by Josie Brown
There’s Jasper, the hard man who plays Russian Roulette to keep from going on a killing spree, and Ursula, the swallow who became a nun. There’s Lionel, the access agent who is visited by the ghosts of those he recruited and outlived, and Lydia, the Betty Bureau who spent her whole life playing Moneypenny and never married. Now that she’s retired, she feels useless. She may have been a mere pawn in the game of Spy versus Spy, but no bridge club, knitting circle, or garden can ever give her the same thrill as knowing what deadly pawns are being moved around on the international chess board.
I am not one of them.
I am still capable. I am still needed.
I am still wanted.
Lydia, who sits behind me, mutters to the man beside her, “Bullshit! His real name is Ivan Balázs. He headed up North American ops for Hungary's secret service–the TEK. Three of our best agents were deported from his country when he defected. Another two disappeared.”
Bosworth taps her on the shoulder. “Shut up and let him speak.”
She hawks a loogie in disgust.
Frank-slash-Ivan is undeterred. “It’s been six-hundred-and-eighteen days since I’ve acted on my tendencies toward covert ops.” He winces. “But old habits die hard.”
Several people nod in appreciation of this revelation.
Encouraged by the support, he continues, “I see shadowy figures everywhere. I circle the block and double back to make sure I’m not being followed. Once, I punched out a waiter because I thought he was Micah the Exterminator.”
“Micah has been dead for three years. Drowned, in Cuba,” Jasper yells from the back of the room.
Frank–a.k.a. Ivan shakes his head. “I don’t believe you!”
Insulted, Jasper stands up. “I should know! I killed him myself.”
A woman on the other side of the room snorts loudly. “You say that about everyone.” Her accent pegs her as a Castilian.
He shakes his fist angrily at her. “Can I help it if I was good at what I did?”
“We were all good–until we couldn’t live with ourselves anymore. That is why we’re here, idiota!”
“It’s not your turn, Viola,” Lionel hisses. “Sit down!”
She pulls out a stiletto. With lightning speed, it flies through the air toward him.
The intended victim ducks just in time.
The person behind him isn’t so lucky.
Take it from me, when it comes to a roomful of spooks who may or may not have diplomatic immunity, nothing clears it out more quickly than a dead body.
“What will happen to the victim?” I ask Bosworth as we shuffle out the door with the others.
He looks around. “Not to worry! There are at least six expert cleaners in the crowd tonight. It happens about once every couple of months.”
Why am I not surprised?
Ursula nudges Lydia. “Have you heard the rumor? Mara is back in play!”
My ears perk up at my replacement’s name. Maybe they know something Jack doesn’t, and should.
Lydia sighs longingly. “So, there’s hope for the rest of us.”
Ursula shakes her head. “Speak for yourself. I’ve found what I was looking for: redemption.”
Is that what I’m seeking, too?
If so, I doubt I’ll find it here.
However, there is an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting after ours. I wonder how much of the crowd hangs around for it. My guess is at least half.
Not me. There’s a Lodi Zin at home with my name on it.
Chapter 15
Meeting and Greeting
The manner in which you greet your guests sets the tone for your event. With that in mind, here are a few considerations:
1: Form a receiving line. Despite the fact that your family consists of your pit bull, a cockatiel, and your deaf aunt, it’s a great way to have your guests show their respect. (Hint: DO NOT place the pit bull beside the cockatiel unless you want your family to shrink by one. “Cockfight” is an exciting theme, but one you may want to save for a time when your aunt is occupied elsewhere.)
2: Hire a trumpeter and an announcer. You’ve seen it at royal functions and coming out parties: as each guest enters, his or her name is announced. The horn blowing adds a flourish of fanfare. Granted, your guests will leave with headaches and a few may claim that their hearing aids are shot to hell, but it’ll be one party they’ll never forget!
3: Know everyone by sight, and by name. If it takes testing yourself with a photo chart, just do it! Even more endearing is to greet your guest with a shared memory that reminds him or her why their attendance means so much to you. Remember, however, there is no need to pronounce to the wife of an old boyfriend that you too appreciated how well he’s endowed, or to remind your old college roomie of the night you spent together in jail.
When in doubt exercise discretion.
Édouard Archambault, the head chef at the Savoy, appears unclear as to what constitutes a square meal for a bunch of ’tweenagers.
He winces when I cross certain items off the menu–say, smoked white sturgeon caviar layered with Dungeness crab on ember-roasted yams, or for that matter, duck liver toffee infused with olive oil, smothered with raw milk jelly, nesting on a bed of seaweed.
“But–but…” he sputters, “The delicacies have already been approved by Madam Bing! In fact, the caviar has already arrived and cannot be returned!” He points to several large wooden boxes against the kitchen wall.
Our prom’s profit has been spent on fish eggs.
I’ve heard Penelope’s name so often today that I want to scream. Despite her insistence that I’m in charge, she seems to be micro-managing the event behind my back.
I just don’t get it! Tickets were selling briskly even before the announcement of Taylor Swift as the party’s entertainment. Of course, now the dance is a sell-out. And because we went over our income goal, I hired Margot Sutcliff, one of Los Angeles’s premier event planners, so that I wouldn’t have to deal with Henry’s salacious remarks.
Penelope’s abuse of her is far worse. For example, Margot and I agreed on eight-person round tables, but Penelope changed the order to ten-person rounds. I also asked Margot to order pale blue and silver linens and balloons in the school colors. Penelope canceled my order, asking for gold and black instead, insisting it was “far more elegant.”
The good news: Not only did we sell out the dance, we got rid of all the hotel rooms, too! Thirty rooms, ten each on three floors. Two chaperones are in one of the rooms on each floor, while four children of the same gender share the other nine rooms, for a total of one-hundred-and eight young’uns.
And, of course, I’ll have the Academy Awards Suite.
And, luckily for Jack and me, it shares the penthouse level and an exclusive elevator with just two other suites–neither of which are Penelope’s, thank goodness.
I pat Édouard gently on the shoulder. “I’m sure that the dishes are quite delicious. It’s just that I don’t think they’ll be appreciated by the guests. Trust me on this, Monsieur Archambault. I’d hate for you to hear your masterpieces be compared to ‘boogers and snot.’”
He sighs loudly. “Madam, the culinary ignorance of enfants américains is a national disgrace.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Édouard. Still, I feel that chicken breasts, mashed potatoes, and perhaps something green as opposed to puce is more appropriate.” Even I’m at a loss as to what vegetable will be universally acceptable to middle-schoolers. “Any suggestions?”
He winces. “Bacon-wrapped string beans?”
“Nice!” I honor him with a thumbs-up.
Heartened, he pronounces, “And for dessert, perhaps a sweet tart with Meyer lemon curd!”
I smile appreciatively, but shake my head no. “Why don’t we just let them eat cake?”
He slams his menu book shut. Clearly, our meeting is at an end.
However, as he walks away, he holds his head high. When it comes to cuisine, he’s a king among chefs. But sadly, he serves at the pleasure
of the bourgeoisie with their uninformed appetites.
I don’t know what I was expecting about Mara Portnoy, but it wasn’t a lithe, statuesque blonde with sky-high cheekbones and startling cornflower blue eyes.
And, considering she retired over a year or two before I started with Acme, the last thing I was expecting was that she was actually a year younger than me.
I can’t count the number of men’s heads that turned as she passed them following the hostess to the three-seat by the window overlooking the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean. It was as if she glided above the restaurant’s hustle and bustle–above life in general–floating on a cloud.
Is such serenity the result of an eight-year sabbatical? What kind of distress caused her to take a leave in the first place? Was the issue truly behind her?
So many lives depended on the answer being a resounding yes.
She put out her hand to Jack first. He stood to take it. In fact, he augments his shake with a kiss on the cheek.
Her greeting to me is a bit more awkward. Shyly, she holds out her hand.
When I grab hold, it’s to pull her in close, for a hug.
Her clinch comes with a sigh of relief.
Like me, she’s glad that we’re off to a great start.
Jack and Mara’s attempt to play catch-up is short and sweet. He asks her where she lives now, and she answers, “Spain. Beautiful country. Slow moving. The people are simple, and I love the life there.”
As far as Mara is concerned, I’m dying to know why she quit. Like me, perhaps Jack is too polite to ask. Or else he already knows the reason, which means I’ll have to prod it out of him instead.
I don’t care to find out if she knew Carl. My guess is yes, since his reputation–both within Acme and the Quorum–preceded him. Thank goodness, she’s too polite to ask about him.
Instead, she asks me the ages of my children. “Seven, twelve, and fourteen,” I say proudly. “The boy is in the middle.”
“Ah, wonderful!” Her eyes shift to Jack. “You always said you wanted a large family,” she reminds him.
I never knew that about him. If I ever get her alone–something I’m sure Ryan will never allow–I’ll seek out other little tidbits about the life he had before he shared mine.
She graces me with a smile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Donna. From everything I’ve heard, I can see why Jack married you.”
Awkward.
I can hold a poker face as long as Jack. Still, I’d like to know if her remark was deliberate. “I, too, am glad that Jack arranged this meeting, Mara. But you’ve been misinformed. We’re not married.”
“Interesting.” Her eyes leave my face in order to search out Jack’s. True to form, he’s looking at the menu.
When her eyes meet mine again, I am put off by her sly smile. “Then Jack did the right thing in calling me.”
What the hell does that mean?
I signal our waitress. “A martini, please. Dirty and dry.”
Jack looks up sharply in order to stare at me. He knows I only order martinis when I want to get good and drunk.
I’m only surprised that he doesn’t want to join me.
The conversation stays on safe territory: the good old days.
If you work together long enough, business colleagues develop a verbal shorthand. And just like a bicycle, once you get the hang of it, it stays with you for life.
I see it in action when Mara says, “Hey, remember the incident in Prague?”
Jack shakes his head with a laugh. “How could I forget? All that damn rain!”
Then, in unison, they say: “And all that damn blood!” before breaking out in shared chuckles.
How adorable. They could be a vaudeville act.
I’m quite aware that Jack had a life before me. I also know he’s got a long history in covert ops. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is about his history with Mara Portnoy. Who was she to him, and why is he reaching out to her now?
A call from Ryan comes just as dessert is served.
Knowing I’m here, I’m sure one of his questions is if whether Mara has survived our lunch.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this,” Jack murmurs.
The way he strolled out of the restaurant with a benign smile on his face, you’d presume it was a call from a golfing buddy to set up their next tee time.
After a few moments of silence, Mara realizes the ball is in her court. “You’re wondering about our connection, aren’t you?” she asks.
Duh. Ya think?
I nod hesitantly. “Jack has been less than forthcoming.”
“I gathered that.”
I shrug. “That’s the name of the game we’re in, isn’t it?”
“In this case, no.” She puts down her fork, which holds just a tiny bite of a slice of hula pie. “Jack did so out of respect for our friendship. You see, Jack blames himself for the death of someone very near and dear to me: Kiril Dragonov. He headed Acme’s Hungarian Bureau.”
“I’ve seen his name on the Wall.” The Wall, located in Acme’s rooftop garden, is a memorial to the company’s agents who have been killed in the line of duty.
“Jack has always blamed himself for Kiril’s death.”
I look up sharply.
She bows her head. “Sadly, he was doubly pained to discover I had a relationship with Kiril.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He was sent to identify Kiril’s body. Had he known about us, he would not have allowed it to be buried in an unmarked grave.” She shrugs. “These things happen. Spies die alone. We know this going in. But Kiril and I were to be married. We’d planned to leave Acme together, to start a family. Needless to say, when I learned about his death and his subsequent burial, who knows where, I fell to pieces. I was too despondent to show up for work. I thought, what’s the point? Our business–never ends.”
She’s right. Our successes are small. We may move the game in one direction, but in time, our enemies move it back in the other.
“Knowing this, why would Jack have thought to ask you to come back?” I wonder out loud.
“When he called me, he said it was his experience–and yours–that the opportunity to avenge those we lost provides us with a new purpose. He has a point, but it doesn’t apply to me. You see, I don’t expect any form of satisfaction. I expect nothing because I feel nothing. What better mission partner to have by your side than one who doesn’t give a damn?”
“Let me toss this out there,” I counter. “Say, one who does?”
As she holds up her fork, the melted ice cream pie drips languidly onto her plate. “Donna, you never asked why Jack blamed himself for Kiril’s death.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. And yes, I’d like to know, if you don’t mind telling me.”
“Gladly. You see, Jack presumed that Kiril’s killers were long dead and buried.” Once again, she carves a bite-sized mound of pie with her fork. “Kiril’s killers were Jack’s wife, Valentina–and your husband, Carl.”
She takes a bite of her pie.
At this point, I feel as if I need to throw up.
“No need to come in,” Jack tells me as I drive him up to the entrance of Acme’s offices. He reaches over for a kiss.
I have no problem accommodating him–with the smooch, anyway. As for his request that I stay in the car, I shrug it off, all the while smiling sweetly. “I’m going inside, too. I want to congratulate Arnie on his upcoming marriage.”
“Ah! So Emma talked to you.”
I nod. “And of course, I said yes, about being her matron–I mean maid of honor.” I look out the window. We’ve broached the topic of marriage ourselves, but never really honed in on a date. So many terrorists, so little time.
Granted, for me, that situation has changed. Still, it takes two to marry. “How about you?” I ask. “Did you say yes to Arnie?”
“By all means, I told him he could count on me. I only wish it weren’t happening so close to when all of this is
coming down.”
“So now you know when?” I sit up straight. “Oh, my God! Did Acme’s cryptographers break the microdot’s cipher?”
Jack lets loose with a sound that’s half groan, half laugh. “Damn it, Donna, you know I can’t tell you, one way or another.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know–I’m on a need-to-know basis.” I reach for the passenger door handle.
“Wait! I wanted to ask…I mean, you haven’t said what you think of Mara.”
Really? Are you sure you want to know what I think?
Okay, Jack, if I’m to be honest, let me say right upfront: she scares the hell out of me. I think she’s here for the wrong reason. I think she blames you for how her life has gone…
But no, I can’t go there. He’s a man, which means I have to let him come to his own conclusion–
No harm, however, in pointing him in the right direction.
I purse my lips, as if I’m seriously contemplating his question. “I like her…a lot...” Not.
He takes my pause as a bad sign. (As he should. That’s Pavlovian. Well-trained men know to do this every time.)
“What?” Noting my pause, he braces himself against the back of the passenger seat.
“There is no ‘what,’” I assure him. “Frankly, I think she’ll fit right in.” I smile demurely. “To be honest, I think you’re right to let her ease back into things. You know, to make sure she’s not put into a situation in which she may sink as oppose to swim.” (And take the rest of you down with her, in Titanic proportions. Iceberg! Iceberg!)
His brows move closer together as he contemplates my assessment. Before he has a chance to speak, I add, “I presume her skills are a tad rusty?”
“We’ll know tomorrow after her shooting range and MA test.”
I pat his hand. “Good! And I presume she’ll be meeting with Dr. Bellows too.”
Jack shrugs. “He saw her before she joined us for lunch.”
He doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.
Of course, I want to know why. Arnie can wait. I’ve got to see if the good doctor is in.