by Josie Brown
“At the same time, the U.S. arms industry’s most active clients are our country’s Arab allies—Saudi Arabia, of course, along with Jordan, Egypt, Qatar, Bahrain, and the Emirates. All of them are on buying sprees,” Jack says.
Ryan nods. “Exactly. If President Chiffray is a Quorum leader, this puts him in a quandary. If he doesn’t accommodate our Arab allies with boots on the ground along with drones in the air, they’ll look for their military toys elsewhere. Needless to say, this will put him at odds with the Congressional hawks and their largest financial benefactors: the defense industry.”
“Putin will be happy to do so,” Abu adds. “Anything to get back at al-Qaeda for aiding the Chechen rebels.”
“And just as unthinkable, so will the Quorum,” Jack replies. “They won’t mind arming both sides with black market munitions.”
“At the same time, playing the dove endears President Chiffray to his left-of-center constituency, who are tired of our participation in all these Middle East wars, in which our only stake is oil contracts,” Arnie points out.
“All of this bullshit killing, and for what?” Emma declares. “For a fuel source that is so harmful to the environment. The really smart countries are shifting to solar and wind. OPEC’s clout is the lowest it has been in years. Even the Arabs see the writing on the wall, and have begun shifting their investments to green development.”
“It isn’t just about oil. You forget that most of the Islamic States’ jihadists consider this a holy war against all Christians, Jews, and Muslim Shiites,” Abu counters. “Many of the citizens in those countries—moderate Muslims, non-Muslims, and non-sectarians—are being slaughtered for standing up to them, or for just living their lives.”
“At the same time, by securing the oil pipelines in captured territories, ISIS can easily pay for its so-called holy war,” Dominic reminds us.
Ryan frowns. “People, let’s stay on task—finding the Quorum operative in the White House.” He turns to me. “Donna, to do so, your mission and Jack’s won’t be easy. First, you’ll have to gain access to the Chiffrays’ cell phones. Unfortunately, the kind used by White House administration and staff does not store its data on a SIM card, but in a secure cloud.”
“For that, you’ll need this.” Arnie hands us a tiny device. “This scanner can be connected to the cell phone’s audio port,” he explains. “From there, it reads the phone’s passcode and opens the phone immediately. When the phone is open, a Trojan is automatically placed into its operating system. Emma’s ComInt team will then access the cell’s secure cloud remotely in order to search its archival data for text correspondence with Xia. If the texts were made from either of the first family’s cells, we’ll have proof of it.”
“Getting ahold of the president and the first lady’s cell phone—or that of any other person of interest—won’t exactly be a ,” I warn him.
Ryan nods. “If that’s the case, your fallback position is to plant this on the Chiffrays and other POIs.” He holds up a transparent disk. It’s tiny—not even an eighth of an inch in diameter.
Everyone leans in. “Ah, a microdot audio transmitter,” Dominic murmurs.
I look meaningfully at Jack. Before I knew that Carl was a Quorum operative, Jack placed one on me without my knowledge. He guessed, rightly, that Carl would try to turn me.
Carl didn’t. But he had convinced me that Jack was Quorum instead, and couldn’t be trusted.
I learned the hard way that Carl was wrong. I have the scar from his bullet to prove it.
Ryan nods. “Yes, but this specific unit is equipped with both audio and video capabilities. As you see, it’s not only smaller, but its signal is clearer and it can transmit from twice the distance. We have several of these at your disposal.” He shrugs. “In all honesty, the microdot is our fallback position. We’ll only be able to deduce culpability by what is said or seen. Then again, considering Babette’s involvement with the wedding, if you can’t get ahold of her phone, you’ll have ample opportunities to plant a microdot on both POTUS and FLOTUS, as well as any other POI who may be floating around Lion’s Lair.”
“Adhering the microdot may be tricky,” Jack reminds him. “If I remember correctly, ideal placement is an area of skin that is hard to get at by the POI and can’t be washed off.”
I know why he’s grinning. He placed mine high—very high—on my inner thigh.
“I’m sure you’ll be creative in your methodology—that is, the mission is a go.” Ryan looks me in the eye. “Donna, fortunately for Acme—albeit unfortunately for you—your nuptials put Jack and you in a unique position to carry out this mission and find the White House’s mole.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll understand if you want to pass in order to focus on the wedding. Still, for all our sakes, I hope you don’t.”
I shrug. “Okay, sure, I’ll play along.”
What choice do I have?
It’s ten o’clock. I open Trisha’s bedroom door, but she’s not there.
I find her in Mary’s bed, cuddled in her older sister’s arms.
Their chests rise and fall calmly and in tandem. There are smiles on their lips. Are they dreaming in unison too? I’ll pretend that they are, though I know better.
Their lives are too rarely in sync. I make this my excuse to let Trisha sleep.
Tomorrow is soon enough for me to break her heart.
Chapter 6
Couples Counseling
Prior to making your union legal, taking the time for relationship counseling is always a great idea. Besides helping you deal with the stress of a wedding, it will also reveal traits that can blow up your marriage before it even begins.
‘Blow up’ being the operative words here. Preferably him, as opposed to you.
That being said, if your counselor’s assessment mentions any of these behavior patterns, call off the wedding, return the dress, and re-up your membership on Tinder:
Pattern #1: He refuses to give up his Little Black Book. (In other words, all former girlfriends’ digits are still in his cell phone’s contact list.)
Your Fear: He’s not ready to settle down.
A More Likely Reason: He views its readiness (and maybe theirs too) as his security blanket, reinforcing his need to know that he’s still desirable.
Solution: Reassure him with random acts of romance.
Tip: If that doesn’t convince him, try not-so-random acts of violence instead.
Pattern #2: He takes too many business trips.
Your Fear: He’s working much too hard.
A More Likely Reason: When you ask to tag along, he claims you’ll distract him from his work.
Solution: Follow him. That way, should he need stress release, you’ll be there to give him a massage.
Tip: Should your rap on his hotel room door reveal him in the midst of a massage from a buxom young woman, don’t apologize for knocking—because it’s an inopportune time, or for the bruise he’ll have when their heads collide.
Pattern #3: He kisses every woman he meets hello.
Your Fear: He misses being single.
A More Likely Reason: He’s a straight-out lech.
Solution: Blind him.
Tip: Get him a sturdy cane and a good seeing-eye dog.
Better Tip: Get yourself a new boyfriend.
We’re having chocolate chip Mickey Mouse pancakes for breakfast.
It’s Trisha’s favorite.
As for me, I’ll eat my words.
On the side of her plate, I place a long pink plastic skewer with slices of bananas and strawberries, and fry an egg in a star cookie cutter. I put the pure maple syrup in the pitcher, which is adorned with a painting of Betty Boop.
This morning, Mary has helped Trisha get dressed, and holds her hand as she walks down the stairs toward the kitchen table. Trisha hugs Jack before taking her place at the table. She blushes when I bid her a good morning, but she keeps her eyes on her plate.
Only when I sit down beside her does she finall
y look over at me. “I hope you can forgive me for agreeing with Mrs. Chiffray that it would be alright for Janie to be a flower girl too. I—”
Trisha holds a finger to my lips in order to silence me. “Mommy, it’s okay. I do forgive you and I’m fine with it.”
“Oh! Well…thank you.”
My relief is so obvious to her that she deigns to kiss me on the cheek. “You’re quite welcome. Mary told me that our biggest job during the wedding is to make you happy. So, if it makes you happy to make Mrs. Chiffray happy, I guess I can share my part with Janie.” She forces a smile onto her face. “Sometimes Janie wants to be the boss of me, but as long as she knows up front that we are to be even-steven, everything will be okay.”
“Agreed. Even-steven.” I hold out my hand. “Shake on it?”
She does, and even better than that, she rewards me with a big hug.
As she digs into her pancakes, I pull Mary aside. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”
“Mom, not to worry. You’ve got enough on your plate. Besides, that’s what the maid of honor does—puts out the emotional fires before and during the wedding.”
I kiss her cheek. “You’re much more than that to me. You’re quickly growing into my closest girlfriend.”
Despite her ear-to-ear smile, tears well up in her eyes. “That means the world to me…because you’ve always been mine.”
She hugs me as if she never wants to let me go.
This is what I live for. This is what I fight for.
Jack’s arms go around both of us. He’s just as relieved as me. “Donna, why don’t you take Evan and Mary to school? I’d like to take Jeff and Trisha.”
Jeff pumps his arm. “Alright! The BMW! Oh, and don’t worry, Dad—we no longer pick up Cheever, now that Mom punched out Mrs. Bing.”
Everyone turns to gawk at me.
“It was an accident…sort of,” I stammer.
“What do you mean by sort of?” Trisha asks. “Can I sometimes use ‘sort of’ too?”
Jack smothers his smile. “This happened yesterday and you’re just telling us about it now?” he murmurs.
I’m saved by the bell, literally.
“You had to be there!” Jeff shouts, as he runs off toward the front door. “But the great news is that we never have to carpool with Cheever or Morton again—and that’s fine by me.”
I’d rather clear away the breakfast dishes than suffer my family’s stares. I’ve just stacked the plates in the sink when Jeff runs back. “Mom! You better come quick! We’re being raided!”
Jack’s eyes meet mine. If Lee somehow discovered Acme’s game plan, we’ll be hauled away in handcuffs in front of the children.
Jack leaps up and heads to the foyer. I’m right behind him.
The front door is open, and already they are swarming in and casing the place: men wearing suits, dark glasses, and ear buds, and talking into wrist mics.
One is heading our way.
Like me, Jack’s stance shifts as his muscles tense up, despite the welcoming smile on the man’s face.
We are also assessing the situation: flight or fight? The kids’ presence means one of us should do the former while the other attempts the latter in order to get them out of harm’s way.
And perhaps be taken down in the process, considering the number of the man’s associates who are casing every room in the house.
Since women are considered to be less threatening, I take the first step forward. “May I help you?”
“Are you Donna Stone?”
But, of course, he already knows I am. Still I resist the urge to be a smartass and curtsey, and instead I nod benignly.
“And you’re Jack Craig.” It’s a statement, not a question.
The man’s eyes scan over me as if I’m a walking barcode. It’s a safe bet that he’s checking for weapons. Does a soapy sponge count? Frankly, it could if used right—say, crammed into his mouth to stop him from shouting out after I give him a sidekick to the solar plexus.
But Jack relaxes his hands and shakes his head to me. There are too many men in black to even try for a takedown.
Ever curious, the children hover in the doorway.
I’m a mother. Maybe I can shame our guests into keeping the cuffs off me until after the kids leave for school.
Evan is old enough to drive the others to school. I’ll just ask him to take my mommy mobile. In case we need to make a quick getaway, Jack’s BMW i8 can do zero to sixty in four-point-two seconds.
First Man in Black’s eyes roam from one of the kids to the other. Finally, he asks, “Anyone else in the house?”
“My sixty-eight year-old aunt is asleep in the guest room.” I don’t think it’s wise to confess that Aunt Phyllis stayed up until four in the morning on a Tongan online gambling website, playing Seven-Card Stud. We’ll need her to bail us out of jail, not share a cell with us.
Man in Black nods as he murmurs into wrist mic, “Phyllis Lindholm too. Cleared?” He frowns and adds, “Barely, eh?” He glares at me for the longest time.
I shrug. “You can’t choose your family.”
He processes that. Finally, he growls, “Okay send in Peacock, Parakeet, Puffin, Wren and Love Bird.”
What the hell…
Ah, so that’s who they are.
The men closest to the door stand even taller. It’s a ten-count before we see whom they are protecting:
Babette. Of course, she is Peacock.
Janie is with her, which would make her Secret Service name Parakeet. A woman—in her mid-twenties, and wearing round owlish glasses—holds her hand. Her face, dimpled and freckled, is sweetly pretty. My guess is that she’s Janie’s au pair. Puffin, perhaps?
If so, Wren has to be Babette’s aide-de-camp, Narcissa.
That would mean that the last of their entourage, Chantal, has the code name Love Bird.
Another woman carries in a portfolio stamped WEDDING INVITATIONS, as well as mini-speakers and an iPod, which holds samples of the music Babette has deemed fit to play at the wedding.
I wish I could give in to the part of me that is relieved to have help in planning, but it’s much harder to do than I thought.
Yet another woman—large, and wearing a chef’s jacket and cap—rolls a large silver cart laden with ten different wedding cakes.
“Dessert, for breakfast?” Jeff asks. “Double score!”
“You can put that down in the dining room,” Babette points in the wrong direction.
I stop the baker before she heads off to the kitchen, where she’s sure to be jumped by Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, who are probably on top of the kitchen table by now, scavenging everyone’s leftover pancakes. “In there,” I tell her, nodding to the room on the left.
Janie runs past her mother and all the Men in Black between her and Trisha in order to give her dear friend a neck-clinging hug.
Trisha’s face shifts from surprise at seeing her friend, to wariness from the thought of any further concessions she may have to make for our wedding, and finally to joy at being adored. All is forgiven.
I wish I could do the same with Babette, but we were never friends to begin with. I may soon discover that we are mortal enemies.
All the more reason for me to slap a smile on my mug, bat my eyes, and proclaim, “So glad you could make it back to Hilldale so quickly, Mrs. Chiffray.”
I hold out my hand, but she pulls me in close for a hug and murmurs, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’ll be…killer.”
Jack tosses Evan his set of our car keys. “Why don’t you drive yourself and the kids to school in Donna’s car?”
Evan acknowledges the request with a wave and then nods to the others as he heads off to grab his school bag.
After politely shaking Babette’s hand, Mary and Jeff take off after him. Neither likes Babette. I guess they’ve inherited my Shit-o-Meter.
Trisha pulls away from Janie. “Got to go. Last week of school! We have our final math and spelling tests today.” Trisha blu
shes. She’s not a natural born liar. Her glance begs me not to rat her out. In truth, all tests have been taken. Today is the last day of school. All of the elementary classes are celebrating with a picnic at Hilldale Park, where the staff has set up a mini carnival.
Janie pouts, but Trisha stands firm. As consolation, she pats her friend’s shoulder. “We can play when I get home from school.” She runs after the others.
“Please, Mummy, may I?” Janie looks pleadingly at her mother.
Babette sighs heavily. “Frannie, why don’t you remind Janie what’s on her agenda today.”
The au pair clicks open an iPad and scrolls to a calendar page. “This was simply to be a meet-and-greet,” she reminds Janie. “Immediately from here, you’re to go to East South Central for a ribbon-cutting ceremony of a new playground, then the Santa Monica Library to read to the preschoolers.”
Janie wrinkles her nose. “Not The Cat in the Hat again!”
“Green Eggs and Ham is also approved,” Frannie informs her, “and you read it almost as well.”
Janie’s lower lip quivers. “By now, shouldn’t I be reading books like Harry Potter?”
A flick of Babette’s slim wrist is supposed to whisk away her daughter’s concern. “Maybe next year, darling. Without your two front teeth, your lisp is still far too pronounced. Such a display would just add more grist to the SNL mill.”
By that, she’s referring to some recent Saturday Night Live skits, which have poked fun at the first family’s public faux pas. Granted, most of these have been Babette’s doing, such as her curtsey to the Duchess of Cornwall on the Royals’ first visit to the Chiffray White House.
Then there was the leak by a former aide of her clothing bill, which topped three million dollars in her first full year as first lady.
So far the most sensational scandal of all concerned is a paparazzo’s photo of Babette caught in a clinch with a strange man. Apparently, it was taken while she was staying in a posh Manhattan penthouse apartment.
