Alien Collective

by Gini Koch

  Thinking about those two being out and about always made me sick to my stomach. However, thinking about their ages gave me one last straw to grasp at.

  “You know, Jeff’s not thirty-five yet. So legally he can’t run.”

  Reader shook his head as Chuckie joined us. “Nice try,” Chuckie said. “However, he’s thirty-four and a half, and he’ll be thirty-five before they would take office. So, that issue can and will be avoided.”

  “I can’t believe you, of all people, are okay with this, Secret Agent Man.”

  He shrugged. “Might be nice to have a truly decent person in office.”

  “This wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “No, but your husband is one of the few people whose motivations I actually trust.”

  Considering Chuckie’s massively suspicious nature, this was high praise indeed. Under other circumstances I’d have been happy. Under this one I just wanted to find what Kool-Aid they’d all been drinking and either have some myself or, better, find the antidote and administer it to everyone before it was too late.

  “Kitty,” Culver called, “you need to see this.” She was standing near the TV, Nathalie and most of the others clustered around her.

  We trotted over. We watched. It was quite a show.

  All of us who’d been at the protest were on screen—being shoved into the police van. The police had managed to shield Jamie from the cameras, so one small favor there. They’d gotten a great shot of Claudia trying to hit a policeman and the rest of us yelling and fighting being shoved into the police van, though. We looked like the best-dressed, most passionate hippies in the world. Go us.

  “Well,” Horn said finally, “looks like you’ve made the news, ladies.”

  “At least you’re not wearing linen suits anymore,” Mom said. “So there’s one small favor.”

  “Serene, I thought you said that there were no feeds of us?”

  “That we’d found. Checking what’s going on now.” She didn’t sound happy and was texting at hyperspeed. She stepped away.

  Khalid turned the sound up. “. . . were our local aliens and their supporters only protesting the Clearly-Maurer campaign?” the voice-over asked. “Or are they laying the groundwork for Representative Jeff Martini’s bid to become Senator Vincent Armstrong’s vice presidential candidate?”

  “How do the female members of our diplomatic mission being at this protest lay the groundwork for anything?” Jeff asked. “Let alone my so-called bid for vice president?”

  “They’ll spin it however they want to,” Kevin said. “That’s what the news does. No offense,” he said to Oliver.

  “None taken,” Oliver said with a small smile. “Particularly because you’re correct.”

  “We’ll handle it,” Raj added, as the voiceover continued to question our motivations and desires. “We always do.”

  “Could this get worse?” I asked everyone and no one. Right on cue, my phone rang. I was just lucky like that. Pulled it out. Not a number I knew. The fun never stopped here. “Hello?” Followed Serene’s lead and stepped away from the group and the TV.

  “Is this Ambassador Katt-Martini?” A man’s voice, but I didn’t recognize it.

  “Could be. Who’s this?”

  Chuckie jerked, reached into his pocket, pulled out a doohickey that was a lot like the one Buchanan had used only a little while ago, and plugged it into my phone. Chose not to complain, nor to ask if I should just keep one of these plugged in 24/7.

  “I’d like to get your reactions to a few developments. Are you alone?”

  “This isn’t a sex line, so I don’t feel any need to answer that. And I’d like to get your name, rank, and serial number. Or I get to get your reactions to my hanging up.”

  Chuckie made the “put it on speakerphone” gesture. Shook my head. Didn’t want to give my mystery caller any intel and hearing the background noises would confirm I wasn’t alone. He rolled his eyes, but made the “keep him talking” sign. Managed not to snort—I was a pro at this well before today’s Surprise Test Callers.

  My latest mystery phone buddy chuckled. It didn’t sound evil, and since I’d heard a lot of evil chuckles in the last few years, felt I’d recognize one. However, while it wasn’t evil, it was something else I didn’t care for—patronizing. “I’m a friend.”

  “Bullpookey. As I say every time someone tries this supersecret way of pissing me off, my friends identify themselves and I can also recognize their voices. You and I have never spoken, therefore I’m having a challenge believing the whole ‘friend’ line you’re trying to pass.”

  Another chuckle. “I’m not trying to be mysterious, I just wanted to be sure it was the real Ambassador Katt-Martini I was speaking to, not a subordinate or stand-in.”

  “And dialing my cell phone wasn’t enough proof?”

  “No. I needed to, ah, hear your speech patterns to be sure you’re the real deal.”

  “Don’t I feel all special? And yet, there you are, being your own kind of special by still not telling me who the hell you are. You have two seconds to spill your secret identity before I decide I’m bored and stop playing this game.”

  Yet another chuckle. Got the impression he really thought he was charming. Chose to practice diplomacy and not tell him that he was actually insufferably annoying. “Let me stop being rude and mysterious. I’m Bruce Jenkins, Ambassador. I’m with the Washington Post.”

  “Um, hi Bruce. We get the Post already.” And every other paper coughed up in or around our nation’s capital. I never read the papers, but everyone else in the Embassy seemed fond of them. “No need for the special renewal deals.”

  Oliver’s turn to jerk, spin, and race over. “Bruce Jenkins?” he asked in a low voice. I nodded.

  Jenkins chuckled. “I’ve heard about your sense of humor. You are the woman who told the British Consul that Aerosmith would take the Rolling Stones in either a battle of the bands or a battle of, I think your term was, ‘lifelong, total hotties’?”

  “Um, yeah. Ages ago.” Well, a year ago. Maybe two. Or so. I tried not to keep track of the things that made me ask why I’d been given this particular job. Oliver was whispering urgently to Jeff, Chuckie and Reader, while also giving me the kill gesture. Frantically. “Bruce, what’s the point of your call? I have a life to get back to.”

  “I’d like to interview you. Human interest piece.”

  This was a new one. “Human interest interview?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to interview me?” Oliver shook his head so hard I thought he’d break his own neck. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why not? Your constituents aren’t embarrassed by you, are they?”

  I’d spent the start of my career in marketing and the last couple of years in D.C. and I knew a leading, trick question when I heard it. “Oh dear, the water’s boiling over! Have to call you back, Bruce, bye!” I hung up.

  “This isn’t good,” Oliver said. The rest of the room had joined us.

  “Did I catch this correctly? Your caller was Bruce Jenkins?” Culver asked.

  “Yeah. Supposedly from the Washington Post.”

  Jeff ran his hand though his hair. “Washington Post?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said. “There is no ‘supposedly’ about it.”

  Reader groaned. “I was really hoping you were making that up or Mister Joel Oliver was wrong.”

  “MJO’s never wrong, right, Chuckie?”

  Chuckie rubbed the back of his neck. “We need to call in everyone. This is going to be bad.”

  “I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “It won’t matter,” Oliver said. “He’ll make it up.” He shook his head. “Bruce Jenkins is the worst kind of reporter you could have interested in you.”

  “He’s a bad guy?”

  “Depends on your point of view,” Oliver said in a voice of doom.

  “Figure you know what my point of view will be, MJO.”

  “Bad? No. He
’s smart, tenacious, trusted, and, worst of all, popular.”

  “Um, we could play the Guess The Reason To Freak Out Game, but I’d prefer if someone would tell me why this particular popular reporter is freaking everyone out so much. No one freaked out when you, MJO, were hot on our trail, so to speak.”

  “Because no one believed me,” Oliver said patiently. “However, everyone believes Bruce Jenkins.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. Ever.”

  “You have,” Culver said. “Only probably not by his real name.” She looked worried—The Joker Fears Batman Has Had Commissioner Gordon Call In The Marines worried. This boded.

  “And that name is?”

  Oliver swallowed. “The Tastemaker.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “OH. THAT GUY. He’s a gossip columnist. Isn’t he?”

  “Yes, in a way,” Oliver said. “He’s quite in the know—his gossip is accurate.”

  “So what? So was yours and no one ever believed you.”

  Oliver sighed. “Yes, but my ‘gossip,’ so to speak, was about conspiracy theories and aliens—things most people don’t want to believe. His information is of a more salacious nature, affairs and so forth, which everyone’s interested in.”

  “Stop pussyfooting,” Culver snapped. “She’s not a child.” Managed to keep my jaw from dropping, but it took effort. “The Tastemaker is the reason your husband is up as Vincent’s running mate. Because he destroyed the reputations of the last two who Vincent was considering.”

  Awesome. I could officially hate this guy. “Oh. So, he’s the guy who finds the skeletons in people’s closets and then exposes them?” Everyone nodded. “So Jeff declines the nomination and everything goes back to how it was.”

  This seemed like a really good solution to me. Maybe instead of hating him I should thank Jenkins for calling.

  “He can’t,” Cliff said. “These things aren’t just tossed around casually, Kitty. This is a very strategic move, and Jeff needs to accept the nomination. It’s important for everyone, your people in particular. This means, however, that Jenkins needs to be handled correctly.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “It’s not going to be a problem. We’ll just all ensure that everyone knows what part they’re to play, and we’ll keep Jenkins at bay.”

  “I agree,” Horn said. “When you talk to Jenkins again, tell him that he has to run any meetings with you through my office.”

  “Why yours, Vander? Chuckie’s would seem more . . . appropriate.”

  Horn nodded. “Yes, which is why it would be a bad idea. Of all those in government who you’re close to, you’ve known me the least amount of time. There’s much less history for Jenkins to use against you, therefore.”

  “I agree,” Cliff said. “Our three agencies deal with Centaurion Division the most, but your relationship with Chuck is well known. Anything he does to protect you is going to be taken as him watching out for his old girlfriend.”

  “We didn’t date.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes. “No, but trust me, everyone on the Hill is shocked that we’ve managed to keep your ‘affair’ under wraps.”

  “Excuse me? Chuckie and I have never had an affair!” Well, one week in Vegas when we were much younger and both single, but that was a fling, not an affair.

  “I know,” Jeff said patiently. “But the two of you are so close that it’s the natural assumption made in this town.”

  Nathalie nodded. “Those who know the two of you know the truth. But The Tastemaker isn’t necessarily interested in that kind of truth.”

  “He didn’t expose you, when you were involved with Eugene.”

  “No, he didn’t. I wasn’t interesting enough.”

  “And he’s only come to prominence in the past couple of years,” Oliver added.

  “Should we have the Senator come over?” Mona asked. “This seems like a good reason to have a meeting.”

  Everyone started talking. Everyone other than Mom and Olga. They were both still watching the TV, as if they weren’t paying any attention. I knew my mother and I knew Olga—they’d both heard everything. Therefore, if they were off pretending they weren’t here, something else was going on.

  Sidled over. “What’s so fascinating on the news?” I asked softly. Looked like more footage of the bombings at the protest.

  “Timing,” Mom said.

  Great. Mom was now playing Olga’s game. Hoped Mona had migraine meds around somewhere. “Timing of what?”

  “Of everything,” Olga replied.

  “You mean my phone calls, the bombings, the warnings from my ‘uncles,’ Jeff’s potential appointment, our Embassy being gassed, or something else?”

  “Yes,” Mom said. Fantastic. She wanted me to figure out what was wrong. As if this day wasn’t going badly enough.

  As my mother was well aware, I thought better by running my mouth. Olga knew this, too. Ergo, they expected me to so run. Never an issue.

  “Well, Bruce Jenkins calling right now seems related to the news stating that Jeff’s going to be Senator Armstrong’s VP candidate. The bombings seem related to the desire to kill us all, especially since there were bombings at Centaurion bases as well as the protest. Missus Maurer might have been cluelessly warning me, or she might have been trying to drive me into the poison gas.”

  “It’s been a busy day so far,” Olga said. Ah, so she was going to try to toss me some breadcrumbs.

  “Yes, it has, and I’m clear, you two want me to pay attention and think.” Turned and watched the TV with them. The others were still discussing strategy—how to circumvent Jenkins mostly.

  The newscaster was saying that the police had no leads for who’d placed the bombs. Mad bombers had to be more important than a gossip columnist.

  “So no one’s figured out that Club Fifty-One set the bombs, probably with the help of the Church of Intolerance?”

  “You know, for a fact, that they’re the ones responsible?” Mom asked.

  “Well . . . no.” Footage of the bombing was rolling again. It was really miraculous that no one had been injured. The newscaster was saying the same. Considered. “Club Fifty-One is funded and supported and given very bad things to use against us, but they’re not really . . . good at it.”

  Mom’s lips quirked. “No. For which I’m personally thankful.”

  “Glad to know you’re not all for them offing your only child.”

  “No, I’m very attached to you.” Mom looked at me. “But then, you know that.”

  My mind chose to give me a nudge. “Oh. You think my ‘uncles’ contacted everyone because they were, in fact, setting up and detonating the bombs?”

  “I think the idea has merit,” Olga said as Mom turned back to the TV. “However, as always, there are other options that must be considered.”

  “Mossad is in town and Dad’s at the Israeli embassy. And Mossad would probably like to get their hands on my ‘uncles,’ right?”

  “Among others,” Mom said. “How’s William working out?”

  Mom had clearly been comparing notes with Olga about the best way to give someone mental whiplash. However, I was used to it from both of them by now, so only needed a couple of seconds to make the mental switch. “What would this have to do with Gladys?”

  Mom’s lips quirked again. I wondered if I’d done something to piss her off recently. Maybe not enough Grandma Time with Jamie. “Try thinking. Without talking. Just for a change of pace.”

  “Harsh.” Fine, Mom didn’t want me sharing my mental processes with the room. This would be harder, but not impossible.

  Back to the problem at hand, then. There had to be a reason Mom was bringing up the Head of Security now, right now. And I knew she wasn’t worried about William’s performance—he’d added in a ton of new security, most of it based on Mom’s recommendations. And per Buchanan, no one at any of our bases had been hurt, meaning that William’s security measures were working just fine.

  So Mom wasn’t concerned about that. Ergo, Mom indeed w
anted me thinking about Gladys. Considered if I was supposed to be thinking about the fact that Gladys was dead. Or maybe take the leap from there and think about Michael Gower, who was also dead, or Naomi Gower-Reynolds, considered dead by everyone other than me, but she was on another plane of existence, at least as far as I knew, so dead to us for all intents and purposes.

  Maybe it was Naomi they wanted me thinking about. Chuckie and Naomi had been married for six months when she died. He’d been a widower for a year now, and most of the time we just didn’t talk about it, because he couldn’t take talking about it. So Mom and Olga wouldn’t want to bring Naomi up unless it was vital, or Chuckie wasn’t here.

  Risked a look at him. He seemed okay. Well, as okay as he’d been since Operation Infiltration. Bad things going on helped give him something to focus on, so that was one for the win column. A pathetic one, but still, one. Looked back to Mom.

  She gave a small shake of her head. “No. Right time, wrong person.”

  Okay, so this wasn’t about Naomi. And it probably wasn’t about Michael either. Back to Gladys. Why Gladys? Why now? What about what was going on was making Mom and Olga think of her, and making them want me to think about her? And why was that the question right after I’d suggested Club 51, the Church of Intolerance, or my Uncles the International Top Assassins as the potential bombing culprits?

  Because they weren’t who Mom and Olga thought were actually responsible.

  Okay, so there was another person or group I was forgetting. Back to Gladys. Right time, wrong person. So, Mom definitely wanted me thinking about Operation Infiltration. What about Gladys then could have any impact on what was going on now?

  The people we’d captured when Gladys had sacrificed herself to ensure that Ronaldo Al Dejahl was dead and gone were still in a severe form of custody. No one had gotten anything much out of them, though because we had Chernobog’s son, the hacking attacks had stopped.

  Other than Annette Dier, who was a top assassin who wanted me dead, regardless of whether she was paid or not, the rest of the prisoners were, like Mahin, all technically Gladys’ half-siblings, just as she was a half-sib to White and Lucinda.