by Jake Devlin
“Well, she's a tough woman, and now that she can't run in '16, I'd bet she and Bill are both really pissed.”
“You got that right, Gordy.”
“But you're tougher and I'm sure you can handle her. You're not doing much that's different from what you did at DEI.”
“It'll probably take a couple of months, but we'll get that place flattened out.”
“Of all the departments, that one's got the most excessive levels of bureaucrats I've ever seen anywhere, and most of them are just political appointees, big contributors' family and friends. 'Deputy Assistant to the Assistant to the Deputy Assistant to the Deputy Director for' … whatever. Christ, you should be able to cut through ten or more layers, flatten it down by 50 percent.”
“Oh, more than that, Gordy; maybe 70, 80 percent.”
“That much, Amy?”
“Absolutely. And without losing any operational efficiencies.”
“Well, you've looked at it more closely than I have, and you're in there every day.
“If you want me to give her a call and remind her that you're the boss on personnel and restructuring, I'd be happy to do that.”
“Not yet, Gordy. I can handle her for now. But I may need that when it comes to getting rid of some of her most top-level people and some of the most incompetent political ambassadors.”
“And her, when and if.”
“Right. For now, she's doing okay, but I'll need to put some closer reins on her soon.”
“Indeed,” Donne agreed.
Amy opened her briefcase and took out a thin manila folder, checked its contents and gave it to Donne.
“The first twenty pages there is a list of the people and positions I've eliminated so far, the next thirty is the next bunch to go, the next seven list the programs that were redundant and have now been or soon will be eliminated, and the final five list how the essential functions have been or will be redistributed at each step of the process.”
Donne glanced through the folder and then put it in his inbox.
“I'll have to set aside some time to go over that more closely later today, but it sounds good. Keep at it, but be sure to get enough rest to stay sharp. She'll try to sabotage you whenever she can. And don't worry about reporting to me too often, just when you think you need to.”
“No worry about that, Gordy. I know the rule: 'The amount of time spent reporting on a function is inversely proportional to the amount of time spent actually performing the function. Stasis is achieved when all of your time is spent making excuses for why nothing was done.'”
“Bravo, Amy; you've learned well.
“And how are you doing on finding candidates to be the new Secretary?”
“We're vetting about twenty people, experienced diplomats with minimal political ties. I should be able to get that down to the ten you asked for within another month at the latest.”
“Good, good.
“Has Cody talked with you about our China plan?”
“Yes, he's got me up to speed on that, and I'm getting him as much info on that as I can, under the radar, of course.”
“Great.
“Anything else?”
“Nope, that's it, Gordy … at least officially. But Emily asked me to bring you some of my culinary specialty.” She set the paper bag on Donne's desk.
“What's that, Amy?”
“Asparagus, artichoke, blueberry, broccoli, cauliflower, kale and tofu salad, with honey, chocolate and guacamole dressing.”
-50-
Four Months Earlier
Saturday, August 13, 2011
12:20 p.m.
Bonita Beach, Florida
“That was delicious, Jake. Thank you,” Pam said, wiping her mouth with a napkin, which she then crumpled and put in her beach bag.
“They are good,” Jake agreed. “Geez, it's hot with no wind. Ready for some more water time?”
“You got it.”
“Sea breeze should pick up in half an hour or so.” He got out of his lounge unassisted and held out a hand, which Pam took and got up out of her chair. Noodles in hand, they headed to the Gulf.
“Vow, I luff your suit,” a light female voice with a slight accent bubbled.
Pam said, “Thank you.”
Jake said, “Hey, Dagi. Wie geht's?”
Dagi, a lovely, svelte strawberry blonde, said, “Danke, gut.”
Pam said, “Sind Sie Deutsch?”
“Ja, ja. Und Sie?
“Nein, nein; Amerikanisch.”
“Sie sprechen gut Deutsch.”
“Danke, aber nicht so gut.”
“Na, na, sehr gut.”
“Sie können mich dutzen.”
“Mich auch. Wo hast du Deutsch gelernt?”
“Vor vielen Jahren, wohnte ich drei Jahre in Hamburg.”
“Ah. Und wie heisst du?”
“Pamela, oder Pam. Und du?”
“Dagmar, oder Dagi.”
“Hallo, Dagi.”
“Hallo, Pam.” They shook hands.
“Hey, guys,” Jake cut in. “Could we stick with English for the old fart?”
“Oh, sorry, Jake,” Pam said. “Haven't spoken German in years.”
Dagi said, “You speak it very well, good accent, too.”
“Danke – oh, sorry; thank you, Dagi.”
“Bitte – sorry; you're welcome.”
“But, Jake, you spoke some German there.”
“What, 'wie geht's'? 'How are you?' That's about all I know – oh, danke and bitte, and auf Wieder-see-ya-later, too.”
Pam and Dagi both laughed and said, virtually in unison, “Oh, Jake.”
“So do you work, Dagi?”
“Ja, ich bin eine Flugbegleiterin – ach, sorry, Jake. I am a flight attendant.”
“She flies to Europe a lot,” Jake said.
“Oh, cool. To Germany?”
“Ja, ja. Meistens München- – sorry – mostly Munich.”
“Beautiful city.”
“Ja, ja.. But I must run; Deirdre is waiting. Nice to meet you, Pam. Tschüss, Jake.”
“Auf Wiederbye-bye.”
“Tschüss, Dagi.”
“Tschüss, Pam.”
As Dagi walked away, Jake said, “You know, I love German food, but every time I eat any, half an hour later I'm hungry … for power.”
Pam laughed.
“So, Pam, you're full of surprises. Any other languages?”
“Oh, a few.”
“C'mon. Details, okay?”
“Okay; let's see. French, Italian, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin Chinese … oh, Spanish, Portugese, a bit of Swahili, and I can get by in Arabic, but I still have a pretty thick American accent in that one. I think that's it.”
“Wow! Really?”
“Gotcha. No, I'm pulling your leg, but only on the Swahili.”
Jake laughed tentatively.
“Oh, sorry; I forgot. Also two dialects of Hindi.”
“You're not pulling my leg again?”
“Nope.”
“Wow. Definitely a Renaissance woman.”
“Oh, Jake,” Pam said, “you're embarrassing me.”
“I don't mean to. I'm just continually impressed.”
“Well, just to add to that, I was on the gymnastics team in the Montreal games.”
“Really?”
“Really. But no medal; broke my ankle getting off the bus.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. And for a 14-year-old, that was devastating.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Long time ago, lots of water under the bridge. Speaking of water, are we going in or are we just going to stand here and let it come to us?”
“Oh, we're going in.” And they did.
-51-
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
11:45 a.m.
The White House, Basement
Washington, DC
In the cellblock, the four union bosses and their attorneys had been conferring for about an hour when they
heard a heavy door clang open and two sets of footsteps approaching, one shuffling and one walking firmly. Then two figures appeared outside the bars, one up close and the other staying back four to five feet.
“He's th-th-the one who-who-who s-s-stole m-m-my ph-ph-phone. And he c-c-called m-m-me a re-re-retard. B-B-Bad m-m-man! No-no-no f-f-friend of J-J-Jimmy, no-no-no f-f-friend.”
“Is that true, sir? Did you steal his phone?” said the heretofore silent guard who had been bringing their food since the beginning of their incarceration.
“I just borrowed it,” Richard protested, holding the phone out to Jimmy. “Here, Jimmy. Thank you for letting me use it.”
“So you do have his phone,” the guard said, staring intently at Richard, but making no move to take the phone.
“He-He-He s-s-stole it, s-s-stole it. B-B-Bad m-m-man.”
“I did not steal it. He loaned it to me.”
“Did he say you could keep it overnight?”
“Well, he --”
“Don't say another word, Richard,” Ms. Skinner cut in sharply. “Not another word.”
The other attorneys looked at their clients and put their fingers to their lips. “Shhhh.”
“Your name, ma'am?”
“I am Dawson Skinner, his attorney.”
“Well, Ms. Skinner, your client has just lied to a federal officer in the course of his official duties, and that will add to his sentence as soon as Mr. Donne hears about it.”
“What is your name and title, sir?”
“Bradley Deckerson, ma'am, middle initial F, for Franklin. Senior Guard, Federal Security Service, formerly with the US Secret Service.”
“Well, sir, you may want to rethink your position. My client did not steal that phone; he borrowed it, as he stated.”
“Did you ask for your phone back last night, Jimmy?”
“I d-d-did, I d-d-did.”
“And did he give it back?”
“N-N-No, h-h-he d-d-did n-n-not. It's r-r-right th-th-there, in h-h-his h-h-hand. B-B-Bad m-m-man .”
“And did any of the other three attempt to give the phone back?”
“N-N-No.”
“So we have conspiracy, as well.”
The three male attorneys and their clients all began talking at the same time.
“All right, all right. I'll let the boss sort it out. But now give me the phone.”
Richard looked at Ms. Skinner, who nodded, and he handed it out through the bars.
“You can continue your consultation. I'll have someone check back in another hour.”
Mr. Creek spoke up. “We don't have any reception in here.”
“That's correct; you don't.”
The guard and Jimmy left, the heavy door slamming behind them.
-52-
Four Months Earlier
Saturday, August 13, 2011
12:35 p.m.
Bonita Beach, Florida
As they settled in on their noodles, Pam purred, “Ahhh, glorious.”
“Bitte,” Jake said. Pam chuckled.
After floating a while, Jake cleared his throat and said, “Pam?”
Pam opened her eyes and said, “Yeah?”
“I've been thinking, and I wonder … wonder ...”
“Yeah, Jake?”
“Who … ba-dum-dum-who … who wrote the book of love? Oh, geez, sorry; couldn't resist.”
Pam chuckled. “Well, that was about three and a half minutes.”
“Maybe a bit longer, a new record. Sorry, really.”
“So what were you wondering, Jake?”
“Okay; serious. I don't know if you've guessed, but you're not only the first person I've had a serious, intelligent conversation with about my little book, but you're the only one.”
“The only one? What about the other people who suggested stuff in emails or here on the beach, the ones you interviewed?”
“That's different; I mean about the book itself, not just ideas from people's experience to go into it.”
“Oh.”
“And d'you know anything about neurolinguistic programming?”
“NLP? Yeah. We had to learn about that in the Service and … and before.”
“So you know how to spot a lie … and a liar, from nonverbals and micro-gestures and micro-facial expressions.”
“Some of … well, most of the time, I guess.”
“So does Donne. Me, too. And I've NLP'd you and I think I can trust you not to steal my work.”
“You're right, Jake. Furthest thing from my mind. Cross my heart.”
“I believe you, and I believed you earlier. So if you want … and only if you want … I'd like to let you read what I've written so far and maybe give me some feedback.”
“I'd love to do that, Jake.”
Jake looked closely at Pam as she said that, and then he said, “Maybe even collaborate. I like the ideas you've given me so far.”
“What ideas?”
“Well, the new title, for one; I love that. And your idea that he needs a love life; the more I think about that, the more I think you may be right. And the more sure I am that I can't write it. So I think we can do something together on it. But only if you want to.”
“Jake, I could kiss you right now; I'd love to.”
“Well, that kissing part is nice, but let's hold off on that for now. I can give you my third backup CD, let you read it all and see what you think. But you have to promise not to let it get out to anybody else, for sure.”
“Oh, I promise, Jake.”
Jake looked closely at her as she said that and then said, “Okay. It's in my bag. We'll get it when we get out.”
“Oh, I can hardly wait.”
“Well, let's start with something now, okay?”
“Okay. What?”
“Just a word thing. I've got an Elvis impersonator singing off-key, and I want an adverb to go before 'off-key' in this phrase: 'belting out a … blank … off-key rendition of,' and all I've got in there now is 'significantly,' but I want some word that relates to how it impacts the ears of the listeners, and I've been stuck on that since last night, trying to fill that blank.”
“Hmm. How about – no, that won't work. Wait a minute. You've got an Elvis impersonator in there?”
“Yeah. Maybe that'll make more sense after you've read it in context; it's just a bit of lightness in Donne's boring tax speech.”
“Oh. Okay; it does make sense to wait. But I'll keep thinking about that till then, maybe something'll pop up.”
“As the sea breeze is starting to. Good. That'll cool the air down and warm the water up a little bit.”
“It doesn't actually cool the air down; it just feels cooler.”
“True; okay. But the water actually warms up, because it blows the warmer surface water in. It can warm up maybe four degrees in an hour with a stiff blow.”
“I guess a stiff blow could warm anything up.”
Jake's eyes went wide and he reached out with one hand, grabbed Pam's wrist and pulled her sharply in toward him. With his other hand, he stopped a paddleboard that was heading toward where Pam's head had just been. The teen who'd been on it a moment before was flailing about in the water, the paddle still in his hand.
“You okay, Pam?”
“Yeah, fine. I didn't see that coming.”
“Kid, you okay?”
The teen coughed up some water, but nodded.
“Your first day on the board?”
The boy nodded again, still coughing.
“Sorry,” he spluttered.
“Until you get the hang of it, might be a good idea to stay further away from where folks are swimming, like way down that way.”
“Toward the observatory house?”
“Maybe even past it, at least for the time being. And if I'm not being too intrusive, you'll balance better if you bend your knees a little more.”
“Really? Thanks. I'll try that.”
“Hope it helps. Meantime, why don't you just walk the
board south a good ways and then try again?”
“Okay. Thanks.” He grabbed the board and began carefully pushing it south through the crowds in the water.
“That was tactful, Jake. You didn't give him the ultimatum you gave that kid with the football in June.”
“This kid was insecure; that one was an arrogant punk.”
“He was, wasn't he?”
Jake just nodded. Pam leaned back on her noodle, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, again letting her feet float up.
“The water even smells delicious,” she said.
“I think that's your perfume.”
“I'm not wearing any.”
“Ah, then it's you.”
After a moment, Pam said, “Jake?”
“Pam?”
“Can you tell me about that gesture with Laurie? Is now a good time?”
“Good as any, I guess.”
“Okay; I'm all ears.”
“Not lying in the water that way, you're not.”
Pam chuckled. “So tell me anyhow.”
“Well, let's see. You know how there's a sort of ritualized habit in greetings? Like, 'G'morning. How are you?' or 'How ya doing?' and the ritual response is 'Fine'?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, sometimes I like to shake things up, make people look at things maybe a little differently, maybe even … and I know this is usually a long shot … start thinking outside the ball.”
“Don't you mean outside the box?”
“Ah, that's the conventional idiom, and that's still inside the box.”
Pam raised an index finger and said, “Ah-ha. Got it. Good one,” and smiled. She slid her finger down a bit and said, “One for Jake.”
“Anyhow … and this is a little awkward ... a couple times, but only with people I knew fairly well, when they asked 'How ya doing?' I'd answer with 'Mostly laid-back, mellow and … hmm, maybe a little horny,' and I'd make that gesture with the thumb and index finger.”
“You didn't! Really?”
“Yup, but only with totally safe people, like 75-year-old couples that I knew had at least a decent sense of humor and perspective. And they usually chuckled or laughed out loud … maybe just nervously, but they laughed.”
“And you did that with Laurie?”
“No, of course not; with Laurie AND Jeff. And they got a BIG laugh out of it.”
