by HN Wake
3
Washington, DC
A wiry, angular woman opened the door. Her hair was a wild, Medusa tangle of grey corkscrews and her tight, thin lips were marked by premature wrinkles. “The senator will meet you.”
Disguised in a blond wig and thick reading glasses, Mac accompanied the aide down a long, black-and-white tiled hallway into a softly lit, gold-colored living room. Thick gold curtains framed five tall windows that faced Capitol Hill. Classic candelabra lamps adorned side tables. Two dozen gold-framed photographs floated on a large pale wall. A gold, silk Chippendale sofa was partnered with two white, wing backed chairs.
On her way out, the aide passed Senator Eleanor Gillis at the door.
The senator was a handsome woman in a somber skirt suit, the red silk in her lapel the only nod to color. Smart eyes under shoulder length grey-blonde hair took in Mac as unadorned fingers clutched her hand. “Welcome, welcome. What shall I call you, my dear?” Old, East Coast money accent.
“Mac is fine, Senator.”
“Well then, Mac. Can I offer you a drink? I’m just about to make myself one.” Her demeanor was polished, refined.
“Just a water, thanks.”
Senator Gillis nodded and turned to a liquor cabinet. “Seltzer okay?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Fine, thank you.”
Senator Gillis handed her a heavy tumbler then turned to make her own drink. Twitchy hands poured a scotch.
When they had settled into the opposing wingbacks, Senator Gillis asked, “What can I tell you?”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Mac offered.
The senator’s lips pressed softly together and a mask of neutrality fell into place. She resorts to perfectionist behavior to cloak discomfort, Mac assessed. This is a woman used to being in control.
Senator Gillis said, “It’s difficult for me. I’m a very private person by nature, despite being in a very public career.”
Mac took a sip of her water.
“I’ve been representing Pennsylvania for two terms—almost twelve years. I’m up for re-election next year. In that time I’ve seen some amazing work by my colleagues and incredible support from my constituents.” She looked toward the street. “Of course, I’ve seen some political shenanigans in the senate. I’ve been witness to infighting, backstabbing and corruption. But the one thing I’ve never been able to quite handle when they emerge—erupt—are the sex scandals. One minute you’re working across the aisle with a colleague drafting legislation, sitting in committee meetings for twelve years and then boom, he’s on the news for soliciting sex in the stall of a rest room in his hometown airport. It’s all so uncomfortable.” She stared off into space.
Mac had the impression Senator Gillis was deliberately playing melancholy to win sympathy.
“I think that’s happened,” Senator Gillis said, “about five times since I’ve been in office. It’s always such a shock. Then you wait for the fallout. Is he going to leave? Has his stupidity cost him everything he has worked for? Will his constituents send him packing? The wait-and-see is so awkward.”
Mac remained silent.
Senator Gillis’ gaze got lost on a distant memory. The look seemed manufactured, intentional. She’s out of character when she feigns remorse, Mac thought. It’s badly acted.
Senator Gillis said, “What should be private doesn’t always stay private.”
“Is that said from experience?”
“I’ve made my mistakes. I’ve come back tougher, more resolute. Well, I thought I had.” She gazed at Mac, no longer faking contrition. “I understand you’re settling into a new routine?”
“I’ve recently returned to the US.”
“Did you work for the government?”
“I’ve only just returned,” Mac avoided the question.
Senator Gillis understood the diversion. “Well, so. I’ve found myself in a situation. The same situation that always made me so awkward before.” Her face flushed involuntarily.
Finally this woman was telling the truth.
“I’ve found myself in a sex scandal that may explode. Publicly.”
Mac set the glass on the coffee table. “There is evidence.” It was a statement.
“Apparently there is a video. An electronic file.”
“Who has it?”
“Well that’s the thing. I’m not sure.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“But you know what’s on it?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a recent incident?”
“Last year.”
“If it comes to light it will ruin your career.”
“Yes.”
Senator Gillis’ was watching Mac intently, sizing her up.
Mac asked, “Who do you think has this video?”
“I don’t know.”
“You want me to identify the blackmailer and retrieve the files?”
Senator Gillis nodded. “That would be the ideal resolution. I would rather pay you to retrieve it.”
“If I take this on, that won’t be necessary. Laura will take care of the finances.”
“I will pay you,” Senator Gillis insisted. “If you retrieve it.
“There’s no need for that.”
“But that way I’ll feel more comfortable that you won’t use it yourself.”
That was an odd statement. Didn’t she trust Laura’s judgment to get someone ethical? Someone who would do the right thing? “I wouldn’t use it against you.”
“How do I know that?
Mac responded with the truth, “Because that’s not who I am.”
Senator Gillis stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if Mac could be trusted.
Mac waited patiently. She was here as a favor to Laura. She had nothing to prove to this woman.
Senator Gillis nodded, as if coming to a conclusion. “But can you promise me something?”
“What’s that?”
“That if you find the video, you won’t show it to Laura?”
Another odd request. This woman’s priorities were askew. Laura Franklin seeing the sex tape should be the least of her concerns. Mac said, “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”
The senator accepted that compromise, reached under a magazine on the coffee table, and extracted a single slip of paper. It was a printout of a short email. “I have a copy of you with that young man. Grainy but clear. From the Four Seasons. I want $1 million or I go public with it. Three days.”
Mac looked up, “Do you have $1 million?”
“Yes. But I’m not going to pay it. On principle. This person is despicable and I’m not playing by their rules.” Senator Gillis bristled with anger. “Truly despicable.”
There, Mac thought, that righteousness was her true character. “You can’t go to the police.”
“Absolutely not.”
Mac looked from the paper to this stern woman. She could help her, if she wanted to. This sounded like a straightforward operation. Find the blackmailer. Retrieve the video. End of story.
The fact that it was Mac’s choice gave her pause. For the first time in a very long time, no one held her reins. She was free to make this decision. There was no Agency, there was no Langley, there were no Mandarins. A ticklish twinge blossomed in her chest, buoyed her. She realized, this is what freedom feels like.
Mac examined the senator’s face. “Do you regret it?”
Senator Gillis recoiled. “That’s an impudent question.”
Mac shrugged.
“How dare you.” She jerked to her feet, all bluster. “How incredibly rude.”
Mac rose calmly. “Senator, what you’re asking me to do will require that I cross a line. An ethical and a legal line. What you’re asking me to do will entail risks. I do not believe my desire to know your level of regret is either impudent or rude. It’s simply an honest question.”
Mac returned a serene gaze. She held the cards: she could hel
p this woman or not. Yes, it was all Mac’s decision. No one else’s. For better or for worse, this was her choice. In the back of her mind, a small voice told her this was one of life’s pivotal moments.
Senator Gillis conceded with a nod. “Yes, I do regret it.”
“Are you still in touch with the gentleman in the video?”
“I don’t plan on doing this again,” she said shamefully. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
Any level of deception had left the senator.
Mac said, “You can always go back to being a civilian.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late for anything, Senator.” Mac’s words seemed to take up space in the dim, gold room. What was that saying about choosing the path less traveled? All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other down this new direction to prove that she was no longer an Agency operative, an Agency stooge. She simply had to make decisions for herself. Was it really that simple?
Mac made up her mind. “Okay.” And just like that, the somber weight of her former life lifted from around her.
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes,” Handing over a small blank card with a handwritten email address, Mac said, “Here’s my private email. I’ll need you to forward the email to me.”
4
Washington, DC
The thick, white duvet on the queen bed smelled of spring flowers fresh from a dryer. Joyce Terrell Tattle pointed her toes and felt the pull of muscles around her ankles and calves. It was the small things in life that made her happy. Small, simple pleasures. Like sitting here in a clean bed in the tidy blue bedroom next to her boyfriend, Isaac Messenger. They’d been together ten happy years, they hardly fought, they loved Indian food, and they were best friends. They also agreed Aliens II was definitely the best movie.
Despite his fingers banging the keyboard and eyes glued to the screen, Isaac sensed a shift in her emotions. “What?”
“I love fresh sheets,” was all she said.
She didn’t want to interrupt what was clearly an urgent work issue with her latest mental riddle: that his absent-mindedness calmed her, that his goofy humor amused her, that his intellect kept her on her toes. Toes. It was that musing that had led her to stretching her toes.
They had met around the time she had been fired from the Central Intelligence Agency. It had been the best and worst of times. She had loved her job as an analyst in the Asian Pacific, Latin American and African Analysis Division, running down intel, making wild connections, chasing the bad guys. The war on terror was heating up. They hadn’t yet killed Bin Laden. She was in the thick of it and had loved every second. Okay, well maybe not every second. Her boss had been kind of a pain in the ass. He thwarted so many leads. There were at least two Al Qaeda targets that had slipped through otherwise competent fingers.
But the day she had been fired was still clear in her memory. It itched like a bee sting that despite your mother’s warning, you scratched until it formed a small lesion and then a scar.
Some asshole named Frank Odom—whom she had never seen before in her life, although that wasn’t so strange since the Agency was huge—had stalked across the floor and stopped at her desk. “Joyce Terrell Tattle?” he had asked with his small head and beady eyes. It was as if Chucky the evil doll from those horror movies had grown up and become this bald creepy guy glaring like some kind of demonic Star Wars character from that desert planet. She had followed him out into the hall, answered his curt questions, and then he had fired her. On the spot. “You’ve got ten minutes to clean out.”
A merciless, demon doll.
She and Isaac had deduced that her firing had been over a project involving a fishy-ass company out of Malaysia, a missing Agency operative, and a big bank.
There had been two upsides from that day. One, she and Isaac had gotten together. And two, it was the beginning of an unofficial work relationship between Isaac and an anonymous Agency operative known as 42. What had started on that day had become an exciting, ongoing mystery with 42’s random requests coming over the internet once every few months.
She pointed her toes.
Isaac smiled but couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. He could get really stuck on things. For some reason, it never bothered her. She returned to Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T.E. Lawrence just as the tapping on the keyboard stopped.
She laid the book open faced on her belly. “What’s up?”
“42 is active again.”
“Really?” She laced her fingers together over the book’s spine. “That’s fast. He just finished whatever he was doing like a week ago.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s still in the US.”
“How?”
“He just asked me to trace an email to a senator.”
She wiggled her fingers. “Really? He’s interested in more domestic stuff? Which senator?”
“Eleanor Gillis from Pennsylvania.”
“Sure! Her office is in Russell too. A few floors below us.”
Joyce was the Deputy Legislative Assistant to the Junior Senator from Wyoming (D). It was a great job. Interesting and influential. She dealt mostly with international issues, given her background at the Agency, and spent a lot of time on Iraq and Afghanistan. Not too secretly she wished the US could invade the Bahamas or somewhere with an ocean because she wasn’t all that fond of sand, and the Middle East was one god-forsaken desert. But it was a good job despite her mother’s complaints about the salary. Nobody on the Hill made that much. Also, the senator from Wyoming was a good guy. They weren’t all. Her friend Patricia down the hall once stepped into an elevator with a very old senator who crushed her against the wall and shoved his ratty, slimy, old long tongue down her mouth. Down her throat, to be fair.
She told Isaac, “My boss did some work with Gillis. On legislation last year around PACs. It didn’t pass, but they tried a circuitous attempt to get a campaign spending limit.”
She eyed his screen. It was a series of numbers from the Matrix movies. This is what happens when you hook up with a tech genius—you watch them do stuff in a foreign language and feel dumb.
“She’s liberal,” she continued. “But not too liberal because she’s got a really interesting dose of conservatism. Pro choice but laissez-faire on the environment.”
Absently he said, “I hate climate change deniers.”
She hadn’t said Gillis was a climate change denier, but he had deduced her meaning. The thing about geniuses is that they actually could do two things at one time.
She threw her hands back behind her head. “She’s okay, I guess. She doesn’t go all the way to full denial but believes the free market will eventually reign in carbon emissions--”
He interrupted her with a look. “She’s in trouble.”
“Ohhhh.” She sat up. “Can you tell me? Is it top secret? Dammit 42 is so cool.”
From his screen, Isaac read her the blackmail email demanding $1 million.
“Oh my god,” Joyce said. “What’s 42 gonna do?”
“I don’t know. He asked me to trace the source of the email.”
“Can you do it?”
He gave her a smug, sideways glance.
“What?” she feigned indignation. “I mean, what if the sender was totally careful and used like internet cloaking, and TOR and onions and shit, and was all secretive and covered their tracks?”
Isaac returned to this screen.
“I mean,” she continued undeterred, “he could have taken a hammer to his hard drive in his tech cave.”
Absently Isaac said, “We don’t all inhabit basements.”
“Most of you do.”
“There are no statistics on that.” His fingers were flying over his keyboard.
She stared at the ceiling, imaging the story of the blackmailer. “Then he ran out the back door across a yard littered with trash. A dog was barking and jumping on the fence and your blackmailer had to launch himself over a brick wall. The Feds are chargi
ng down the alley. Flashlight beams are bouncing…” She ran her hand down his spine. “Ah, the good ole Agency days.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“We could go out into the field and help 42.”
“We were never field operatives, Tattle.”
His use of Tattle was his ‘tell’ he was trying to moderate her enthusiasm. She pushed him jokingly. “We could send up a drone to chase him down the alley and—“
Isaac’s fingers went slack.
She sat forward. All serious now. “What?”
He stared at the screen.
“What?”
“This email has a very clear trail. They tried to hide it but the IP address was easy to trace. They didn’t know what they were doing.” His eyes were wide. “And I’m that good.”
“Oooooh! Who, who? Who’s the blackmailer? Oh my god, I wish we were still with the Agency!”
Slowly, he turned to her, his face stone.
“Who?” she whispered.
“It’s someone inside the Patriot News headquarters in Times Square.”
“What?! Patriot News is blackmailing Senator Gillis with a sex tape and super spy 42 is gonna get it back?” She slid down flat against the mattress and waved jazz hands in the air. “I LOVE IT!”
WEDNESDAY
There is no doubt that the way journalism worked when I was growing up and getting started has changed forever. — Dan Rather
Those persons who develop an awareness of the factors which are conditioning them at any given time have the possibility of de-structuring the field and switching their conduct from the expected channels. — Suzi Gablik, “The Double-Bind” in “Eight Artists Reply: Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?” Artnews, Retrospective, June 2015.
5
New York, NY
The coffee began its journey at the Hacienda La Esmeralda in a remote valley in Panama. Of the varieties that the farm produced—all exceptionally fine and all remarkably expensive—the Esmeralda Special Auction coffee had won the most awards. It was said that at one auction it sold for over $350 per pound. This particular shipment of Esmeralda Special Auction was sourced from a custom distributor and sold to a high-end coffee shop in Manhattan. Brighton Coffee was eight blocks from Times Square.