by Gini Koch
Oliver joined us, grinning from ear to ear. “That was fun.”
“Pierre, Mister Joel Oliver, head paparazzo for the World Weekly News. MJO, this is Pierre, the best hairdresser, deejay, and all around fix-it man on the planet.”
They shook paws. “Jimmy’s told me all about you, Mister Joel,” Pierre said. “I happen to love your articles. You also capture your subjects extremely well. You’re a clear talent in a field filled with dilettantes.”
Oliver opened his mouth, cocked his head at Pierre, and laughed. “Mister Joel is acceptable under the circumstances. And thank you. It’s rare to find anyone who appreciates what I do.”
Pierre grinned. “So pleased. And trust me, dearest, people do appreciate, particularly those of us in the beauty business. Clients do love to escape while they’re under the dryer, don’t they?” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, while you load up the car, I hear there’s a precious little princess who needs to meet her Uncle Pierre.”
I got Jamie out and let Pierre hold her. She cooed and giggled. “So, Pierre, not that I’m in any way unhappy to see you, but what are you doing here? We’re a long way from Vegas. Are you vacationing or something?”
Pierre made a goo-goo face at Jamie, then looked over to me. “Darling. Please. Jimmy explained all about your new mission and how you and your compadres are not, shall we say, managing as well as we could hope.”
“I’m kind of screwing up constantly, yeah.”
Pierre snorted. “I doubt you’re anything but practically perfect in every way, darling. Besides, from what Jimmy said, you weren’t the one who planned the little soirée that went so very wrong.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Mr. Joel Oliver looked like he knew about this, but the boys looked confused. “Amy threw a little party for our Embassy neighbors, just to sort of say hi.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Kyle asked.
Pierre coughed. “Your lovely Embassy is friendly with all, as I understand it. Your neighbors are not so openhearted.”
“Apparently Latvia, Romania, and Egypt aren’t really speaking to each other right now, and everyone’s upset with Ireland for something. The folks from Luxembourg were really supportive, though.”
“As I understand it, fisticuffs were exchanged,” Pierre said flatly.
“There was a small brawl, yes. We were able to save the good china and crystal.” Only because Jeff, Christopher, and Doreen had all used hyperspeed, but that wasn’t important now. Besides, no one had noticed. They were too busy cheering for whichever side of the fight they felt they were on.
“First fight of the year,” Oliver confirmed. “You started off in style.”
“They’re all really nice people, though. I don’t get why they got upset.”
“Too much alcohol, wrong foods being served, no understanding of the current relationship crises, unawareness of the variety of dalliances, forgot to invite several nearby and considered ‘in your neighborhood’ diplomats.” Pierre rattled this off as if he were making a shopping list while the boys got the stroller into the car, confirmed the new car seat was securely fastened, and helped me lock and load Jamie into it. “I could go on.”
“Please don’t. Again, why are you here?”
Len got into the driver’s seat, Pierre and I sat on either side of Jamie, with Oliver across from us, Kyle closed the door, got into the shotgun seat, and Len pulled away from the curb. The other limo followed us, the two human agents in the front seat, the A-Cs filling up the back to capacity. I hadn’t been in a limo parade since Operation Fugly. I enjoyed the nostalgic moment.
Pierre looked at me as if it were obvious. “Darling, I’m your newest employee.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the new Majordomo Concierge for the American Centaurion Embassy and its Diplomatic Corps.”
My jaw dropped. “We have such a position?”
“You do now,” Pierre said. He leaned forward and handed Oliver a piece of paper and indicated he should hand it to Kyle, which Oliver obediently did. “Len, darling, please head us to the address Kyle now holds in his big man-hands, if you’d be so kind.”
Len nodded with a grin, Kyle grunted and I noted he was blushing again, and we headed off. “Where are we going?” I asked as Pierre tickled Jamie.
“Directly to a designer, darling.” He shook his head. “Appalling, that a dignitary of your level was actually going to grace a chain establishment with your presence, let alone your money.”
“I have a level?”
“You do, darling, you do.” Pierre heaved a sigh—of contentment, I was pretty sure. “And now that I’m here, we’re going to ensure you’re aware of where and what it is, and then I’ll handle all the little details while you and your Jeff get to relax and actually enjoy being attached to the exciting mission that is now yours to have and to hold.”
Oliver leaned forward and shook Pierre’s hand again. “Trust me when I tell you that you’ve arrived just in the nick of time.”
CHAPTER 14
SHOPPING WITH PIERRE was an entirely different experience, one I was fairly sure the boys could happily never have again but that I enjoyed on a whole variety of levels, relief being the foremost among them.
I’d had no idea that D.C. had a thriving fashion industry, including some name and up-and-coming designers, but it shouldn’t have shocked me. There was a lot of money floating around, and that kind of honey attracted its own level of really expensive and exclusive bees.
I sent some texts back and forth to Reader and Chuckie and was only somewhat surprised to learn that Pierre had been fully briefed on pretty much everything, including the fact that he was now working for a foreign principality—to take the term “foreign” to its most extreme form. Apparently Pierre would have been on board sooner, but Chuckie had run him through every security check he could think of and any other C.I.A. tests lying around, all of which took time.
Per Chuckie, Pierre passed with flying colors—and at a higher rate than most of Centaurion Division. I chose not to ask any questions, particularly where I’d landed on Chuckie’s Super Secret Spy-o-Meter tests. If my luck was holding firm, I was at the bottom, with “why is she allowed security access to an ATM machine let alone more” on a Post-it next to my name.
Because Pierre was cleared at the highest security levels now, we could discuss the exploding limo, Mr. Joel Oliver’s stealth stalkers, the NASCAR taxis, and the potential assassination attempt in front of and with him. When we were all in the limo. When we were out of it, more time was spent on my measurements, all of them, including feet, than anything else.
Fabrics, colors, and accessories came up, too. My input remained minimal. No one was interested in what I wanted, since all were clear that I had no idea. I knew better than to suggest something in an Aerosmith logo pattern, but nothing else I was coming up with seemed worthwhile, so I shut up, stood there, and listened to Pierre rattle off requirements like we were prepping to take to the Himalayas on some elephants and needed to look awesome doing it.
Somehow, Pierre expected the designers to come up with a fab ensemble for me, and ones for Amy and Doreen, whose measurements he already had, in about a day. Considering Doreen was ready to give birth at any moment, I was amazed the designers were doing anything other than laughing derisively, but they all seemed unworried, so I decided to focus on the scary picture of who was trying to kill whom and why.
Despite serious mental effort, by the last stop, I was still at pretty much zero. “My Psycho Meter is off,” I said as we left the last designer and settled back into the limo for the ride home. “I’m coming up with nothing.”
“I’m more concerned with what we’re going to do with him,” Kyle said over his shoulder, pointing to Oliver. “I don’t know that Ambassador Martini wants him at the Embassy.”
“I don’t know that we want to leave him wandering alone.” I didn’t. I didn’t want something bad to happen to Mr. Joel Oliver when he’d both come to warn me and then saved our lives.
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“I’m right here,” Oliver said dryly. “But I do agree with your concerns—both of them. I’m sure the ambassador isn’t going to be excited by my appearance, but I’m also attached to staying alive.”
A thought occurred, and I called Chuckie. “Any developments?”
“No, unless you count your husband’s blood pressure rising.”
“Nope. We’re coming up with nothing here, too. But I wanted to ask what you wanted us to do with Mister Joel Oliver. Was his car okay?”
“His car was burned to a crisp when we found it.”
I made eye contact with Oliver. “I hope you didn’t leave anything important in your car.”
He shook his head. “No. I assume it’s not safe?”
“It’s a crispy critter.” I went back to Chuckie. “So, have you checked out his living quarters?”
“Yes. They’ve been rifled with extreme prejudice. So do what I know you want to, even though it’ll mean I have to listen to another one of your husband’s temper tantrums: Bring him to the Embassy. White will handle film and disk exposure, and Serene’s team can fix whatever he doesn’t catch.”
“You got it. You know, Jeff doesn’t exactly throw tantrums.”
“In your opinion.”
“It’s been a crappy day for everyone, I see.”
“Yeah, it has. You’re all alive not due to anything your people or my people did, but rather because you, thankfully, listened to a tabloid reporter, who also happens to be my source, my only source, for putting a large number of operatives on the highest of alerts.”
“Dude, our limo and his car are toast. I think he’s got the goods, so to speak.”
“Yeah. God alone knows what’s coming next.”
“Well, let me add more for the confusion grist mill and share what’s already happened.” I brought him up to speed on the taxis, including the fact that they hadn’t seemed to want to kill us.
Chuckie groaned. “It’s worse. Did anyone get a license plate on any of those?”
I checked and was able to confirm none of us had had the foresight to look. Chuckie managed not to say that he thought the four of us were idiots, for which I was grateful. He merely heaved a sigh. “Fine, I’ll see what we can find out from other channels. Not that I expect to find anything.”
“You’re Mister Polly Positive.”
“I’m not used to none of us having any idea of what’s going on.”
I thought about this as we sat in traffic. “Maybe it’s because we actually have a head’s up.”
“Mind explaining that?”
“Sure. Usually, we’re in complete reactive mode. Something bad happens, then we go into action. This time, we know the bad’s coming, but that’s all. We’re all used to being reactive and this is a proactive thing right now.”
“Wow, great to know you can still pull up the marketing talk when you have to.”
“Blah, blah, blah. Think about it. I know I’m used to having more clues to work with. I think everyone else is, too. We had more even when Amy triggered Operation Confusion.” Our last big mission had happened right around and after I’d given birth, when the creeps had been after my baby. “Think it’s another attempt to get Jamie?”
“No, not the limo explosion, or if it is, it’s the most roundabout plan ever conceived. She’d have been killed right along with you if you hadn’t listened to Oliver.”
“So it’s not the ‘control the A-Cs’ team in charge, then.”
“How do you mean?”
Amazing. I was running my mouth and the ideas were flowing. Some things never changed. “The ones who want to control Centaurion Division want at least one of us under their complete control. They don’t want Jamie dead—they want her, and Jeff, and Christopher, and all the others doing what they want, not dead and buried.”
“Makes sense. Only cuts out a third to a half of those who might be in charge.”
“Well, they could still be involved. I can’t think of a time when it was only one plan triggering against us.”
He laughed. “Too true. And let’s not forget that your taxi situation could have easily been a kidnap attempt in order to gain control of Jamie. So we’re right back to everyone being a potential suspect.”
“How nice. It’s good to be popular.”
He snorted. “How long before you’re back at the Embassy?”
I looked around. We were stuck in a lot of traffic. “Not too long. At least, distancewise. No guess timewise. What’s up with all the construction? I don’t remember this all going on a week ago.”
“Standard road work. It happens, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s a pain in the butt, though.”
“Your husband’s told me I can’t think about or mention your butt.”
“Yeah, but we both know that won’t stop you.” We both laughed, said our good-byes, and I hung up.
“I’m allowed to come with you?” Oliver asked.
“I think you need to come with us is more like it. Your car was torched and your place was tossed. You’re in danger, clearly.”
He nodded. “I wish I had more information to impart. I know Mister Reynolds is going to ask for more.”
“Well, you have something you haven’t really told us. I mean, not that I doubt for a moment that you’d like to get exclusive photos of my baby, but I have to think you were lurking outside my Mommy and Me class to do more than share that you were being followed.”
“True enough. I feel there’s something wrong with the intelligence I’ve gotten.”
I groaned. “Chuckie will not want to hear that.”
Oliver shook his head. “The threat is very real. It’s the lack of a clear target that seems suspicious. I dug deeper with my most reliable sources, and they can’t pin down anything more than the President’s Ball.”
“Maybe that just means the would-be assassins are really good.”
“No one’s actually that good. If your people weren’t able to do what they do with photographs and the like, everyone would know what American Centaurion really was. Even the stealthiest and most clandestine organizations have leaks. Normally, this close to an operation of this magnitude going down, some names would be popping.”
“But there are no weasels so identifying?”
Oliver gave me a blank look.
“Pop goes the weasel,” Len supplied from the driver’s seat.
“Oh!” Oliver chuckled. “I didn’t catch that. Also, I doubt we’ll end up considering the target or targets weasels.”
“You never can tell, though it’s usually the good ones who die young, true.” I looked around again. “Are we even moving?”
“We could walk faster,” Kyle said. “We definitely ran faster. They’re moving us down to one lane.”
I looked around. There were people in what looked like construction crew garb, but no officers of the law. “What is with the cops in this city? Isn’t this kind of major road issue something the police take at least a passing interest in?”
“Police funding has been cut recently,” Oliver said. “I did a full exposé on it a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t read your paper, sorry. Want to give me the CliffsNotes version?”
Oliver sighed. “Certainly. Due to the economic situation, funding has been slashed from a variety of programs, law enforcement being only one of them. Private security firms are attached to various Embassies and politicians, funded through something other than taxes.”
“You mean kickbacks or campaign funds.”
He shrugged. “Among other, legitimate means. There are several security firms who are trying to get contracts to protect our people in various unfriendly countries, versus having the U.S. military do it. D.C. is the test case.”
“I thought it worked the other way around.”
“Sometimes. Not this time. Titan Security has a lot of influence.”
“They’re the ones in charge?”
“Not in charge so much as assigned. Titan Sec
urity has the most contracts in place right now. There are others, of course, vying for the business; however, at this moment it’s Titan’s business to lose.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Oliver shrugged. “I personally feel that giving any private company that much power is a bad thing. But Titan’s leadership are very well entrenched within the political structure, and they have a strong lobbyist working for them. They’re here to stay unless they screw up very badly and publicly.”
“Lucky us. So, Titan has the bigwigs?”
Oliver nodded. “And some key properties, all the monuments, and so forth.”
“Then who’s protecting the regular people?”
“Supposedly there are enough police officers on the streets to do an adequate job.” Oliver didn’t sound like he agreed with this statement. After what had just happened to us with little to no police interest, I agreed with the sentiment. “However, that does mean there are fewer officers handling traffic duty right now.”
“At least we’re not on the bus. Speaking of which, let’s at least have some tunes while we sit.”
Kyle dutifully turned on the music, and “How You Like Me Now?” from The Heavy came on.
“I’d like it better if we were moving,” Len muttered.
Due to the vagaries and joys of the current traffic jam, our other limo was next to us. Len motioned for them to go ahead as we all funneled into the one lane. We weren’t the only limos in this jam—there were a lot of them, mostly black, but some white and even some other gray ones.
Things unsnarled, resnarled, and unsnarled again. I lost track of where our other limo was. There were several gray ones nearby. I counted. There were a lot of gray limos. In fact, we were now a little fleet of gray limos.
I looked closer. Centaurion Division’s limos didn’t look very different from any other limos out there, at least on the outside. Limo windows were tinted like every other limo, so it was close to impossible to see in. Drivers would be humans, and I certainly didn’t know every human driver we had. But I also found it hard to believe that anyone, even Jeff, had decided we needed a fleet of limos to get home.
