn’t typical for me, and as a result I had decided to experience, or investigate, the luxuries of the upper class. And since this was the first day of the cruise, I was determined to start it right.

Yes, please. I handed her my Cruise Card, which she inserted into the card slot, and it made a strange whirring sound in anticipation for the next step. She then held out the tablet for my thumbprint, so I pressed my thumb to the tiny red scanner. It beeped with approval, and I felt just the slightest pang of sympathy for what I was about to subject her to. I hope you’re ready for this.

To his credit, her smile never faltered.

I would like my margarita mixed three parts tequila to two parts orange liqueur, and the last part made from equal amounts of freshly-squeezed lime juice and blue agave nectar. I do not want my margarita blended, or served with ice, but rather shaken over ice and strained as you would a martini.

The bartender smiled and gave me a conspiratorial nod, as if the two of us shared some secret knowledge about the preparation of a perfect margarita. Little did she know that I was mostly making this up on the spot.

As for salt, I would like a half-rim; this is only as insurance in case the mixture is too sour, or too sweet. I do not wish for any additional garnish, such as a lime wedge or orange slice, as these would only get in the way. And since there will be no garnish, I prefer to drink my margarita from a Highball glass.

Excellent, sir. As for the spirits, which brands do you like?

For the liqueur, I like anything made from Sicilian blood orange.

And the tequila?

Mezcal, I corrected her. Scorpion Mezcal Anejo, to be precise.

At this announcement, the bartender finally reacted, and were it not for the soft, ambient Jimmy Buffett that is pretty much mandatory at such establishments, the bar would have gone completely silent. Even the other patrons took notice; although that wasn’t my original intention, I always appreciate an audience.

Sir, the Scorpion Anejo is a $1000 bottle. I can’t open it without charging you a $250 retainer.

Well, then, it only makes sense for me to purchase the entire bottle. This is but the first day of my eight-day cruise; I doubt this will be my last margarita.

Um. As you say, sir. But I’m afraid that I’ll need a second thumbprint authorization for any transaction over $200. I gave her a friendly thumbs-up signal which delivered two messages: first, I was happy to give that thumbprint; second, my thumb was at her disposal.

Majesty Cruises had been boasting all year about their new blockchain-based economy that offered its diverse international clientele all of the financial freedoms of cryptocurrency. This new currency—called BioCoin—was not tied to any national currencies, and was now being accepted in nearly all of the major tourist destinations and luxury industries, and had been trading more favorably every day. Majesty claimed that you could actually end your cruise richer than you started, and this claim wasn’t entirely unbelievable. These cryptocurrency accounts were linked to passenger biometrics—in this case, just a simple fingerprint, not anything as unnecessarily-complicated as a retinal scan. When I placed my left thumb on the little fingerprint scanner, it gave a cheerful little chime that actually sounded excited that I was spending such an exorbitant amount of money. So the bartender took the ornate glass container down from the top shelf behind her and cut the wax seal with a bar tool.

The margarita was everything I expected.

The exotic bombshell who approached me next, however, was completely unexpected.

Chapter Two

You seem like a man who knows how to order a margarita, said a drop-dead gorgeous lady in a shiny salmon-colored blazer dress as she sat at the bar next to me. An off-center slit exposed her thigh to a provocative height, and the lapels were folded so low that I couldn’t help but admire her excessively eye-catching cleavage. Only her obtrusively-dangling Cruise Card interrupted an otherwise perfect view.

When I know what I want, I ask for it. With an enormous concentration of will, I looked into her face, and her deep brown eyes sparkled back at me. Her curly brown hair reached just down to her collarbone, tempting my eyes to glance below her face, but instead I focused on her pearly-white smile and flamenco-red lips. A warning bell went off in the back of my mind, but I told myself that this was a cruise, and I could afford to disarm my typical paranoia. Without breaking eye contact, I said out of the corner of my mouth, Make that two.

Her smile told me that I had made the right choice, albeit an expensive one. The bartender’s subtle wink to me when she saw the intended recipient confirmed that this customer was worth it. Not that I needed a second opinion.

I find that you rarely get what you want without asking, but sometimes what you want is quite different from what you expected, she said. But then she followed it up with an odd comment. And you certainly aren’t what I expected.

I cocked an eyebrow. I was expected? I was hoping to remain incognito. Has my cover been blown already?

She laughed, a golden sound with just a touch of a lilting foreign accent that I couldn’t quite place. French, maybe—or Arabic? She leaned in conspiratorially. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.

I had a sudden paralyzing thought. Uh, are you… working?

She immediately backed up. I had offended her. Okay, that’s more like what I was expecting. She sighed. I was told that you were a professional.

"I’m the professional?"

Your reputation precedes you.

"I have a reputation?"

Well, I certainly don’t. The poor vixen beside me began to look a little embarrassed. In fact… this is my first job.

Oh no. Had I just insulted a first-time escort? I felt horrible. How could I fix this without committing to an expensive tryst? I reached out to pat her knee, but the sheer sexiness of her exposed thigh suddenly felt inappropriate, so I awkwardly redirected my hand to her shoulder, which was covered in that elegant blazer. Listen, I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sure you are a fine girl, and great at what you do. But let’s not have any misconceptions about where this is going.

She nodded, and gave me a wan smile. So… I’m Zeyneb. Zeyneb Helawaharra.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss… I hesitated; Helawaharra sounded suspiciously fake, for some reason.

"Please. My friends call me Zeyneb."

I smiled, cordially, even though she had just said the F-word. "I’d like to call you Zeyneb also, then."

What would you like me to call you?

I’m Sparrow. No last name. Just Sparrow.

The twinkle returned to her eyes. How cryptic. I like it. She stood up as if to leave, and I’d be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t a little sad at the thought of her departure.

And then she walked away, with that self-assured, slinky stride that guaranteed that every male in the establishment would be watching. I can’t speak for them, but I know I was.

She left the expensive margarita behind, untouched.

* * *

Tough luck, my friend, said the bartender. Honestly, I had forgotten that she was still there.

I don’t have any friends, I muttered under my breath.

Pardon?

I shook my head to reset my thoughts. Since this was turning into a full conversation, I glanced at her nametag. Natalia/Bar Services/Ukraine. I don’t pay for companionship, Natalia, I clarified.

The bartender stopped wiping the tumbler in her hands and cocked her head to one side. Wait, you don’t think…?

Yeah. I sighed. I’m pretty sure Zeyneb is an escort.

Her jaw dropped, and she gaped at me for a moment, and then broke out into a raucous giggle that I felt entirely unbecoming of her station. What’s so funny? I demanded.

"Sparrow, Majesty Cruises is a reputable company. I squinted at her. We have casinos, bars, spas, and many other diversions, but we certainly do not cater any escort services."

Then what just happened?

"What just happened, is, you just fought off the affection of the sexiest passenger on board the Queen Otrera, and probably insulted her in the process! She resumed her chuckling, but this time she made it sound more sympathetic. Again, tough luck."

I shut my eyes and groaned.

Chapter Three

Meeting Zeyneb Helawaharra in that manner wasn’t even the strangest encounter that I had in the Bar Macaque that day.

Rather unbelievably, a tall, dark, and handsome man walked up to the bar just moments later, and ordered a margarita made with Scorpion Mezcal Anejo.

Bewilderment turning quickly into regret, the bartender pointed demurely at me and whispered something to this raffish gentleman in hushed tones.

Well, that’s unexpected, said the stranger.

I assumed that he was disappointed that I had purchased the only bottle of Scorpion Mezcal Anejo. I was still disappointed that Zeyneb hadn’t taken the expensive margarita that I had bought her. I thought that the solution to both of our disappointments was staring me in the face.

Here, have this one, I pushed the superfluous margarita toward him. I have no need for it any more.

The stranger gave me a sympathetic look that bordered on condescending, but accepted the secondhand drink. Getting our signals mixed, are we?

I suppose you could say that. Cheers.

We both drank, and I found that I didn’t need the salt on the rim at all; the drink had been mixed perfectly. The stranger seemed to appreciate it as well, beyond his original expectations of the premium mezcal that he had ordered. He had black, slightly curly hair, showing just a touch of silver above his ears, and friendly blue eyes that looked like they could turn cold at the drop of a hat. When ordering, this stranger spoke in a confident baritone that belonged in a barbershop quartet, even if his debonair clothing placed him in a string quartet. He wore a light cream, well-tailored suit that made me feel under-dressed for a moment in my untucked, floral pattern shirt, khakis, and straw boater hat, but then I reminded myself that I was on a cruise vacation, not a business trip. Everything about this stranger’s demeanor was all business, however.

It’s water under the bridge, but I expect you’ll be at the top of your game moving forward, he remarked. He had this way of speaking in idioms that probably put most native English speakers at ease. In fact, his casual charisma made me overlook his peculiar interest in my romantic conquests.

If I can afford the stakes, I said, responding to idiom with metaphor. This stranger was trying to appear aloof and mysterious, and succeeding—and whenever someone tries to upstage me, I rise to that challenge.

You should probably get yourself a nice jacket. He put some strange emphasis into this suggestion. I wasn’t sure what he was insinuating.

I have a very sharp blazer in my closet, thank you. I tried not to sound affronted. But I prefer to clothe myself in natural charm.

He laughed. You know, you’re exactly as described, yet nothing like what I expected.

What the heck? Did everyone get a dossier on me, or something?

He clapped me on the shoulder. Wear the blazer to the show on Tuesday night—appearance is everything, you know.

I tried to conceal my bewilderment. In general, I tend to agree with that statement. At the same time, the immortal words of Henry David Thoreau came to mind: Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.

The name is Mark. Mark Caliber. Another suspiciously fake-sounding surname. I noted the similarity in how both he and Zeyneb had introduced themselves, repeating their first names. What would you like me to call you?

Uh, Sparrow is fine. Just Sparrow.

Mark Caliber stood up to leave, casually looking around to take note of the other bar patrons. "I have some important preparations to attend to right now, but let’s converse further tomorrow morning. Meet me at Wavebreaker dining room for brunch? I have Table 754 all to myself; I’ll inform the wait staff that you’ll be dining with me." He didn’t give me a chance to turn him down, but just flashed me a smile and turned to walk out of the Bar Macaque. Once he was out-of-earshot, I whispered to Natalia, Are you sure that guy isn’t a male escort?

Natalia, who was studiously cleaning another glass while eavesdropping on her clientele, grinned and shook her head. "You really need to read people better, buddy. Or maybe just read your cruise brochure. Mark Caliber is the Master of Ceremonies and headlining performer in all of the Cirque Del Mar shows."

You’re kidding. I tilted my head, replaying the conversation in my memory. I wonder if he mistook me for a circus act.

Natalia bit her tongue and tactfully didn’t comment on my height, or lack thereof. Can you walk a tightrope?

There’s a first time for everything.

We both laughed as she mixed more margaritas for the other, less discerning customers in the bar, because foreshadowing is just so hilarious.

Chapter Four

Since we’re on the topic of foreshadowing, it would probably be best if I got it all out of the way before the ship left its first port of embarkation.

"Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers.

Please proceed to the Caesar Arena Theatre for an important safety briefing

before the ship sets sail.

This briefing will commence in 15 minutes.

We kindly inform all passengers that this safety briefing is mandatory.

Thank you for your cooperation."

What’s this about? I asked Natalia, after that intrusive announcement blared loudly from every speaker in the bar.

Before a passenger ship can weigh anchor, international SOLAS regulations require that everyone on board is made aware of a bare minimum of safety guidelines. Since 97% of the cruise passengers boarded here in Dubai, the Queen Otrera conducts one mass briefing in the large theatre before we move on to Muscat. Anyone who joins the cruise late will have to watch a safety video in their rooms, but trust me, the live performance is much more entertaining.

Oh?

Because it stars your new friend, Mark Caliber. I assume that’s why he left in such a hurry. Also, you’ll probably want to hurry down to the theatre, yourself, to get a good seat.

I had to admit, I was intrigued. Enough so that I forgot to correct Natalia about my presumed friend.

* * *

The Caesar Arena Theatre was something else, let me tell you.

I mean, I expected an onboard theatre. I assumed that the cruise might have occasional stage plays, as well as some operas, ballets, or whatever else the upper upper class likes to watch.

But this was no ordinary theatre. This was a state-of-the-art, fully-immersible auditorium that combined invisible technology with ancient, traditional stage conventions.

First, rather than having a flat stage against one side, with all of the audience seats oriented in the same direction facing it, the stage was circular, and placed in the center of the auditorium, with concentric rings of seats circling it. It created the impression that the stage action was truly in the center of reality, and that the play actors had nothing that they could hide from the audience that surrounded them.

Second, this unusual configuration meant that there was no backstage. Nor was there a stage right, or a stage left. For a moment, I wondered how the play actors would enter and exit the scene, but I remembered that ancient Greek plays would often introduce characters from below the stage. In one lasting legacy, those Greek dramas would often resolve difficult plots by mechanically raising up a godlike character from underneath the main narrative, one who could solve the conflict