by Victor Allen
Lord Acton
Sandra Lamb would have thought having breakfast with an NSA analyst would have been a bit of cloak and dagger, but she met him at an open air café on a Monday morning in Baltimore, fifteen miles south of the main NSA headquarters on Savage Rd. in Fort Meade, Maryland. She had made the thirty mile drive from a DC suburb in the clean light of a crisp, April morning. She had met with the man before, but knew him only as JB, a pair of initials which was, she was sure, an inside joke, as in “James Bond”.
Sandra was a co-anchor for a local DC midday news team, and she was itching for something big. JB had delivered a couple of small things in the past, but it was unusual for him to contact her, and she suspected he had something hot.
He had arrived before her, which was typical. Probably a spook thing. She parked her car and hurried over to the crosswalk. Her white skirt hugged to her hips and tummy and her shoulder length hair fluttered around her face in the morning breeze. She had long ago given up the idea of going braless in a ribbed t-shirt and sporting unshaved legs and armpit hair to match her chin stubble as a sign of her liberation. It never hurt to look like a stone cold fox when you were trying to get information from a man.
She clicked her way across the street in her high heels. Morning-rush traffic, with its honking horns and revving engines, was accepted as just another sound one wakes up to in the city, as unexciting as chirping sparrows or droning insects. JB’s cup of black coffee still steamed in the sparkling Spring cool and he had eaten about half of his breakfast of sausage, eggs and pancakes.
She sat down at his table, taking off her sunglasses, and ordered a latte.
“You have something for me?”
JB put down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He had the smooth, unlined brow that comes with a clear conscience and untroubled sleep. He was about her age, thirty, with a sort of entitled, Ivy League flavor about him. She knew better than to ask him exactly what he did, but looking at him -his average height and looks, fairly good suit, even though it was not bespoken, and cool demeanor- really gave no clue to whether he was an inscrutable shaman of computer geekery or a wet work wonk. She just couldn’t tell.
“What would it be worth,” he asked, “to have an inside scoop on the hottest of hot button issues?”
Sandra’s green eyes kindled with interest. “Terrorism?”
“Even better. Home-grown terrorism. Right here in the Baltimore-DC area.”
“What’s it going to cost me?”
“How about,” JB said. “Dinner at your place this weekend? I’ll bring the wine.”
“Seriously,” Sandra said, but she was smiling. “You’re strong-arming a date out of me?”
“Once I give you this,” JB predicted, “you’ll want to have my babies. Just keep your phone handy and have a remote crew ready to go. I’ll give you chapter and verse when it goes down.”
