Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  Paul looked out over the waves and breathed in deeply. His mission was over. Tomorrow he’d fly back to New York, but for the rest of today and tonight he was celebrating in his unique style, with someone he actually wanted to have sex with. It was his reward for having to prostitute himself to get the cooperation of the less desirable people who were needed to accomplish the objectives. The fact that, in the end, they needed to be eliminated, didn’t faze him; it was, after all, the cost of doing business. But with Elanna, it was pure pleasure. He saw her emerge from below as she sat on the edge of the boat and swung her legs over the side and hopped back down onto the sand.

  She was topless, as was the way most European women enjoyed the beach. As she walked to him on the shifting fine-grain sand, she commented, “This is the perfect spot on the most perfect day.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You know, Paul, you don’t have to send me expensive gifts just to fuck me.”

  “Nonsense, even a countess like you likes presents.” He grabbed her and kissed her neck.

  “True. But you, all by yourself, are present enough,” She said smiling as she pulled back her long hair so he could nibble on her neck a bit more.

  “But then how could I lure you away from the boys in Vienna?”

  “It’s easy, they’re boys . . . they’re fun . . . but you, you are a man and you know how to treat a . . .”—his hand found the spot and she caught her breath—“woman.”

  As she let a little moan escape she looked around. “Are we someplace called the Maze?”

  “Oh yeah, you saw the chart on the boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, that was the last renter, I guess. The Maze is where you go to see sharks.”

  “No, thank you. The only animal I want to be eaten by is right here.” She turned and pushed him down onto the blanket then fell on him and kissed him.

  .G.

  Right on time, at 5:00 p.m., Paul pulled alongside the dock at Sun Seeker Charters. He shut down the motors as the dockhand tied off the line. He helped Elanna off the boat and she went right to the ladies room in the rental office.

  In the little dockside office, the clerk slid the clipboard with the rental agreement across the desk. Paul signed it. The man checked the signature and said, “Was everything in order, sir?”

  “Yes. Everything was perfect. But unfortunately, I lost one set of diving weights. Slipped right out of my hands.”

  “No problem, sir. We can add it to your credit card.”

  “That will be fine. So sorry.”

  Elanna came out of the loo and stood beside him in her new glasses, sandals, and aqua-and-white beach wrap as he signed the new adjusted credit card slip at the desk.

  Acknowledging her, the clerk inquired, “Did you both have a nice day?”

  “Yes. We truly did,” Paul said.

  The clerk watched them leave, thinking that the lady must have lost the pretty hat she’d had on this morning, while they were out on the water.

  At 7:00 p.m. that night they sat at the best table at the Balla Qui and spoke of plans to meet again. Elanna suggested that maybe they’d meet in New York in a few weeks. Paul suggested maybe a South Sea Island instead. “Ooooh, sounds lovely,” Elanna said, then asked if they’d be sharing a cab to the airport in the morning.

  Chapter 8

  The Personal Touch

  Based on the new intel delivered by Nigel, and the assessment that this was potentially an ISIS threat, Brooke’s investigation got a shot in the arm, a ten million dollar injection. Overnight, she had a new command over one hundred more agents in New York, Washington, and London as well as researchers, forensic accountants, and translators. One of the ways to stop the attack would be to trace it from the point of finance through to the operating cell. “Follow the money” was not a new technique in the war on terror, just the least sexy. Nevertheless, her department heads were gathered around the table at 8:30 a.m. “Most of us know each other, but you may not know Nigel. He’s MI6, assigned to this op, which as of oh seven hundred is officially now code named, Operation Sweeper.”

  She then went on to lay out clear lines of information flow and accountability. She reinforced the crucial timing aspect of imminent danger. She ended by challenging them to find these guys by financial forensics before all that was left was crime scene forensics. Then she opened up the floor to questions. “Jason?”

  “Did you pick the name? Or was it computer generated?”

  “I picked it. Wes?”

  “Director Burrell, how does our number one POI, the Sheik of Arabia, play into this?”

  “First off, at this level, first names only. It saves time. So it’s Brooke. Second, our main person of interest is the Sheik of Araby, not Arabia, and he’s the only movement on the board right now. Everything else is static intel, right up until the Brits lost track of the entire cell.”

  “I understand that MI6 found multiple references to the Sheik of Araby in intercepts, but could there be something to that ID?” Jason said.

  Nigel jumped in. “I queried that myself, turns out it’s not an actual person or title, but a reference to a movie idol of the 1920s. The first superstar, if you will, a chap named Rudolf Valentino; he played the lead role in the silent film The Sheik, and women went by the millions to see this dashing, handsome man sweep ladies up in his arms and whisk them away to the Kasbah. It was so popular that a song called ‘The Sheik of Araby’ was written about him and the whole mystique the film created.”

  “So, is that a behavioral trait we should be scanning for?”

  “Actually, at the risk of standing out as the only member of her majesty’s secret service in the room, I’d have likened him more to James Bond. Even though we don’t know his name, we can deduce from his movements which, as Director Burrell has noted, is the only thing in motion at this time, that he has a penchant for exotic places and using women as cover. His seduction seems more deliberate to a mission than romantic.

  “So, Brooke, how do you want to go about this? Who can we bring in? Is there a cleared list?”

  “We’ve got direct coordination with MI6 so their resources are at our disposal without jurisdictional barriers. Anything else, run it by me first. I got Homeland Security and DOJ looking over my shoulder, but to state it again, as clearly as I can: we are autonomous. Normally that’s a one-way street, so if you want to go against traffic, flag me down first.”

  “Jeannine?”

  “Any more word on SOM37’s operational ability?”

  “Nothing more than the initial reports, although right after this meeting I am going down to DC to tap an old friend for a favor and see if he can get some capability projections done. Any other questions? Bob?”

  “Do we have our JDID number yet?”

  “Good question, ’cause I am sure we all want to get paid. Actually, the accounting department out of treasury in DC opens at nine. You’ll all have your charge back numbers by ten a.m. But hey, I only got ten mil and it’s a big world out there. Let’s not spend it all in one country. And don’t forget to calculate overtime. It’s all inside the ten! We’ll meet again at five for a follow up. Any other questions? Jason?”

  “Last I heard, you were retired. How did they get you back on the team?”

  “I made them make me an offer I could refuse!”

  “Wait, that’s not the way that goes,” Jason said.

  “It is now,” Brooke said as she closed her briefing book.

  The meeting broke up and Jeannine was humming a tune as she collected her things. Brooke took note. “That’s a jolly little tune, Jeannine.”

  “Yeah, it’s been in my head for a few minutes now.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “I can’t remember. My mom used to hum it. I never knew the words.”

  “Your mom still with us?”

/>   “Yep, tearing up the shuffle board circuit, still taking cruises, trying to land a rich husband!”

  “I like her spirit.”

  “Don’t encourage her. At her age she should be tending to petunias, not gallivanting all over the place. But she is a hopeless romantic.”

  “Not a bad thing, Jeannine, not a bad thing.”

  Chapter 9

  Brooke is in da House

  Bill Hiccock had sent Brooke a Christmas card, one of those family portrait types. He, his wife Janice, and their son Richie looked like the kind of all-American family you used to see inside Life magazine, in a Campbell’s soup or Chevrolet ad. Brooke owed her former boss much, but the one thing that stood out was the counsel he gave her when she expressed the desire to quit working for the president, for Bill, and for the intelligence apparatus of the United States. He’d had every right to pressure her to stay. He’d been in the middle of a major terrorist attack, and Brooke was his number one agent in the field. But after she won her second service star, the glamour had worn off. She’d wanted the other side of life. She’d wanted the rest of the having-it-all package. Instead of negotiating with her, he’d simply told her that her happiness was paramount, and if she wanted a life, she had certainly earned it, many times over. At that moment he’d gone from being a boss to being a big brother.

  She felt guilty calling him from an active duty post only a year after leaving his Quarterback Operations Group. But she was in need of his special network, a resource of his own invention. As the Presidential Science Advisor, he had amassed an interconnected group, code named SCIAD or Scientific Community In America’s Defense. It was a scientific and technological who’s who of the biggest and brightest brains on the planet, all connected to him. He’d pose a “what if” question at noon and practically a whole new field of science would spring up overnight. Between the top-secret cleared core members and the redacted outer-ring participants, there were three hundred top minds working in parallel on any problem or threat facing America that Bill challenged them with. Her terrorist-engineer-based ISIS cell, SOM37, was a riddle he and his SCIAD network were uniquely capable of solving.

  She sat in the back of the interagency motor pool car as her driver dealt with the guards outside the east gate of the White House. She reflected on her last day in “crown,” or what the secret service called the executive mansion. On that day, she’d actually been invited up to the residence for a private breakfast with the president. The first lady had also given her a goodbye hug. It was quite a sendoff. Now, like any other visitor, she had to hand over her ID. Her A pass having long ago had the word “VOID” punched into it, was now just a memory in her desk drawer back home.

  The car pulled up to the portico and Cheryl, Bill’s former assistant and now deputy director of the QUOG group, greeted her. “Brooke! It’s great to see you again.” They hugged and Cheryl immediately pulled back. “I don’t want to hurt your arm.”

  Brooke gave it a tap. “Healed as good as new, but thanks for the concern,” Brooke hedged. The scar from the bullet, and the fact that she didn’t need a weatherman to let her know when the weather was changing, was constantly with her. That was another souvenir from her last mission.

  “So, Cheryl, I hear you are now deputy director of QUOG. Congratulations.”

  “The hardest part about running the Quarterback Operations Group is running the quarterback.”

  Brooke laughed. She knew her former boss, Dr. Bill Hiccock’s type-A manic pace.

  “I don’t know how Janice deals with it. Bill is always going in ten different directions at once,” Cheryl said.

  “How is Bill’s wife?”

  “Janice? She has only six different directions, between their son, her post at the hospital, her charities, and somehow an eighty-mile-an-hour serve, tearing up the hard-true during what was supposed to be a friendly game of doubles tennis.”

  “They are made for each other, alright.”

  “Amen, Brooke.”

  Although the turnover at the White House was as regular as a timeshare condo in Boca Raton, Brooke was amazed at how many people engaged her, hugged her, and shook her hand all the way to Bill’s office. Even as she waited in his outer office, folks dropped in. “I heard you were in the house . . .” “Welcome back . . .” “Welcome home . . .” “Good to see you . . .” was the constant refrain. But the best was the phone call she received as she was waiting.

  In fact, when Cheryl announced, “The boss is on line one,” Brooke didn’t respond. It couldn’t be for her. “Brooke, the president’s on line one.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes.”

  Brooke actually stood up. “Mr. President, what a surprise.”

  “Why didn’t I know you were coming in, Brooke?”

  “Well, sir. I . . . I . . . didn’t know myself until last night.”

  “How are you, Brooke? How’s my sub skipper treating you?”

  “He’s great, when he’s around, sir.”

  “Just say the word, Brooke, and I’ll promote him to rear admiral. Give him a nice, cushy desk job.”

  “Wow, I better be careful. I forgot who I was talking to. No, sir, he loves his job and is committed to serving his country; I can tough it out till his tour is over, sir.”

  “You know, Brooke, the real strength of our military is based on the courage of our military families.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir. The more families I meet at Pearl, the more I see America’s resolve.”

  “Amen, Brooke. Well, I have tied you up long enough. I’ll put Bill on.” Brooke was a little taken aback that Bill was with him. She thought Bill was “in the house.”

  “Good hunting with Sweeper.”

  Again, she was impressed; she had just decided on that name this morning, yet the president . . .

  “Thank you, sir, for taking the time to say hello. I am truly honored.”

  She heard Bill grab the phone.

  “Brooke, sorry; we had a last minute change of plans. I left you a voice mail.”

  “Yeah, about that. I’m not too good with voice mail. Where are you?”

  “In the beast, on the way over to the Smith. Turns out that one of the president’s old squadron buddies is being honored. He went from F-18 fighter pilot to the guy who invented the biofeedback flight control assist system. The boss grabbed me on his way out the door to the aerospace museum.”

  She heard the president say, “It’s totally my fault, Brooke!” in the background as Bill continued.

  “The secret service says we are back in the barn in eighteen minutes. The president’s hopping the marine chopper to ‘One.’ Do you have time to wait?”

  “Sure. Can I use your desk in the meantime?”

  Brooke went into Bill’s office and logged into Bill’s computer using her old Quarterback ID. It worked! She was able to connect back to New York.

  There was an email from Jeannine. She had called her mother and sang her the song that had been playing in her head, and it was called “The Sheik of Araby.” Brooke laughed and went through scores of other emails and reports.

  Twenty minutes later, Bill Hiccock walked into his office to find her at his desk. She got up and went to him. They hugged like NFL players after a game.

  They were both all smiles and Brooke asked, “How’s Janice?”

  “She’s got two research programs she’s running while she’s running me and little Richie. We do our best to let her know we couldn’t get along without her, but she’s forcing both of us to grow up anyway.”

  “Please tell her ‘hi’ for me and thank her . . . and you, for the lovely house warming present.”

  “Oh yeah, that thing . . . that . . .”

  “Yeah, just thank her for me, okay? I’ll give you back your desk.” She leaned over to the keyboard and logged out. She then moved to the
chair opposite his desk.

  Bill sat in his chair. “So, Brooke, what can I do for you?”

  “While I was on your machine, I downloaded and unzipped a secure compression with everything we know that relates to the op I am running, called Sweeper. I also redacted a briefing paper from it on the flight down and that’s in the same folder under SWREDACT.”

  With the heavy thumping of Marine One’s rotors in the background as the president’s helicopter lifted off the helipad behind the White House, Brooke briefed Bill. She needed him to put the redacted document out to the greatest minds on the planet to try to figure out what the bad guys could possibly be planning. In twenty-five minutes, all their business was concluded.

  They got up and Bill walked her to his door. “You know, we could have handled this in a secure video conference. You didn’t have to fly down here.”

  “Truth be told, I didn’t know if you would have agreed. Especially to this next part.”

  “Oh-oh,” was all Bill said.

  .G.

  “She did? The White House?” That got the Secretary of the Treasury’s attention; he adjusted the phone to his “better” ear. “Did she meet with the boss? Oh right, he’s on the way to Helsinki. No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll call over myself. Thanks for the heads up.” He hung up the phone and didn’t know what to make of the news he’d just received from his old friend Williams, the head of the secret service, namely that Brooke Burrell had visited the White House this morning. Why? Is she working for the president in some direct way while also working for me? Is he using her to spy on me? He hit the intercom. “Sally, get me Brooke Burrell.”

  “Why, she just walked in, sir. She is standing right in front of me,” Sally said.

  “Send her in, will you?”

  .G.

  The secretary got up from his desk and moved over to the couch by the small conference table as Sally escorted Brooke into his office.

  “Can I get either of you anything?” Sally asked.

  “Buttermilk would be great,” the secretary said tapping his belly, a code between him and Sally. “Brooke?”