by Josie Brown
He begins to walk over, but one of the guards blocks his entry. Hesitantly, Kim nods his acquiescence and Jack and Dominic are allowed to enter—proof positive that flattery will get you an all-access pass.
But then, as Dominic gets within a few feet of Kimiko, Jack trips him.
And he stumbles onto the waiter, who spills the tray of wine on her.
The commotion sends the guards rushing in. They hustle North Korea’s skittish dictator out of the room.
Angrily, Kimiko turns to Dominic. “You fool!”
“It was just an accident, Kimiko. Why are you so upset?”
The waiter, now frowning, backs away toward the door. But he doesn’t get far because Jack punches him in his gut. When he keels over, Jack pounds a sharp elbow into the back of his neck. The man goes down like a sack of potatoes.
Kimiko is running out of the room, but Dominic blocks her.
Until she punches him in the throat.
He may have fallen to the floor gasping, but Jack is up quickly and on her heels. He makes it to the door before she gets there and slams it shut. Realizing that she’s trapped, Kimiko reaches into one of her long sleeves and pulls out a karambit. The curved blade of the stiletto must be made of Kydex to have passed through the metal detector without notice. But, the way in which it slices off the corner of Jack’s open tuxedo jacket, it demonstrates its steely sharpness.
I gasp loudly enough that I get shushed by a flight attendant.
Jack grabs the fallen waiter's tray then uses it as a shield as he dodges, dekes, and ducks Kimiko's onslaught of slashes. Step by step he closes in on her. Noting this, she bends low and runs at him.
But he wallops her on the head with the tray.
She falls to the floor, stunned.
Dominic staggers to his feet. “Brilliant footwork, old boy! But how did you know that she was an assassin?”
“She was so cold to me that I asked Emma to do a facial recognition scan,” Jack explains. “It turns out Kimiko is an operative with Japan’s Defense Intelligence Headquarters. I was late to the party because I asked Arnie to do a remote hack of her computer. Her coded kill order was in there. It took a while for Emma to decipher it.”
“Interesting! But can’t say that we can blame our Japanese allies. They must find Dictator Kim’s missile stash a bit unsettling, eh?”
Jack jerks Kimiko to her feet. She tries to pull away but can't because he keeps a firm grip on her. Glaring from Dominic to Jack, she hisses, “Kim is a madman! Sadly, Heiwa-boke—the faith we Japanese hold so dearly in our peace constitution—is a luxury we can no longer afford.”
“If you and your friend here had succeeded in poisoning Kim, the nuclear disarmament summit would have been deemed a farce. Worse yet, it would have disgraced every country in attendance, including Japan. You’re getting off easy, Kimiko. As it is, the CIA has already back-channeled the Japanese Ministry of Defense its willingness to keep the assassination attempt a secret among friends: Japan, the U.S, and of course, our host country. I’m sorry, but you’re going home.”
By now, two British MI6 agents—one female, one male, both in formal dress—have joined them. The female places handcuffs on Kimiko. The other agent cuffs her accomplice and hustles him to his feet. Still, Kimiko holds her head high as she and her pal are escorted out of the room.
Dominic shakes his head sadly. “I give you credit. I would have never caught on!”
“Why do you say that?” Jack asks.
Dominic grins. “She would have never given me the cold shoulder! Unlike you, I’m utterly charming.”
One thing about Dominic: you can always count on him for comic relief.
“You’re quite a hero.” My voice is husky because I’m tired.
And, yes, I’ll admit it, lustful too.
“All in a day’s work.” Even through the phone, I hear the desire in Jack's voice. “I have to admire Kimiko. She went to quite some lengths to take care of the biggest threat to her country.”
“So, what are your thoughts? Was the conference a bust?”
“You know the game. Despite the joint effort to play nice, everyone wants to hold onto their toys. With Putin not only skipping it but putting on such a big dog-and-pony show, the other countries now feel the need to ante up.” Jack sighs. “And despite POTUS’s efforts to tone down the rhetoric, our Congress is more hawkish than ever. It won't let Lee stand in its way, either. Word has it that Vice President Edmonton is leading the charge.”
I shiver at the name. My one meet-and-greet with our country’s charismatic vice president left me wondering about the depth of his allegiance to Lee. I guess this answers my question: barely skin deep.
Lee had better watch his back.
“I heard about Jeanette’s scoop. I thought the timing was interesting.”
“Me too,” Jack concedes. “But hey, it proves Hart Media made a great investment in her and put her in the right city to prove it. Speaking of home runs, congratulations on snagging some vital intel that will help level the playing field.”
“It was more of an interception,” I admit. “The project’s lead scientist and his wife wanted out bad enough to contact Dutch Intelligence. Luuk must now arrange the exfiltration op.”
“Yeah, about Luuk. I guess you warmed him up finally.”
I snort. “Not before we tried to kill each other.”
“I’m glad that both you and I have lived to see another day.” Jack’s voice has lost its playful lilt.
To bring it back, I proclaim, “Did you hear that I got a transfer? Manhattan, here I come!”
“I may be joining you across the pond," Jack declares.
My heart leaps in my chest. “What do you mean by that?”
“The boss lady and I are talking tomorrow. Charlotte wants to transfer me to the New York News Bureau as a special correspondent. I told her she’d have to make it worth my while.”
“From the way she was eyeing you, like a juicy prime rib, I’m sure she’ll be happy to take you up on your offer.”
“Don’t bet on it. Dominic is with her right now, in the townhouse she shares with her latest victim—I mean, fiancé—the Russian tech oligarch, Mikhail Gorev. He's out of town. In fact, I’m heading over there.”
“For what, a threesome?”
He laughs. “Only in Charlotte’s dreams! I’m party-crashing. Not that she’ll be aware of it. While Dominic is keeping her busy in the bedroom, I’ll be cracking Mikhail’s office safe. Apparently, it’s where he keeps the deeds of all his properties around the world. Some are set up in the names of dummy corporations owned by Putin and some other government officials.”
“You may be starting the next Russian revolution, Mr. Craig!”
“We can only hope. In any event, tomorrow morning, Charlotte and I are negotiating my new compensation package.”
“Sweet! Benefits, but not ‘friends with benefits,’ I hope?”
“Now, now, Mrs. Craig! Reign in your little green-eyed monster. Remember, Dominic is the raven on this mission. I’ve got my hands full just following the money. So yeah, if all goes well—and I don’t see why it won’t—I’ll be jetting back to New York tomorrow,” he pauses, “on Charlotte’s private plane.”
“That should be cozy,” I purr.
“Not as cozy as, say, a bathtub.”
I feel my cheeks reddening. “Oh…so you do know about Luuk and my, er, surveillance diversion tactics!”
“I’ll say. And I was impressed, in fact, too impressed with its realism,” Jack grouses. “Alas, I don’t think my acting is in the same league as your bathtub antics with Luuk. Still, maybe I should give Charlotte a broad hint that I’m open to a ‘friends with benefits’ package.”
“Not funny, Mr. Craig! If you were here, you’d realize that by my pout.”
“If I were there, my dear Mrs. Craig, I’d know all the ways to turn that frown upside down...including some slap-and-tickle tub games that would curl your toes.”
“Perception is nothing li
ke reality. Seal the New York deal, and I’ll let you prove it to me tomorrow evening.”
I sign off to his appreciative chuckle.
9
Shock Jock
Talk radio shows can cover a variety of topics: culture, news, sports, or political commentary.
The most popular talk show hosts are known as “shock jocks.” They are also the most provocative.
They derive their success by pontificating fear-mongering insults that pass as a point of view on a recent event. Doing so riles up the audience, who then pick up their phones and call the host to give their two cents, filling the airtime between commercial breaks.
In most cases, their comments echo the host’s.
Or do his mimic theirs?
Does it matter?
Most comments are not derived from fact; it is just personal opinion.
These shows aren't about promoting political discourse. It’s about ratings.
Make no mistake. That is not news. That’s entertainment.
“So, you’re supposed to be the bimbo.” Larry Zorn, rotund and red-bearded with a face made for radio, gives me the once-over. He hosts Hart Radio Network’s Hot Topics with Larry, which is the number-one syndicated radio talk show in the country.
“Pardon?” The disdain dripping from my voice has the opposite effect than I’d hoped. He’s practically drooling.
“Did they tell you what you’re doing here?”
“I’ve no clue at all,” I confess.
“It’s to sit there and look pretty.” He points to the chair next to his. Both are facing extendable microphones.
“I doubt it. This is radio. Hart Media will want me to say something.”
“Okay, sure, you can say something—as long as it compliments whatever I said first.”
“Must I always wait for your lead?”
“Would you prefer to be the dom in this relationship?” Larry leers at the thought.
I sigh. “Considering the frequency in which you toss out such vulgar innuendos, how have you avoided getting tossed out of this job?”
“I’ve got too much on the boss man, Harold Hart.” He winks conspiratorially. “More than likely, it’s the reason you're here in my evil lair: as a peace offering. He’s always had a great eye for…talent.”
That’s interesting.
“Well, if you’re as naughty as you like to think you are, I suppose you spell that, ‘p-i-e-c-e.’”
He chortles at that.
“If you’ve got gossip to dish about our fearless leader, after the show I’ll let you take me out for happy hour.” I flutter my lashes.
Not that he notices. He’s too busy scrutinizing my white blouse for any nip slip. Failing to do so, he finally replies, “Honeybun, every hour is happy hour.”
To make his point, he lifts his coffee mug to my nose.
I reel back at the smell of whiskey.
“You’re perfect, Gwenny baby, except for one thing: Can you lose the posh British accent? You sound as if you’ve got a stick up your ass.”
“Imagine how much more cultured you’d sound if we found one wide enough to fit in yours,” I counter.
“I’m in love,” Larry crows.
“Does that mean I’m hired?” I coo.
“Does a wild bear shit in the woods?”
“Not if he’s got a stick up his ass,” I remind him. “Now, who's today’s guest?”
As it turns out, Larry’s guest is Vice President Bradley Edmonton, who is making the rounds to encourage listeners to, in his own words, “Rally around the president’s agenda for a safe and secure America.”
No surprise that he’s willing to ingratiate himself to the talk show host. After all, it was Larry who coined Edmonton’s famous nickname: “Washington’s silver-haired, silver-tongued fox.”
All three adjectives fit, especially the one that likens him to the critter known to rob henhouses. His recent backbiting comments about the president are evidence of that.
When introduced to “Gwendolyn,” Edmonton's stark blue eyes bore into me like tractor beams. I hold his gaze while declaring, “A pleasure, sir.”
“All mine, I’m sure,” he responds. “Have we met before?”
I shake my head. “The honor would not be one I’d easily forget. Alas, my previous postings were never stateside,” I add with a demure smile. “And I doubt our paths have crossed in Syria, Africa, or Afghanistan.”
His eyes narrow. “I see. You’re brave to put yourself in the line of fire.”
“You are too.” I nod toward Larry, who is berating a production assistant about the task of keeping his coffee mug filled at all times.
Edmonton laughs uproariously.
Just then the producer motions for us to take our places around the studio’s half-moon conference table.
Edmond’s interview is twenty minutes. Let’s see how long it takes for him to sell out Lee.
Larry starts with: “Okay before I introduce our very special guest, I’d like to invite our listeners to welcome my very smart—and just to assure you guys listening that she’s worth all the grief she’s sure to dish out—’veddy, veddy’ beautiful new sidekick, Gwendolyn Durant!”
“Thank you, Larry, for making me feel right at home,” I purr.
“Yeah, well, wait until the requests for nude fan pics come pouring in,” he says.
“I’m duly warned,” I reply dryly. “We’ll send out yours instead.”
“Touché.” Larry snorts. “Now, with no further ado, I’d like to introduce our guest, Vice President Bradley Edmonton! Welcome to your home away from home, Veep!”
To prove the remark rolls off his back, Edmonton replies, “Oh, I wouldn’t exactly call it that. More like a comfortable hangout with an old pal.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Larry takes a swig from his mug.
Edmonton rolls his eyes. I guess he’s in on the joke.
Larry’s first question to him is a softball: “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our Commander in Chief’s performance at the recent nuclear disarmament summit?”
“As close to a ten as anyone can get,” Edmonton pronounces firmly. “President Chiffray is quite aware of the chicken-and-egg game the Russian president is playing with the world, and he isn’t going to fall into that trap. The Chinese and North Koreans feel the same way, as do our NATO allies.”
“So, the takeaway you have for the American people is that everyone smoked POTUS’s peace pipe?”
Edmonton pauses. “Well, it’s gotten…a positive response.”
“From whom?” Larry prods. “Kim Jung-Un was anything but all smiles.”
I jump in. “He’s new to the process. But he wouldn’t have been there in the first place if he didn’t want to play with the A-Team, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Vice President?”
Edmonton eyes me warily as he leans back in his chair. “I think the president did his best to chip away at the frost, yes.” He sighs as if burdened with what he must say next. “Of course, it would have helped if Russia’s president had made an appearance.”
Larry snickers. “Maybe he was afraid of being subpoenaed by Special Counsel Reynolds.”
Edmonton laughs uneasily. “I don’t need to vouch for our president’s integrity.”
“So, you’re saying this is a witch hunt?” I ask.
Edmonton’s pause is so long that if I were listening, I’d think the network had lost its transmission. “The term ‘witch hunt’ implies that this is partisan-based chicanery. Our country has a Constitution built on a series of checks and balances. If our current Commander-in-Chief has nothing to hide, why wouldn’t he cooperate with the Special Counsel?”
Current Commander-in-Chief? Wow. Talk about subliminal suggestion.
“Which President Chiffray is doing,” I point out.
Edmonton shrugs before bluntly adding, “He has no other recourse.”
That’s Edmonton’s way of saying that Congress isn’t playing games, and neither is he.
Even Larry feels the tension. “Gee, you guys! The way you’re going at it, why don’t you get a room?” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “Hey now, there’s a thought! Why not ask her out on a date? I mean, she's a real looker, right? Hey, I’d date her myself, but I’m already paying alimony to three ex-wives!”
Our glares are now aimed at him, but he’s too busy slinging blarney to notice it.
Finally, our silence speaks volumes. “Yeah, okay, I get it!" Larry raises his hands in surrender. "It’s a ‘swipe left’ for both of you, right? That's alright. I shouldn't be playing Cupid anyhow. I'm much too fat to wear a diaper!"
Not according to your last wife's People magazine interview, I want to say. Instead, I grant him a tight smile.
Thank goodness the music announcing the show’s commercial break comes on. It's probably the only way to stop Larry's constant flow of bullshit.
“We want to thank Vice President Edmonton for stopping by and setting us straight on the fact that both parties get along, at least, as it pertains to any witch hunt that may be going on with our president. And now, we’re going to take a commercial break. But stay tuned because our guest is Congressman Chris P. Bacon. Hey, Gwendolyn, what do you think I’m going to ask him first?”
“Hmmm, let me guess. Perhaps how he got elected with a name like that?”
“Ha! Yeah, that sounds like something I’d do…but, um…no.”
“Okay then, maybe you’ll ask if he’s offended by pork barrel legislation?”
“Seriously, Gwendolyn, if you keep this up, they’ll make you the star of this show…Damn it! Is that what this is all about? But my contract isn’t up for another three years!”
The show ends after a third guest. Afterward, I’m out of there in a flash. I’ve got too big a headache to make good on my offer to let Larry treat me to a happy hour drink. And besides, as he pointed out to me, he’s happy all day long.
I’ve yet to hear from Jack. I guess that means “negotiations” are going well. Just how well? I’m almost afraid to ask.