by HN Wake
“His cell phone pinged. He’s in New York City.”
Herbie leaned into the door, an inch from the glass, his eyes direct and unblinking. The dog went wild, eyes bulging, and spittle flying. Its snarl was piercing, menacing. Its toenails pawed and its teeth gnawed frantically against the glass.
You’re a good guard dog, Herbie thought. I like you. Lots of mettle and character. You don’t back down. Protect this house and your people, mate. Keep at it. She’s gonna need it.
39
New York, NY
In the basement of Patriot News, Jackie Pomeranian looked up over the set of Red, White & Blue. An audio tech was wiring up the last of the three panelists—the snarling Jonah Innery—as he read his cell phone and ignored the others. Marceline Rackard, a dark haired woman with sparkling eyes, spoke with Liza Krugman, the stiff attorney who worked at the Department of Justice. Across from the panel, the host Tanner Sumner reviewed his notes on the laptop in front of him.
Jackie walked toward the stage, “Okay, we’re live in five. Everybody feeling good?”
Tanner gave her a grin and a thumbs up.
Jackie spoke into her headset, “Audio good?”
She got a positive response from the control room and gave a thumbs up to the participants on the stage. She gave them a silent countdown with her fingers and the camera light turned red.
Tanner spoke to the camera. “Fast happening news today from New Orleans. Shots rang out at 3 am but no one was hurt. The police remain on the scene by City Park. It’s still a tense situation and could likely flare again. Today I’ve got a diverse set of views from our guests, Marceline Rackard, Liza Krugman, and Jonah Innery.” He turned to his guests with a smile. “Welcome. Let’s get your initial thoughts on what’s happening.”
Behind the panel an image flashed of black police in riot gear pointing guns at a black crowd on a dark street in New Orleans.
Ever the one for the spotlight, Jonah kicked off the conversation. “Let’s be clear, Tanner, that this isn’t about racism. This isn’t about black or white. This is about chaos and the lack of rule of law. These hooligans, these thugs, are taking to our streets again. And what is law enforcement doing about it? Nothing. Standing by watching. And why are they just standing by? Because they are controlled by these crowds. There’s just too much influence in local politics of certain liberal communists.”
Marceline Rackard saw an opening. “I wouldn’t agree with Jonah completely. I think this is more about what one group of people can do. I mean, one incident and a mob can take over a city. Shut it down for working folk.”
“I don’t know,” Liza Krugman interjected. “Jonah has a point. I mean why are the police just standing by? The crowd is going outside the law, taking things into their own hands. The police have a right, in fact, they have a responsibility to ensure law and order.”
Jonah flapped his hands. “We are not racists. That’s not what we’re talking about here. This was a tragic shooting, yes, but it’s not about racism. Why is this all of the sudden about Black Lives Matter? Don’t the rest of the people of New Orleans matter? Do you have to be black in this country to matter?”
Marceline Rackard said, “And what about the mother? Why was she not watching her son? When you’re in a city park, you should keep an eye on your son.”
Liza Krugman held up a hand, “I’m not sure that’s fair--”
“Why not?” Marceline Rackard threw back, “Why wasn’t she right next to him?”
Jonah Innery interjected. “These are all great points and we’re going to dissect them one by one. But first, Marceline, you’ve posed an interesting issue. On the issue of the mother, we’re clear that she is young, right? That she’s on welfare. That she got subsidies from the government for her kid to be in day care. I mean, why was she in the park on a weekday to begin with? The rest of us have jobs.”
Liza Krugman nodded. “Anyone in this country who works hard enough can get ahead.”
Jackie clicked the button to turn on her headset, instructed Tanner to take a break
Tanner looked up at his guests, “We need to take a break. We’ll be right back.”
When the camera lights turned off, Jackie stepped up to Tanner’s ear and walked him through the new line of questioning. Five minutes later, she counted them back in and the red lights burned back on.
Tanner looked solemnly into the camera. “We just got some additional news that I’d like to address to our panel. It appears that this young mother may in fact have an unusual history. Patriot News has uncovered, and we are exclusive with this folks, you wont’ be hearing about this at any of the other networks, so remember we broke this first, that this woman’s bank records show some deposits of big amounts—thousands—about three years ago.” He looked at the panel. “That’s about the time this young woman would have became pregnant, if I’m not mistaken.”
Liza Krugman picked it up quickly. “Large amounts in single deposits?”
Tanner checked his notes. “Yes, yes, that what we’ve just uncovered.”
Marceline Rackard asked, “Are you saying you think she was prostituting herself?”
“I’m saying it looks very funny indeed,” Tanner said.
40
Washington, DC
At 7 p.m. Mac stood in an alley behind a townhouse in Dupont Circle. The shadows were lengthening and lights were flickering on behind windows. With the arrival of sunset, the squeal of rats was picking up.
She cracked her neck in an effort to alleviate the pain in her shoulder. It didn’t work. Since Laura’s house earlier, she hadn’t taken any pain medication because she wanted to be alert. There was a lot to do.
At the top of stairs across the alley, a door opened and a lanky guy with floppy blond hair stepped out with a trash bag. He noticed her immediately.
Stepping into the dim halo of a street lamp, Mac gave him a small half smile. His eyes widened. She stepped up the wooden stairs. “Nice to meet you, Isaac Messenger. I’m Mac Ambrose.”
He straightened, took a slight step backward. His voice was tentative. “42?”
She nodded. “You got that in one.”
He regained his composure, but only barely. “What…what are you doing here?”
“I need your help.”
His eyes bugged out. “You what?”
She couldn’t help but smile. Isaac Messenger was just as socially awkward in person. It made her like him more. He was a kindred spirit. For the first time in hours, she didn’t notice her shoulder.
“Here, here, come on in.” He motioned her inside to the hall. “Come on in. Let me go get my girlfriend”
Inside, the kitchen was homey and untidy. A farmer’s sink and the appliances looked relatively new—maybe two years old—they must have redone the kitchen themselves. Pots and pans hung on racks, a teakettle sat on a back burner, and six cereal boxes teetered in a pile on a microwave. A square table with four chairs dominated the comfortable room.
From down the hallway Mac heard a woman’s high-pitched voice. “42?”
Then a mumble.
Then the woman’s voice again, plainly audible. “The spy ghost 42 is standing in our kitchen? The real life James Bond is in our kitchen? Isaac, I’m in my pajamas.”
Mac grinned to herself. This was going to be damn interesting.
Hurried steps stamped down the hallway. Isaac’s voice raised, “Uh, Joyce…”
A woman with messy brown ringlets and thick glasses stepped into the kitchen with an excited grin. She took in Mac with one look and her grin expanded exponentially. “No way. You’re a chick?” This woman was a ball of energy.
Isaac stepped through the door with a huge grimace.
Mac nodded and gave her a tentative grin.
The woman beamed. “I’m Joyce Terrell Tattle and I’m fucking delighted to meet you.” She stepped forward and gave Mac a gentle hug, mindful of the sling. “And that’s for saving all those refugees.”
Isaac bobbed around them. “So, uh Mac,
this is my girlfriend Joyce.”
Joyce stepped back. “I think she got that, Isaac. Oh lord, sit, sit. And ignore the mess. How do you take it?”
Mac asked, “Take what?”
“Coffee of course! We’ve got heaps to catch up on!” She turned toward the stove.
Isaac bobbed in place. “Uh, here. Let’s sit. Mac, did you say?”
Mac nodded. She allowed him to pull out a chair for her. His formality was cringe worthy.
“So, yeah, you got that I’m Isaac and that’s Joyce.” He stumbled.
“Yes, I got that. Thanks, Isaac.”
He asked, “Have you always known where I live? Where we live?”
Mac nodded.
“Wow. It just never occurred…” his voice trailed off as the implications hit him that this woman, this CIA operative, probably knew an awful lot about them.
Joyce turned back. “Wait, how did you get here?”
“I’m sorry?” Mac asked.
“I mean, how did you get here, to our house in DC?”
“Uh, I drove.”
“What?”
Isaac asked Joyce, “What?”
Joyce explained, “I’m asking her what she drove to get here.”
“I’m sorry?” Mac asked.
“What did you drive? In my mind it was always Pierce Brosnan driving around on some ass kicking motorcycle with a hot babe hanging off the back. Her butt riding at some angle that is totally not believable.”
Isaac nodded. “Ah, right.” He clearly was used to Joyce’s non sequiturs and trying to explain them. “You’re asking Mac here what she drives.”
Joyce stood waiting, kettle in hand.
Mac laughed. A real laugh. “No motorcycle. I have an old, antique car.”
“What kind?” Joyce’s smile was ten watts, intrigued by this new information.
“An Alfa Romeo?” Mac said tentatively, not sure if this would garner approval.
“That’s actually even better! Way more realistic. Way more.”
Hilarious. This night was going to be hilarious. One kitchen filled with an awkward, bobbing nerd, a ball of nuclear energy and a damaged spy. What could be better?
Joyce turned and set the kettle on the stove.
Mac chuckled. “Sugar.”
Joyce said, “Huh?”
Isaac explained. “Mac takes her coffee with sugar.”
Mac said, “Actually, I take my coffee with lots of sugar.”
Joyce wailed, “Even better! Brosnan Schmosnon. I bet he drinks it black.”
An hour later Mac had debriefed the two on the latest including Senator Gillis’ run for president.
Joyce sized up the situation. “So now you’re in deep.”
Mac said, “Yup.”
“You’ve got to get that video so you can hold them off from coming after you.”
Mac nodded.
Isaac said, “We’re totally going to help you.”
Joyce’s head was bobbing. “100% what he said. We’re totally going to help you.”
Joe had been right; it was a lot better when she wasn’t on her own. It amazed her how quickly she had taken to these two, how quickly she trusted them.
Joyce stood up. “And there’s a reason why I say that so quickly.” She left the room.
Mac gave Isaac a questioning look. He shrugged.
A moment later Joyce returned and set down a laptop and turned the screen to the two. “After you had me do that dossier on Senator Gillis and I learned about her bill to fix cable news, I decided to watch some programming from Patriot News.” She hit play. “I was literally watching this panel when you came in, Mac.”
On the screen was a paused video image from Patriot News studio. Mac knew it well. It was one of the sets down in the basement.
A good-looking host sat across from a snarling man and two women—one dark haired, the other in a blue striped suit. The mood looked tense. On the screen behind them was an image of black police, fully uniformed, pointing guns at a black crowd.
Mac asked, “What is this?”
“It’s a Patriot News talk show called Red, White and Blue. It’s about half way through.”
“What are they talking about?”
“There was a shooting down in New Orleans. Of a young black boy. I think he was two years old. Elijah Cade. It’s turned into a right mess. Riots. Lots of folks on the street.” Joyce hit play.
The snarling man grimaced. He looked angry, almost ranting. “On the issue of the mother, we’re clear that she is young, right? That she’s on welfare. That she got subsidies from the government for her kid to be in day care. I mean, why was she in the park on a weekday to begin with? The rest of us have jobs.”
Mac tilted her head. Did he just stay that about a woman who had just lost her son?
Next to her, Joyce shook her head. “Unbelievable.”
On the screen one of the women nodded along with him, her face tight and earnest. “Anyone in this country who works hard enough can get ahead.”
The camera angle turned to the host, and he said, “We need to take a break. We’ll be right back.”
As the network went to a commercial break the show played a series of photographs from New Orleans. The first was of what appeared to be the Chief of Police on the steps of an official building. He had his hands up, as if pleading with the crowds. In front of him, a crowd of angry protesters raised their fists high in defiance. Everyone in the crowd was black. The image changed. The new one was of protesters, all black, hurling rocks at a gas station as a fire blazed on the roof. The next image was of white people, silently, peacefully watching a march of angry blacks.
Joyce fast forwarded through the advertisements. “It’s classic race baiting. You notice there are only blacks doing bad stuff?”
Joyce hit play and the host looked solemnly into the camera. “We just got some additional news that I’d like to address to our panel. It appears that this young mother may in fact have an unusual history. Patriot News has uncovered, and we are exclusive with this folks, you wont’ be hearing about this at any of the other networks, so remember we broke this first, that this woman’s bank records show some deposits of big amounts—thousands—about three years ago.” He looked at the panel. “That’s about the time this young woman would have became pregnant, if I’m not mistaken.”
One of the women asked. “Large amounts in single deposits?”
The host checked his notes. “Yes, yes, that what we’ve just uncovered.”
The other woman asked, “Are you saying you think she was prostituting herself?”
“I’m saying it looks very funny indeed,” the host said.
Joyce said, “Unreal. Seriously unreal.”
Isaac mumbled, “Where’s the fucking decency?
A small knot formed in Mac’s stomach.
On the screen the woman in the blue suit said, “This young woman was a prostitute? When would that have started? In her teens?” She sat back with a look of moral indignation.
Joyce spat, “Have you got fucking proof of that? You can’t just say that, you bitch.”
But this was exactly the type of thing Senator Gillis was crusading. Patriot News was airing complete slander.
The knot in Mac’s stomach blossomed into tentacles that moved through her chest. She recognized the feeling for what it was, righteous anger as it gripped a hold. Everything about this debacle rested on the head of Fenton Warrick.
On the screen the second woman shook her head. “She must have started young.”
All three panelists sat forward. The angry man insisted, “Look, we’re not saying we’re racists, Tanner. We’re just saying that it looks very funny indeed that this woman, this woman they are holding out as a saint, down there in the riots, that this saint of the New Orleans riots, is in fact, not a saint. That in all likelihood she was a professional prostitute.”
Joyce squeezed her face tight. “So fucking unreal.”
Isaac stood and walked away from the table
, no longer interested.
The host looked into the camera, “Maybe she was out there in the park, soliciting a john.”
Mac’s hand shot forward and her finger hit the space bar, pausing the video. “We’ve seen enough.” Her voice was tight with anger.
Joyce shook herself out of her own anger and slid the laptop back across the table. She tapped on the keyboard, looking for something in a search. When she found it, she turned the screen back toward Mac. “Here’s the kid that got shot. Elijah Cade.”
On the screen was the angelic face of a small child, eyes brimming with delight, small white teeth in perfect rows against a huge smile. He sat on the lap of a young woman whose own smile matched his in intensity. A perfect pair of enchanted faces.
In her chest, the grip of anger tightened.
Fenton Warrick would pay for this. He would pay for all of this.
41
Washington, DC
They had been brainstorming for hours. In front of them they had print outs from web searches of the Patriot News Headquarters on Times Square.
Joyce stood up. “Seriously, can I get you cheese and crackers? A toasted sandwich?”
Mac loved her energy and enthusiasm. Joyce had turned out to be extremely bright and adaptable. Both she and Isaac were exceptionally quick. “No, really I’m okay. Thanks.”
Joyce sat back down.
Isaac concluded, “I think it’s fair to say we won’t get a second shot at getting in their building.”
Mac mumbled, “Agreed.”
“What about a secondary building?” Joyce offered. “Like Texas or something.”
Isaac grinned at what must have been an inside joke. He looked up at Mac. “I’m from Texas.”
Mac nodded. She knew that. Isaac wasn’t the only one who did his homework.
He said, “I’m pretty sure they would have beefed up all their networks in the last 48 hours.”
Joyce asked Isaac, “If you were their head of IT, what would be your priority after an intrusion?”