“She watched,” Julie mumbles, only to you. “When I was…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.
You know what she’s saying.
In the shiver that sweeps over you, the pieces come together.
Who to believe?
Who to believe?
You make your choice.
“Well?” Melissa says. “Do it.”
You place a hand on Julie’s forehead. “Shh,” you say to her. “Quiet. Just rest.”
This close you can see that the wound from the impact of the bronze horse against her head doesn’t look as serious as you’d thought at first.
“Finish it!” It’s Melissa again. “Go on or I will.”
You might be able to stop the bleeding. It might not be too late.
“Please,” Julie whispers.
You lean closer, tell her not to move, to lie still. You pretend to hold her nose and mouth closed, tell her again to be quiet, to rest, just as you told Brian two days ago at the cabin. She obeys. Lies still.
You count to twenty, then you rise, join Melissa beside the counter.
Julie doesn’t move. She is playing her part well.
You turn and see that Melissa has picked up one of the wine glasses. Left is right; right is wrong.
She has chosen the one on the right. “So,” she says. “It’s done.”
You can still stop her before she takes a drink.
“Yes.”
Murder never goes as planned.
Sometimes you have to improvise.
You can still save Julie.
Still salvage a remnant of justice.
You take the other glass. Raise it.
“To justice,” you say.
Melissa taps her glass to yours. “And to love.”
“And to love,” you echo.
And then you each take an irrevocable sip of the future.
THE VIRGO AFFAIR
by Daco
I made my way from the Vietnam Memorial and across a soccer field, only to witness that worm, Jack Adams, tugging on the collar of his trenchcoat—he was actually wearing a trenchcoat—and readjusting a pair of sunglasses. I’d almost laughed when the paunchy, balding Adams, chief operations engineer for NASA, had insisted that I meet him on a park bench at West Potomac Park facing the Boundary Channel of the Potomac River, with the Washington Monument due north of our backs. The man watched far too much television. But I couldn’t afford to mock his ridiculous cloak-and-dagger idea about how best to take a bribe and betray his country. Not when I had him where I wanted him.
I made sure I was ten minutes late. When I appeared in his peripheral vision he flinched.
“Don’t be so jittery, Jack.”
“I said 8:30.”
“Rush hour traffic. I-395 is a war zone in the morning.”
“Did you bring it?”
“I did, Jack. But cash is a bad idea. A wire transfer would be much safer.”
“Show me.”
I retrieved a manila envelope from my knapsack. He reached for it, but I pulled it back. “Have you rescheduled the experiment to fly on the next mission?” I asked.
Adams knew that I was acting on behalf of the People’s Republic of China. He thought I was a traitor; I knew he was. The Chinese wanted him to do two things: expedite the test of an experimental laser that supposedly could vaporize dangerous space debris but that clearly could have military uses like blasting ballistic missiles out of the sky; and modify the laser’s source code with an algorithm, enabling me to control its operation. Needless to say, I intended to use the laser system for something other than cleaning up space garbage. The impact on international politics, on world stability, would be enormous. The laser prototype was top secret, critically important to the United States military.
“It’s all set,” he said. “The new lineup goes through just after midnight tonight when the system updates, and goes public the first of next month. Only, the price has gone up. It’s ten million now or I pull the plug.”
“Unwise, Jack.”
“So you say, Jordan. If that’s your real name.”
In fact, I had given him my real name—Jordan Jakes. Ordinarily, I would’ve used an alias, but I’d given him my true identity because if he tried to check me out he’d find that I’d left the CIA. He obviously hadn’t done his research.
“You do know who you’re dealing with,” I said.
Adams puffed out his chest. “I’m an official of the United States government. No one is going to do anything to me. If anyone ever tried to harm me, it’d create an international incident.”
I shrugged and started to get up, hoping that he was as greedy as I thought. “Okay. If you want to pass on four-and-a-half-million dollars, untraceable, that’s your lifestyle choice.”
He smiled a snaggle-toothed smile. “I’m a popular man. There’s another buyer.”
I sat back down. “Bullshit.”
He removed his sunglasses and met my eyes. By the way he was gloating, I knew he was telling the truth. This was a complication no one needed.
“Who are you talking to?” I asked.
“Seriously, Jakes? Next, you’ll expect me to break the story on the evening news. Fox, CNN, NBC.”
I wanted to smack the ginger out of him. But I maintained my composure. “We’ve been at this for a long time. Anyone coming at you now can’t be on the level.”
“Oh, trust me, they are.”
“I don’t think you’ve proved yourself very trustworthy, Adams.” We sat and glared at each other. “I’ll have to talk to my people,” I said. His ugly smile broadened.
The Chinese could obviously pay the price, and time was of the essence. I’d cultivated Adams for six months, and now wasn’t the time to let him slip away.
“Here’s the down payment,” I said, handing him the envelope, which he stuffed into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. “A showing of good faith on our side. You’ll get the rest when the mission launches.”
“No deal unless the rest of the money is wired to my account no later than five o’clock this evening.” He rose from his seat, but abruptly sat back down hard, rattling the bench. What was he going to ask for now, twenty million and a private jet to Brazil?
Then I noticed the small, round, lethal hole in the middle of his forehead. His lifeless eyes stared off into the distance, no longer seeing dollar signs—no longer seeing anything. The shot had been perfect, the work of a trained sniper. I calmly stood up, gave Adams a friendly goodbye hug, and planted a platonic kiss on his cheek. Meanwhile, like the trained pickpocket I was, I surreptitiously snatched the envelope from his coat.
I tapped my earring, activating an earpiece to communicate with my Chinese handler.
“Damn it, Jiāng, that wasn’t necessary. I wanted to find out whether there’s really another buyer, and if so, who it is.”
“He couldn’t be trusted,” Jiāng said. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
• • •
Foggy Bottom was north of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. To get to our rendezvous point on time, I had to hail a taxi. At this time of the morning, vacant cabs were sparse, but I got lucky when a cab pulled up to the curb and a man—undoubtedly a veteran—with bum legs and a walker struggled to get out of the vehicle curbside. It would’ve been much easier if Jiāng had just met me at the Memorial, but he clearly didn’t want to stick around at the scene of the crime.
The café was a contemporary hangout, with well-heeled, inside-the-beltway powerbrokers and curious tourists streaming in and out at all hours of the day—for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or just an espresso or Caffè Americano. It wasn’t hard to blend in with the crowd. I ordered a black coffee and located Jiāng sitting at a table in the back, no dark glasses, no disguise, as welcoming as anyone could be. Jiāng was a pro. He’d executed a man just ten minutes earlier, yet he knew that the best way to hide was to give the impression that you’re not hiding. I walked up to the ta
ble and sat across from him.
“What the hell, Jiāng?” I said in a low voice.
“Fat Su says we’re going to the Virgo option,” he replied in perfect English. Fat Su was Jiāng’s superior, legendary in the business for his cunning and ruthlessness. No one outside of the PRC’s Ministry of State Security knew his identity.
“Too great a risk of exposure.”
Jiāng gave an exaggerated shrug of helplessness, palms up, conveying that he might agree but that he wasn’t about to argue with his superior.
Virgo was the last resort, which meant that I had to seduce and pretend to fall in love with a NASA scientist.
• • •
Back at my slum of an apartment, I waited a week for the call. It was time enough to put the Adams debacle behind me and devise my plan. Dr. Benjamin Johnson had developed the laser, the culmination of a lifelong passion that had started with converting toys into real-life applications. His NASA personnel photograph wasn’t the most flattering. Reports said he liked to exercise, but in the photos, he looked like a big kid with shaggy long hair, a typical over-enthusiastic scientist who didn’t act his age. Johnson rarely took vacations—a true workaholic. However, he had a second job; for the past two years, he’d owned and operated his deceased grandfather’s corner pub located in the heart of D.C. A watering hole that locals frequented on the weekends to drink beer and watch sporting events, it was also a convenient place for young professionals and Beltway insiders to drink cocktails during the workweek. I deduced that immature, distracted, overworked Benjamin Johnson was an easy mark, and I was about to become his newest friend with benefits.
On a Thursday, eight days after Adams’s demise, the prepaid cellphone rang.
“We have confirmed that laser experiment is slated for a mission next May,” Jiāng said. That was almost a year away, more than enough time for me to get close to Johnson. Also more than enough time for a phony romantic relationship to go sour, and a long time to put up with some dude groping you.
“Looks like Adams came through,” I said. “Just not the way he’d planned.”
“I assume you can retain your objectivity. Many cannot. But you are experienced in such matters?”
“Piece of cake,” I replied, trying to sound blasé. I felt anything but blasé. My cheeks burned hot. The truth was, I’d never become sexually involved with a target before, had steadfastly refused to go that route. But this operation was different, too important for scruples. Or so I told myself. Besides, I’d done many unpleasant things in my career, things I’d never imagined doing. Still, I didn’t know if I could go through with seducing Johnson, and if I failed, I’d be next on Jiāng’s hit list.
• • •
A cryptic text message from my auto mechanic came through, informing me that my Mercedes was ready. Except I didn’t own a Mercedes, and my car wasn’t in the shop. I used my secure phone to dial a number. My superior, Sean “Snake” Bridges, Director of Field Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency, answered. He and the Director of the Agency were the only people who knew that I was still a CIA operative, who knew that my relationship with the Chinese was part of a covert CIA operation that involved Iran, China, and Russia—Operation Libra.
“I got your message that Virgo is in play,” Snake said. “Make your move now.” He paused. “There’s a complication, though.”
“There always is.”
“We’ve gotten a report that someone’s going to try to abduct Johnson. Force him to provide his know-how so they can make their own laser system. Which could disable our satellites, take out our missiles, and perhaps even be used as a way to deliver miniaturized nuclear material to launch a terrorist attack on American soil.”
“Who?”
“It seems that some functionary working for our Chinese friends solicited a bribe from a Jihadist terrorist group hiding out in Pakistan. The PRC bureaucrat told them about the laser.”
“Does this group know about Operation Libra?”
“No, thankfully. All the terrorists know is that there’s experimental laser technology that can be weaponized. Word is that this group has a lot of money and, worse, the help of some rogue Pakistani scientist who could use Johnson’s laser technology to deliver a payload. We think they’ll make a move at Johnson’s pub this Saturday.”
“Is this info fully confirmed?”
“It is not, Jordan. But the chatter indicating that there’s going to be an attempt to kidnap Johnson is very reliable. Watch out for the Chinese, too.” Snake ended the call.
• • •
At 9:30 the following Saturday night, I walked into Ben Johnson’s bar. I wore a pair of tight, faded blue jeans that were cut below the navel, a pressed V-neck tee shirt hanging loosely outside my pants, and a pair of heeled sandals that spelled fun, but not sexy. I’d flat-ironed my long auburn hair, keeping a slight flip at its ends. I chose a pair of dangly silver earrings that I’d picked up in a flea market, nothing extravagant but assuredly flirtatious. I looked like the girl-next-door, the kind of girl that Johnson went for, according to his dossier.
The pub was mobbed. I wended my way through the crowd and over to the bar. When the young man seated on the end barstool stood up to yuck it up with his friends, I slid into his vacant seat and pushed his glass of beer over to his girlfriend, who was in the stool next to what was now mine. When he went to sit back down and saw that I’d commandeered his chair he scowled, but I smiled coyly and gave a dainty half-shrug. He flashed a sheepish smile and gestured at the chair chivalrously.
Johnson wasn’t tending bar, and I worried that I’d picked a bad night. A young blonde was behind the counter. She swayed up to me and asked, “What’ll you have, honey?”
“I’ll take a Ramos Gin Fizz.”
“What’s in that?”
“Sorry, but if you don’t know you shouldn’t be making it.”
She sighed. “I’ll send my boss your way.”
A few moments later, Johnson emerged from the back, carrying a beer keg that must’ve weighed over a hundred pounds. The blonde bartender whispered something to him and pointed at me. When Johnson put down the keg and started toward me, my elbow slipped forward on the bar. His NASA photograph must’ve been taken back in the 1980s, because the only recognizable feature from that photo were his eyes. He was a mix of Isle of Mann Scotch and Nordic Viking blended to perfection, served with a twist of dark mahogany curls that hung down to his shoulders. He wore a pair of thigh-hugging blue jeans and a white button-down dress shirt meticulously tucked in, the sleeves rolled up to his forearm. He was muscular, lean, and taller than I’d expected, at least six feet, four inches. In short, he wasn’t the nerd in the white lab coat whom I’d expected. My insides fluttered, and I was consumed with a feeling that I rarely allowed myself to feel—true, uncalculated attraction to a man. In my line of work, boyfriends and spouses spelled trouble. Personally, I didn’t need the headache.
When Johnson’s eyes met mine, I felt unnerved and reflectively averted my eyes for a moment.
“Ella tells me you ordered a Ramos Gin Fizz?” he asked, flashing an amused smile.
“Yeah, do you know how to make it?”
“I have the heavy cream and the fresh egg white, but I’ll have to substitute a little Cointreau for the orange flower water.”
“Go for it.”
He tapped the counter just as you’d expect a bartender to do and went to work. He poured gin, cream, citrus juice, and club soda into a shaker, reached under the counter, and retrieved an egg and separated the white, which he added to the concoction. Then he splashed a dash of Cointreau, shook the shaker, and poured the liquid into a glass, the froth perfect.
“One Ramos Gin Fizz for the lady,” he said.
“Nice job,” I said. “I’m Jordan.”
“Ben,” he said as he extended his hand. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” Then he went back to work.
I only had to observe him for five minutes to understand t
hat Dr. Ben Johnson had an eye for detail and possessed a dry wit. Remarkably, he could take an order with his back to the customer, and without writing it down, still serve the correct drink to the person five minutes later. Unlike the stereotype of the brilliant but befuddled scientist, he was street smart. There was something else: when he interacted with the female customers he was charming, friendly, but also distant. Maybe he was a man who simply didn’t mix business with pleasure, but I thought there was more to it—he behaved like a man who’d been hurt by a woman. It was all speculation, but in my line of work you have to rely on speculation. I felt a twinge of guilt—if I did manage to accomplish my objective, I’d be another woman who’d hurt him.
Suddenly, I felt two strong arms wrap around my waist and a man’s body press up against me. There was an overpowering smell of cologne, Cartier Declaration for Men. A few years ago, a friend of mine decided I needed a night out and thought Daniel Graves would be a fun date. The date had been the opposite of fun. Catastrophe is more like it. Ever since that night, I’d hated that cologne.
“Let go of me or I’ll break your arms, Graves,” I said in a harsh whisper.
As far as Graves knew, I was a civilian, a washout like him. He’d been drummed out of the FBI after he’d loused up one too many jobs. Now he was working for a shady private security company in Virginia. He could blow my cover, and if that happened I couldn’t keep Johnson safe, much less forge an intimate relationship with him.
“A double Dewar’s White Label, no ice,” he shouted to Johnson, who brought him the drink.
“How long has it been, Jordan, two years?” Graves asked.
“Not long enough.”
He leaned in so close that I could feel his breath on my cheeks. “You’re looking as hot as ever.”
When I turned around, he drew back, still smirking.
“And you’re as charming as ever,” I said.
“So I hear you’re looking for a job. The company I’m working for pays six times what the government paid us, and all you have to do is investigate corporate espionage or babysit some rich hedge-fund operator or celebrity.”
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