I posted this a long time ago, and apparently never put it up here on the page.  In any case, it's the sequel to "Sarajevo" and it explains what went on with Jon just before the start of the "Where Do You Start" series.  Here, while on assignment, an old ghost comes back to haunt Jon in a deadly way.

Disclaimer: Characters and associated details are property of Hanna-Barbera 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 Mercedes, 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.