The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale

by Josie Brown

  The map’s graphic is now under the sheer gold net that seems to be coming from a tiny orb circling the Earth.

  “Then, a decade ago, Hart Media bought the controlling interest in a Hong Kong-based satellite broadcasting network,” Emma adds. “Afterward, it purchased another satellite outright—one that’s based here in the U.S. Through these assets, it has created a news reporting organization that is second to none in the world.”

  Ryan nods. “Any news story Hart Media deems worthy for a broader audience is pegged for in-depth development before being distributed more widely, with country-to-country translations. Invariably, though, the stories are slanted to appeal to a populist audience. No matter where the articles appear, the message is always a nationalist one: country first and foremost.”

  The screen now shows a photo that looks as if it was taken from a corporate annual report. A tall, square-shouldered man in his mid-eighties with thick graying hair stands in the center. A woman and a man, both in their thirties, stand on either side of him.

  “Randall has two older children from his first wife, Marie Lange, whom he divorced two decades ago. Hart’s children run different portions of his empire,” Emma explains.

  Just like their father, they wear power suits. They share his florid features, his square-cut jaw, and his long, straight nose. And like his, the camera picks up the disdain in their brittle expressions.

  A digital spotlight appears on the man to Randall’s left. “Harold Hart runs the newspapers and radio divisions,” Ryan continues. “He allows his division directors to do the heavy lifting. He’d much rather be out on the golf course. He will do anything to please his father, except for one thing: he has a penchant for dipping his pen into the company inkwell, something his father abhors.”

  I’ve run into his type before. The son feels he can’t compete with a financial titan of a father. He’ll end up with his father’s largesse anyway, so why bother?

  But if his sister is competing for daddy’s favor, he’s exploitable. I’m sure Ryan feels that’s where I come in.

  Honeypot ‘R’ Me.

  I watch as the spotlight now rolls to Randall’s daughter. “Charlotte Hart heads up the radio, film, and television entertainment divisions. Beyond television shows and movies, her domain also includes any live television broadcasts, such as the upcoming International Nuclear Disarmament Summit,” Emma points out.

  Ryan nods. “She’s considered a stickler for detail and is very much a daddy’s girl. She has never married, although she’s come close a couple of times. Sadly, her fiancés seem to meet with fatal accidents.”

  Yikes! I hope Jack isn’t assigned to entice her.

  Emma adds, “She’s renowned for her flamboyance and mercurial nature. She loves hobnobbing with celebrities, and even appears regularly on the network’s internationally syndicated show, Good Morning Hartland!”

  The next photo shows Charlotte standing proudly on the morning show’s set.

  “Is that a misspelling in the name?” I point to the title, where the word heart now excludes the letter E.

  Emma shakes her head. “Nope. It’s just a bit of subliminal sleight of hand. The show is a folksy combination of personal interviews, entertainment features, and news. One moment a celebrity is making a favorite recipe with the morning team, the next the hosts are clucking their tongues at a current event that doesn’t seem ‘all-American.’” Emma makes air quotes. “Their happy talk always has a populist slant.” Involuntarily, she glances at Jack. Blushing, she turns back to me. “And President Chiffray is the most frequent piñata for their barbs.”

  Jack grins at this. He doesn’t mind watching Lee squirm. I guess it lessens his ongoing disgust of Lee’s infatuation with me.

  “On the other hand, they fawn after the First Lady. The hosts’ latest political rants are that POTUS isn’t tough enough on quote-unquote bad guys. But they never elaborate on who they mean.”

  “He can start with FLOTUS,” I grumble.

  Lee Chiffray’s wife, Babette, was too close with too many members of the Quorum, the international organization known to finance terrorist cells all over the country. Its titular leader, Eric Weber, is now deceased. After discovering that Carl Stone, my first husband, had infiltrated the Quorum, Eric recruited him as a triple agent. Since Trisha’s birth, this has been my cross to bear.

  Ryan glances sharply at me, but he knows better than to engage me on the topic. Instead, he shrugs. “Randall’s advanced age has Vegas bookies and Wall Street brokers taking bets as to who will be his successor.” Ryan nods toward the family photo. “Both kids make no bones that they want the job.”

  “So right now, the winner is a toss-up,” I surmise.

  “Randall is past eighty. He must be grooming a successor. If the heir and the spare aren’t in on the Russian connection, eventually the new CEO will have to be informed. That’s where Acme comes in.”

  With a flick of a switch, the screen goes dark. Ryan faces us. “We guess that the Russians loaned Randall the money he needs to grow his empire. In return, he may be laundering money for certain Russian officials.”

  Arnie's cough easily passes for “Putin!”

  Ryan finally cracks a smile. “Our mission is to infiltrate the company, find any money trail that affiliates it with Russia, and discover just how many executives on the management team know about it. It may just be Randall. Or, it may be several members of the family. If so, and if one is willing to cut a deal with State Department prosecutors and implicate the others involved, it will be a feather in the CIA’s cap, not to mention Acme’s.”

  We nod solemnly.

  “By tomorrow, Arnie will be planted in Hart Media’s tech division. From there, he’ll hack the company’s database and Acme’s financial forensic team can go to work.”

  Arnie gives him a thumbs-up.

  “Dominic’s cover is that of vice president of a major British bank that already has a seat on Hart Media’s executive board, and just in time. The company’s monthly board retreat takes place in a few days. There, he’ll be able to hobnob with the family and other key members of the management team.”

  Dominic frowns. “What? My cover isn’t that of on-air talent?”

  “Sorry, no,” Ryan says firmly. “Randall’s daughter is single and she has a wandering eye and for that matter, hands. This time you’ll put to use your celebrated talent in the area of social engagement. But you’re right. Hart Media is always on the lookout for overseas journalists. Which brings me to the Craigs.”

  He turns to Jack and me. “In Hart Media’s smaller foreign offices, reporters are expected to do triple duty. They not only write newspaper articles but also provide audio and video reportage. Acme has already devised rock-solid print and broadcast resumes for ‘Grant Larkin,’” he points to Jack, “and ‘Gwendolyn Durant.’ If we’re lucky, Hart Media will hire both of you. In fact, Hart Media has an immediate need for reporters in its Moscow satellite office. Recently, its staff of three quit. They received better offers from news organizations located in their home countries.”

  Jack raises a brow. “How convenient.”

  “Truly a shame.” Ryan’s sly grin gives away his role in this development.

  “It’s not going to be easy to fake a journalist’s background. And, except for that horrific reality show, we’ve done a great job of staying off-camera, for good reason,” I remind him.

  Spooks aren’t supposed to be heard let alone seen.

  “Emma and the ComInt team has pulled a year’s worth of broadcast footage from small news services all over the world: organizations that use freelance journalists, what they call ‘stringers.’ From these news pieces, they’ve dummied up newspaper articles under your bylines with datelines from all over the world. If anyone searches, your bylined articles have already been placed online.” He hands us binders filled with ComInt’s handiwork. “As for the radio broadcasts and television clips needed to build your portfolio, you’ll memorize these scripts, w
hich support the archival footage that Emma’s team has pulled. Then, after a few alterations guaranteed to make you camera-ready and unrecognizable, we’ll put you in front of a green screen, where you’ll repeat the news stories as if you were the original reporters.”

  Jack nods slowly. “I guess it’s worth a try.”

  “But, Ryan, what happens when we’re given a real news assignment?” I ask.

  “Your articles and soundbites will be written for you by Lamar Crenshaw. His journalistic chops are legitimate: he worked for the Department of Defense before joining us. After this meeting, he’ll go over the basics with you. It boils down to encapsulating the who, what, where, when, why, and how.”

  “You make it sound easy,” Jack retorts.

  “You’ve had harder assignments, believe me.”

  It's Ryan’s way of saying, Shut up. It’s a done deal.

  By his sigh, I guess Jack realizes this too.

  “Besides, you’re a shoo-in,” Ryan insists. “It helps that you know some Russian, Jack. And your fluency in French and German will also be an asset.” Ryan turns to Abu. “And your facility for languages makes you a shoo-in as ‘Grant’ and ‘Gwendolyn’s’ cameraperson. In that position, you'll assist with any tech or cleanups.”

  Abu smiles and nods. “Great! With broadcast union wages, I’ll be sitting pretty for a few months.”

  Ryan arches a brow. “I can always count on you to find the greener side of any assignment.”

  I laugh. “I guess I should bone up on a few key Russian phrases.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” Ryan replies. “In any event, those hired will have a government escort with them at all times, usually surreptitiously. All foreign media organizations are advised to rent their offices and employee housing through the UPDK, a real estate agency that is owned by the Russian government. They also provide translators, bodyguards, and office managers.”

  Jack frowns. “In other words, we’ll be watched twenty-four-seven.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, if Donna and I are out in the field, we can’t do surveillance of Randall and his family,” Jack points out.

  “As you discovered with the screenwriter, Sebastian Gillingham, it’s not unusual to pass secret messages via publicly distributed documents—newspapers, magazines, even a flyer, or a broadcast. Acme anticipates Hart Media will assign you to cities in which its reporters have dealings, knowingly or unknowingly, with foreign agents. If so, your bosses’ instructions as to what you see and whom you see, and what and how you write or broadcast your news pieces, may be instrumental in the CIA making its case against Hart.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  I may sound nonchalant, but Russia and the U.S.’s new Cold War is chillier than ever. This assignment puts me deep behind enemy lines. For an American operative, going undercover in Moscow is akin to sticking one’s head in a lion’s mouth. You want to get out of there before the teeth clamp down.

  Should Jack and I make credible hires, it will certainly make the mission easier with him at my side.

  Ryan looks at his watch. “We’ve still got a lot to do. Arnie has worked up some simple disguises for you. When he’s done, meet Emma in the studio, and we’ll record the news items to round out your job submissions. Acme will plant them in Hart Media's in-house recruiter's call sheet for tomorrow. Your resumes are filled with glowing recommendations, so it may just work.”

  Seeing my worried grimace, Jack pats my hand. We realize that this assignment will take us away from the kids for a while.

  Aunt Phyllis won’t mind hanging with them now that she’s found a hot yoga studio on our side of town.

  Still, I’d worry less about our absence if Trisha could find a different set of school friends.

  “…where the Balkans, where Bosnian…sorry. I'll pick it up there…Where Croatian opposition parties have initiated a no-confidence vote in the deputy prime minister.” Jack wipes away the sweat rolling down his forehead.

  And no wonder. The sixty-eight-degree temperature inside Acme’s studio does little to mitigate the warmth of Jack’s heavy overcoat, gloves, and a scarf, let alone his tension over his eighth take of this one news item. His hair is now blond and he is wearing stark blue contacts behind glasses.

  Abu stands behind the camera filming him in front of a green screen. He winces at Jack’s flub then looks over at Emma, to see if she caught it too.

  She cringes. “Do another take, Jack.”

  Jack frowns. “Give me a second or two, okay? I’m boiling under this getup.”

  “It’s okay. You’re supposed to look a little harried,” Emma reminds him. “Remember, you’re out in the field.”

  Still, she signals a stylist to flip on one of the fans that stand off-camera. Its breeze flutters the end of Jack’s scarf.

  I had it easier. Supposedly, Gwendolyn, ostensibly a British national, has most recently been stationed in some Middle-Eastern hotbeds—Afghanistan, Syria, and Iraq—where her all-purpose wardrobe included cool white cotton blouses worn over tan linen slacks, skirts, and the requisite headscarf.

  Not that Gwendolyn looked pristine. The stylists made sure to smudge my clothes with dust. My face, neck, legs, and arms are tanned, but they were smart enough to leave the worry on my face. Truthfully, it comes from thinking about Trisha’s angst, not the soundtrack of dropping bombs and gunfire from the war zone footage screening behind me.

  Sure, I also flubbed a line or two. But by my eighth newscast, I had the patter down.

  “This is only Jack’s second attempt,” I remind Dominic.

  Dominic pouts. “That’s not why he flubbed the line. Unlike me, or you, even affecting a posh accent, he’s just not a natural in front of the camera. I’ll never understand why our fearless leader didn’t give me the on-air assignment instead.”

  Dominic glances forlornly at the security camera placed high in the corner of the room. Ryan is watching, and he knows it.

  He lifts his wrist to gaze into a mirrored cufflink as if he’ll find the answer there.

  It didn’t work for Snow White’s Evil Queen. Why would it work for a mere mortal man whore?

  I jerk his hand down to his side. “You’re joking, right? I mean, come on already! You’re a rabid whoremonger and an insatiable womanizer. When one looks up ‘lounge lizard’ in the dictionary, your photo is beside it.”

  Somehow, a tiny line breaks through the barrier of Botox etched permanently on Dominic’s forehead. Looking panicked, he reaches for his phone to scroll through the Merriam Webster Dictionary app.

  I’ve got to nip this obsession in the bud, and quickly. “Ryan knows what he’s doing. You’re a natural honeytrap! Shouldn’t you embrace the whore within you? It’s the role of a lifetime!”

  His eyes open wide. “Why, you’re right! It’s time that I am true to myself and celebrate who I am!” Tugging at my new hairstyle—a wig, short-cropped and blond—he adds, “Those glasses are sexy, old girl. They make you look like a naughty teacher. This ash color becomes you. I take it, though, that your make-over didn’t include matching the carpet to the drapes?”

  I arch a brow. “Should I ask Jack to get back to you on that question?”

  Dominic shakes his head adamantly. “Indeed, no! I’ve spent too much on my teeth as is.” Just for a moment, his eyes darken with sadness. “Such a pity! You’ll always be the one who got away, Mistress Stone Craig.”

  “Ran away,” I correct him.

  He shrugs. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-toe.” This time when he looks at his cell phone, it’s to open his Tinder app. “Time to share the wealth.”

  “And, I presume the seed,” I reason.

  “Indubitably! One mustn’t disappoint the customers, eh?”

  I leave him swiping right. And right again…and again…and again. Dominic lines up his dates one after the other like planes on final approach to LAX.

  Now that Jack is done with his last newscast, I walk over to him. He greets me with a kiss. When he pulls back,
he laughs. “I feel as if I’m making love to a strange woman.”

  I put my arms around him. In a posh British accent, I reply, “Then we must be properly introduced as soon as possible.” I add in my normal voice, “But first things first. We should grab some stuff from home before we have to head for the airport.”

  He smiles. “Works for me. I can think of no better way to spend some of my frequent flyer points than in the Donna Craig Mile-High Club!”

  I’d pretend to be shocked, but I feel exactly the same.

  By the time Jack and I make it home, it’s after midnight. Aunt Phyllis’ snores are bouncing off the guest room wall. Somehow the children are sleeping through it.

  Our interview is at ten in the morning in Hart Media’s headquarters in Manhattan. One of Acme’s private planes will be fueled up and ready to leave in less than three hours.

  Jack shushes me. “The kids may not be awake, but we can still kiss them goodbye.”

  We do, one at a time.

  When Jack opens Trisha’s door, her eyes flutter, but otherwise she doesn’t move.

  Jeff doesn’t open his eyes either, but my kiss garners a sigh and a smile before he flips over to his other side.

  Finally, we peek in through Mary’s door. She seems to be sleeping too, even as we graze her cheek with our lips.

  But then her eyelids flutter open. Instinctively, she’s about to throw her arms around my neck but my new hair mesmerizes her. “Ooooh! I love you both as blondes!”

  Suddenly, I realize I’m still wearing my wig. “Oh! I’m just, you know, trying out a new look.”

  Mary sits up, hopefully. “Hey, can I dye my hair too?”

  “No!” Jack and I say together.

  Mary pouts. “Too bad. It’s snatched!”

  I throw up my hands. “There’s that word again! Okay, tell me: What exactly does it mean?”

  Mary guffaws. “The old-school definition would be cool, or awesome.”

  I sigh. “Ah. Got it.”

  Still, we get our hugs. When she pulls away, she’s glassy-eyed. “Be careful,” she warns us. She knows the dark side to our professional life.