Recipes for Disaster

by Josie Brown

  In unison, Arnie and Emma give Ryan a thumbs-up—then again in unison, they blush when they realize this.

  Ah, young love.

  Ryan’s last words of caution give us pause as we make our way out the door: “We can’t afford another black eye, people, so let’s keep this candidate in play.”

  I get to Trisha’s school earlier than anticipated, so I park and walk into the lobby to wait for her release. School has only been in session a few days, but with all of our mission assignments, it seems as if it’s been a million years since that very first day of school.

  The first thing that greets me in the reception area is a scaled-down 3-D cardboard model of a major university. I’m trying to figure out where I’ve seen it before. Is it Oxford, or Cambridge? And why is it here? Is it an older student’s project? If so, the child deserves an A plus plus.

  I’ve just stooped to look at the tiny cardboard people in the building’s windows when I hear Lee Chiffray’s voice, next to my ear: “Beautiful isn’t it?”

  My instinct is to straighten up, but I know if I do, we’ll bump right into each other. Instead, I turn my head slightly, only to find myself looking into his deep blue eyes.

  He’s studying me. Why?

  “It’s incredible. Is it a student project?”

  That brings a hearty laugh from him. “I hope not, considering I ponied up a pretty penny for it. It’s a model from the architectural plans for Hilldale Elementary, which was designed by one of the top architectural firms in the country.”

  “What? Why, for goodness sake?”

  He shrugs. “As you can see, the members of the school’s redevelopment committee have been busy little bees. Over the past few days they’ve been polling—I guess a better word for it would be strong-arming—all the parents into submitting a wish list for a world-class school.”

  I let loose with a low whistle. “When I walked in here, I thought I was looking at a model for Oxford University.”

  He winks. “You’re close. Frankly, it’s a model of Hogwarts.”

  I take a closer look. “Oh my god, you’re right! The students are even wearing silks! The only things missing are the witch’s caps and the owls!”

  Now we’re both laughing—so loudly in fact, that the librarian sticks her head out the door and shushes us.

  Lee waves at her, then steers me out of the lobby, into the playground. We’re too large for the swings, so he motions me to sit on the slide.

  I forget I’m in shorts. When the backs of my thighs hit the slide’s hot tin, I yelp and leap back up.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think …” His ears turn red. He is truly embarrassed by the incident.

  Charming.

  Yes, I want to like him, to be his friend.

  At the same time, I have so many questions to ask him.

  No, really, there is only one question that matters:

  Is he a member of the Quorum?

  If I were to ask him—right now just out of the blue—would he tell me?

  Of course not. Because I am the enemy.

  The best way to judge him is by actions, not his words.

  “So, what’s your opinion on all this?” he asks.

  If only you knew.

  Finally I say, “I think it’s scary. A fancy building isn't what makes an education great. It's about the people who run the programs, and giving them the necessary resources to do so.”

  He lets that sink in.

  Yes, I would like to know what he thinks, too. But do I trust him to tell me the truth, or to give me only what he thinks I want to hear?

  Instead of asking, I change the subject yet again. “I don’t know what these parents are thinking. Seriously, who’d foot the bill on a massive project like this?”

  “They haven’t thought it through yet. You see, the parents here are caught up in the dream, in the glory of it all.” He shakes his head. “This is a reflection of their egos. But when push comes to shove—when it’s time to pay the piper, reality will set in.” He shrugs. “And we’ll be back where we started.”

  “So, you’re saying this was an exercise in futility?”

  “No, not at all. My offer still stands, and always will.” He leans in, as if telling me a secret: “In the end, Donna, the only thing that matters is that you get what you want. Unfortunately, we don’t all want the same things.”

  I’m tempted to ask him what exactly he wants—from me, but the next thing I know my daughter is jumping into my arms.

  Now is not the time or the place to ask.

  It will come soon enough.

  Jeff’s long face tells me all I need to know:

  He lost the election.

  He hops in, slams the car door, and slumps below the window. "I just don’t understand what happened! All the exit polls—”

  I turn to face him. “Your class conducted exit polls?”

  He looks at me as if I landed just from Mars. “Yes, of course! It’s an election, Mom. People wanted to gauge the accuracy of the pre-election polls and pundits’ predictions.”

  “Well, at least you don’t have to wait four more years to run again.”

  “In fact, I might, if Cheever has his way. He’s pulling a Tajikistan—you know, extending the election cycle—only by three years, not forever. He claims it will have a stabilizing effect on the administration’s policies, but he knows it’s because we’ll be in high school after that.”

  “What policies? I’d imagine the biggest issues you face in the sixth grade are whether to lobby for bigger lockers or more recess.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Back in your day, maybe, but this is the Twenty-first Century. We’ve got real issues. There are subcommittees on everything from classroom etiquette, to dress code, bus rules, homework policy, conflict resolution, social events—you get the idea.”

  No, not really. But I’m not willing to admit how out of touch I am with his world.

  I guess he’s smart enough to do his own laundry now.

  For that matter, the rest of the family’s too.

  And his math skills are decent. Should I test him on the household QuickBooks budget sheets?

  Suddenly my world has opened up immensely.

  And since I’m into quid pro quo, I’ll go ahead and ask: “Hey, Jeff, what are the chances that Cheever tampered with the votes?”

  He thinks for a moment, then nods. “Votes are tabulated electronically. A code is needed to access it. We’ve still got the paper ballots as a check system.”

  “Great. I’m sure Arnie would be glad to run an audit, if you ask him.”

  Jeff frowns. “Do you think he still holds a grudge because I almost stole Emma from him?”

  I hope my laughing fit sounds like a very bad cough. When I recover, I murmur, “I’d be willing to bet he’s gotten over it by now.”

  “Okay then, sure. Let’s put him to work.”

  The kid is already sounding presidential.

  Senator Randolph Oliver Jennings comes with no entourage. He insists on being called Randy, and wears jeans and a blue work shirt, like the men who work the fields that surround us here in California’s Central Valley. Both are worn and frayed, not at all like the crisp new duds that other politicians don for their photo ops. His hands are not soft and pliable, but chapped and tanned, attesting to his love of the great outdoors, and his humble beginnings as a farmer.

  He asks the right questions—about weather patterns and crop conditions; about the equipment needs and loans and subsidies.

  He isn’t afraid to answer the ones thrown back at him. His answers are forthright and he refuses to dodge the hard ones. He will admit, for example, that it may take years, if not decades for alternative fuel technology to be commercially viable.

  “Harnessing it is the easy part,” he explains. “Making it sustainable—that is, dropping it into a current energy delivery system, is the missing link. But it starts here, with you,” he declares to the farmers who have gathered to hear him. “You are ground zero, b
ecause you have the land.”

  “If the government gave us the money we need to do it right, we could stay in business—and on our land,” someone shouts back.

  Randy chuckles. “Amen, brother. That’s why I need your votes.”

  I stand with a battery of reporters. I am not at all surprised to see Chuck the Muckraker among them. He taps away furiously on his cell. I presume he’s taking notes. We’ll find out as soon as Emma can scan his cell phone.

  The guy is tech-savvy enough to frustrate Arnie, who has yet to break Chuck’s firewall, even with Ryan pacing in and out of his lair.

  At Randy’s behest, only Dominic stands beside him, ready to be a human shield if the situation calls for it. Like me, Abu and Jack cover the crowd. In this crowd, guns are as common as cowboy hats and boots. Yes, some are skeptical, but more are desperate to monetize their land, so they will set aside the smart-ass barbs and listen to what the man from Washington, DC has to say.

  Every now and then, a phone will beep or buzz, or croon a favorite country tune. Quickly it is silenced, so that Randy can get on with what he has to say.

  But right when he’s trying to make a very important point, Chuck stops him in mid-sentence and asks, “Senator, when was the last time you heard from your son?”

  “I … what?” He blinks, as if caught in a glaring light.

  “I asked you about your son, Sam.” Chuck holds up his iPhone, as if taping the conversation.

  “He’s studying abroad.”

  “Where, may I ask?"

  “He’s in India.”

  “Not even close.” Chuck smiles smugly. “He’s in Afghanistan, isn’t he? Not with our armed forces, but fighting them with the Taliban, under the name of Ahmad Navid Ali.”

  The crowd murmurs its shock, some at the audacity of the reporter’s questions, and others because they find it disturbing that Randy doesn’t laugh incredulously at the accusation, let alone declare him a liar in no uncertain terms.

  “Senator Jennings, is this your son?” Chuck holds up his phone so that those closest can see the screen. On it, a young, blond man in desert garb declares in clear, concise English, his wish that those brothers of Allah listening to this video will follow his instructions for martyrdom for the most righteous cause of defeating the devils who now swarm Afghanistan with their drones and planes and soldiers and guns. He demonstrates the best way to wrap explosives around your body, how to conceal them within your coat, how to avoid the telltale signs that you are doing so, and how to enter an army base. Better yet, choose a shopping mall or a library.

  Finally, he closes by wishing them a speedy journey to Allah.

  Randy stands there, frozen, like the Tin Man stuck in the field during a rainstorm.

  What can he say when Chuck asks him how he has the audacity to sit on the Senate Intelligence Committee, let alone the one for Homeland Security?

  The one thing Randy is not is audacious.

  He walks away from the crowd that is now anxious and angry, without saying a word.

  As we drive him back to the airport, the radio stays off.

  The five-hour flight to DC gives him plenty of time to prepare his resignation speech.

  Forget the sins of the father. The sins of the son are just as deadly, if the goal is character assassination.

  Chapter 8

  Muckraker

  A journalist who exposes the activities of politicians behaving badly is called a “muckraker.” This term comes from John Bunyan's book, The Pilgrim's Progress, which had a character called the Man with the Muck Rake because he was so obsessed with the muck of worldly profit, he could never look up.

  When looking down, you may hear a lot, but you miss a lot, too—especially in journalism, a profession where you need your eyes as well as your ears, to see things for yourself.

  Today’s journalists don’t rely on either their eyes or their ears. They have the Internet. Why actually get your hands dirty digging for facts when you can just quote some source without determining if the information has been vetted?

  Quick and Easy Quiche

  (From Toni Meehan, West Bend, Wisconsin)

  Ingredients

  Box of Stove Top stuffing.

  Spinach, broccoli or some other vegetable and/or ham or some other meat

  6 eggs

  1 12-oz can of Evaporated Milk

  4-6 Cups Cheese (Feta, Jarlsberg or Sharp Cheddar are some choices, depending on whether you want creamy texture and mild, or sharp flavor; Hard cheese should be shredded.)

  Salt and Pepper

  Directions

  1: Follow the directions on the box to make the stuffing, then split between 2 pie plates.

  2: To each shell, add cheese; usually 2-3 cups.

  3: Then add meat and/or veggie, if you like.

  4: In separate bowl, mix 6 eggs with a 12 oz. can of evaporated milk; split between the two pies.

  5: Salt and pepper to your taste.

  6: Bake at 350 for about 45 minutes, until golden brown on top and knife in center comes out clean.

  “The CIA is livid,” Ryan shouts at all of us.

  “I take it they didn’t know about Senator Jennings’ son?” Jack asks.

  “On the contrary, Sam Jennings is one of their undercover agents. He infiltrated the Taliban five years ago, under deep cover. Under an assumed name, he began attending a mosque in Detroit. He connected with one of their stateside recruiters, who viewed him as a perfect candidate for the next level of jihad—the disillusioned youth of America. Now, not only has this leak sabotaged his father’s presidential candidacy and a stellar political career, it has also put Sam’s life in danger.”

  “I have friendly eyes and ears within the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence. I’ll initiate contact to find out if anything has happened to the young man,” Dominic offers.

  “Good idea. I hope we don’t bring more bad news the senator’s way.” Ryan turns to me. “In the meantime, we need to find Chuck the Muckraker, and find out who’s his Deep Throat. You said you’ve met him?”

  “Yes, Chuck knows me as a fellow reporter, and Arnie as my camera man.”

  “Good. Get close, and use that to your advantage.”

  “Will do, boss,” I assure him.

  “Speaking of getting close, Jack mentioned that the Chiffrays have enrolled their daughter in Trisha’s class.”

  “Yes, it’s true.” I feel a blush creeping up my neck.

  “Well, that’s a lucky break for us.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The stuff Dominic has been getting from our cousins across the pond certainly makes him a person of interest in regard to our Quorum investigation.”

  “You mean, the purchase of the Kensington townhome?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Couldn’t it have just been a coincidence?”

  “Yes, it could have been—except for the fact that he’s also the new leaseholder on the Quorum’s villa in Cabo San Lucas, not to mention his firm also owns Fantasy Island, as you recall. You know what they say: where there’s smoke, there’s fire. That being said, if you get the opportunity to get close to Babette, take it.”

  “As of yet, she hasn’t shown up at any school functions.”

  “That’s odd. Jack mentioned the Chiffrays were heading up some sort of school fundraiser.”

  “They are—that is, Lee is heading up the endeavor.”

  Ryan’s eyes light up. “Even better. I’m sure you can find some reason to get cozy.”

  I nod, and head out the door.

  I don’t need to chase after Lee. My guess is that the fundraiser is his excuse to be near me.

  I just wish I knew why.

  The official office of Truth Be Known is a dingy cottage on an alley in Venice. Because he knows me as Brenda Stark, girl reporter, I’m back in my red wig. This time I’ve added a push-up bra and stilettos, as an inducement for Chuck to open up.

  It also helps that I’ve brought along a thimbleful
of SP-117, a drug that loosens the tongue, but hazes the brain afterward. He’ll never even remember I was there.

  While Chuck is spilling his guts to me, Arnie will download the stroke history of Chuck’s computer, then release a Remote Access Trojan so that we can follow his every move.

  We’ve just pulled up in the KKKL-TV van when we notice someone is already on the front stoop.

  Two someones, in fact. They are NSA agents. We know not because of any psychic abilities or my women’s intuition, but because they yell it out before breaking down the front door of the cottage.

  Just as they do, a big-breasted, bowlegged blond floozy in a tight white cocktail frock runs out the back. But when the strap comes loose on one of her pink and blue kitten heel shoes, she gets tripped up and falls on her face.

  “That’s our man,” I say to Arnie. “Quick, pull up alongside of him.”

  Arnie tilts his head, puzzled. “Really? How can you tell?”

  “No self-respecting woman wears white after Labor Day, let alone shoes that ugly. And besides, his wig is on backwards.”

  “Gotcha.” We’re there in a flash.

  I bat my eyes at Chuck. “Nasty fall! Need a lift?”

  When he recognizes me, he does a double-take. “Brenda? What are you doing here?”

  “We’re about to shoot a segment on the Venice Beach musclemen. You know, show the yahoos that there are ways to pump up other than farm chores.” I lower my sunglasses to take in the vision before me. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you at first. Who knew Chuck the Muckraker had such gorgeous gams!”

  “Shhhh, not so loud! I’m incognito!” He puts his finger to his lips as he glances sideways down the block. “Those men are Federal agents! They think I tapped into the NSA’s database, and then leaked the intel from it on my website. Of course, even if I did, I’d be protected by my First Amendment rights.”