It was a little booklet, more than a scrap
of paper, for it looked to be in excellent condition. Kind of a drab grayish color, but the writing
on the cover was very interesting. It
was not English. Not Spanish. Not French.
Those are the close-by neighbors, I suppose, the ones that might be
expected to adorn a document such as this.
But no. This writing, I knew from
my vast array of linguistic experience that I have acquired over the years from
such experts as James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Michael Weston, was maybe Eastern
European. No, farther East. Russian.
Now I know that would have been more mind-boggling back in the days of my
youth - the Cold War, West versus East, United States versus The Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics. But still,
you have to admit, finding a document in such a language had to be considered,
well, unusual. I picked it up to examine
it more carefully. And the very first
page that appeared confirmed what this booklet was. A passport.
And hidden amidst the strange letter characters was an English translation
of a word here and there. The passport
was from The Ukraine. It belonged to a beautiful
young woman who would be about 25 years old.
See, I told you this would make a great story of international
intrigue. My inner Bond instincts were
heightened to their fullest.
Surveying the scene around me, I noticed
that the nearest house had two cars near it, one on the street and one in the
driveway. But there was something odd
about it. There were delivered
newspapers littering the lawn. There was
mail stuffed in the mailbox. The front
windows were covered from the inside with heavy drapes that completely concealed
whatever lay behind. No movement. No evidence of any kind that there would be
people within. Of course, it was six
thirty in the morning, and they might have just been asleep. But where is the drama in that? In my mind I started working out my options. Certainly I should make an effort to find the
owner. That would be the simplest,
neighborliest thing to do. And barring
that, I would have to turn the document over to the proper authorities, whoever
that might be. CIA? NSA?
Homeland Security? I started to
walk away and begin my phone calls, but on the spur of the moment I turned
back. Why not try the door? I could appear simply as a concerned neighbor
with the found document. They would be pleased
to get it and I could be on my way, feeling fulfilled about my good deed. Yes.
That’s the right thing to do.
Even if they are international drug or human slave traffickers. What could go wrong? Cautiously, I approached the door. Even more carefully I chose to knock rather
than try the doorbell. You never know what
booby traps could be set using that simple electrical spark. Hey, I’ve watched MacGiver. Knock, Knock, Knock. I waited.
Still no movement whatever.
Honestly, that was a relief. Even
an experienced operative has brief feelings of euphoria when an inevitable
confrontation is avoided. And I’m no experienced
operative.
My first move when I returned home - after
eating some breakfast, of course – was to do what any other red-blooded,
patriotic American would do. I googled
it. I just needed to find out where I was
supposed to turn something like this in.
Police? The bank, along with the
card? The passport office? The Ukrainian embassy? There didn’t seem to be much online help on
the subject. I don’t suppose Ukrainian passports
are often found in the streets. I texted
my CSI sheriff friend, and he recommended simply calling the police and
allowing them to make the decision as to its disposal. Not a very exciting option, but most likely
the most reasonable one. So I made the
call. The one handling the call was very
nice. She assured me that an officer
would be right over to give us assistance.
Was that a bit of an edge I heard in her voice? Was there more to this whole episode than
meets the eye? Who can I trust?
It didn’t take long for the doorbell to
ring. And for my heart to skip a
beat. Was it the officer, or had I been
followed? Thankfully, an officer in full
uniform stood at the door. Chris invited
him to come inside out of the heat.
Always a good move. Present a
welcoming front while you scope out the newcomer and discern his
intentions. I handed over the card and
the passport. As I expected, he was much
more interested in the passport. He was
immediately focused on his task at hand, forgetting all the mundane, traffic-cop
kind of duties that might have faced him up to this point in his day of service
to the community. Here before him was
the chance of a lifetime, and he wanted to do it right. He already had a theory worked out. Perhaps this person was here on some kind of
exchange program. Maybe they worked over
at Schlitterbahn or Moody Gardens. That
was where he intended to start in his search for the owner. I reminded him about the bank card inside,
and he took a long look at that as well.
“Ah,” he pondered. “This might be
a better starting place. They should be
able to give us the address we need.” Excitedly
tapping the document on his palm over and over, he said, “Someone is probably
freaking out right now trying to find this.
We need to get it to them as soon as possible.” I felt certain by his response that this
opportunity for some real detective work would be the focus of at least part of
his day. The document was in good
hands. My work was done. God speed, Officer Jackson.
Proverbs 3:5-6 says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own
understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths
straight.”
Father, take care of Officer Jackson, and
all the police officers as they do their job.
Amen.
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