The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

  2: Electo-Magnetic Frequency readers, because you cannot see EMFs with the naked eye. Popular devices include the KII meter, and the Ovilus X. (Which begs the question: were there previous versions of the labeled Ovilus I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII and IX? If so, how accurate were they?).

  3: The hunters will also bring ion detectors, infrared cameras, and Geiger counters.

  Ironically, despite the pings, tings, and whirrs made by all these gadgets, none have yet provided empirical evidence that our dearly departed are still here among us in some alternate dimension.

  In other words, there is no real way to know if the ghost hunter you’ve contacted is legitimate, or if he’s pulling your very real leg.

  And still, we want to believe. Go figure.

  The hall outside the Oval Office’s reception area swarms with busy people doing important things that will result in historic consequence.

  When Jack and I enter with Evan, Dean Connelly McIver is already there.

  The men are dressed in khakis and golf shirts under blazers. Their golf gear and shoes were already taken off their hands by the president’s Secret Service detail. Besides being put through a security scanner, it will be stowed in the caravan that will take POTUS and his guests to the Congressional Country Club.

  I’m dressed a bit more formally. Jack and I have to break the news to Lee about the sources of the compromised DARPA white papers, and to ask his permission to review the security video footage of those who were in the Project Hercules meeting.

  Dean McIver doesn’t rise from the oval-backed chair, but stays seated until Lee’s new secretary, a sweet looking woman in her twenties, comes over and introduces herself as Eve Pettival. “The president looks forward to getting out on the links, but first things first—the photo shoot.” Her arm goes out toward McIver. “Please, let me introduce you.”

  It’s the first time Jack and I are meeting McIver, but I guess it’s more accurate to say that Evan and he are to be reintroduced, since both of Evan’s parents, Catherine and Robert, took Evan to every alumni event they attended at the university. This includes the one announcing the biotechnology scholarships funded by Robert, not to mention the well-publicized naming ceremony for the Robert Martin technology lab, built on Morgan Adams’s campus with Robert’s money.

  After a tepid shake of our hands, McIver turns to Evan. Despite a heartier handshake accompanied with the robust declaration, “Ah, there’s our boy!” there is a chill in the dean’s voice.

  Thank goodness Lee’s welcome is much warmer to the poor kid.

  Strolling purposefully out of his office, Lee reaches to shake Jack’s hand, and then pecks me on the cheek. Evan, though, gets a warm hug. “Hey, Evan, long time no see,” the president murmurs.

  “You should make it out to California more often, Mr. President,” Evan ribs him.

  A smile lights up Lee’s face. “Speaking of which, we’ll be home later this week for a few days. Janie will be going through orientation at her prep school. I look forward to having you over to Lion’s Lair for a round of golf there as well.”

  At this point, Eve introduces Lee to Dean McIver, who has been watching the exchange agog. Odd, since a man in his position at a major private university knows all too well that politics makes for strange bedfellows.

  Then again, putting the name of the benefactor who just gave you yet another one-hundred-million-dollar gift for a previously named building obviously took some rolling around in the sheets too. Just this morning, Adams Morgan University announced that its new technology building will herein be called “the Lionel Broderick Technology Lab,” effectively erasing any and all evidence of the Martin family’s gift.

  I haven’t yet broken that news to Evan.

  I may break McIver’s arm instead.

  “Turn a little to the left, Mr. President,” Gordon Soames, the diminutive photographer who has been a White House staple through the last four administrations, cajoles his boss. “Ah, good! And you, sir”—he points to Dean McIver—“just a little to the right…perfect!” He takes a quick succession of shots. “Now, how about some smiles, gentlemen?”

  When Lee smiles, his eyes shift toward me.

  Grateful for this effort on Evan’s behalf, I smile back.

  None of this is lost on Jack.

  I squeeze Jack’s hand. He kisses the back of mine.

  None of this is lost on Lee.

  For a nanosecond, his smile wavers. Did the camera that is snapping away furiously catch it?

  A moment later, Gordon motions for Evan to join them. The boy hesitates before making the few tentative steps that put him at Lee’s side.

  Lee shifts in order to put Evan between he and McIver.

  A frown of disappointment flashes on McIver’s face, but only for a moment. Having to smile pretty for the camera with Evan at his side seems to have put him in an awkward situation.

  Well, too bad. If he’s going to let Evan down, it’s much better that the boy discovers this early in the college admissions process.

  As Gordon packs up his camera gear, Lee nods to his secretary. “We’re off, Eve.”

  That’s her cue to call the Secret Service with the message to ready POTUS’s cavalcade.

  Lee shakes McIver’s hand again before giving Evan’s shoulder a good squeeze. “If you and Dean McIver don’t mind following Eve out, Jack and I will join you shortly. I’m sure you two have much to talk about.”

  Evan looks hopeful, whereas McIver practically blanches at the thought of being alone with the young man.

  Eve nudges them out, closing the door behind them.

  By the time Lee has turned around to face us, his smile has faded. In its place is a pained grimace. “I understand that you killed Salem—yet a second time. Want to debrief me on how something like this happens, Mr. and Mrs. Craig?”

  Egad.

  Okay, so, how do you tell a guy that you somehow missed a point-blank kill shot to the baby daddy whose death his wife still mourns?

  In all honesty, I’ve got no idea—but here goes. “Yeah, well, about that…” I roll my eyes as I sigh. “We’re, like, on this beach in the south of France when lo and behold a mega-yacht rolls up with the very last person on Earth you’d expect to be on it. Well, of course, we’re curious, since one of us—moi— actually pulled the trigger on the guy, and the other”—I wave in Jack’s direction—“came in a few seconds later and can verify the kill. Hours later, a dead girl turns up on the beach, and since rumor has it that Supposed-to-Be-Dead-Dude is throwing some big shindig on his tugboat, we think to ourselves, ‘Selves, what say we crash it to see what’s up?’ So we do, and yada yada yada, he tries to rape me, yada yada yada, and so I—”

  “Cut to the chase, Donna.” Lee crosses his arms on his chest.

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, you know as much about it as us,” Jack growls. “But considering that Salem’s personal email contained classified intel regarding Operation Hercules, there may be a connection between it and his Second Coming.”

  Lee’s face turns white beneath his golfer’s tan. “But how?…who…”

  “Ryan told you what we know,” I reply. “Or, knew at the time. In the meantime, some new clues have come to light—including the source of the leak regarding Operation Hercules. Really, there were three of them.”

  “You mean to tell me the Quorum has three cells planted within DARPA?”

  “There were three compromised files.” I pause and take a deep breath. “Including one that was in your possession.”

  Slowly, Lee sinks onto one of his office’s divans. “There’s no way it could have happened! The research has no digital trail. And the white papers came by military courier in a triple-sealed envelope. They never left the Oval Office, or the adjoining conference room. If they weren’t in my hands—and mine alone—they were in my office safe.”

  “All the more reason Donna and I will conduct a step-by-step investigation, including interrogations with anyone who may have
been alone in your office since the papers arrived.”

  “Of course, you’ve got my permission to do so.” Lee shrugs. “A heads up: I haven’t yet mentioned it to Vice President Drucker, for obvious reasons.”

  The biggest reason being that he doesn’t feel the vice president has his back.

  I’ve never met Vice President Thomas Drucker. As Catherine Martin’s vice president-elect, Lee succeeded even before she took office. His party, the Democrats, strong-armed Lee to accept Drucker, the party’s congressional whip. He is already a well-trained lapdog of the party’s moneymen, whereas someone with Lee’s largesse in office means he can’t be bought off the old-fashioned way: one donation at a time.

  The trade-off was that Catherine would get a presidential pardon when Lee left office. With her death, he won’t have to give it to her now, but he’s still saddled with Drucker anyway.

  I smile to reassure him. “I’ll start immediately. If Vice President Drucker wasn’t in the meeting, I don’t see the need to interview him.” It’s my way of saying he can count on me.

  “He wasn’t. In fact, there is no way he could have known about it.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Hopefully some clue will reveal itself within the security camera footage that is available. I know the Secret Service sweeps the West Wing from top to bottom. Still, with your permission, I’d also like to inspect both the Oval Office and the Roosevelt Room.”

  Lee nods as he rises. “I’ll ask Eve to pull the visitor manifest since last Thursday, which is when the meeting took place.”

  “Is there also some sort of video recording of the meeting?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “During this presidency, the walls don’t have ears.”

  Understandable, but it sure as hell would make our jobs easier. Now is not the time to point that out, so instead I walk over to shake his hand. “Thank you, Mr. President. I know this must be a terrible blow to you.”

  Lee looks down at my hand, but doesn’t shake it. Instead, he holds tight to it.

  As if I’m his lifeline.

  He gives me too much credit. At this point, I’m just trying to keep more corpses from popping up alive.

  Lee finally lets go and walks out the door. As he tells Eve I’m to have access to both the Oval office and the adjoining private office until he gets back, and to round up whomever I need for questioning, Jack gives me a hug and a kiss on the forehead, for good luck.

  Heaven knows I’ll need it.

  I watch from the doorway as Evan and the men move down the hall with Lee’s Secret Service detail on their heels. Eve looks up and smiles at me. “The president has put me at your disposal. In fact, as we speak I’m running off the visitor manifest for the days in question. How else may I help?”

  “Tell me the protocol for those who come into the Oval Office, and for that matter, the Roosevelt Room.”

  “As they enter, guests are asked to leave their cell phones in this basket”—Eve points to the one on the credenza beside her desk—“which they slip into a plastic bag, along with a Post-It bearing their names.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “When the president buzzes my intercom to allow them into the Oval Office, I’ll open the door for them.”

  “Is the same system used for meetings in the Roosevelt Room?”

  “Yes, for the most part.”

  “Eve, were there any security videos in action on the day in question?”

  She thinks for a moment. “In the hallways, and in here”—she motions through the reception area—“yes, of course. But as far as I know, there aren’t any security cameras in either the Oval office, or the Roosevelt Room.”

  What a shame.

  “As soon as possible, I’d like to review the hall and reception footage, starting within twenty-four hours prior to the meeting, then twenty-four hours after. I’m sure it will take a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll pull it up for you now.” she assures me. “You can watch it on the computer monitor in the president’s private study.” She points toward the door leading to a small room between the Oval Office and the West Wing dining room.

  “Thank you. Please call me when it’s been set up.”

  She nods and heads for her desk to make the necessary calls.

  Ten minutes later, she invites me into Lee’s study. She leads me to a laptop computer, and punches in a code, giving me the access I need.

  “Thank you for that, Eve. I don’t need anything else for now. However, should you run across anything that strikes you as odd taking place anywhere in the West Wing or the administrative offices, please pass forward your suspicions to me—and me alone. It is the only way to assure that the president has clean hands during our investigation. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her firm nod reflects her resolve to live up to this unusual request.

  I wait until the door closes behind her before touching the computer.

  The hunt begins for a terrorist in the White House.

  There is a digital folder on the laptop computer’s screen. Inside of it are four video files: one that records the Oval Office reception area itself; one of the hallway between the Oval Office reception area and the Roosevelt Room; another of the anteroom between the West Wing’s lobby and the press secretary’s office that leads to the Roosevelt Room. The final one recorded the hallway leading from the chief of staff’s office to the Oval Office, which has a door leading in to the Roosevelt Room.

  A subtle choreography unfolds between the various security feeds: between the frantically paced comings and goings of the West Wing’s metaphorical corps de ballet—administrative staffers whose steps are quickened with the urgency of the nation’s business. But my eyes seek out the principal dancers—that is to say our persons-of-interest. I’m eager to see who they will be.

  Even if they take their solos offstage, the time stamps on the breaches should give me clues as to who performed an espionage arabesque.

  The set-up of the room commenced ninety minutes before the meeting. A young pretty assistant walked through the West Wing lobby and the Roosevelt Room anteroom, her arms laden with folders labeled with each of the attendees’ names, and lined pads and pens bearing the White House logo. One of each was placed in front of an attendee’s already reserved seat. When she left the room, she closed the door behind her.

  About half an hour before the meeting started, she returned in order to escort two of the West Wing white-coated kitchen staff members through the door, along with a long cart with coffee, tea, fresh fruit, and pastries.

  The Operation Hercules meeting started promptly at nine on Thursday morning. The project’s lead scientists came early and filed in through the lobby anteroom.

  I look closely at the two under suspicion: Rudy Brooks and Shelley Wollstonecraft. As they introduced themselves, their faces reflected recognition, as well as their surprise at seeing each other.

  What I see next makes me shudder. Department of Justice Assistant Attorney Blake Reynolds, and Lee’s National Security Council liaison, Todd Courtland, came out of Vice President Drucker’s office just when the other two attendees—the director of intelligence, and the director of DARPA—walked toward the Oval Office with Lee.

  Blake tried to indict me for treason along with Carl, because he refused to believe Carl doped me up in order to use me as a human shield during his escape from Gitmo. Todd is a conniving political animal, but I’ve yet to catch him doing something underhanded.

  There’s a first time for everything.

  In the video, Blake and Todd exchanged knowing glances, but then went their separate ways: Todd, to his own office in the West Wing; and Blake, out the reception area of the West Wing, presumably back to the Department of Justice.

  Within ten minutes, the security directors entered the Roosevelt Room. The West Wing aide escorted the scientists in from the anteroom.

  I fast-forward to the next time the doors open: about twelve-fifteen, when the group breaks for lunch.


  Before joining the others in the dining room, the scientists were shuffled into the Oval Office for their official photos with the president. Lee carried a folder with him.

  The DOI and DARPA directors grabbed their phones to check messages as they moved toward the West Wing dining room.

  I check the time stamps on the breaches. Apparently, they took place within the lunch hour.

  During that time period, Lee and the two male doctors—Rudy Brooks and Norbert Welles—moved from the Oval Office down the hall to the West Wing dining room. I notice Lee doesn’t have his folder with him, so he did indeed leave it in his office. Had he put it in the safe, like he insists?

  The third scientist, Shelley Wollstonecraft, walked back into the Roosevelt Room. When she left, she had her purse with her. With it in hand, she headed to the women’s lavatory, near the West Wing lobby. Within five minutes, she’d rejoined all the men, who were already seated in the dining room.

  Whereas there was hustle and bustle in the hallways, the meeting’s attendees stayed put in the dining room.

  The waiters roamed in and out of the room with various serving dishes and pitchers. When dessert was finally proffered, Rudy headed out into the hallway that goes from the dining room to the closest men’s lavatory.

  When he came out, instead of going back to the dining room, he made his way to the Roosevelt Room. He was there for only a few moments, but it was certainly enough time to take pictures with his cell phone.

  Just as Rudy made his way out the door, the two members of the West Wing’s kitchen staff were entering with fresh hot drink urns in their hands. They seemed startled to see him. To put them at ease, he laughed, and was kind enough to hold the door open for them. This time it was left open. A Secret Service agent stood at the threshold and watched them, so they are cleared from off my suspect list.

  When they left through the lobby anteroom, the Secret Service agent was still standing by the door as Eve entered from the hall leading from the Oval Office. She placed Lee’s personal mug in front of his seat, then said something to the Secret Service agent that made him laugh.