This is the followup to my "Future Past" story
"Sarajevo."  These stories fill in the missing years between TRAJQ and
Winnie Lim's "Where Do You Start" series.

Disclaimer: Characters and associated details are property of HB and are
used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.

Archiving permission granted.

THE FUTURE (PAST) ADVENTURES OF JONNY QUEST

Synopsis: What happened to Jonny, exactly?

"MADAGASCAR"

by Eric R. Umali

        A week ater Sarajevo, Jonathan Quest was in Madagascar, settling
back in a thickly padded chair, sipping a steaming cup of the best
coffee he'd ever tasted.  After the first taste, he smiled.

        The gray-haired, jovial man before him smiled back.  "So you
like it, Mister Quest?"

        "Very much, President Ratisraka."

        "The I will arrange to have some shipped to you in America.
Will two hundred pounds be sufficient?"

        "Quite sufficient, Mr. President."

        The conversation ranged from one polite topic to another.  It
was a purely ceremonial meeting following four days of consultations on
national security.  President Didier Ratisraka wanted the best
anti-terrorist measures in the world, so he called on the best
anti-terrorist specialist organization in the world--  The Company, who
in turn sent as its representative Jonathan Quest.  

**********

        He arrived early in the afternoon, and his host was gracious
enough to give him the remainder of that day to rest from his trip.  Jon
spent most of it sleeping, then studying up on the island country's
culture, history and so on.  He ate a rather sumptous dinner in the
hotel's four-star French restaurant, then headed back to his room.

        Jon pulled off his shoes and sat at the desk.  He opened a black
satchel and began removing a few pieces of electronic equipment.  The
first he used to sweep the room for any signs of surveillance:
microphones, taps, cameras, etc.  Once satisfied that the room was
clean, he put the detector away and removed his cellular phone and
laptop.  Starting the computer, he selected a program that allowed him
to route a call through dozens of international exchanges, making it
virtually impossible to trace its origin.

        He typed in a number in Houson, Texas, and was only a little
surprised to feel a few butterflies in his stomach.  *After all these
years,* he thought to himself, *she can still do it to me.*  Soon, the
familiar voice he'd been waiting to hear answered.

        "Hello?"

        "Hey, Ace."

        "Well, hey, Hotshot, how are you?"

        "Ehh, you know, the usual.  Wondering why I didn't go into
something normal like accounting."

        "Sure, Jon, I can see you as a CPA.  By the way--  oh, never
mind."

        "What is it, Jessica?"

        "Do you believe it?  I was just about to ask you where you
were."

        Jon smiled ruefully.  "You know I wish I could tell you."

        "I know," Jessica replied softly.  "I understand, though.  So,
what's up?"

        "Nothing much, just calling to chat.  So how's the work your
doing for SETI going?"

        The call went on for three more hours.  Just as they'd done as
teenagers, all through college and ever since, they went on and on,
sharing every detail of their lives (or nearly every detail, in Jon's
case).

        "So," Jessica said tiredly, "Florda-- are you ready to do this?
We can put it off, if you want."

        "No, no," he answered, "I'll be fine.  Maybe after I'm finished
with my current job I can head to that Buddhist monastery we found in
Tibet.  You know, rearrange my karma before I go down there."

        "It could use a tuneup, but are you positive you want to go back
after what happened last time?"

        "Jess, I don't know what your dad told you, but I did _not_ play
with my Slinky on the Thousand Sacred Steps!"

        "Sure you didn't.  You just did everything short of talking with
your butt."

        "Fine, then, don't believe me.  I'm hanging up now."

        "Take care of yourself, Hotshot.  I'm not about to pack up that
house by myself."

        "I'm not about to let you, Ace.  G'bye, Jess."

        "Good bye, Jon."

        The line closed with a quiet click.  Jon shut off his phone and
computer, then went to bed.

        Jon began the next day with a simple breakfast on the small
balcony of his room.  He showered, shaved and dressed, reluctantly
knotting a silk tie under his collar.  Shrugging on a light sportcoat
and grabbing his suitcase, he headed for the door.  Jon stopped as he
passed a mirror.  *Dad, wherever you are, I wish you could see this,* he
thought.

        Soon, he was in front of the hotel, squinting in the brightness
of the African sun.  He was just reaching into his jacket for his
Ray-Bans when he spotted the car coming up the drive.  It was a shiny
white Mercedes, with small red, green and white Madgascar flags
fluttering above its headlights.  Jon sighed, usually preferring more
unobtrusive mode of transportation.

        He was meeting with the man he'd be dealing with most, Ben
Marouf Azaly, who held the post of Secretary of State for the Public
Security.  The Mercedes pulled into the heart of the captial city of
Atananarivo, and Jon was led to Azaly's offices in the government
building.

        Jon spent the greater part of the morning in conference with
Azaly.  The Secretary's main concerns centered around their
still-in-construction airport renovation.  Despite their best efforts,
they had gotten more than one travel advisory notice from the FAA since
the 1990's.  Azaly was determined that Madagascar never be slapped with
one again.

        After outlining his best ideas, Jon suggested they take a tour
of the airport construction sites, and the trip was arranged for the
next day.  They finished the day with discussions on policing the
island's bays and harbors and instituiting more comprehensive security
in the capital.  

        Jon spent the next few days walking the airport site and the
harbors and wandering through the government building complex.  He
prepared proposals and outlines and basically did all of the things he
hated doing.  Action was still the name of the game for him, and he
missed it dearly when away.  But, Jon knew that he was the man for this
job, so he just shrugged and went on with it.

        On the morning of his last day there, Jon was invited to
breakfast with the President, Admiral Didier Ratisraka.  It was a simple
continental affair of pastries and fresh fruits, and soon they headed
over to the balcony patio for coffee.

**********

        "You are a most difficult man to contact, Mister Quest," said
the President.

        "I'm sure you can understand why, Mister President."

        "Of course, of course.  I must admit, it took some cajoling to
get your organization's number out of my friends at the U.S. State
Department.  I can only assume you and The Company are more involved in
American national security than anyone would know."

        "That, President Ratsiraka, is classifified," Jon replied with a
mischievous smirk.  "I understand you specifically requested that _I_ be
the one to come.  Usually, The Company has other associates to act as
our 'front end' in these situations.  May I ask why?"

        "I am very familiar with your reputation, Mister Quest, and with
your history.  But in fact, your highest recommendation came from a
mutual friend-- a certain ex-CIA agent who saved my life once."

        Jon smiled and nodded.  "That sounds about right."

        President Ratisraka turned as an aide tapped him on the
shoulder.  The younger Malagasy whispered something in the President's
ear, then left.  "I am afraid I am being called away."

        They stood and shook hands.  "Have a safe trip, Mister Quest.  I
will be in touch soon."

        "Thank you very much, Mister President," Jon said, and headed
for the door, thinking only of getting home and resting before his trip
to Florida, or maybe even taking that trip to Tibet like he'd said.

        Jon was led down to the ground level of the large house.  A tall
Malagasy driver met him at the door, and they headed out towards the
car.  When he caught sight of the Mrcedes, Jon felt the hairs on the
back of his neck stand up.

        In years of living a secret-laden life, constantly on the
lookout for danger, Jonathan had developed something of a sixth sense
for trouble.  It was this sense that screamed at him to stop dead in his
tracks and hurl the driver beside him to the ground.

        The explosion was most spectacular, decimating almost a quarter
of a city block's worth of area.  Jonathan felt the heat, saw the light,
and whispered a final prayer before the darkness.

        "Jessie..."

**********

        Jonathan blinked.  He felt the familiar feel of bandages and the
crisp cotton of hospital sheets.  The discomfort of a breathing tube in
his nostrils and an IV drip in his arm.  He was glad of them, because
they told him he was alive.

        Jon looked up to see a smiling, if weathered face above him.
Even if he couldn't make out the features, there was no mistaking the
ten-gallon cowboy hat.

        "Grampa Doug," he rasped.

        "Hiya, kiddo.  They tell me you're gonna be just fine.  Jonny,
you're tougher than a fifty-cent steak, you know that?"

        "Thanks, Grampa."

        A young intern-- even younger than Jonathan-- entered.  "Mister
Wildey?" he said, with the distinct accent that told him he'd been
airlifted to a hospital in Cairo.  "We have found Mister Bannon.  He is
on this vidphone."  The youth handed Doug Wildey the handheld phone and
monitor.

        Jonathan's eyes widened, and his voice strengthened.  "Race?!
You called Race?"

        "Of course I did, kiddo.  He deserves to know-- "

        He cut his grandfather off.  "Grampa, give me the phone."  He
reached up and took it.  The familiar craggy features of his longtime
friend appeared on the screen.

        "Hiya, Jonny.  Looking good."

        "Thanks.  Look, Race-- Don't tell Jessica about this."

        "But, Jonny-- "

        "Do _not_ tell Jessica.  She doesn't need to worry about me,
she's got enough on her mind right now.  I'll see her soon enough, and
by then, I'll be as good as new.  She _never_ has to know, is that
understood?"

        "Whatever you say, Jonny.  I'm just glad you're all right."

        "Me, too."

        "So," Race said warily, "if she _does_ ask where you are, what
should I say?"

        Jon thought for a second.  "Tell her I'm in Tibet."

        "Tibet?"

        "She'll understand, don't worry, Race.  I'll be fine."

        "I know you will.  I'll talk to you later."  The screen went
blank.

        Doug Wildey stared at his grandson.  "So how long are you gonna
shield that little girl from the truth?"

        "She's not a little girl anymore, Grampa Doug.  Jessica has her
own life, her own career, and her own worries, and _that_ is why she
doesn't need to know.  Besides, if Crimson Dawn can find me, they can
find her-- but only if they want to.  I would _die_ before subjecting
her to that kind of danger."

        "Obviously," said Wildey.  "It's your life, kiddo, but
remember-- one of these days, there's got to be someone for you to reach
out to.  I've seen the way you two are together.  If there was anyone in
the world I thought you could trust, it's her."

        "You're right," said Jon nodding.  "It is my life."

        Wildey gave him an exasperated look.  "You've got your mother's
stubborn streak, you do."

        "Grampa," the younger man said, his voice starting to weaken
again, "I will tell Jessica if... when... I am ready.  She understands,
and believe me, I tell her everything I can."

        Wildey placed a tender hand on Jon's shoulder.  "I know, Jonny.
I'll be back soon."

        Jon silently watched his grandfather leave the room.  He gave a
heavy sigh and rested back against the pillows.  *It's just a few more
scars, Jon,* he told himself, *just a few more scars.*

THE END.

(c) Eric Umali 1997