A Spy Came Home (Mac Ambrose Book 1)

by HN Wake

  She slammed open the bathroom door and rushed down the hall. She turned the corner flapping her hands. “Oh my god. You have to come help me. The toilet! It’s backed up!”

  The receptionist jumped up, hurried past her, and dashed down the hall.

  Mac squeaked, “Last stall. Oh my god.”

  The receptionist threw open the bathroom door and rushed in.

  Mac quietly returned to the empty lobby, stepped behind the desk, lifted the phone receiver, and dialed an international number. On the third ring, a deep voice answered with an Arabic accent. “Hallo?”

  Holding the receiver to her ear, Mac stretched the phone’s cord as she peeked around the corner and down the hallway. From behind the bathroom door, she heard the receptionist pumping a plunger and muttering, “Stop stop stop.”

  In her ear, the male voice grew insistent. “Hallo? Hallo?”

  Mac slowly set the receiver back down on the cradle. From the side pocket of her pink handbag, she pulled out the business card from the Zurich art gallery and carefully placed it in the receptionist’s pen holder.

  She walked out the lobby door, back into the summer heat.

  Two hours later, Mac watched the tan sports car speed past her on the country road to Lexington. She set off after it in the rental car. Other than a few cars passing in the oncoming lane, the road was empty. She hung back and let the sports car take the curves out of line-of-sight. The road was a straight shot into Lexington with only dirt turn-offs; she wouldn’t lose the sports car.

  Ten minutes later, she watched the Porsche slow and pull into the gravel parking lot of a country bar. It was a ramshackle, wood planked building with peeling paint. High in the peak of the weathered roof, a neon light blinked weakly in the late afternoon sun announcing the bar’s name as ‘Homers’.

  Out on the road to Lexington, she cruised past the driveway for another three miles then circled back. She pulled into the far corner of the parking lot, her tires crunching gravel.

  Five minutes later, she pulled open the bar door and squinted into the dark interior. The bar was carpeted, dimly lit, and smoky. The banjo of an Earl Scruggs tune crackled through speakers set high on chipped walls. Above the bar, a small television was muted to a football game. Red helmets and white jerseys huddled on a lined field. The score read Alabama 42, Georgia 24.

  She recognized him right away. He was sitting toward the back of the room, facing the door, with his arm stretched along the top of a brown, vinyl booth. His white button-down shirt was open at the collar. He was chatting with two men across from him.

  He glanced up as sunlight momentarily streamed through the door. She held his gaze, inhaling and exhaling for two beats, long enough to convey her interest.

  She closed the door behind her, sauntered up to the bar, and leaned against it slightly, lengthening her legs. She could feel his eyes on her.

  The bartender was an older man with a huge grey beard and the blank look of someone who long ago replaced dreams with monotony. He took her order with disinterest.

  She sipped her drink while scanning the bar, then followed the sound of a pool game into a back room.

  The white button-down watched her pass.

  In the back room, two young men looked up as she entered. She placed four quarters on the pool table rail, eyed them over her drink, and grinned around her straw. “I’ve got winners.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she had the two young men gossiping about their work at the gun factory.

  The skinny redhead was more generous. “It’s not a bad job. The owner’s ok.”

  The shorter one smirked. “No he ain’t, Sam. He’s just as cocky as any rich man round here.”

  The redhead nodded to the bar room. “That’s him out there.”

  “Where?” Mac asked.

  “That one in the fancy white, work shirt.”

  Just then, the white button-down rose, palmed his drink, and turned. He stepped into the back room and nodded to the two young men. “Hi Johnny, Sam. How’s it going?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Mac and offered his hand. “I’m Chuck Boare.”

  Squeezing his hand, she said in a perfect, polished Southern accent, “How do you do, Mr. Boare?”

  “Please call me Chuck. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Mac ignored the young, gaping men. “Absolutely.”

  Up close, she noticed he wasn’t bad looking. He had really good teeth; they were incredibly white. But his brown eyes were red rimmed, his hair was thinning, his chin was weak and he had the mild bloat of someone who enjoyed the good life. She noticed his cell phone was clipped to the back of his belt in a tacky man-holster.

  At the bar, he pulled out a stool for her. “You’re not from here. We don’t see a lot of DX ladies round here.”

  “DX?”

  He offered a dramatic but insincere apology. “Sorry. I work in the defense industry. It’s sector speak for priority.”

  She acted confused.

  “Sorry, sorry. I’m a contractor to the Department of Defense up in Washington.”

  “Wow.”

  “My company supplies the military complex. DX is the designation for top priority items. The President can tell me an order is DX and I have to produce it for the Department of Defense first. As in pronto. You know, in the name of national security. When we sign those contracts it’s stipulated that if our country, our boys, need something right away, we give ‘em what they need. That’s the way it works in times of war or peace.”

  “Department of Defense?” She turned her body toward him, touching his lower arm. “That’s so, I dunno, manly.”

  “Let me tell you, it’s a very, very necessary part of protecting the USA.” His bluster amped up. “Protecting Americans every day. There are a lot of bad guys out there. Sometimes we feel like we’re just holding back the tide. Then other days you feel like we’re winning the war.”

  “Huh.” She glanced at her empty glass. “And what kind of stuff do you make, if I can ask?”

  He followed her glance. “Where are my manners? What are you drinking, little lady?”

  “A rum and diet Coke would be lovely. Thanks, Chuck.” Standing, she whispered in his ear. “Let me go powder my nose in the little girls’ room. I’ll be right back and you can tell me how manly it all is.”

  His breath caught. He didn’t notice her hand unclip his cell phone.

  In the bathroom, she scanned under the four stall doors. The room was empty.

  She dialed the same international number from memory and the familiar male voice answered. “Hallo? Hallo?” She waited a few minutes, then closed the phone.

  Back at the bar, she slide her arm around Chuck’s thick waist, leaned into his ear, and whispered, “I’m staying at the Hilton in Lexington.” She slipped his cell phone back in the holster. “I’m sure there is somewhere nicer in town for a DX lady like me and a hot-shot defense guy like you. Give me a ten minute lead time to freshen up? Meet you in the lobby?”

  This time he didn’t miss a beat. “Done, little lady.” To the bartender he said, “You know what, Homer? Hold that order.” Turning back to Mac, he said, “Wait, I didn’t even get your name.”

  “Isn’t that a cliffhanger?” She grinned, kissed his cheek, grabbed her pink handbag, and paraded out, all eyes on her.

  Thirty minutes later, she dropped the red rental car at the Lexington airport and got the next flight to New Orleans.

  6

  New York, NY

  Penny stepped into the bright and airy Jean Gorges restaurant on 18th and Park and saw Laura Franklin at a far corner near a white-washed brick wall. As she reached the table, she leaned in for a kiss. “My gorgeous Laura. It’s been ages! How are you sweetheart?”

  Laura, a heavyset black woman with fire in her eyes, planted a kiss on Penny’s cheek. “Fine, fine. All good.”

  Settling into her chair, Penny eyed her. “Seriously, how’s it all going?”

  Laura released a long breath. “It’s going, that
’s for sure.”

  “You getting any time off?”

  “At this stage? Definitely not.”

  “Is the IPO that bad?”

  “Endless. Bankers. Lawyers. Shareholders. Endless”

  “How’s the new house?”

  “Huge. It’s insane. I can’t believe we bought it. What is a childless, black, lesbian couple doing buying a house on the white Upper West Side? When you coming up?”

  “Right? And who’s got time? Tell you what, you two have a house warming and I’ll bring some insanely priced Napa wine.”

  “Deal.”

  A waiter recited the specials and they both ordered lunch salads.

  Penny asked, “How’s Harriette?”

  “Fine, fine, always fine. I’ve got her managing the contractors in the house. How’s Kenneth?”

  “Yeah, ok. He’s working on a new script. His bullshit agent got him something…I dunno.”

  “So, same?” Laura shook her head sadly.

  “Yeah, it’s all the same.”

  “The boys? Good?”

  “Crazy good. Thanks.”

  “The job?”

  “Good. Tough. But good. We’re getting in some interesting work. I just pulled in a new client that should keep me really busy.”

  Laura took a sip of water, flashed her eyebrows. “And it’s still good being the senior chick partner in the litigation department?”

  “So far, so good. You still hear horror stories, but I think the boys are starting to take us seriously.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  An hour later, over post-lunch lattes Penny mused. “I want to be happy. I’m just not sure I know what would get me there.”

  “Well, it can be, what? Home, job, hobbies, or family?”

  “Right?” Penny gazed across the white tablecloths at the posh, smiling women ‘doing lunch’. Her mind wandered to another place and time. A Princess Diana look-alike gracefully climbed out of a taxi, glided up the steps of a stately brownstone, breezed through a grand front door, and swept into a black-and-white marbled foyer. The socialite called out cheerfully, “I’m home!” A butler floated in with a pink cocktail on a silver platter. A cultured husband met her in an opulent library, heady with the smell of roses, where the two fell into a long, loving embrace. They settled into big chairs by the fire and regaled each other with their days’ stories.

  Laura broke through Penny’s distraction and asked, “Right?”

  Penny startled. “Right. So my job is fine. Home. Fine. Boys, check. It’s just, you know, Kenneth. How many couples that have survived more than fourteen years are truly happy together?”

  “What does ‘truly happy’ mean?”

  “Like in the movies. Love.”

  They both paused, scanning mental rolodexes of couples they knew.

  Penny looked over the table. “I know one couple out of all my friends that truly seem to still be in the kind of honeymoon love. Not that totally fake Facebook-happy, show-and-tell shit. I mean, they really do love each other. They’re happy to be together all the time, they aren’t resentful.”

  Laura was shaking her head. “I don’t know one couple I can say that about.”

  “You realize we just admitted neither of us thinks the other is still truly in love with their partner?”

  They let the moment pass.

  Laura mused, “Maybe it’s about just settling in? I mean, maybe it’s not so bad to be comfortable and settled. Maybe that honeymoon love isn’t a brass ring you can actually grab. Maybe it’s something you aim for, but in not getting it, you find some comfort in the trying? I don’t know.”

  A waiter swept past them with a loaded tray of food for another table. Laura changed the subject. “How’s it going?”

  “So far so good. Except…”

  “What?”

  “She guessed that you’re the bank roll.”

  Laura let out a deep, heart-felt laugh that crinkled her eyes and pushed up her round cheeks. “Well at least we don’t have a dumb CIA spook on the case. She always was a quick learn, from what I remember.”

  “You’re not pissed?”

  “Pissed? Moi? Nah, I’m ok with her knowing.” Laura grinned. “Who she gonna tell?”

  “Are you nervous?”

  Laura considered this. “I would normally be. But over the last year or two I’ve realized you have to take risks. Avoiding risk means you avoid opportunity. I would like to believe the risk on this one is minimal. It will be very difficult to prove it was my money. And I’ve got lots of folks I can throw at the problem if it does erupt. End of story.” She gave Penny a meaningful look. “You, however, have fewer resources and are a direct link to Mac.”

  Penny set down her napkin, avoiding the comment. “You watching the legislation?”

  “Of course. They think it has another three weeks till floor vote, right? She’s on it, right?”

  Penny nodded.

  “What’s our weak link?”

  Penny paused. “I’m actually not sure. If she gets caught, it would be Mac.”

  “What happens if she does get caught?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know her plan?”

  “No. I don’t. I don’t even know if she has a Plan B.”

  “Do you know if she has an escape route?”

  “No.”

  “We don’t know much, do we?”

  “No.” Looking directly at Laura, Penny said, “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  “Did she get the funds?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Penny placed her hand on Laura’s hand. “Sincerely.”

  “Don’t mention it. Except around Mac.” Laura winked. “Since she already knows and all.”

  The new New York News building was a modern glass structure in Midtown. Inside, the newsroom was a brightly lit, open-plan floor topped with a two-story atrium. The space was dominated by splashes of red and white across walls, floors, and desks. Reporters were either talking loudly into phones, slurping coffee, banging on keyboards, or rubbing foreheads. A television droned in a far corner.

  In a cubicle in the middle of the newsroom, Stacia’s eyes were watery from the strain of staring at an endless stream of websites. She had started researching early this morning and it was already 6 p.m.

  On her screen was the home page for the SFG. Across the top of the screen were tabs for additional open sites. In total, the SFG had 45 separate websites. The main portals were the SFG home page, the site for the lobbying arm called the SFG Lobby, the SFG Foundation, the SFG Museum, the SFG Legal Fund, SFG Insurance, the SFG Store and the SFG News. And yet another separate site was dedicated to an annual meeting. It had taken her three hours to read through them all. She was engorged with information and seeped in resentment.

  She stood, placed her Mont Blanc pen in her jeans’ pocket, grabbed her wallet, and headed to the elevators.

  On the 7th floor, she walked into the cafeteria, passing dozens of empty, white, round tables buoyed on an expanse of red carpet.

  Back in the elevator heading up, she sipped a low fat latte and read through her cell phone. She had gotten a text from her scatterbrained - yet incredibly smart - roommate Charlotte. “Happy Hour @ Ninos.”

  She typed back, “Can’t. Working a lead.”

  “Hotshot reporter. :( Don’t work too late.”

  She opened up Facebook and saw Charlotte had posted, “Any and all - heading to Ninos Happy Hour.”

  She posted, “Slackers.”

  Heading back through the packed newsroom she proudly soaked in the cacophony; it seemed like there were reporters here around the clock.

  Two years ago, interviewing with five reporters and ten department editors, she had pushed - her voice trembling at points - to position herself as the thoughtful, focused side of the new, distracted generation. They had liked her college investigative reporting on food waste. They had been impressed with her “Punk Politics” blog expounding on the political
messages in punk and grunge music. Freda had liked her spunk, her grit.

  In the end, she knew it had also been part luck and part good timing that had gotten her the job. She was glad she got in when she did. Now, rumors were flying through the 1,000 New York News reporters that more ‘ambush layoffs’ were coming in the face of downturns in both print subscription and digital revenue.

  Despite the rumors, Stacia was hungry to move up the ladder, to prove herself. It was ambition mixed with raw passion. She woke up every morning churning ideas about how to better distill the news and how to better clarify the confusing for a generation that worked on sound bites.

  At her desk, she gently placed her coffee and pen on her blotter. Her very traditional industrialist father had gifted her the pen from its regular spot inside his business suit jacket. It had been his sign of respect for her move to the big city.

  She slowly bent over, setting her hands on either side of her feet. A few older reporters looked up in amusement; this wasn’t the first time she had done yoga at work. She walked her hands forward along the grey carpet in front of her desk and held a Downward Dog for five minutes, concentrating only on her breathing, allowing her brain to clear.

  Standing, she snapped each of her fingers one at a time, stretching out the stiffness.

  Then she sat down with a quiet mind.

  There were only four reasons a membership non-profit organization would have such a dizzying array of sites. She picked up the Mont Blanc and broke ground on the blank paper in front of her:

  1. To confuse their members.

  2. To confuse the public and their opponents.

  3. To confuse the IRS.

  4. To appeal to a broad audience - each audience only gets part of the messaging

  On her screen, she pulled up a new folder and gave it a name, ‘SFG Research.’ With quick, sharp keystrokes she started conceptualizing her sound bites based on the day’s research: Franchise. Opportunistic. Delusions of Grandeur. Dominance. Monopoly. Shadowy.

  Two hours later, while chatting on the phone and looking through her office window to the building across the street, Freda felt the nagging sense of a presence in her office. She slowly spun her chair. On the office guest chair, Stacia sat crossed legged with both hands resting on her knees, middle fingers to thumbs, eyes closed, her glasses pushed up into her spiky, black hair.