by HN Wake
Joyce said over her shoulder, “You’re not filling me with confidence here, Babes.”
“Listen,” he assured her, “I don’t think they’re watching the plane’s network connection to begin with. I’m sure you’re fine. All systems have different switches and noise adjusters.” He glanced at Joyce. “Just make sure the USB is in your computer and then log in to their network within 30 minutes. I only need five minutes once you’re in.”
Mac stared ahead, “USB. Log on. 30 minutes. Got it.” She glanced at Joyce, “Follow my lead. Let me do the talking. I’ll gauge his demeanor and strike when he’s nice and relaxed.”
“Do you think Fenton Warrick actually relaxes? Guy’s like a terrier on steroids.” Joyce stared at the lit plane. “I hate terriers. Whiny, yappy dogs. Entire purpose is to chase rats down holes. Wasted breeding. I hate dog breeding. Mutts are fine. Why mess with mother nature?”
Mac pulled the door handle with her good arm. The movement jangled her damaged shoulder and it seared with pain. She winced. “Give me five minutes.”
The sunset was deepening as a bright orange over the horizon. Outside the silence was broken only by the low rumble of the plane’s jet. A slight breeze blew over the tarmac.
She walked slowly to a far corner of the parking lot, pulled out a cigarette and her cell phone.
Joe picked up on the second ring, “How’s it going?”
“So far okay.”
“How’s the team?”
“A bit jangled, but we’ll get there.”
“You okay?”
“I’m having to be tough. It’s weird.”
“You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” She glanced around. “He’s due here soon. You okay?”
“I’m okay as I’ll ever be. I do not like this plan, but I agree with you that we have to retrieve the video. We need that leverage.”
“Yes. Without it, we’ve got no bargaining power.”
He said, “I feel like I’m watching some hyped up spy movie.”
“About Laura—“
“I know, I know. Not a word to her. I get it.”
He was a quick learner too, she thought.
“Fucking Laura,” he spat.
Mac remembered the betrayal. “Just keep her at arms length.”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna be a problem.”
She tapped her cigarette in the breeze, watched the ash disperse on a current. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this.”
“I know, Mac.”
The darkness felt near, against her skin.
He asked, “Do you think they know where you are?” He meant the Agency.
The sun reached the horizon on its downward path. “Yes, probably.”
“Do they know about me?”
The sun halved. “I don’t know.”
“I’m really not liking this big brother shit. How did you live with it?”
On the horizon, the sun was a bronze half circle. “You get used to it.”
“I never will.” A long pause, “You don’t trust them.” It was a statement.
She closed her eyes, reliving memories. Painful memories. When she opened her eyes the sun had gone. “Not as far as I can throw them.”
He was silent for a moment. “You’ve learned they are untrustworthy.”
“And then some.” The fear crept back up into her chest. She wanted to believe that if Joe knew what she had done, the acts she had committed in the name of the CIA, that he would still love her. She couldn’t quite make herself believe it. She inhaled and exhaled. “Individually they aren’t terrible. I know some good people in the Agency. But as a collective, when they work together—they recuse themselves of responsibility. It’s like their morals disappear.” She took another drag. “Monstrously so.”
“I am here when you’re ready to tell me about it,” his voice had softened. “The demons. All of it, part of it, whatever you want to tell me. I’m here, Mac.”
The breeze had ceased with the coming of the night. “Okay.” She regained her thoughts. “I thought I’d threatened them badly enough the last time.”
“The last time?”
“They started tracking me last month, when I was doing that first op for the girls.” She crushed out her cigarette under the toe of her shoe. “I need to get them off our back. For good.”
“How?”
“I’m working on it.”
“One thing at a time,” he suggested.
“Exactly.”
Headlights emerged, approaching the parking lot. A large black town car pulled past and up to the gate. An airport employee jogged out and pulled the gate open wide. The town car cruised through and across the tarmac, parking next to the lit jet.
Mac held the phone to her ear. “Joe, I love you.” Get this job done and get back to her life.
“I love you too.”
She hung up, walked slowly back to the van, pulled open the passenger side, leaned her head in and glanced over at Joyce. “I’ve got your back. Trust me. Remember, it’s just a job. Your nerves are your worst enemy. Follow my lead.” She slid the sling off her bad arm, placed her courier bag over her good shoulder and dropped the sling in. Then she closed the door.
Joyce looked back at Isaac. “I totally love you.”
He smiled, but his face held fear. “I know, Babes. This is going to work fine. She’s got it. She’s freaking 42. Just follow her lead.”
“Roger that.”
44
New York, NY
The mild evening was perfect for a party. The breeze planted soft whispery kisses on skin. Windows gleamed with light as if the Upper West Side townhouse were laughing. A delivery truck idled at the curb as catering staff hauled food and supplies through the front door.
In the dark driveway of a house four doors down, Herbie stood watching the preparations. An hour earlier the indifferent analyst Rocky had sent him Joe Severino’s cell phone GPS coordinates. This had been followed by a curt note that outlined the bio of the town house owner.
Laura Franklin
Birth place: Philadelphia PA
Current occupation: CEO/Founder and majority shareholder in PRIMIX, an online gaming company.
Estimated personal worth: $25 billion
Political affiliation: Democrat
Personal: No children. One brother. Parents deceased. Lesbian: long time partner, Harriette Moyo.
Herbie re-read the bio, pausing on Philadelphia.
He looked back at the lit house.
Ms. Laura Franklin from Philadelphia was hosting a party and not just any party—this was looking to be a very big, important party. It could not be coincidence that Joseph Severino from Philadelphia was also here. But no sight of Mac Ambrose.
A van pulled up in front of the townhouse and three young, strapping men jumped out, each wearing a white shirt and black pants. One unfolded a tent sign that read ‘valet’ and placed it by the curb while the other two set up a podium in the middle of the sidewalk. They were chatting amongst themselves, laughing. College kids maybe. Excited to be making some extra bucks outside a billionaire’s home on a warm evening.
Herbie knew he needed to get inside. This approach would take finesse. Someone like Laura Franklin would have hired a top-drawer caterer with a well-oiled team who might notice an outsider. On the other hand, there were a lot of staff milling about and perhaps they didn’t know each other that well. If he could blend in quietly, they might just accept him as one of theirs. How to get in without drawing attention?
The first car arrived at the party an hour later. It was a black Mercedes S-class sedan, sleek and purring. The valets jumped to attention. A Tesla pulled in behind the Mercedes and was quickly followed by a Bentley. The three cars parked in a neat line and valets ran quickly to the passenger sides, opening the doors for women in bright cocktail dresses and coiffed hair. As if synchronized, the three valets closed passenger doors, hustled around the front of the cars, and helped the drive
rs out. The three couples made their way toward the lights of the party, as three driver doors shut softly. In a neat little line, the three expensive cars drove off down the street.
Herbie made his move.
He jogged across the street, sliding off his own jacket. Rounding the podium, he balled up his jacket and stuffed it into the bottom shelf. He headed up the walk, buttoning his top shirt button like a waiter and waltzed through the front door.
Inside, an enormous floral design on a round marble entrance table rose four feet into the foyer. The house smelled like roses. Voices swept down the long hall from the back and jazz hummed in the air. Was that fabric on the wall? He reached out a hand as he walked, thick silk nubs tickled his fingertips. Jesus. Herbie once had some guys repaint an apartment in Kigali in white and that was his entire experience with interior design. Did people with this kind of wealth feel stuck by the empires they had built? Did they miss freedom and exploration? Had he had a better life, running around the world, getting into trouble?
To the right, a huge, empty living room had been set up with high round cocktail tables. Through a set of French doors that led to a backyard alight with fairy lights, he could hear the hum of conversations among early guests. Wait staff were carrying trays at waist height, white napkins proffered in their right hands.
Did the 1% have bosses? Were they just as responsible to their company boards and shareholders as he was to the Agency Mandarins? He was smart and ambitious enough to have worked in the corporate world. Would he have preferred this life?
Shiny gold sconces matched the huge filigreed gold frames—art framing art. Down the hallway toward the back of the house he passed a doorway into an enormous dining room. Ten round tables had been set with white linen, sparkling candles and more flowers. Floral napkins had been rolled and placed in silver napkin rings in the center of white china plates. A waiter was straightening napkins and tucking in chairs. In front of the French doors at the far end of the room, a small stage had been set up with an elegant, simple podium.
Did the 1% get tired of the posh parties and the refined environments? Had they eaten so much shrimp cocktail they never wanted another prawn? Involuntarily he thought of Mac’s cable about the slave boats. He was chasing down a fellow operative who had a moral compass, and he was going to turn her in. He felt unclean and conflicted, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was hoping a solution would show itself soon.
Herbie paused at the end of the hall. The noise from behind the door signaled a busy kitchen. Plates clanged, cooks argued. Garlic tickled his nose.
He thought of a little fishing boat pulled up on a white beach. He wouldn’t be tired of shrimp on the grill with a beer. He’d never be tired of that. But he was sure fucking tired of the Agency.
He pushed through the door and stepped into the steamy heat. Waiters rushed past with empty trays. Two chefs in white with handkerchiefs on their heads were plating hors d’oeuvres. A burst of pepper wafted across the air. Slabs of red raw steaks were stacked in preparation next to the grill.
A waiter glanced up.
Herbie gave him a blank, simpleton look.
The waiter moved on.
Herbie made his way out to the cool lawn beyond, a fox in the hen house.
45
Teterboro, NJ
The plane seemed bigger on the inside. A uniformed pilot led Mac and Joyce through a kitchen area and into the main cabin where fours rows of light tan leather seats ran along both sides, followed by a built-in table with four similar chairs. The air smelled like leather. Through a small rear vestibule, a separate room held a built-in bed and a table with two seats. Air from overhead vents whistled. Fenton Warrick sat at the table section in the rear of the main cabin.
He looked up, his eyes observant and unsmiling. He was thin and pale. As she walked toward him, Mac noticed that his lips were rosy and wet and his Adam’s apple was particularly pronounced. His skin looked dewy and unnaturally pale. When he stood, he gave off the scent of lavender. His hand was surprisingly smooth and his handshake was listless.
She was confident he wouldn’t recognize her from the video feed—they hadn’t recorded enough of her face. But she was glad she had taken the precaution of wearing a new disguise. She took his hand softly and spoke with a small, timid voice. “Mr. Warrick, my name is Louise Nevelson and this is our office intern Suzi Gablik.”
“Welcome,” Warrick said nonplussed, indicating seats at the table. “Please have a seat. The bathroom is in the back, the kitchen is stocked with food and coffee, what not.”
No, he did not recognize her. “Thanks so much, Mr. Warrick,” Mac said graciously as they sat down across from him at the table.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said impatiently, not happy to be sharing a normally private trip with two unimportant women.
With her good arm, Mac pulled out her notepad, pen, and a recorder and set them on the desk. “Senator Barnes appreciates you meeting with us like this.”
“It’s not a problem,” he shuffled his papers to the side. “I’ll only be in Martha’s Vineyard for an hour or so, as I explained. It’s fine for you to accompany me on the trip.”
Mac flipped through her notes, as if to refresh her memory.
Fenton Warrick sighed, annoyed with her slowness.
She looked up, gave him a demure smile, “Senator Barnes welcomes your feedback—as a key stakeholder in this round of socialization—on the Senate Bill 1000.”
At the front of the cabin, one of the pilot’s spoke. “We’re clear for take off, Sir.”
Warrick simply nodded.
They heard the door close and the engines on either side began to whir loudly.
Fenton Warrick watched the two women.
Mac and Joyce clipped their seat belts.
He gave them a patient, expectant look.
“Right, Sir.” Mac said as she lifted out her laptop and raised the lid. “I’ll just need to pull up the latest copy of the bill.” She looked up, “I’ll just download it.”
Warrick stared at her. It wasn’t a hard stare, it was a cold stare. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that.”
Uh oh.
Next to her Joyce stiffened.
The plane rolled forward and picked up speed as it taxied to the far end of the runway. The lights from the airport slow passed by.
Mac cocked her head at Warrick, innocently. “I’m sorry?”
“I can’t let you log in to our network. Surely you brought the latest copy with you?”
Trouble.
The plane was picking up speed as it reached the runway.
She said, “Oh, of course. My apologies. It was early this morning when we set out from Washington and the team had been working on it through the night. They would have sent me the latest about an hour ago.”
He stared at Mac silently.
Joyce held her breath.
Shit. Was he suspicious of something? Or was he just being cautious about their earlier breach?
The plane cornered tightly at the end of the tarmac, lining up for its take off down the long runway.
Mac rummaged through her courier bag. She looked up. “We could use the one from last night, but I know there have been some significant additions from some of the other Senators’ offices.” She gave him an optimistic look, an easy going look. No reason to get pushy. Junior staff of US Senators did not get pushy.
He gave her a cold steely stare and remained silent.
Shit. Maybe he knows something.
The engines roared, and the plane lurched forward throwing them back in their seats and picking up tremendous speed as it hurtled down the tarmac. The noise was deafening.
Staring uncomfortably at Warrick as they waited out the noise, Mac heard the engines roar as the plane’s nose lifted off the runway and the rest of the plane’s body followed suit.
The small plane angled up.
Five minutes later the plane leveled out and the whir of the engines softened.
Mac smiled at Warrick, “So, that’s fine.” She closed her laptop. “We’ll use an earlier version from last night.” She slipped out a document from her courier bag and leafed through the pages.
Next to her Joyce was pushing back in her seat, tense. Now was not the time for Joyce to lose her cool. Mac needed to act quickly to take the situation back in control.
Cool as a cucumber, Mac began, “I believe Senator Barnes has asked me to specifically follow up with you on four issues.” She started to cough. A small cough, then a more robust cough. She glanced first at Warrick, then with a worried look over at Joyce. “Excuse me,” she squeaked out in between more coughs.
Joyce’s eyes widened and she placed her hand on Mac’s arm. “Are you okay, Louise?”
Through her coughs, Mac pointed at her throat. “Excuse me.”
Joyce said quickly. “Maybe you need some water?”
Warrick nodded up the aisle toward the front of the plane. “The kitchen is that way.”
Mac clenched a fist over her mouth, the cough sounding worse. She unclipped her seatbelt, rose and turned toward the front. In the kitchen, through spasms of coughs, she found a glass, filled it with water and took big sips.
Back at the table, she paused to pick up her courier bag and pointed at her throat and wiped tears from her eyes, “Just give me a second. I’ll use the rest room.”
Fenton Warrick picked up a document to read. This man really didn’t have time for flunkies.
Joyce’s eyes were wide, but she was outwardly calm.
With her good arm, Mac swung the bag as she walked down the small corridor toward the rear of the plane.
46
New York, NY
Ernest positioned himself by the window and trained his binoculars on Orville Reddenbacker elbowing his way through the crowd in Times Square. The older man’s movements were lethargic and hesitant, as if each footfall brought him closer to an ominous fate. The billboard lights lit up his pale face and glistened on his sheen of sweat. His heavy breathing was loud in Ernest’s headphones.
