by Lois Winston
None? Something was beginning to sound rather questionable about Demarco and his women in black. “Are you a vigilante group?”
“Hardly. We’re sanctioned by the government.”
“But you’re not part of the government?”
“That’s correct. We’re a private organization that reports directly to the Attorney General of the United States.”
“You’re general contractors?”
“In a manner of speaking, but we’re not paid by the government for our services. This enables us to remain under the radar, bypassing congressional scrutiny.”
“So how do you get paid?”
“We’re funded by a grant from the private sector.”
“This is legal?”
“Perfectly legal. Those on a need-to-know basis within the government are kept well apprised of our activities. When we identify a threat, the Attorney General is immediately notified, and he mobilizes the proper government agencies to neutralize the situation.”
“I’m hardly spy material, Mr. Demarco.” Hell, she never even read any Nancy Drew books as a kid.
“Spy is such a negative word, Ms. Davenport. We perform counter-intelligence work. We’re detectives. Just a bit unorthodox in our methods.”
“Meaning illegal? The sort of thing that some say goes on at Guantanamo?”
“I’ve never been to Guantanamo.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“We’re committed to protecting the citizens of this country.”
She noted that he sidestepped the question. She decided not to press. “Then why aren’t you www.savingthecountry.us?”
“The website was taken.” He said this with such a deadpan expression that Cassandra didn’t know whether he was joking or serious. “We skim the scum off the pond of humanity,” he continued, “one terrorist at a time, making the world a safer place for everyone. What we do is important work.”
If what he said was true, she knew a deadbeat dad she’d like to sic these guys on.
Noreen spoke for the first time. “We’re the good guys, Ms. Davenport.”
“And we want you to join us,” added Hanna.
Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t see how someone like me is suited for counter-intelligence work. Exactly where do I fit into all this? Why me? I’m a suburban housewife who covers the arts and entertainment scene for a local newspaper. How am I remotely qualified to fight any sort of crime?” And it better not be with a gun.
“We were housewives, too,” said Hanna with a nod in Noreen’s direction. “Now we kick butt.”
“Metaphorically speaking,” added Hanna with a wink.
“Women, especially mothers,” said Demarco, “have skill sets that lend themselves to our work. You’re phenomenal at multitasking and problem solving.”
“Men are incapable of multitasking,” said Hanna. “Or at least multitasking with any amount of success. Surely you’ve noticed that.”
“Definitely.” The only multitasking The Ex was capable of was lying and cheating at the same time. Cassandra glanced at Demarco, expecting him to take offense to Hanna’s statement, but he nodded in agreement.
“The last few years have proven to us that the type of intense training operatives receive in the armed forces and places like Quantico might work well for certain situations but not others,” he said. “The alphabet agencies are often hamstrung, forced to play by certain rules. The bad guys play by no rules. We,” he indicated his companions with a sweep of his hands, “are attempting to level the playing field.”
His explanation made no sense to Cassandra, but then again, little of the day so far had made any sense to her. “How does a quasi-legitimate group of housewives give our country any leverage against crime and terrorism?”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I’m former FBI. We’re very focused thinkers. Too focused at times. We don’t always see the subtle nuances the way your average problem-solving mom does.”
“We blend into the background,” said Noreen. “After a certain age women become invisible. If you’re not twenty-something and thin as a rail, no one notices you. We’re not memorable. We use that to our advantage.”
Cassandra could see the advantages of having a broad spectrum of ethnicities working to thwart terrorism. She’d blend into the woodwork in some places, Noreen and Hanna in others.
“I give these two complete freedom and base my course of action on their input,” said Demarco.
“So you’re the one with the gun? The brawn to their brains?” she asked.
“I call the shots. Hanna and Noreen—and you, if you join us—along with my other teams, are the out-of-the-box thinkers who present me with the options needed to catch the bad guys. Sometimes each team operates independently. Other times, in groups.”
“No guns?”
“We’ll discuss that later.”
“I don’t do guns.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“What makes you so sure I’m the right person for this job? The closest I’ve ever come to law enforcement is watching Law & Order reruns while I’m folding laundry.”
“For one thing, you were the only person who passed the chair test,” said Hanna with a nod to a television screen mounted on the wall to Cassandra’s left. It showed the now-empty room where the test had taken place.
“An idea you copped from Men in Black,” she said.
“Whatever works,” said Demarco with a shrug. “Noreen came up with that idea.”
“Anyone could have done what I did,” said Cassandra.
“But you were the only one with the guts to do it,” said Hanna. “And even after you moved to the floor, no one else followed you.”
“You also rated superior on the computer test,” said Noreen.
“A totally bogus test and you all know it,” she said. “How about being honest with me?”
“See, this is why you’re so qualified for the job,” said Demarco. “You saw through all the bullshit. You’re right, Ms. Davenport. We knew we wanted you before today. We did our homework.”
Cassandra squelched a gasp. “You’ve been spying on me?”
“Doing our job. Detective work. We delved into your background and found we liked what we saw.”
“Then why all this phony crap?” she asked. The chairs. The test. The other women in black. Who are they?”
“Parts of other teams,” said Demarco. “And today’s little theatrics were to make sure we weren’t making a mistake about you or any of the other women we’ve chosen. As well as the ones we didn’t.”
“All the other women left by the main door,” she said. “I was the only one who was told to use the back door.”
“In your group. The interviews are ongoing. You proved to us that we didn’t make a mistake in our initial assessment of you. We want you, Ms. Davenport. I want you.”
Cassandra noted those sultry forest green eyes of his were once again boring into her. Put like that, how could a girl resist? Then she quickly added to herself, Are you out of your freaking mind, Cassandra Davenport?
Gavin Demarco began to enumerate what he’d discovered about her. He and his Mom Squad, as she was told they called themselves, had done their homework. In less than two hours—between the time she filled out their brief questionnaire on the computer and the call that came while she snaked the toilet—they’d learned more about her than she knew about herself. Big Brother had definitely taken over cyberspace.
Or had they? What if that, too, wasn’t the truth? What if they’d been spying on her for days? Weeks? “How’d you learn so much about me in such a short period of time?” she asked.
“We have quite a few resources at our disposal,” he said.
To say she was impressed would be the understatement of all understatements. They’d even uncovered her IQ. She didn’t know her IQ score! “So what is it?” she asked, unable to suppress her curiosity.
“Five points into genius range,” said No
reen.
She had no idea she was that bright. Then again, she’d aced just about every test she’d ever taken in school and graduated Summa Cum Laude, but she’d always attributed that to a strong work ethic and lots of studying. Now two decades later, she discovers she could have studied less, partied more, and still gotten great grades. Damn! Where’s the justice?
What interested Demarco and his group in her was a combination of things that all added up to her fitting a specific profile. And she’d always thought she was just your average caring person with a moderate amount of smarts. He saw her in a completely different light, as someone with a hell of a lot of untapped potential. Or so he said.
“Why did you give up social work?” he asked.
She had a feeling with all the research he and his team had done, they already knew the answer to this question, but she supposed they wanted to hear it directly from her. “I burned out. Like just about every other social worker in this country. Too many cases, not enough time in the day, and a system that worked against us. Social service agencies are more concerned with paperwork than people. When I got pregnant, I had an excuse to stop beating my brains against a bureaucratic brick wall.”
She paused for a moment and eyed each of them. “In other words, I copped out. I’m not proud of that. I wanted to help people in need. I failed.
“So now I write up reviews of community theater productions and concerts at the various performing arts venues around the state and would continue doing so—”
“If you didn’t need a better paying job with health benefits,” he finished for her.
“Exactly.” Why should she be surprised he knew that, too? Her dossier probably even contained her favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream—Cherry Garcia.
“But you regret not being able to make a difference in those people’s lives?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“This is your chance to change that,” he said. “We’re making a difference. Our success rate since our inception six months ago is eighty-five percent.”
A pretty good stat, but she still didn’t see how she fit into their picture. Besides, she’d learned that she did much better calling her own shots. She wasn’t an employee of the newspaper; she worked as a freelancer with a steady assignment. She attended a function, wrote it up, and emailed it to her editor.
Cassandra could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in the Suburban Journal offices over the last few years. She chafed at the whole office politics thing, another reason she burned out so quickly as a social worker. She wasn’t a very social person. “I don’t suffer bureaucracy well,” she told Demarco.
No grin this time. He laughed. They all laughed. “Neither do we.”
“You said you were former FBI,” she reminded him.
“With an emphasis on the former.”
She mulled that one over for a minute. He didn’t look like a burned-out type of guy. He looked like he lived for adventure. Maybe the paperwork had gotten to him. Or the office politics. Or having to toe a certain politically correct line. He didn’t strike her as a politically correct sort of guy. “You still haven’t told me anything more specific about this job.”
“I can’t. Not until you agree to join us.”
Her eyebrows shot toward her hairline as her jaw dropped toward her lap. “Excuse me?” Was the man out of his friggin’ mind? “You expect me to accept a position without telling me what that position is? I don’t think so. You’ve told me next to nothing. Where will I be working? What will I be doing? How dangerous is the job?
“I’ve got kids. They need me. I certainly can’t depend on their father if something happens to me.” She shook her head back and forth several times. “No, absolutely not. I need more information before I agree to anything.”
She then sat back and filled her lungs with air. Her mini-tirade had left her breathless.
Demarco removed a piece of paper from a folder in front of him and sent it sailing down the length of the table toward her. “Will this change your mind?”
She picked up the sheet and turned it over. Holy-freakin’-moley! With the salary he had just offered her she’d no longer be at the mercy of The Ex. Hell, she’d be making four times what The Ex made. No worries about whether she’d have enough in the bank to pay the bills each month. No worries about how she’d scrounge up college tuition for her kids. Then there was the benefits package. Fully paid healthcare and an unbelievable pension.
He had her at all those zeroes. She glanced across the table. He knew it, and he knew that she knew he knew it. “When do I start?”
“Now.” He rose from his chair, strode down the length of the room to where she sat, and offered her his hand. “Welcome to the team, Cassandra.”
Interesting. No more Ms. Davenport. Why did she have the sudden feeling she’d just sold her soul to the devil? Could be that devilish grin plastered across Demarco’s face. She reached up and shook his hand. Demarco had one of those perfect handshakes, neither wimpy nor bone crushing forceful. The grin had disappeared. In its place she saw a look of conquest. His eyes told her, “I’ve got you right where I want you.”
Shit! She was so out of her element, she was in another galaxy, but if she were going to Hell, at least she’d have one very sexy tour guide leading the way, and it should prove an interesting trip—if she survived.
Sarcasm was second nature to Cassandra, especially when she was nervous. She’d also been told her sense of humor was an acquired taste. Since Demarco was still holding her hand in his, and she felt an awkward and totally inappropriate tension electrifying the air between the two of them, she resorted to character. “Now do I get the secret decoder ring that answers all my questions?”
Like—what would happen if she changed her mind after she learned the who-what-where-when-and-how of this organization? Would they A) be obliged to kill her, like in Alias or B) simply shoot her with an atomizer of forgetfulness, like in Men in Black? Neither option appealed to her. So she could only hope she didn’t learn anything that would make her change her mind. Or if she did change her mind, that there was an option C.
“They’re on back order,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Hanna and Noreen. They’ll explain everything.” He released her hand and exited the room.
FOUR
As it turned out, Cassandra wasn’t all that off base when she compared the Mom Squad to a cross between Alias and Men in Black.
“We like to think of ourselves as one-part Mission (Semi) Impossible and one-part Charlie’s (Middle-Aged) Angels,” said Hanna as they took the hotel elevator to the parking garage.
“Or you could more aptly call us Big Brother’s (Middle-Aged) Angels,” said Noreen.
“Big brother?”
“We’ll explain later.” She handed Cassandra a key card. “You’ll need this to access the parking garage. Gavin will arrange for one of the techs to install a chip in your car. After today you won’t need the key card. The camera will read the chip and automatically open the garage door for you.”
Cassandra slipped the plastic into her jacket pocket. “Where are we headed?”
“Morris Ave. in Union,” said Hanna. “Just follow us.”
Headquarters turned out to be a nondescript three-story red brick office building with a driveway on either side. As Cassandra turned into the driveway, following Hanna and Noreen, she noticed no signage indicating the home of savingtheworld.us—not on the building, nor on any free-standing sign on the postage stamp-sized lawn. Neither did she see written evidence of any other tenants.
Beside the small signs on either side of the building to indicate the one-way nature of the driveway, the building’s only other marking was a modest-sized metallic plaque embossed with a street number and mounted to the right of the front entrance.
At the back of the building she followed the directions on the key card machine, dipping the card into the slot and waiting for a green indicator light t
o blink on before removing it. When the massive metal garage door opened, she drove down a winding ramp to the parking level and pulled into the first vacant space. Hanna and Noreen had already exited their cars and were waiting for her.
The two women led her to a large elevator at the opposite end of the garage. She glanced around, looking for a building directory but found none, neither outside the elevator nor within it. “I see you like to keep a low profile,” she said.
“You could say that,” said Hanna. She pressed the button on the control panel, and the elevator doors swooshed open.
“I guess we don’t take part in Bring Your Kids to Work day?” said Cassandra, stepping inside the elevator.
Noreen laughed as she tapped the button for the second floor. “No kids, no pets.”
When the elevator came to a stop, she was led to a room with a small conference table. As the three of them settled into ergonomic black leather upholstered chairs, Cassandra glanced around the room. “You mentioned something earlier about Big Brother. Are we being observed?”
Noreen nodded toward the ceiling. “By the all-seeing cyber-geek on high. Try not to pick your nose.”
“No worries. I gave it up for Lent.”
Both women laughed. “I think we’re going to like working with you,” said Hanna.
Noreen nodded.
Cassandra glanced up at the white acoustic ceiling tiles. “I don’t see any cameras.”
“Trust me, they’re everywhere,” said Hanna.
Cassandra’s mouth dropped open. “Everywhere?”
“Except the ladies’ room,” said Noreen. “Ever hear of Carnivore?”
She had. “Something to do with Internet surveillance that taps into computers, right?”
Noreen nodded. “Carnivore was developed as an FBI computer program to intercept the communications of suspected criminals, terrorists, and spies.”
Cassandra remembered reading a bit about Carnivore in the aftermath of 9/11 as she had fought to find some closure over the loss of her father and brother. She had just started her senior year of high school that day when her world had changed forever.
At first people didn’t object to the surveillance. They wanted the government to keep them safe from future attacks. A slight loss of privacy seemed a small price to pay, but the program became a slippery slope that grew increasingly more slippery, leading to Julian Assange and Edward Snowden revealing just how much information the government was collecting on everyone.
