by Jessica Ashe
“He had. But he resurfaced four days ago with valuable intel.”
“You were concerned he’d gone rogue.”
“We’ve verified the information, and believe it to be accurate.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “What did he have to say?”
Zach takes some photographs from his assistant and slides them across the table to me. “Those are the latest satellite photos over Kurtmanistan.”
“What am I looking at?” I ask. I know exactly what I’m looking at, but Zach thinks I have limited military intelligence experience and it’s best to keep it that way.
“Initially, we thought the Kurtmanistan military was conducting basic training exercises, but that’s a cover.”
“For what?”
The images show troops moving into the mountains and then coming back out. There’s no reason for them to do that. The US military wouldn’t be in the mountains, so the only reason the troops would go there is to disguise the transport of something or someone.
Zach points to a small group of soldiers standing close together as if they’re protecting someone. “We think Abu Zawahiri is in that group.”
“You think he’s being hidden in the mountains?” It would be a good spot to hide him. The US military has long struggled to handle the mountainous terrain in the region, and the Kurtmanistan military has been shooting down any attempted drone attacks.
“We think Zawahiri was hidden in the mountains, but that he’s been moved to this base.” Zach points to a small base on the northern end of the satellite photos.
“Why? He had a good hiding spot. That base is well protected, but it’s more open than a cave.”
“This entire region is a communications nightmare for them. We’ve taken out all their phone lines, so they can’t contact the wider world. Zawahiri might be a dictator but he still needs to get his message out.”
“You think he’s planning an escape?”
“Yes,” Zach applies. “We think he’s going to return to the capital within the next week or so.”
“Shit.”
I lean back and pretend to examine the photos, while my eyes instead look at Janie who is furiously writing notes. Her thighs are crossed, a slit in her skirt creeping about half way up her thigh. There’s a gap between the buttons of her blouse, through which I can just about make out a sensible white bra. It’s not a lot to go on, but I’ve always had a vivid imagination, and right now it’s running overdrive.
You can’t judge a woman by what she wears. Plenty of women go out in short skirts and revealing tops, but either have no intention of getting laid or aren’t worth the effort once they’re in bed. Reading through the clothing to the personality underneath is a skill it took me years to develop. I can spot the ones who are worth my time from a mile off. Janie is definitely worth my time, despite what the sensible clothing might tell the uninitiated.
God, I wish getting into Janie’s panties were my only concern right now.
I take a deep breath and switch my brain back to the minor matter of national security.
“What’s the plan?” I ask. “I assume you have one.”
“If Zawahiri makes it to the capital, he will be able to cause unprecedented harm. His troops will go back to the thoughtless murder they carried out when he first took power. He’ll be in a densely populated area, so any attempt to take him out will result in huge collateral damage. This is our best chance.”
“Our best chance for what?”
Zach takes a deep breath of his own, and replies slowly, but deliberately. “Our best chance to neutralize him.”
“You mean assassinate him,” I correct. “That’s what it would be, an assassination. A political assassination.”
“He’s a war criminal.”
“He’s never been tried in the Hague.”
“And he never will be unless someone catches him.”
“You’re not going to catch him.”
“We can try, but he won’t go down without a fight. He will kill our men like he’s killed thousands already. Killing him will save lives.”
I have no doubt about that. Killing bad guys often saves the lives of good guys. It’s not exactly a new conundrum. Would you go back and kill Hitler as a child if you could? It’s a much easier question to answer when you don’t have to fire the bullet yourself.
“How dangerous is the mission for our men?” I ask.
“We could take him out with a missile and avoid any casualties to our men.”
Except the new base is close to a small village which is part of its disguise.
“Would there be collateral damage?”
“Yes,” Zach replies. “We estimate double-digit casualties.”
“Unacceptable. What about if we send our men in on the ground?”
“We have men in the area. SAS. We can get in and make the kill without too many problems.”
Without too many problems. I’ve heard that before. There’s no way we send a team into an enemy camp and get them all out alive.
“We’d be risking our soldiers’ lives.”
“We always take that risk,” Zach replies. “That’s what they signed up for.”
And this is what I signed up for. Life or death decisions instead of drinking and screwing my way around the country.
“I’m not comfortable assassinating a foreign leader, even one as vile as him.”
“It won’t get traced back to us.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” I reply. The SAS are the best in the business, but there’s always a chance the mission will get linked back to us and that risks a war.
“I can be sure of one thing,” Zach says calmly, “Killing Zawahiri will make the world a better place.”
Zach is a good man, I can tell. Any men we lose will haunt him almost as much as it haunts me. But he doesn’t have to make the decision. He can give me advice based on the likelihood of success, and whether it’s worth the risk. I’m the one who sends men into harm’s way.
“I’m not making a decision now,” I say firmly.
“We don’t have long if we’re going to do this.”
“When do you need a decision?”
“Twenty-four hours. And that’s pushing it.”
I nod, and shake Zach’s hand. They all file out of the room, until it’s just me and Janie left.
“You get all that?” I ask.
Janie nods. “Just about. Would you like me to write up meeting notes?”
I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary. So then, what do you think?”
“Sir?”
“I listen to security briefings every day, and it’s hard to know when you’re doing the right thing. So I want a civilian’s perspective. If you were me, what would you do?”
Chapter Seven
Janie
I’m liberal, but I’m not naïve. I’m also not a complete pacifist.
I’ve protested wars and written papers on the illegality of Guantánamo Bay. The Prime Minister’s probably expecting me to tell him he shouldn’t do it. But I can’t.
My dad fought and died trying to stop Zawahiri’s rise to power. Zawahiri destroyed his country in just five years, and things aren’t getting any better. I don’t know if I could kill Hitler as a child, but I could damn sure kill him in 1937 when he’d already become a monster and on the verge of much worse.
But, as a secretary, it’s none of my business. It’s not my place to say.
“I… I don’t know all the facts.”
“Nonsense,” the Prime Minister replies. “You know everything you need to know. You had the same briefing I did. I’m just interested in your perspective.”
For most of the meeting, my perspective was angled slightly so I could look at the Prime Minister the entire time. He was sat back in his chair, with everyone’s eyes on him the entire time. He commands your attention, even when he’s not talking or doing anything. You can’t help but look at him, and in my case, desire him.
I’m being
drawn in by the power. That’s all it is. I’m only human, and he’s one of the most powerful men in the world. Not to mention one of the best-looking. It would be weird if I didn’t want him.
He keeps looking at me, waiting for my response.
“You’re worried about the loss of lives,” I say, turning the conversation back to him.
He nods. “People will die on this operation.”
“Nothing is without risk. Taking Zawahiri out will save thousands of lives.”
“Definitely. But political assassinations… they don’t sit right with me.”
“I should think not. You’re a politician yourself.”
Wade smiles. “I forget that sometimes. People are planning to kill me right now.”
“Including Zawahiri,” I point out.
“Probably. This feels like something out of an old spy movie.”
“What if it wasn’t an assassination?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if British soldiers engaged Zawahiri’s troops as part of a mission to take back the capital from Zawahiri. What if Zawahiri died in the assault? Would you care then?”
“No,” he replies immediately. “I’d be relieved.”
“This is better than that, surely? What Zach proposed would minimize the casualties.”
The Prime Minister stares at me silently, my heart rate picking up with each second his eyes linger on mine.
“I’m surprised you’re so gung-ho about this,” he says. “I expected you to come out against military action.”
“I am half-American, remember?”
He laughs. “Good point. Although it’s the American experience I’m trying to learn from.”
“This is different. Zawahiri took power in a violent coup and murdered al-Abdul. He didn’t even pretend to be elected. The good news is, Zawahiri’s group isn’t a hydra. It’s not had long enough to grow beyond Zawahiri, so he’s the only person with the charisma and intelligence to lead. If you cut off this head, there won’t be another one to replace it.”
The Prime Minister frowns and looks at me curiously. Then I realize why.
Shit. Secretaries probably don’t typically name-drop deposed foreign leaders. I have to remember I’m playing a part. I’m here as a secretary, not a wannabe journalist after the scoop of a lifetime.
“You’re right,” the Prime Minister says eventually.
“Maybe,” I say reluctantly. “But what do I know?”
“A lot, apparently.”
The Prime Minister picks up the phone, so I stand up to give him some privacy. He reaches up and grabs my arm.
“Stay,” he says firmly.
I sit back down and watch him as he makes the call. With just a few words, he authorizes an assassination attempt on a foreign leader. He didn’t do that just because of me, did he? No, I’m not that arrogant. He would’ve made that decision anyway, he just wanted to talk the decision through with someone else.
The call only lasts a few seconds, but it’s going to kick off a chain of events that will alter the course of history. I imagine Zach on the other end of the phone. He’s now barking orders at anyone nearby, and soon troops will be mobilized and briefed on the mission.
All because of that phone call.
What must it be like to have that kind of power?
Terrifying, I imagine.
The Prime Minister puts the phone down, and sits there silently, massaging his temples and staring down at the satellite pictures.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. “Tea?”
“I’m going to need something much stronger than that.” The Prime Minister stands up and walks over to a cabinet at the far end of the room. He pulls out a decanter of whiskey and two glasses. “Do you like scotch?”
The only whiskey I’ve ever tried is Jack Daniels, and I downed it in one go to get it over with. “I really shouldn’t,” I reply.
“Did you drive in to work?”
“No.” Who can afford to park in central London?
“Then you can join me in a drink. It will help get rid of the stress after a long day.”
“I’m not that stressed.”
“I meant for me.”
“Oh.” I take the glass and tap it against his. “Cheers.”
He takes a sip and savors the taste. I try and do the same, but I don’t look anywhere near as smooth as he does. The second the whiskey touches my lips, I feel the alcohol burn and I wince as it enters my mouth. How the hell do people drink this stuff?
“Not a fan?” he asks me.
“I’m not used to it.”
“Neither was I, but it helps relieve the stress.”
“I think I’ll stick to yoga. Maybe you should give that a go? It’s definitely better for your health.”
“Can you really imagine me doing yoga?”
Yes. Wearing only a pair of tightly fitting boxer briefs, since you asked.
“You get better at it quickly. I was dreadful at first. I’m not very flexible.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he replies. His eyes linger on me again. I take a sip of the whiskey, as an excuse to look away from his gaze.
“I do a good downward-facing dog, but mastering positions like the crow takes a lot of practice. I’ve fallen flat on my face more than once.”
“What’s downward-facing dog? Yoga poses all have such weird names.”
Why did I mention downward-facing dog? Of all the poses, I mention the one where you stick your ass in the air like you’re inviting a good fucking from behind.
How the hell do I describe it without it sounding like a sex position?
“You make a triangle shape with your body. Hands and feet either end of the mat, and then you just kind of push yourself into the air.”
“I think I can picture it,” he replies, while staring at me intently.
“It sounds easy, but holding the pose for a long time is difficult. It needs a lot of upper body strength.”
“I’ve always thought of yoga as people stretching and humming loudly.”
“There’s a bit of that, but it’s a good workout. I’m always sweating by the end of it.”
“Still doesn’t sound like my kind of thing. I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I like to lift weights to work out. It gets the blood pumping.”
“That’s the problem,” I reply. “It doesn’t help relieve stress like yoga does. At the end of an hour of yoga, I’m so relaxed I nearly fall asleep on the mat.”
“I can’t even fall asleep in my bed. It’s going to take more than a few poses to get rid of my stress I’m afraid.”
I open my mouth to argue, but instead I end up nodding in agreement. Yoga helped me deal with the stress of finding a job and taking exams, but Wade is dealing with a different level of stress entirely. He’s making life or death decisions, not trying to meet assignment deadlines.
“Where do you work out?” I ask out of curiosity. “I’m guessing the Prime Minister doesn’t go to the local Virgin Fitness?”
“There’s a tiny gym on the ground floor next to the kitchen. I had them fit the room out when I moved in. There’s not much there: treadmill, bike, rowing machine, and a weight bench. Technically it’s only for my use, but you’re more than welcome to share it. Seems only fair if I’m going to keep you late at night.”
“I’m not great on treadmills.” I’m always dripping with sweat after just ten minutes and look like I’ve showered with my clothes on. On the rare occasions I do go running, I do it outside. At least that way there’s a breeze and no one has to be near me.
“It would be good to have someone to work out with.”
“Then you should do yoga with me.”
The Prime Minister laughs gently. “Fair point. You could do your yoga in the gym if you like.”
“Didn’t you say it was small?”
“Tiny.”
“Then I probably couldn’t.”
“It’s pretty ridiculous really. I’m the Prime Minister
, but I only have a tiny gym. I bet the American president has a huge gym.”
“And I bet he never uses it.”
“I suspect you’re right.” The Prime Minister pauses, and I’m about to take my leave when he speaks again. “Why did you leave America? I know you’re a dual citizen, but you spent your entire life in the States until recently and you didn’t come here for a job. Boyfriend?”
“Kind of. More the lack of one really. I broke up with a guy and wanted a change of scenery.”
“Well, I’m glad you came here.”
“Me too.”
There’s another pause, but this time the Prime Minister ends it by standing up and stretching. “I should let you go.”
“Are you sure? I’m happy to stay if there’s more work for me to do.”
“There’s always more work to do, but I’m sure you need your beauty sleep. Not that you need sleep to look beautiful. I mean… nevermind. Let’s head outside. I’ll sort you out with a ride home.”
“I can take the train,” I reply.
“Nonsense. Have you ever been in a bulletproof car?”
Chapter Eight
Wade
How far can I take this?
I could offer to join her in the bulletproof car to see she gets home safely, but it’s a bulletproof car. Of course she’s going to get home safely.
We leave the residence and head out into the cold night air. Two security guards immediately start following us at a distance as we walk towards the security checkpoint. You never get any alone time as Prime Minister. On the rare occasions I go for a walk to clear my head, I do so knowing I have a full security detail watching me the entire time. I’m more comfortable being the protector, not being protected.
Lionel is still on duty at the security checkpoint. I swear he works longer hours than I do.
“Evening, Prime Minister, Ms. Tucker,” Lionel says as we approach.
“Hi Lionel,” Janie says cheerfully, with much more energy than I’d expect from someone who’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift. Maybe there’s something to this yoga thing after all. “I don’t have to answer one of your jokes to get out do I?”
