“I won’t do anything else.”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative.” He ran his forefinger down the curve of her nose and ended by lifting her chin and leering into her eyes. “Not to contradict you, but yes, you will do more for me. Much more. In fact, whenever I click my fingers.” To make the point, he lifted his hand and clicked his fingers.
She spontaneously jerked at the snapping sound. “I … I don’t think so.” There was a musty smell about him, like mothballs or formaldehyde, as if he slept in a coffin lined with satin.
“It’s work-related. And you, sweet thing, work for me. In several capacities. Allow me to remind you of the wisdom of your ongoing cooperativeness.” He slipped a cell phone from his breast pocket and clicked on a video. The foreground was lit up. The background was dark. The focus was sharp. The subject stood out in naked glory. “The camera was running the entire time we were … well, I don’t have to tell you. You can see how well you performed. Just so you understand, I’m going to keep this in a safe-deposit box, where it will stay until needed. If it’s ever needed. That will be up to you. If you don’t perform to the best of your abilities, which so far have been exemplary, I won’t hesitate exposing your talents to a grateful audience. You are duty-bound to me, my dear. If ever you don’t do exactly what I ask of you, whenever I order you to do it, and in the exact manner I instruct you, the video will be released.”
In a feverish unthinking attempt, she snatched at the cell phone. He anticipated her reaction and delivered a very sharp and very well aimed jab to her gut, immediately cutting off her grunt with a lover’s clinch and a kiss upon her agitated mouth. Beneath the kiss, she groaned from the pain, the breathlessness, the humiliation, and the putrid stench of his breath. When he finished devouring her, he stroked her face, a lover’s endearment. Anyone who chose to look their way would only see the incident as a romantic interlude.
“And now,” he said with a sigh of satisfaction, “here’s what I want you to do tonight, my little lovebird of the tattered feathers.” And he whispered in her ear.
As she listened, she understood what she had become: a woman dressed in widow’s weeds on the eve of her wedding.
20
Washington, D. C.
Saturday, July 26
BLENDING IN WITH serving staff, Jack smiled at condescending women and cow-towed to self-important men, solicitously offering flutes of golden bubbly and backing away with smirking bows.
Senator Wallace Reed was surrounded by hangers-on, suck-ups, and bombastic backslappers, their conversations brisk and guffaws overloud. Many took for granted that Reed was destined to be the next President of the United States. The way he spoke a little too loudly, chuckled a little too gamely, and struck camera-perfect poses a little too often said he believed the hype. Egos are cheap commodities, sold for a thin dime.
On that fateful night at Club Seven—mere minutes before Jack decided to pick up the exotic lady sitting alone on her perch in a dim corner of the tavern—they had briefly spoken. Theirs had been an accidental encounter. The senator had introduced himself as Wally. Someone had stood him up that night, undoubtedly a lady. He wound up eating and drinking alone, hunched over a corner of the bar, looking like an average working stiff seeing out the end of a long day, suit jacket removed, shirtsleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, and checking for cell phone messages. Arguably, the woman who stood him up that night wasn’t his long-suffering wife, who now stood obediently at his side, a woman well past her prime, appearing matronly and considerably bored. She wore the classic wifely smile, the grin-and-bear-it kind. Reed’s public persona was miles removed from that fellow sitting on the low barstool.
Surrounding the senator and his intimate coterie, other supporters and backers loitered at discreet distances, conversing sociably while seeking out mutual allies. One of them was Camilla Howden, the titular head of HID, this despite the senior directors who ranked above her. Regardless of her official title of deputy director of the Information Assurance Bureau, she was the one who ran the Firm, handling everything with a subtle though steady hand. Someone had to take charge, and it certainly wasn’t Executive Director Derek Salazar. Or even Neville Brandon. It was Camilla. Tonight she stood out like a beacon, a silver-haired lady of amazing stature, even if she was only five-foot-five or so, her bearing not measured in inches but in prominence and reputation. Being politically shrewd had everything to do with it. High-powered people on both sides of the aisle called her a friend, among other descriptions not quite as flattering. Appearing stately this evening in a severe off-white suit jacket and matching slacks, Camilla was a bureaucrat in the truest sense of the word and an iron-fisted administrator who never let a single detail slip past her notice. She caught sight of Jack. Whether she recognized him or merely observed him as just another waiter among many, she did nothing about her observation except to lift a glass of champagne to her cool lips and smile agreeably at the milquetoast man standing at her side, undoubtedly her better half.
Jack had located Liz earlier and was only waiting for the right moment when he could talk to her absent a listening audience. She seemed to be regarded as a lady to know. People would approach her, introduce themselves, pass time in idle conversation, and eventually move away, making room for yet another of her many admirers. He had underestimated her influence. She must have ingratiated herself with members of the Washingtonian upper crust, how or why was the question since the upper crust did not normally associate with GSA-grade employees. When at last he saw a lull in activity, Neville Brandon had swooped down on her and shepherded her out of the ballroom, leaving her escort alone and plainly put out. When Liz returned several minutes later, she latched onto her dapper man and gazed blankly into the distance, applying a plastic smile now and again, the perfect plastic woman attending the perfect plastic event.
Jack finally made his move, sidling up to her and proffering the tray. “Ma’am.” She hadn’t let on before, but she must have spotted him well before this moment. She said nothing. Instead she gazed away and whispered inaudible words to her date while reaching for a champagne flute, simultaneously brushing Jack away like a toady from the presence of his queen. He obediently bowed and backed off, grinning as he went. He made his point. She had been ruffled by his unexpected appearance in a venue where anyone could have recognized him but hadn’t. Nobody acknowledges servants, much less looks them in the eye.
He moved around the room, keeping her in his line of sight. He wanted to throw her off her game. It worked. The cool lady disintegrated, becoming flustered, nervous, and flighty, her chest rising and falling in heaving sighs, the color of her face transitioning from pale to high pique and back to anemic, even while holding herself in one of her signature statuesque poses. To cover her disquiet, she modeled her gown with a flourish and a swing that swirled her hair over tanned shoulders, left appealingly bare by the strapless dress. Jack would like to have stroked those bare shoulders, taken her in his arms, and kissed her under the stars. Those halcyon days of being in love with Liz Langdon were long past. She had changed since then, having become less confident but increasingly haughty, a way to make up for her shortcomings in the fast-paced and unforgiving venue of Washington, D. C. After calling her boss lady for several months, he learned a thing or two about this new and improved version. She had acquired the habit of looking at herself through an imaginary camera lens, having become quite vain and not at all like the down-to-earth girl he first met in college, the one with the manners and shyness of a sweet Southern girl even while possessing enough confidence to tell anyone off with low-spoken acidity. That natural girl was gone, replaced by layers of makeup applied in the reflection of a cracked mirror.
Her date moved off. She beckoned a finger. Jack approached and attentively bowed his head. She exchanged her half-drained glass for a full one. “Well?” she said.
“I have to talk to you. Where can we meet?”
She held the glass to her lips and smiled at a passerby. “W
e can’t.” Her first instinct had been to snarl at Jack. The snarl quickly vanished, to be replaced by overriding concern. This was the Liz he remembered. The malleable and mellow girl who saw rainbows when skies were cloudy. The practical joker who couldn’t stop laughing. The carefree spirit who would try anything on an impulse. Her concerned expression evaporated. With a seething tone, she said, “Are you out of your fucking mind, coming here of all places?”
He said nothing. She swore under her breath.
A darling fellow wearing an ascot beneath a sapphire-sequined jacket had stepped onto the stage, a pop singer several decades beyond his prime, the paid entertainment for the evening. The band played on cue, and he belted out one of his hits, a catchy tune with a Latin rhythm. A few couples glided onto the dance floor while others stood at the periphery, swaying to the music and clapping in time.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Liz said to him over the music. Mercurial as the weather, her mood had changed once more to concern.
“Care to dance?” To her handsome escort, who had been watching Jack with mild disdain, he added, “You don’t mind, do you, jack?”
“My name isn’t Jack.”
“In this room, everybody’s name is Jack.” He winked, passed the tray to Liz’s peeved boy toy, and led her onto the dance floor. She was reluctant at first, but unwilling to make a scene, allowed him to take her into his arms. He had forgotten what it was like to hold this supple, sumptuous, superb woman in his arms, every part of her body fitting seamlessly into his embrace.
“You look terrible,” she said. “And I detest the facial hair.”
He scrubbed his face. “They don’t give you razors in prison. Now that I’m out, I decided to embrace the new look.”
She rolled her eyes before saying, “Midnight? My apartment?”
He kissed her on the cheek. “If you’re late, I’ll just go ahead make myself at home.” Removing the waiter’s jacket and loosening the bowtie, he abandoned her on the dance floor, strolled up to the cash bar, and ordered a beer.
After the crooner had taken his bows, he invited a high-society type up the stage, the kind of man who demands bows and scrapes and a hundred percent loyalty. His hair was thinning, his grins smarmy, and his strut disarming. They swapped lame dialog and stale jokes, everyone laughing and clapping on cue. After the singer walked offstage, the big shot stepped up to the mic and made introductions for the man of the hour, stating a few choice facts from the senator’s extensive biography. Son of a school teacher and carpenter. Bachelor of Arts degree magna cum laude from Harvard College. Juris Doctor from Columbia Law School. Member of the Columbia Law Review. Corporate lawyer for a prominent New York firm. Chief counsel for the then senior senator from New York. U.S. Attorney in Manhattan. Six-term congressman representing the second district of Long Island. Three-term senator for the great state of New York. Vice Chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence. “It is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to the man who needs no introductions … the next President of the United States … Senator … Wallace … Reed!”
Reed bounded onto the stage accompanied by drum rolls, cheers, and a round of deafening applause. Once the din died down, he began his remarks, his good looks, noble bearing, and amiable smile having already won the race in the minds of his supporters.
The bartender nudged Jack and handed him his beer. An attractive woman—slightly more mature than the many youngbloods in the room but vastly more youthful than the moneyed highbrows—sidled up to him. “Fancy meeting you here. Remember me? Bet you don’t.”
Quick on the uptake, Jack took her lead. “A hot day in July, as I recall. A reporter with the Washington Times.”
“Gazette. Everybody makes the same mistake. Vikki Kidd.” Having deftly skirted around the personal visit she paid him at the townhouse, she offered a solid handshake before grabbing the attention of the bartender with a raised finger.
“I wasn’t in the mood to talk to you then,” Jack said, “and I’m not in the mood to talk to you now.”
“Well, hallelujah! Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way ….” She smiled broadly while gathering up napkin and ice water. “I don’t mean the day of your fifteen minutes of fame. Before.”
He gave her a sidelong glance, wondering what she was referring to. Her eyes trapped him. They were bright as a pair of five-carat diamonds, and they were laughing at him. She was a ballsy broad, wearing a black pantsuit that wasn’t in any form mannish but instead took advantage of her full figure, falling in at the proscribed dips and stretching out to the womanly rises. She wore enough jewelry to blind a blind man. Her unmanageable auburn hair complimented the emerald green of her blouse and the delicate ruddiness of her complexion. If Jack were five years older and she were five years younger, he could go for a woman like her.
“The Grande Hotel,” Jack said, suddenly remembering. Last year, Liz had taken him to a party overflowing with government dignitaries, people she thought he should know now that he was back in town. He couldn’t have cared less about the dignitaries. He only wanted to be with Liz, a bad habit that couldn’t be broken.
“I probably didn’t do you any favors by talking to you that night.”
Jack scratched his brow. “As I recall, we spoke about the weather.”
“Not precisely.” Her eyes were round and probing and a vivid multihued color no one would easily forget. “I asked you about Germany’s accusation that the U.S. had hacked the Bundesnachrichtendienst.”
“The German CIA,” he said, nodding.
“Ah, you do remember. I wasn’t really looking for an answer. Just your reaction. And you did react.”
“Is that how you get confirmations? What do you call it? Unnamed sources?”
“You’ve found me out, I fear.” She nodded towards Reed. “Want to know my opinion? He’s one of the most dangerous men in town. He stands for nothing. But what does that matter when he’ll do anything his backers want him to do? For the right price, of course.”
Reed’s baritone voice thundered across the room. He was one of those magnetic men who demanded adulation. A political rock star, it didn’t matter what he said so long as he said it with style.
When laughter from one of the senator’s pithy remarks died down, she nodded toward the side, walking as she talked. “As to the infiltration of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, it tells us something, doesn’t it? The new spies don’t require a license to kill. They only need a license to cyber-snoop, undermine our allies, cozy up to our enemies, foment revolutions, and get away with it. You know it. And I know it.” She nudged the fellow at her elbow and said in a louder voice, “And Alex knows it, too. Alex Acosta, meet our unwitting and unnamed source.”
Having the striking features of a Meztisos—the Mayan blood of his ancestors baked into his features—he had been standing off to the side, quiet and self-absorbed, knocking back a beer but looking like an extra piece of jewelry. Jack remembered him from the day of his arrest. The cameraman. But it looked as though he had taken on additional duties that didn’t involve peering through a viewfinder.
They shook. Jack looked back at Kidd. He was beginning to wonder what she was about and why she had approached him … four times now … and what exactly she was angling for this time.
Without hesitation, she laid it out in unambiguous terms. “We’ve been digging up information on your agency, specifically the Special Collections Bureau.” She stated her case as if she were commenting on the weather or the stock market, without winking an eye or smoothing it over with a smile.
Jack stared straight ahead, avoiding the intensity of her expression. “No longer my agency. And never by department. And anyway, I was only an analyst working on low-level stuff. Databases and stuff like that. Very mundane.”
“I highly doubt it. But if so, an analyst who must have become a little too inquisitive, and ever since has had his phone tapped, his car tracked, his movements recorded, his friends targeted, and his life rudely interrupted. A
nd oh, did I forget to mention it?—silly me—framed for the murder of his girlfriend.” She sipped water, afterwards licking her lips, her penetrating glare not once leaving him.
The room guffawed in response to one of the senator’s remarks before once again becoming enrapt by his banal words, his clichéd generalities, and his empty promises. He was in campaign mode, testing one-line zingers on his donors before unleashing them on his base.
“You know and I know that the Special Collections Bureau specializes in cleanup operations, Neville Brandon’s contribution to the cause. He looks like a thug because he is a thug. During Prohibition, he would have run the Chicago mob. In the modern world, he runs a different kind of mob, but just as corrupt.”
“I was kept pretty much in the dark.”
A smirk curled her lips. “In case you’re that naïve, which I highly doubt that you are, any time the CIA, FBI, NSA, or any other agency doesn’t want to get its hands dirty, his bureau takes care of it. This time, John Jackson Coyote, of whom I am sure you’re well acquainted, happened to be on the receiving end, which violates his Constitutional rights. The First and Fourth Amendments certainly. And possibly the Fifth, Sixth, Eighth, and Ninth.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smiled, then nodded toward the big shot standing slightly to the right and behind the senator, avidly listening to Reed’s remarks and playing the part of the carnival barker by prompting applause. “Gaston Darvelle, CEO of Darvelle Industries.”
“I know.”
“I’ll bet you also know he inherited his company from dear old daddy but made it bigger and more profitable with acquisitions and takeovers. His hands are into everything. The dirtier, the better. Petroleum, chemicals, plastics, fertilizer, mining, even commodity futures and venture capitalism. He collects houses like my grandma collects tchotchkes. A seven-thousand-square-foot mansion in Rhode Island, just a cozy getaway, mind you. A penthouse in a luxury high-rise overlooking Central Park. A waterfront villa in Key Largo, four bedrooms, four baths, five-thousand square feet of living space, and a private boat dock. A ranch in New Mexico and a condo near Park City. He has a priceless art collection filled with Renoirs, Monets, and Picassos, insurance against the coming apocalypse. He’s a hunting enthusiast. Lions in Kenya. Rhinos in Zimbabwe. Giraffes in Tanzania. He installed a three-million-dollar model train set in his Rhode Island house, promptly sued the vendor for overcharging him, and fucking won. To summarize, he doesn’t have enough to fill his empty soul. Now he wants to own government. He’s already purchased the governorships in thirteen states and has several senators in his back pocket along with a few Supreme Court justices. But he wants more. He wants to own the President.” She nodded toward the senator, his smug pretense and silver-fox perfection making him the personification of statesmanship and the embodiment of blind ambition. “Reed’s his man. One billion dollars for his chosen presidential candidate will be the best investment he could ever make for Darvelle Industries. Hell, if he can’t take it with him, he can leave behind a legacy.”
Cyber Warfare Page 13
