by Jamel Cato
He looked at me quizzically after seeing the amount.
“In this job, you probably hear a lot of stories that a really perceptive man could connect together into valuable information.”
“Perhaps.”
“Who has the real power in this town?”
He grinned. “They call themselves The Scale.”
CHAPTER 25
I walked into the reception lobby of a restaurant in Adams Morgan called Patni. The eatery was neutral ground in the natural and supernatural worlds, so it’s where enemies usually met.
A stupendously attractive young Indian woman stood next to the Greeter’s stand with a menu.
“Hello, Chandra.”
“Hello, Dr. Tiptree.”
“Thank you for convincing Pradeep Ramachandran to meet with me.”
“It took hardly any convincing at all once I explained who my mother is.”
“I’m sure half of the ease was that and the other half was all you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chandra, you are so beautiful that if you asked a man to jump off a bridge, he would do it then come back as a ghost and ask you what you wanted him to do next.”
“Is that what you would do?”
“You mean jump off a bridge or come back as a ghost?”
“You tell me.”
“Girl, if I thought it would get you on my arm, I would build an ark out of leaf stems and row to Fiji.”
She laughed. “Your flirting is always so original.”
“But not original enough to get you to go to dinner with me?”
“Are you ready to be seated?”
She ushered me through the empty dining room to a table occupied by a fit Latino man in his fifties. He was dressed in all black like a catholic priest, but without a white collar.
Carlos Vasquez was the head of the U.S. government’s highly classified Directorate of Special Operations. The DSO was responsible for defending America’s human citizenry from supernatural forces. Because the U.S. Supreme Court had secretly ruled that supernatural beings have no constitutional rights, the agency possessed nearly unlimited authority to detain, kill and experiment on almost anyone it deemed a threat.
Carlos used his authority judiciously, which was both a sea change and an outrage within the trigger-happy world of supernatural law enforcement. His reputation of being more statesman than warmonger was the main reason I had asked Art to setup this meeting.
Still, it was a tremendous personal risk.
I am a 100% human taxpayer with an undetectable supernatural gift. In my view, this places me outside the DSO’s legal jurisdiction. Because not everyone agrees with this view, including some people inside the DSO, prudence would dictate that I lead a quiet, meek life that never draws the scrutiny of all-powerful military agencies. But that’s not the kind of life I lead, nor the kind I would find worthy of leading. I’m constantly, and to many, suspiciously, involved with supernatural events and entities. My standard defense is to point out that the same can be said of almost every paranormal investigator. Our job is to go where the monsters are. That doesn’t make us monsters.
Thus far, this defense has served me well. But I know that won’t always be the case.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” Carlos said.
“I was going to say the same thing to you.”
“I was surprised when I got the call requesting this meeting.”
“Why?”
“We both know why.”
“What I know is that I’m human.”
“Witches are human too,” he said, making a very specific threat.
“I’m sure you’re a very busy man, Director. Why don’t we cut to the chase so you can enjoy your meal and get back to saving the world.”
“Let’s. I wouldn’t want you to be late to the Union Station Ball tonight. That would probably make Jasmine pissed enough to go to Elaine. Then I’d have to go over to the Hill and shine shoes until I remembered my place or somebody asked why there’s a Colombian in the Pentagon.”
I smiled like a Leprechaun who’d teleported into the gold vault at Fort Knox. “I have two requests. First, I’d like to receive a copy of the portion of my DSO file that contains the details about who Eve was when she was alive. Second, I’d like you to contact MI9 and work out a deal that allows Stanella Dane to legally and safely return to the UK.”
“No treats for yourself, like an immunity agreement?”
“Keeping my word and taking care of the people I care about are the only treats I need.”
Carlos reached down into his briefcase and retrieved a folder, which he handed to me.
“What’s this?”
“The information from your file about Eve.”
“You’re giving it up before hearing what I’m offering in exchange?”
“Consider it a good will gesture, or a free hit of crack, whichever works better.”
“You knew this is what I would ask for?”
“Your file has a psychological profile that says the same thing you just said about yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“What are you offering us?”
“I’m offering two things: First, within one week, I’ll give you the whereabouts of three of your top ten most wanted entities. Second, if you can keep the NSA and Dark Water off my back, I’ll personally tell you what Serenity Blakemore is so you can decide if it’s something the rest of the Government needs to know. This is valuable because her filings with the Federal Election Commission and a Supreme Court ruling legally prevent the DSO from finding out on its own.”
He rubbed his chin while he considered both my offer and me.
“When you find out what Serenity is, have Marianna hack a SiriusXM satellite and leave a meeting time and location on the satellite phone on my houseboat. Encode the message in the Wruvian mathematical system you utilized to create your Cross Planar Transposition Generator. Make sure the location is not here. For your own safety, give me the information before anyone else, including Garrison.”
“Got it.”
“Anything else before we order our entrees?”
“Yes, I want to make my own gesture of good will.”
“And what is that?”
“The Duchess of Blackshire is on American soil.”
“Alone?” he asked in alarm.
“No, the Knights of the Flame are with her, so she’s here to make war.”
“Where did you last see her?”
“I didn’t see her, but I know she was in Philadelphia yesterday.”
“Is that what you were doing at the Burial Ground?”
This was like talking to the Wizard of Oz. “Yes.”
He stood and headed for the exit. “I’ll be in touch, Dr. Tiptree. Lunch is on me.”
CHAPTER 26
The Union Station Ball was an annual bipartisan charity gala to benefit the World Wildlife Fund. The entirety of Washington, DC’s main rail station was closed to the public and transformed into a posh Rainforest-themed auction event for the rich and powerful. There was a stand to pet a live Panda bear and ice sculptures shaped like endangered sea turtles that cried tears of expensive liquor. It was part of a circuit of exclusive gatherings around the world where the elite affirmed their importance.
I was having a blast as I worked the room in my superbly cut Wisnewski tux, realizing with both comfort and discomfort that I personally knew more than one percent of The One Percent. I had politely danced with Elizabeth Minton, laughed when Art Carini told jokes to Middle Eastern Princes, gotten slapped on the back by Senators chatting up Mitchell Westerfield and waved familiarly to the CEO of Comcast, whom I knew through Darlene and Manford Pew. I made brand new acquaintances when I humble-bragged about winning a McAllen Prize. I was a veritable spring of charisma like that beer commercial about The Most Interesting Man in the World.
And all that was before I saw Jasmine, Garrison or Ashley.
I was refilling my tu
mbler at an ice sculpture when Jasmine walked up and did the same.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For not hurting Alonzo.”
“In my next life, I’m going to be the guy who gets the good woman, not the one who gives her up to somebody else.”
“You’ve had me in ways he never will, literally and figuratively.”
“Let that brother play his horn,” I said with more bitterness that I intended.
Then I walked away to go meet Garrison.
Garrison was examining an impressionist painting when I walked up.
“Don’t get your hopes up because I heard one of the Princes has his eye on that.”
He turned. After ensuring no one was within earshot, he stepped closer and said, “Let’s get something straight, I tell you where to be, not the other way around. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Show me the pics before another one of these asswipes comes over and asks me to back a bill.”
I pulled out my smartphone and let him swipe through the photos that Jasmine had authorized me to show him.
“Airdrop them to my phone,” he commanded.
I sent him the files.
“Where are we on the other matter?”
“I’m meeting her in Miami tomorrow.”
“Great. Let me know the moment you know.”
The gala was breaking up when I met Ashley and her date at the scheduling board.
“Brett, this is Preston. Preston, Brett.”
Brett was a dashing, clean shaven white man in a tux that was tailored almost as well as mine. He had the thick build of a rugby player.
“I heard you won the McAllen Prize,” he said as we shook.
I nodded at Ashley. “It looks like you have the prize tonight.”
He grinned triumphantly.
“Brett,” Ashley said, “Dr. Tiptree and I need to go take care of some confidential campaign business. If I’m not back at our hotel room by 1 AM, or if I’m crying when I get there, send the Police and Queen Caroline’s guardians after this man. Okay?”
Brett took a picture of my face with his smartphone. “Sure thing.”
She kissed him. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I’m sure. Wait up for me. I love it when you network like you did tonight.”
He walked away with an anticipatory smile.
Ashley turned to me. “I’m going to go with you, but it’s important you understand that I’m neither weak nor vulnerable.”
“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t.
CHAPTER 27
Ashley and I drove to a motel in a part of Maryland that was so rural there were no streetlights.
I parked in the lot and shut the engine off.
Then we waited.
“I dated a black guy once,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Is it true what they say?”
She chuckled. “You tell me.”
“I’ve never had a woman not call me back.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What happened with the black guy? Your family wouldn’t accept him?”
“It wasn’t that, even though they were relieved when I started dating Brett. The problem was that he couldn’t accept his station in life. It got tiring.”
“You didn’t believe in his dream?”
“I believe in realistic dreams. His weren’t.”
“What was his dream?”
“Basically, to change the world.”
“But isn’t that what you and Serenity are trying to do?”
“Serenity and I are trying to master the world. There’s a critical distinction.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Why were people at the Ball saying that Serenity is going to destroy the military?”
She gave an exasperated huff. “Do you know how many American warplanes have been shot down by enemy fire since World War II?”
“No.”
“The answer is none. The F-16s combined our carriers were more than sufficient to establish worldwide air superiority. Notwithstanding that, Serenity is not against the F-35 program. All she proposed was buying one less jet and earmarking the half a billion dollars in savings to fund an educational program targeting the nation’s lowest performing school districts. We call it the F-36 program, which is short for Funding for Thirty-Six Districts.”
“That sounds great. Who would be against that?”
“All the attendees of tonight’s gala who have their bonuses and campaign contributions tied to the military industrial complex.”
Twenty minutes later we saw Garrison Peakes leave one of the motel rooms and drive off.
“He’s either a minute man or an insensitive jerk.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s only eleven twenty-five and it took forty minutes to get here.”
“My money is on insensitive jerk.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said as we stepped out of the vehicle.
We knocked on the door of the room Garrison had exited.
We saw a shadow move beneath the door frame and the fisheye peephole.
“Open the door, Shayla,” Ashley said.
An African American woman wearing a bathrobe and a defeated expression opened the door and stood aside.
The woman in the robe, Shayla Butler, was a part of Serenity Blakemore’s Secret Service detail. She was also an unofficial member of what the media called Serenity’s Angels. Ashley had intentionally surrounded Serenity with a cadre of smart, talented women. They often appeared in photoshoots with artwork evocative of the 1970s TV hit Charlie’s Angels. Shayla sometimes appeared in these photos by necessity because she was the agent with physical “hands-on” responsibility for the candidate. It was a prestigious assignment.
“Garrison got me on the Candidate detail, then on the Travel detail and then the hands-on assignment. Before that I was watching paint dry in Ohio while guarding a mint. It all happened in less than a year.”
“And this is how you compensate him?” Ashley asked with disgust.
“I tell myself it’s an affair, that I’m his mistress.”
“His mistress lives in Georgetown. She gets diamonds, birthday presents and more than ten minutes of wham-bam-thank-you-mam.”
Shayla hung her head. “It takes decades to get on a Candidate or Presidential detail. And that’s only if you’re lucky enough to make it before you turn fifty-five and age out to desk duty.”
She was thirty-five.
“You should’ve waited your turn like every other woman. Or had someone reach out to me.”
“How did you meet Garrison?” I asked.
“A regional director from the Service came to the Mint one day and drove me to meet Garrison at the Federal building in Cleveland.”
“Just out of the blue?”
“Agents are prohibited by law from engaging in political activity, but privately I was telling people how much I admired Serenity. I guess the NSA was capturing my phone calls with Vulture.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He played recordings of them for me. He said I had violated the Hatch Act and would be prosecuted by the DOJ unless I did what he wanted.”
“And you fell for that?” Ashley asked. “You can believe and discuss anything you want on your own time.”
“Some of the calls occurred while I was on duty at the Mint.”
“Oh, Shayla.”
“It was boring. I hated that assignment. I wanted to quit, but it would break my father’s heart.”
“I met your father when the Campaign stopped in Charleston. This would break his heart, not a Hatch Act violation.”
“It’ll get broken when he has to visit me in prison.”
“That was your decision.”
“You’re not going to prison,” I said.
Shayla looked ho
peful. “I’m not?”
Ashley looked at me too. “I don’t think that’s your call. And don’t sugarcoat this. If Garrison doesn’t turn her in for the Hatch Act and we don’t turn her in for fraternizing with an official, Garrison will ruin her for fraternizing with us. Either way, we can’t trust her to protect Serenity. Life as she knows it ends tonight.”
“This Good Cop, Bad Cop routine is impressive,” Shayla said, “but I’m tired of being exploited and manipulated. And I’m sick of doing the disgusting things that Garrison’s wife won’t do. If you’re here to ask me to do the political version of the same things, save your breath. I’ll face prosecution.”
“All I want you to do is answer a question,” I said.
The agent took a closer look at me. “And who are you?”
“The man who will keep your Daddy’s heart intact.”
CHAPTER 28
I love everything about Miami except the hurricanes. But the large crowd which was listening to Serenity Blakemore give a rousing campaign speech had me beat by a Georgia mile. They were captivated and frenzied. They chanted, swayed and cheered until they were hoarse. It was my first time witnessing one of her speeches in person and the experience was surreal.
I had not spoken to the candidate yet, but my vantage next to Ashley on the side of the stage was close enough for my gifted sight to see what flavor of supernatural she was.
Serenity Josephine Blakemore was a Djinn, or what Western cultures would call a Genie.
* * *
Contrary to urban legends and post-war era TV shows, Djinn cannot grant any wish. They possess what paranormal researchers call Single Atom Magic. When a Djinn satisfies a wish, what it actually does is scan the Multiverse for a parallel timeline where the wish maker’s request is a reality. Upon finding one, it spawns a new timeline that differs from the wish maker’s original timeline by only a single atom plus the characteristics of the wish. To us, this looks like magic because a human cannot physically perceive a difference of a single atom. This ability, like everything else in the Universe, is constrained by Grandfather paradoxes and causal loops. A Djinn cannot let you go back in time and kill your grandfather so you will never be born or generate an effect before the cause which gave rise to it. The most powerful Djinn can keep track of thousands of wishes without violating causality, but most can only safely manage a few dozen. This is the true reason they limit wishes per person to a maximum of three.
