The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

  Jack chuckles. “You fluffed her up by divulging the titillating details of my incomparable studliness for a few half-truths and dodges? What a waste.”

  “You’re telling me. And for your sake, I thought it best to tone down the details of your, er, prowess. In hindsight, perhaps blabbing all the tantalizing details would have had her spilling her guts—to you, anyway.” I nod toward the bathroom. “Speaking of your ‘incomparable studliness,’ actions speak louder than words.”

  He must agree because he picks me up in his arms and carries me toward it.

  We make it as far as the door’s threshold when my cell phone buzzes.

  Arnie is calling.

  Jack snatches the phone out of my hand, but puts the connection on speakerphone: “This better be good.”

  “I wish it were.” Arnie sighs. He’s on speakerphone as well, indicating that the rest of the mission team is also on the line. “We’ve viewed each security feed individually, to see if Donna missed something in her assessment: that no one other than Dr. Wells, Dr. Wollstonecraft, FLOTUS, and POTUS were alone with any of the files. Sadly, no.”

  “And worse news,” Emma pipes up. “Except for the president’s copy, all the Operation Hercules white papers were shredded after they were collected. The pieces were then incinerated.”

  “So, as of this moment, Lee’s copy is the only one left,” I deduce.

  “There would be fingerprints on it other than Lee’s,” Abu points out. “For example, his new secretary’s, and perhaps the Quorum asset.”

  “Lee insisted that he opened the secure pack himself before reading it. Before and after the meeting, he kept it under lock and key,” Jack reminds him. “So if they’re on it, she has to be the Quorum operative.”

  “The same goes for Babette, then,” Emma counters. “You had quite an interesting conversation with her yesterday, Donna.” I can tell Emma is trying to stifle a giggle.

  “Yeah right, hardee-har-har.” Obviously, everyone has read my summary brief of our conversation. “In any event, we’ve now got Lee’s copy in hand, so that Acme can dust it for prints.”

  “If the West Wing security feeds are a dead-end, what’s our next course of action?” Jack asks.

  “Arnie has a suggestion,” Ryan replies.

  “More than likely, the white papers were compromised with a cell phone camera,” Arnie reasons. “I’m sending you a phone app that releases a Trojan to the subjects’ cell phone’s WiFi and cellular signals. Once activated, it allows Acme to read their uploads, emails, and downloaded transmissions. When you go undercover, try to get your phones within a ten-foot range of the suspects’ devices.”

  “As DARPA employees, can’t we just plant the Trojan by sending an email, or a text?” I ask.

  “We can’t take the chance that the security measures on their cell phones can detect the source of the Trojan virus,” Emma explains. “IP servers are the least secure point of entry.”

  “What if it’s already been erased from their cell phones’ memory archives?”

  “We’ll still know if it was there, and where it went afterward,” Arnie replies. “Or, as a rapper would sing”—and sadly, Arnie actually croons—“‘Its vapor tail leaves an electronic paper trail...’”

  “Besides the fact that you sound like a scalded cat, no rapper in his right mind would sing about something like this,” Abu mutters.

  Ryan sighs loudly. “Keep on task, people.”

  “Lee mentioned he’s headed to Lion’s Lair this weekend with the family, for Janie’s school orientation,” I remind them. “Jack and I will come up with some excuse to get close enough to do the same with Lee and Babette’s cell phones.”

  “Good, Craigs. Okay, we’re signing off. Catch some shut-eye…or, er, whatever.”

  Jack waits for the click. “So, what do you say? Still feel like a little ‘whatever’?”

  “If you have to ask, you must scrub my back first.”

  “With pleasure.”

  We Craigs take our pleasures where we can. A marble tub in the Willard Hotel will do.

  After all, tomorrow is another day.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Evan’s declaration is made as he scrutinizes his image in the hotel suite’s living room mirror. His brow is furrowed in a deep scowl.

  He’s been up since dawn. We weren’t supposed to know it, but I heard him pacing in the bedroom on the far side of our hotel suite as he practiced some sound bites he hopes will convince Dean McIver that he has every right to take his place at his father and mother’s alma mater.

  “Are you kidding me? You look great.” I’m not just saying this. His navy blazer, worn over a blue oxford shirt and gray slacks, fits him like a glove. I smile encouragingly as I motion toward the door. “And if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late for your tour of Morgan Adams.”

  He winces. “I...well, frankly, I think it’s a waste of time. Dean McIver was nice enough, but I could tell he wasn’t very interested in discussing the school with me. Each time Jack brought it up, the man turned as white as a ghost.”

  “You’re imagining it,” Jack shouts from our bedroom. He saunters out, still knotting his tie. “The sooner we get there, the sooner you can take the tour, ask intelligent questions, make your pitch, and put him on the spot.”

  I point toward the door. “Shall we?”

  Evan takes a deep breath, nods, and heads in the direction of his future.

  A cell phone rings: Evan’s. He pulls it from a pocket and stares down at it. His eyes grow big. He looks over at us. “It’s…it’s Dean McIver.”

  Jack waves at the phone in his hand. “What are you waiting for? Take it.”

  Evan purses his lips before clicking onto it. “Yes, Dean McIver? We were just heading over…” His eyes grow large. His shoulders sag. “But…I don’t understand! It wasn’t my decision to…No, I guess you’re right. I’d feel exactly the same way…I hope you don’t think I…Thank you, sir. Goodbye.” As he clicks off, stunned, he walks to a chair and sits down.

  Jack and I walk over and kneel beside him. “What did the dean say?” Jack asks.

  Still awed, Evan shakes his head. “He said I don’t need to come on campus; that even if I apply for admission, he couldn’t approve it in good conscience.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because the scholarship program in my father’s name was voided, and the funds committed to the new building were frozen by the trustee of my parents’ estate.”

  “How could that be?” I ask. “It was part of your father’s will!”

  “I know!” As if summoning some thought about it, Evan closes his eyes.

  “Something’s not right about this!” Jack declares. “I’ll look into it the moment we get home.”

  “Even if you can get the trustee to follow through on Dad’s donations, I don’t think the dean will change his mind about my acceptance.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  Evan’s eyes glass over with tears. “He also accused me of using my connection with President Chiffray to influence him.”

  My face warms with guilt. “You did no such thing! The golf excursion was my idea—”

  “That isn’t the point,” Jack growls. “If McIver was feeling so virtuous about the building and the scholarships, he should have passed on the golf invitation in the first place.”

  Reluctantly, I nod. “You’re right. He seemed perfectly comfortable having his photo taken with the president.”

  “Until I got into the picture too,” Evan murmurs. He buries his head in his hands.

  “That’s okay. We’ll move up our trip to Boston by a day—”

  Evan lifts his head. “No! Please, Donna! I’d…I’d rather not. I don’t think I can go through this again.”

  “You can’t let it shake your confidence,” Jack warns him. “You’ve got so much to offer any university you apply to—”

  “You may be right. But if I do get accepted somewhere, it
should be on my own merit, not my parents’ financial success.” He rises unsteadily to his feet. “I better start packing. I’ll take the rest of the summer to think about what to do…or not.”

  Jack nods at me—his way of telling me to back off and let Evan lick his wounds.

  I have good reason to give it one more shot. “Listen, Jack and I have to meet with a few people in the San Francisco Bay Area. One of them happens to be on the Berkeley campus—and as it turns out, in the bioengineering department.”

  My declaration piques Evan’s interest enough to lift his head out of his misery. “Who?”

  “Dr. Shelley Wollstonecraft.”

  “I know that name.” Evan thinks for a moment. “My dad funded her chair in the department.”

  “Would you like to tag along?” Jack asks nonchalantly.

  Evan pauses. “Only if I can meet her incognito.”

  “Use your name, but don’t bandy around those of your parents,” I suggest.

  Evan laughs. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  Jack nods toward Evan’s bedroom. “Grab your gear. We have a plane to catch.”

  Evan’s glassy-eyed smile breaks my heart. I pray he won’t let himself be waylaid by this bump on the road of his life’s journey.

  And wherever it takes him, Jack and I will make sure he’ll always have a place to call home.

  Chapter 8

  I See Dead People

  It’s okay to see dead people.

  However, if you choose to interact with them, here are some do’s and don’t’s:

  Rule #1: Don’t stick your hand through the ghost’s ectoplasm. Besides being crude and offensive, as your mother would say, “You don’t know where it’s been, so don’t touch it!”

  Rule #2: It’s polite to act scared, even if you aren’t. But don’t over-act the role of horror victim. You’re not going for an Academy Award, just a get-out-of-Hell-Free card.

  Rule #3: It’s okay to communicate, but don’t ask rude questions. Topics to avoid:

  -How old the poltergeist may be. (No need to rile him up by reminding him how many years he’s been gone, and therefore how old he really is.)

  -How he died. (Possibly not the best memory he’s held onto, considering it’s his last one.)

  -What he wants with you. If you’re lucky, it’s not to suck out your soul, or replace your soul in your body. Because, let’s be honest: this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when you said you wanted a total makeover.

  We’ve just landed at SFO with Evan and texted the limo that will be taking us to the Four Seasons Palo Alto when my phone rings.

  It’s Trisha. “Mommy, guess what? Janie is in town! And she’s hoping I can come for a sleepover. Please say yes because I’d rather not see the ghost again tonight–”

  “Ghost?” My heart falls into my stomach. “Have you seen him again?”

  Trisha sighs. “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m on it,” Jeff shouts from the background.

  I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to: “Trisha, honey, what does your brother mean by that?”

  “He’s trying to catch the ghost, but he keeps falling asleep on the job, and I’m tired of trying to keep the ghost occupied until he wakes up.” She sighs deeply. “So, I’d like to sleep at Janie’s tonight. Aunt Phyllis says she’s okay with it if you are.”

  “Sure, okay. But wait until either Dad or I can take you over.”

  Curious, Jack looks over at me.

  I mouth Babette to him. He rolls his eyes.

  “You’re coming home?” Trisha squeals.

  “They’re coming home?” Mary’s hopeful wistfulness is the counterbalance of her sister’s glee.

  “Either Dad or me. I’ll call you back.”

  “Thank you, Mommy!” Trisha kisses the phone ten times before clicking off.

  “There’s been a bit of a hitch,” I explain to Jack.

  He laughs. “That’s obvious. What did you mean about Babette?”

  “Apparently, Trisha just heard from Janie. She and her mother came in a few days early to Lion’s Lair. The girls want to hang together.”

  He nods. “And, of course, we want them to, so that we can release the Trojan on Babette’s phone.”

  “You’d have better luck with her.” I bat my eyes. “You always do. Besides, Ryan has already set up my meeting with Rudy Brooks for this afternoon,” I remind him. “Or, I should say, Marilyn Talbot’s.”

  “And only one of us needs to take Evan to his interview tomorrow with Dr. Wollstonecraft, at Berkeley,” Jack concedes. “I guess that settles it. He can hang at the hotel while you’re with Rudy. As focused as Evan was on the plane with his college interview prepping, I think he’ll be fine by himself for a few hours.” He gives me a kiss. “Our Acme pilot, George, will be disappointed that we won’t have a night to play in San Francisco, but if I’m to take Trisha on over, he and I better get hopping.”

  “If you talk POTUS into another golf game, I won’t have to figure out a way to be within ten feet of his cell phone.”

  “I’m on it,” he promises.

  I don’t have to ask twice. I already know he’d do anything to keep me away from Lee, with or without his phone.

  He heads off to give George the bad news.

  DNA 10Squared’s president and Chief Technology Officer, Rudy Brooks, has his back to me as I enter his corporate sanctum: a corner office of the commodious three-story building at the edge of a verdant Silicon Valley start-up campus that was designed by the noted architect IM Pei.

  A Picasso drawing in an elegant platinum frame adorns the wall next to his credenza. Rudy stares at it as he talks into his headset. His conversation is peppered with boasts of his firm’s unicorn status, indicating it has a valuation of a billion dollars or more. He follows this up with other declarations that are sure to create a tent in the pants of whatever venture capitalist he’s massaging. He ends the call by babbling, “Knowledge is in the end based on acknowledgement. Get with the program, Horace. The train is leaving the station, with or without you.”

  The best Rudy can do is one of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s many illogical quotes, followed by a trite metaphor? Meh. I guess it’s supposed to add credence to his carefully curated public persona.

  And who the hell is Horace?… Ah! He’s talking to Horace Levy, the elusive financier renowned for his innate ability to recognize the rare IPO-start-up unicorns amongst the herd of non-performing mules. Horace’s reputation rises along with each tech firm’s sky-high valuation. What all of them have in common: their products or services appeal to governmental agencies with big budgets to spend. And because he prefers walking the halls of power versus those of the tech campuses throughout Santa Clara County, meetings with the likes of a Rudy Brook are rare.

  Hey, at least Rudy got him to come to the phone.

  Rudy senses another presence in the room, and turns my way. Seeing me, he blanches. I can’t say I blame him. Today, I’m not at my most beauteous by a long shot. As part of my cover, I’ve set up my interview as “Marilyn Talbot,” supposedly a DARPA public information officer assigned to interview him for a magazine profile article. Once publicly disseminated, it should embellish his cred with other governmental agencies, as well as his stockholders—

  Not to mention Horace Levy.

  So, why would he risk it all for a treason rap?

  We’ll find out soon. Today, if I have my way.

  Marilyn is supposed to be so innocuous that he’ll soon forget her. With that in mind, I’m wearing a white turtleneck that would do a nun proud. My boxy navy suit hides any and all curves. To complete this frigid ensemble, I’ve crammed my feet into square-toed one-inch pumps, I wear square-framed glasses, and have my hair flattened into a severe women’s-prison-matron’s bun that sits heavily at the nape of my neck.

  Even now, Rudy would prefer to inspect his well-manicured nails than look at me, as if doing so will burn his corneas.

  So, mission accomplished
—

  Except for the fact that, in his shock, he’s tossed his phone on his credenza, a full twenty feet from me.

  “This is a treat,” he mutters as he proffers his hand. In the nanosecond he allows for a handshake, our palms barely touch.

  “Oh, Mr. Brooks, the pleasure is all mine,” I gush. “This is a dream assignment for me! I’m all ears about”—I wink knowingly—“Project Hercules.”

  He puffs up at my compliments, finally forcing his lips into a welcoming smile. “How about a little tour of the project’s lab? It’s where we make the magic.”

  “Super! Sounds like a plan! Mind if I record our conversation?” I pull out my cellphone and hold it up.

  He shrugs. “Sure, why not?” He heads for the door.

  “Um…don’t you want to take your cell phone with you?”

  “Nah. I want to give you my complete and undivided attention.” He winks. “You deserve it.”

  Yikes.

  As I follow him out the door, he tells his assistant, “I’m letting my calls roll over to voice mail. Don’t disturb me while I’m with Miss Talbot.”

  She nods vigorously, but smothers a sly grin. I take it I don’t look like the typical woman for whom he holds calls. “If anyone calls to find out why you aren’t picking up, when shall I say you’ll be back?”

  “This won’t take more than twenty minutes.” He drills me with his eyes, as if making that clear to me as well.