by HN Wake
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” Mac opened the fridge. It was practically empty. There was only a take-out container, two bottles of ketchup and a bottle of mustard. No woman lived here. She closed the barren fridge. “It got easier over the years not telling anyone. You kinda get used to the lie.” She stared out the kitchen window into an alley.
“Wow, so nobody knows?”
Mac lied. “Nope, nobody knows.”
She headed down a hallway and entered the single bedroom that was dominated by a simple queen mattress on legs, no headboard. Even in the middle of the day, the bedroom was shadowed, dusky.
Penny pondered. “Sometimes I wish I had secrets.”
Mac stood in the middle of the bedroom, waiting for Penny. There was a long silence. When Penny didn’t speak, she offered, “Well, you do now.”
It took a while for that to sink in. “Yeah. I know,” Penny said.
Mac opened the closet. It had only male clothes; a few blue suits hung neatly in a row, ties draped a tie rack. Across the closet floor sat a range of men’s shoes. She stepped back out. “At least you have a relationship, a family with kids.”
Penny sounded distant, her responses slow. “Yeah, my boys are great. But you know what I mean…”
Mac fished in her courier bag, pulled out a tiny camera. She dragged over a chair, stepped up on it, and positioned the camera in the far corner of the bedroom, up near the ceiling. It was almost completely invisible from the floor.
Penny asked, “So what’s it like? To be a spy?”
Mac took one last look at the dark room and padded back to the living room. It was a moment before she said, “Lonely.”
“Yeah? What do you do most of the time? Do you go to the gym? Get your nails done?”
“The truth?” She stepped up on the sectional in the corner and placed a second camera looking out over the room.
“Of course.”
She positioned it so it had a good angle on the desk by the window. “When I have down time I do normal stuff. But when I’m on the job I watch people.” She stepped down off the couch and sat on it, leaned back against into it. “Try to figure them out. I spend an inordinate amount of time understanding people. You have to be able to read people. You have to really know your asset or your target, especially their Achilles heel.” She let the silence of the apartment settle around her. “You also have to let your gut tell you what to do in any given situation. Instinct is really important. Sometimes you have to back off. If you’ve pushed too hard, asked for too much. Other times pushing the boundaries of your asset makes them slightly uncomfortable, but nothing they can pinpoint. That can motivate them, subconsciously.”
“Wow. That’s kinda creepy. Machiavellian.”
“It’s certainly not an honest way to get the response you want. The word duplicitous comes to mind. So, yeah, I agree.” She rubbed her temples. “But I have to tell you, that my gut has saved me quite a few times.”
“Really? What you do is kinda effed up.”
“Yup.” Mac stood, walked to the door and opened it.
Penny’s voice was hushed. “So, when do you start our operation?”
Mac pulled the door behind her, took off the gloves, and pushed them in her courier bag. “You don’t need to know that.”
17
Capitol Hill, DC
The next morning, Mac stood on a tree-lined street facing a red brick building not far from Capitol Hill. The etched glass on the front door read ‘SFG Lobby’. The appointment was in five minutes.
She took a deep breath. A lot was riding on this first meeting with the target; it may be the only shot she got.
With over a hundred similar meets under her belt, she had a well-practiced strategy based on four steps: ‘charm,’ ‘sympathize,’ ‘incentivize,’ then ‘retreat’. The target should never know he was being lead along the four dance steps.
She straightened her back, pushed back her shoulders, and stepped to the glass door. Her image was reflected in the glass; she was a blond in an expensive dark suit behind tinted sunglasses. She grinned to herself and practiced Dora’s southern accent in a whisper. “Lovely to meet you.”
In the lobby, a young woman with a mane of curly, brown hair took Mac’s hand in both of hers. She was about ten years younger than Mac, probably 33-years-old. A tomato red dress fit her full figure poorly. “ Hi, I'm Amanda. You must be Ms. Maar. We spoke on the phone.” Her accent was Southern low-country.
“Lovely to meet you. Yes, I'm Dora Maar. Amanda - sorry, what’s your last name?”
Amanda’s cheeks colored. She blinked rapidly and repeatedly. “Oh. Sorry. It’s Hughes. Amanda Hughes.” Under the mass of brown hair, her oval face was open, friendly and her smile was genuine. But her two-handed shake was hesitant, unpracticed.
Smiling wider, Mac noted, “You sound Southern."
“Yes. Columbia, South Carolina.” She led Mac down a long hallway. “I’ll take you back to Neil.”
Both sets of heels clicked on parquet flooring.
Mac’s voice was smooth. “You're a long way from Clemson!"
“I am indeed. That’s my Alma Mater.”
"Go Tigers! My mother's family is from there. How funny. It’s been a very long time since I was back there.”
“Wow! What a small world.”
“What got you up here?”
“I’ve been in DC for about 5 years."
“And how did you get to the SFG?”
“Oh, we’re long-time supporters of the SFG and my daddy knows some of their folks in Columbia. So here I am!”
“Here you are. Fighting the good fight.” Mac grinned at her.
“Ok, here's Neil’s office. Can I get you a coffee?"
"That would be lovely, thanks Amanda. Black, no sugar. Any chance ya'll have Splenda?"
"You got it."
Beyond a glass wall, Neil Koen’s office was masculine. Black walnut flooring met wall-to-wall bookshelves cluttered with hardcover books, photos of Neil with smiling politicians, and an extensive collection of antique guns. The remaining wall space was scattered with paintings of race horses.
A telephone cord from the desk phone stretched around the back of a large, black leather chair that was slowly turning. As he came into view, Neil Koen noticed her through his Coke bottle glasses. His long, thin arm waved her in.
Ending his call, he stepped around the big desk to shake her hand. His suit was hand-tailored and fit his unusually thin body quite well. His cordovan loafers were expensive and his tie was Armani. His cologne had a hint of leather.
Bony fingers gripped her hand firmly as he smiled. “You must be Dora!”
“Yes, Dora Maar. Nice to meet you, Mr. Koen.”
“Please, please call me Neil.” He indicated a circle of dark leather chairs around a coffee table where Amanda was setting a coffee.
Mac pretended distraction by the gun collection and walked to one of the bookshelves. “Is this a first generation Colt single action?”
Koen beamed across the office. “Colt Pinch Frame. Serial number 58.”
She turned to him, astonished. “What year is that?”
“1873.”
“Holy smokes.” She crossed the room, sat, smoothed out her skirt. “Well, thanks for meeting with me.”
“Of course.” He took the chair next to her.
“As you know, I represent Mrs. Bodie out of New Orleans.”
“Of course, of course. We’re glad to be of service to Mrs. Bodie.” He imperceptibly shortened the word ‘Mrs.’, taking pains to soften a Southern accent.
“Well, again, thanks for meeting with me. Mrs. Bodie is quite pleased about our potential partnership.” She looked around the room. “I appreciate your time. I’m sure you’re quite busy.”
His demeanor was gracious as he leaned back into his chair. “Of course! I’ve got all the time in the world for VIPs.”
She grinned at him but it didn’t reach her eyes. He cocked his head, wonderin
g if she had just smirked at him.
She said pleasantly, “If you don’t mind, can you tell me about the SFG Lobby? I’ve done some background reading but I’d love to hear your overview of the type of work you do, and your successes.”
Koen grinned widely and began his spiel. “Well, we’re the legislative and public policy side of the SFG, as I’m sure you know. We’ve been fighting the good fight since the 1980s. We follow legislation, we advise where necessary, we maintain strong relations with our elected officials, and of course we offer exceptional transparency on Second Amendment votes through our scorecards. We keep folks up here on Kooky Hill on the straight and narrow when it comes to protecting the rights of our members out in the real world.”
She encouraged him with a nod.
“Of course, when it’s necessary we also get engaged. Sometimes we just have to get involved to make sure the outcome is what America needs.”
“Can you explain to me how that works? That engagement part?”
“Certainly. First we keep an eye on legislation. We know what’s coming up, what needs to be killed. For example, I’m sure you know the previous Assault Weapons Ban had an expiration date.” He dropped his chin and eyed her. “We take pride in our work.”
She smiled sweetly. “Was that your idea? The expiration date?”
“My, my, my. As you know, that was written in the legislation that came out of the Senate. That certainly wasn’t our language.” He winked.
“And what about this new legislation coming up? The new ban?”
“We are certainly letting our elected officials know where the country sits on that particular fence.”
Mac feigned innocence. “But isn’t a majority of the country in support of a ban?”
He leaned forward with a huge smile and said, “You can not trust the liberal media or those pesky polls, Dora. We run our own polls and can attest to the need for continued sporting guns. No matter what Kooky Hill wants to call them.”
Changing the subject, Mac asked, “Mrs. Bodie instructed me to ask you personally, to what do you attest your victories?”
“Well, now I’m glad you asked.” He picked up a brochure off the desk corner and handed it to her. “I discovered grassroots mobilization.”
The cover of the brochure read “Patriots BEWARE!” in big letters across a dark background. A slug line read, “The Second Amendment is our only protection against the darkest of enemies.”
He continued, “Mobilization on a national scale. You see, back in the 1990s we started aggressively tapping into our members. We started explaining to them what was at stake. That if they didn’t voice their opinions, their 2nd Amendment freedoms were in danger of being trampled. We have since been on the vanguard of letting law-abiding citizens of the US know what is at stake if they become complacent.”
She pretended to review the brochure, nodding at his words. “I see.”
“It didn’t take much to step up our push for their involvement.”
“How?”
“We explained that their support would enable us to run some exceptionally hard hitting, hard charging campaigns.”
“Hard hitting?”
“Dora, we call the races like we saw them. As George W was wont to say, you’re either with us or against us.”
“Yes, yes, of course. And this worked?”
“Our members rallied around the cause closest to home: gun freedoms. We doubled our budget that year alone.”
She watched him closely as she said softly, “And those early years of this grassroots mobilization were particularly stellar in fact.”
Koen tilted his head, his smile waning.
“We do our homework, Mr. Koen.” She set the brochure down. “You haven’t been able to come anywhere near your early successes, have you?”
His smile faded altogether as he squinted at her.
She remained silent, watching him. It was a long, awkward moment.
He broke it with a hint of steel. “I’m not sure what you mean, Dora.”
She eased her posture, let a small grin appear. “Don’t worry, Neil, we’d like to see the SFG Lobby rise again.”
“I’m all ears, Dora.”
“Mrs. Bodie is particularly impressed with your efforts. Mrs. Bodie is also quite connected. She would like to put her connections - if you will - at your disposal.”
“How very intriguing.”
“Initially, Mrs. Bodie would make her media companies in the South at your disposal. We understand ads are quite expensive.”
“Indeed they are.”
“I’ll send you a list of the private media companies the Bodie family owns below the Mason Dixon. Private. Not public. Not many folks know about their personal holdings.” She gave him a long, knowing look. “The Bodie family also goes way back, within various quiet, private circles. We’d like to utilize the Bodie network to support you.”
The corners of his mouth turned up.
“And Mrs. Bodie has instructed me to tell you that we’d like to support you financially.”
He broke into a full grin.
She said, “Mrs. Bodie has a private foundation through which to donate directly to the SFG Lobby.”
“Well, my, my, my, isn’t this a lovely meeting today, Dora?”
She smiled graciously.
“Dora, does Mrs. Bodie express any special interests for her support?”
“There are certain, candidates, shall we say, that are not particularly close friends of the Bodie businesses.”
“That you would like us to help consolidate pressure against.” He breathed in through his nose, slowing the conversation. “I understand.”
“I assure you, our interests are almost entirely in line with your own” Mac tapped on the face of her cell phone. His computer pinged on his desk. “I’ve just sent you a list of six candidates we’d like to you to support. Through the SFG Lobby of course.”
He was startled by her use of technology. He stood quickly and walked around the desk to retrieve the email.
On a shelf behind the desk was a photo of Koen standing next to Chuck Boare. Both men were sporting hats and holding champagne glasses, the ring of the Kentucky Derby stretched out behind them.
The instant he opened the email, the worm she bought from 89 was released, secretly digging its way deep into the bowels of his hard drive, deploying its email forwarding code.
He read through the email. “These are the candidates you’d like us to oppose?”
She nodded.
“It does indeed look like our interests are aligned. Mr. Purdue in Louisiana. Mr. Malcolm in Columbia. Ms. Richter in Montana… ”
“Indeed.”
He paused on the last name on the list. “ You want us to campaign against Congressman Ron Peter?”
“Congressman Peter is not a friend of the Bodie family’s corporate interests. His opposition, Zach Hannover, is.”
Koen cleared his throat. “Congressman Peter is one of our staunchest allies."
“Hannover is also an ally of gun rights.”
He paused. “Yes, we are aware.” He placed two fingers to his lips, contemplating this turn of events.
Surreptitiously she pulled out a small round stone from her jacket pocket and deposited it between the seat cushions before standing. “Mrs. Bodie expected you might hesitate. She asked me to tell you her support will be on-going, year on year. That will involve the media, the personal networks and her corporate networks.” She stepped to his desk and set down a Julep Foundation business card. “Through the foundation of course.” She reached out and flipped the card over in his hand. On the back was written, “$1M. Every year.”
The number startled him.
She looked down, her smugness was genuine. This man would take the money; the incentive was too large.
He feigned hesitation. “Your Mrs. Bodie is quite a business woman.”
“Yes, she is. Quite a business partner.”
“Quite smart.
; “Yes, she is.”
“And persuasive.”
“Indeed.” She paused. “The only real dilemma, Neil, is Congressman Peter. Everything else is very much in-line with your current work.”
His bony fingers waggled the business card while he nodded gravely, all in a false, yet dramatic display of deep consideration. Then he stood, smiled and offered his hand. “Please tell Mrs. Bodie we will be delighted to work with her.”
She allowed a small breath to escape and smiled. “Superb. I’ll tell her this evening.”
“Lovely. And lovely to meet you Dora.”
"Have a nice day, Mr. Koen."
He opened his door and spoke into the hallway. “I’ll leave you in the hands of Amanda here for all our bank information and what not.”
Amanda and Mac clicked back down the long hallway. Mac grinned conspiratorially to her. “Well, he seems smart.”
“Absolutely. One of the smartest on the Hill.”
"Good boss?"
"Absolutely."
"Honest, reliable, all that?"
"Absolutely."
"Great, great. Looks like we’ll be able to work together. You, Neil and I.”
Amanda beamed.
“It will be nice to have a woman to work with on this. Great to have met you.”
“Absolutely." Amanda delivered her to the front door and shook her hand. "You let me know what you need from us.”
“I’ll be in touch soon.”
As she stepped back out onto the street, Mac allowed a small smile. That was easier than she had expected. She had no doubts she would be able to turn Amanda.
Langley, VA
Ten miles from Capitol Hill, Staff Operations Officer (SOO) Frank Odom rifled through a pile of papers in a cluttered inbox. A slight man in his late 60s and a life-long CIA Headquarters Based Officer in Clandestine Services, Odom was wary by nature, timid and hesitant. Those who had seen him in a state of panic, swore that even his breathing was cautious. Once he made a decision, however, he had been known to take bold action, contrasting sharply to his normal demeanor.
The inbox sat on a messy desk that was centered squarely in the middle of a windowless basement office of CIA headquarters. Across the floor was a geometric designed Persian Shiraz his wife had purchased in Iran years earlier and had personally carried - despite his vociferous protests and the embargo - through JFK. It, and the office, were illuminated by a single, green-glass desk lamp hauled home from Marrakesh.
