by P A Duncan
“Oh, don’t look so eager. I was thinking, strictly as an analyst, of course, I could always use a contact in law enforcement. We call them stringers, and the pay isn’t bad.”
He frowned, but his eyes told her he was considering it. “How would that work?”
“Something comes up, and I need information you can provide. I give you a call, you provide what I need, and a week or so later you see an increase in your bank account.”
“Can I think about it?”
“I’d rather you did. If you decide you’re interested, give me a call at the number on the card I gave you, and we’ll be in touch.”
“Can it be the bank account my ex doesn’t know about, where I’m putting the money for my daughter’s college fund?”
“Of course, and may I say I’m glad it’s for something altruistic. I’d hate for it to go for a mid-life crisis car or some such.”
“But, the department does regular financial disclosure checks to make certain we’re not on the take.”
“Perhaps you had a long-lost uncle who died and left you some money?”
“You’re sure?”
“You have my word.”
He smiled at her again. “The word of a spy?”
“The word of an analyst, Officer Russell.”
They shook hands on it, and she went to her car with a smile on her face. Not the most significant of her recruitments but one of the easiest.
3
Unusual Professions
When Mai returned to the stables, the practice event was well underway, and she had to park in a far corner of the facility. However, that gave her the opportunity to observe Eva Baker. And Alexei.
At five-ten, the former model was a few inches shorter than Alexei, and she canted her reed-thin body against his side, her hand resting on his shoulder as she talked. She wore tight, peach-colored capris and a sleeveless white shell. The afternoon had cooled, evidenced by the nipples of her braless breasts outlined by the sheer fabric. She sported large, round sunglasses and a white stroller hat bounded by a peach scarf.
While her daughter was in the event ring guiding her horse around a series of jumps—and doing a decent job of it—Eva had focused her entire attention on Alexei.
Eva was unaware of Mai’s presence, though Alexei probably was. He had crossed his arms over his chest in some obvious body language; yet, his head tipped down, close to her face, to listen to her. Mai saw no overt, questionable behavior from him. He had this effect on women, as she well knew. Over the years she’d hardened herself to it. Mostly.
She turned away and headed to where Natalia waited for her turn in the riding ring. The girl ran a brush over the hunter’s flanks. Mai had recently bought the horse, and Natalia had surprised Mai with her ability to deal with its greenness.
Most of the parents here took Natalia for Mai’s daughter, instead of the convoluted step-grandmother/-granddaughter designation. In Natalia’s many good moments, Mai fantasized she was indeed that, an offspring for whom Mai could have unending pride. Amid the increasing number of adolescent angst moments, Mai thanked the stars the DNA was Alexei’s, not hers.
Natalia had coiled her thick, French-braided red hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, and it peeked from beneath her hard hat. Mai had to smile at a fond memory of herself similarly attired, not much older than the girl, getting ready to dash headlong across the fields of England. A life she’d deliberately left behind.
“When are you up?” Mai asked.
Natalia looked up and smiled at her. “Mums! You did come. Popi said you, like, had some work to do.”
“I finished it. Where are you placed thus far?”
“Third right now,” the girl murmured, despondent.
Mai tucked a strand of hair up into the helmet and brushed the girl’s cheek. “Did you ride well?”
“Yes.”
“Then, put a judge’s subjectivity out of mind and focus on what’s next.”
Mai stroked the horse’s neck and checked the girth. She gave him some knee to the belly, and he exhaled, allowing her to tighten the girth a notch. The horse grunted and swung its head around to her, ears laid back.
“Easy, mo chara,” she cooed. She asked Natalia, “Is he behaving for you?”
“Mostly. The instructor loves him, says that he’s coming along great, but you probably shouldn’t have gelded him.”
Mai raised an eyebrow. No way she’d put a twelve-year-old on a green, ungelded stallion. Her estimation of the pricey riding instructor dipped.
“He also said we should be ready for point-to-point next year.”
“I asked your opinion, not the instructor’s.” Who’s looking for better employment, she thought.
“Well, he said it first, but I agree. Except that I think he’d like to ride him in point-to-points. That I don’t agree with.”
“You may both be right, but you’re a little young for those races. All the other riders will be older, most of them professionals.”
“You told me once you were thirteen when you first raced.”
“I was an over-achiever, and English cross-country is more civilized. I suppose, however, if I forbid it, you’ll rebel.”
“I’d like to try a couple.”
“All right.”
Natalia clapped her hands and began the bouncing thing Mai had noticed she and her friends did when something excited them.
“When you’re sixteen.”
“But Mums—”
“Number 236,” came the call over the loudspeaker.
“Isn’t that you?” Mai asked.
Natalia gave her a cross between a smirk and a glare but accepted Mai’s offer of a leg up.
Mai held the horse by its bit as Natalia walked him toward the ring, and she was competitive enough to coach.
“Remember, heels down and look ahead. Hands steady and—”
“Shoulders back. I know.”
That bordered on exasperation. No, more like insolence, and Mai let go of the bridle and gave the horse a good whack on the rump as he passed her. Natalia had to get him under control before entering the ring.
Mai stood back behind the crowd and watched. Natalia completed the circuit of jumps with a good time and with only a rub of one rail. Her form was more advanced than her age implied. Still, better to keep her head from growing too large, and Mai doubted Natalia had the skill to keep the green horse managed if he wanted his head. Not yet. She’d had to work hard to keep him in check.
Natalia left the ring and dismounted. A knot of her friends swarmed around her, giggling and exclaiming their joy with squeals that put the horse off a bit, as evidenced by his nervous prance. Mai waited to make sure Natalia got him under control.
Now, time to break up the Alexei/Eva Baker love fest.
Mai was a few strides away when Eva whispered something into Alexei’s ear, something that made him laugh. He looked up and saw Mai, and gave her a sly wink. Eva sensed his retreat and looked around.
With a huge, fake smile Eva headed for Mai.
“Ah, Maitland, dearest, how are you?” she asked. She kissed the air next to both of Mai’s cheeks.
“Eva, darling, I’m wonderful. Love the outfit. You’re so ready for spring.” She caught Alexei’s smile at the banter.
“Oh, you are so kind. I was just telling your handsome husband your granddaughter looked so lovely on that masterful horse.”
Mai didn’t miss the emphasis on granddaughter. “She did well. I missed your Francesca. How did she do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I am so silly. I cannot tell one rider from the other.” Eva looked to Alexei for confirmation, but something caught her eye. “Ah, look, it’s the paparazzi.”
Mai followed her gaze. One reporter and a cameraman from a local television station approached.
Eva’s dispute with her stepchildren over her late husband’s fortune was newsworthy in this socially conscious area. “I must go be the grieving widow,” Eva said. “Ciao!” A serious expre
ssion on her face, Eva sauntered away.
Mai looked at Alexei, an eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“Natalia did well, didn’t she?” he asked.
A non-answer to a non-question.
“She was close to perfect, but let’s not stoke her burgeoning adolescent ego,” Mai said.
“Agreed. How did your encounter with the police go?”
“I excited Officer Russell with my unusual profession.”
He gave her his charming smile, and she wondered if he were overcompensating.
“I know it’s always excited me,” he said.
“You macho types give men a bad name.”
The smile as he leaned toward indicated he intended to whisper something salacious, but she stopped him with, “Quiet. They’re about to announce the winner.”
The announcer called three riders to the ring on their mounts: Natalia, Francesca Baker, and a gangly boy who Mai remembered was new to the crowd. A judge came up and affixed ribbons to the horses’ bridles: white for the boy, red for Francesca, and blue, or first place, for Natalia. Natalia gave Mai and Alexei an excited wave while Francesca Baker’s eyes looked in vain for her mother.
Mai and Alexei wended their way to the barn where Natalia would untack, rub down, and stable her horse. Several people congratulated them; others glared, as though somehow their presence had given Natalia some advantage. Mai didn’t miss that aspect of competitive riding—the cut-throat aspect of grasping a blue ribbon. She would make sure Natalia didn’t become mired in that attitude either.
Inside the long barn, among familiar sounds and smells, Mai led the way to the stall for Natalia’s horse. It nickered at their approach, and Natalia looked up, breaking into a smile when she saw her grandfather. She threw herself into his embrace. The horse tossed its head, for all Mai knew showing off its blue ribbon.
Alexei kissed his granddaughter’s cheek and said, “Congratulations, Natasha.”
Of course, Alexei was the only one who could use the diminutive for Natalia. Natalia had put a stop to its use the first time someone at school asked her where Moose and Squirrel were.
“Metallica deserves all the credit,” she said, leaving Alexei to hug the horse’s neck.
“Metallica? According to his papers, his name is Northern Duke, a lineage, which cost me a pretty penny, by the way,” Mai said.
“That name was, like, boring, Mums, so I changed it. He likes it. Don’t you, sweetums?” She kissed the horse’s neck, and he tossed his head again, appearing to nod.
“Get moving,” Mai said. “It’s our carpool day to take Sherie and Dior home.”
“Can we stop at McDonald’s?”
“Really? No,” Mai replied.
That garnered an eye roll. “You know, you’re ruining my life, right? All my friends think I’m such a snob because, like, you two won’t let me go there.”
“You can go, as long as you don’t eat the food.”
Another eye roll.
“I’ll fix you a snack at home,” Alexei said, ever the peacemaker. “See if the young ladies want to come.”
“Puh-lease,” Natalia said. “You’ll make something all healthy and, like, embarrass me even more.”
“I’m sure I can come up with something completely unhealthy,” he said. “How about pizza?”
Natalia looked up from cleaning the horse’s hooves. “The one with your homemade pesto crust?”
“At your command,” he said. “Mai and I will wait for you and your friends in the car.”
On the way to the Four-Runner, Alexei moved closer and put his arm around her waist. All right, that was compensating for flirting with Eva Baker.
“You know you spoil her, don’t you?” Mai said.
“Isn’t that the grandparents’ job, babushka?”
“Grandmother?” She elbowed him in the ribs.
4
Cowboys and Red Flags
The White House
Washington, DC
President Geoffrey Monroe Randolph thanked his cabinet members and stood up. Everyone else began to collect their papers—rather their aides moved up to take up that chore.
Randolph drew the director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms aside. Not a cabinet-level position, ATF normally wasn’t represented at cabinet meetings, but today was… A special exception.
A few feet from the ATF director’s back, a line formed—other cabinet secretaries hoping for a moment of the President’s time.
The Attorney General rose, smoothed her skirt, and exchanged a look with the FBI director. He nodded and caught the official photographer’s eye.
The FBI director jerked a thumb toward the door, and the photog backed out, still taking pictures.
The Attorney General edged closer to the President and raised her voice to a timbre that always got the jury’s attention when she was a prosecutor.
“Mr. President, if I might have a word?”
Randolph clapped the ATF Director on the back and sent him on his way. He looked at Attorney General Sheryl Vejar and smiled.
“For you, Sherrie, anytime,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” Vejar said with the FBI director at her side. “Could the three of us have the room?”
Randolph’s smile stayed in place, but his eyes didn’t echo it. He addressed the people lingering in the room.
“Folks, I need a minute with the Attorney General and the FBI.”
People filtered out, the President’s chief of staff and the Vice President lingering.
“The three of us,” Vejar murmured.
Randolph looked at the Vice President. “Nothing significant. I’ll catch you up later.”
When the door closed on the three of them, Vejar said, “We’ll need the eavesdropping countermeasures.”
Randolph’s smile dropped away. “Why, Madame Attorney General, did you make me lie to my vice president?”
“I think you’ll understand after we speak to you.”
FBI Director Allan Steedley engaged the anti-eavesdropping equipment and rejoined the President and Vejar at the conference table.
“After the ATF’s briefing this morning,” Vejar began, “I think you’ll agree we need better intelligence about the standoff in Killeen, Texas; intelligence not tainted by the usual ATF/FBI rivalry.”
Steedley glared. “There’s no rivalry.”
“Really?” Randolph said. “I thought I was going to have to have this room cleaned after you two directors got through pissing over each other in the corners.”
“Engaging the Hostage Rescue Team was the right call, Mr. President.”
“I’m not questioning that, Allan. Please continue, Sherrie.”
“I’d like to get some assets on the ground there who’ll report only to you through DoJ. A more neutral point of view.”
“Now, that’s an interesting proposition. Do you agree, Allan?”
“Somewhat reluctantly, Mr. President, but I do agree the situation in Texas has become elevated to an unacceptable level of one-upmanship. On Isaac Caleb’s part, by the way.”
“Maybe a little from our side,” Randolph said. He looked at Vejar. “Where will you get these assets? The Secret Service? U.S. Marshals?”
“No, sir. I think the best way to obtain good intelligence is to use people who specialize in gathering intelligence, not law enforcement officers.”
Randolph’s eyes widened. “The CIA can’t work inside the U.S., and don’t even suggest we let them do it anyway. That’s all I’d need! For that to become public.”
“No, sir, not the CIA. I agree, we can’t break the law. I believe you were briefed on the United Nations Intelligence Directorate.”
Randolph frowned as he thought. “Refresh my memory.”
“The Directorate, as it’s colloquially called, was formed at the same time as the U.N., after World War II. Secretary-General Trygvy Lie saw the need for a neutral intelligence service, one used at his order or which a sovereign government could use when it
s internal intelligence organization may be biased.”
“Yes, I recall that, now. Have they worked in the U.S. before?”
“I know of one instance, but…” She looked at Steedley. “In other instances they have.”
Randolph looked at Steedley. “Well?”
“There were some, uh, events, notably in the sixties and seventies.”
“Neither of you knows for certain?”
“It’s the most covert of organizations, Mr. President,” Vejar said. “For example, the average American knows the CIA exists, knows it’s our external intelligence-gathering and counter-intelligence organization. The U.N., however, does not acknowledge the existence of The Directorate.”
“Well, how did you know about it?”
“When I was a prosecutor in Florida, I cracked down on cocaine dealers in my district and got a lot of successful prosecutions. Whole pipelines were cut off. That upset a couple of the cartels, and they joined together to put a bounty on me. The organization that alerted me to it was The Directorate.”
“And they knew about it how?”
“I asked, but I wasn’t need-to-know. However, the intel was correct. Two of their operatives thwarted an attempt to kidnap me. I was to be taken to Colombia and returned to my family in a series of packages.”
“Jesus Christ! How was that not in the media?”
“The Directorate doesn’t exist, they told me.”
“They who?”
“The two operatives who stopped the kidnapping.”
“I probably don’t want to know how they did that.” He looked at Steedley again. “And what do you know about this nonexistent organization?”
“It has a history of helping and hindering the FBI,” Steedley replied.
“Hindering?”
Steedley shifted in his seat and smoothed his tie. “It was before my time.”
“I’m not assigning blame, Allan. Explain it to me.”
“Back in the sixties and seventies when the FBI infiltrated several civil rights and student organizations, The Directorate in some cases fed our agents bad intelligence or they outed the agents to the organizations. Since, as it turned out, those organizations were non-violent, no one was hurt.”
