by Gini Koch
“Yes, sir, Chief, I’ll advise.”
The com shut off. “You know, I can remember Gladys interrupting us like that, all the time. Is it just some Head of Security thing, or are they watching us on a spy cam so they can interrupt at rotten times?”
“I don’t think so,” Jeff said with a chuckle. “Though I admit, I’d rather be making love to you than going downstairs.” He pulled my head to his and kissed me deeply while he let me slide slowly to the floor. By the time our kiss was done, I was ready to go for it and tell the rest of the gang to handle things in our absence.
But, such was not to be. Jeff patted my bottom and then we got down to the business of getting dressed.
Since I’d done some running around earlier, I took a fast shower. Proving his dedication to the Diplomatic Corps, Jeff refused to shower with me. Decided to make him pay for this after the party was over, hopefully for hours.
Shocking no one, Jeff put on what he always put on—a black Armani suit, white shirt, and black tie. Despite being promised that diplomats had to wear casual clothing, somehow Jeff had avoided such and I was still impatiently waiting to see his butt in jeans again. A handful of times in three years wasn’t enough, really.
I had put my foot down and demanded a dress that wasn’t black, white, or black and white. Thanks to Pierre, our Embassy had its own designer on retainer, and Akiko had listened to my pleas. She’d created a lovely green cocktail dress that was slinky without being overtly sexy, and festive without making me look like a badly wrapped present under a Christmas tree.
Akiko also handled all our accessories, so I had lovely shoes that matched without being matchy-matchy, and a larger-sized handbag. Yes, we were in our own home, so I didn’t need to carry a purse. But my experience told me I always needed to have my purse on me, if only to grab my Glock, or the adrenaline harpoon Jeff far-too-often needed slammed into his hearts.
I transferred my necessities from my standby big, black, cheap leather purse—aforementioned Glock and harpoon, iPod, earbuds, external speakers, cell phone, special assassin-issued burner phone, hairspray, brush, cash, and I.D. Hey, just because we were supposed to stay in the Embassy complex didn’t mean we would. I was savvy to the ways of my life now, and it was always better to be prepared.
The handbag had a long strap, allowing me to put it over my head. The dress had been designed for this, so the bag’s strap looked like part of the dress’ trimming, and the bag itself looked like it belonged right where it was hanging. Yeah, Akiko was that good.
I wasn’t big on makeup, so I didn’t apply any. Gave my hair a good brushing and decided to go with putting it up in a fancy banana clip. Easy, yet looked like I’d put some real time and care into the ’do.
“You look gorgeous, baby,” Jeff said as I finished up. He kissed my neck.
My neck was my main erogenous zone, and he knew it. “Mmmm, you do that any more and we’re going to call in as too horny to attend.”
“Not an option.” He kissed my neck once more, then took my hand and we headed downstairs.
Pierre and Reader kept us all busy handing out assignments and ensuring we all knew what not to say to whom, so much so that the time flew by. Painfully, sure, but at least the ordeal went quickly.
Doreen and Irving Weisman also added in with suggestions and tips. Doreen was the daughter of the former heads of the Diplomatic Corps and Irving was her human husband. Because she’d grown up in this life, Doreen was our most experienced member on staff, and because he was a guy who’d scored a Dazzler—meaning he was incredibly smart—Irving had paid attention and was now as good as Doreen at saying the right things at the right time.
Doreen’s parents, Robert and Barbara Coleman, along with the rest of the former Diplomatic Corps, had been eaten by the Poofs, on my order, during Operation Confusion. Doreen had loathed her parents by that point, so she wasn’t holding a grudge.
Also, my order or no, the Poofs held a great deal of political sway on Alpha Four, meaning that if the Poofs ate someone, most A-Cs went with the idea that said someone deserved to be Poof Chow. There was polite mourning and then everyone went on about their business. I chose to never argue when my alien relatives by marriage had some whacked out belief that meant they didn’t hate me.
Of course, most of the A-Cs had no idea what had happened to said former Diplomatic Corps—though I was sure some had a good guess. The party line was that they’d disappeared and we were still searching for them.
However, Doreen had certainly deserved to know what had happened to her parents. That the Poofs had agreed to chow down had given her a reason to not feel guilty for not feeling bad that her parents were dead. We were all about the silver linings these days.
Doreen had just finished reminding us that smiling and nodding were great, but laughing at bad jokes was better, Pierre had reminded us that our New World Order had created some happy politicians and some tense ones, and Reader had just finished up stressing how the politicians from our home states were probably the most vital to keep happy, when the doorbell rang.
“Places, everyone,” Pierre said. “It’s show time.”
Walter, who was, as always, on the com, turned on my music mix. The happy sounds of “Party Rock Anthem” by LMFAO met my ears.
“Really?” Jeff asked.
“You all said I should create a tasteful party mixtape.”
Jeff looked at Pierre. Who shrugged. “I’ve learned, Jeff darling, to let Kitty win on the musical choices.”
While Jeff grunted and muttered something about classical music and why it was good, Len and Kyle went with Pierre to station themselves as our Embassy’s bouncers. Of course, they were bouncers with all the special C.I.A. toys that allowed them to easily spot bugs, hidden firearms, and other pleasantries.
Jeff and I headed to what we called the small salon. As the Co-Head Diplomats, we had the job of initial paw shaking and such. Once our guests had been properly greeted, Pierre led them into the dining room, which had been converted into a cocktail party area, albeit without the cocktails. A-Cs being deathly allergic to alcohol meant we were a teetotaler nation, and because we were on our own land in the Embassy, we enforced that rule as a “religious custom.”
Happily, Pierre brought in the most welcome guests—my parents.
“You didn’t take a gate?” I asked as I hugged my father, who was in a nicer suit than he normally wore. Appreciated him dressing up for the occasion.
“No, kitten. Your mother felt it would better if we were seen arriving.”
“Just glad you’re both already here, Sol,” Jeff said as he let go of Mom and hugged Dad. “Always nicer when you and Angela are with us.” He meant it, too. I’d truly married a great guy, and my parents agreed.
I got my mother’s breath-stopping bear hug. “You look perfect, kitten.”
“Thanks, Mom. Air . . . need the air.”
She released with a laugh. “Sorry. Just been a long week.”
“I’ll bet.” I studied her. She was in a simple black velvet dress that looked great on her. But Mom normally didn’t hit me with the bear hugs unless one of us had been in extreme danger prior. “What were you working on?”
She grimaced. “Can’t tell you. But, happily, that’s because it doesn’t involve any of you.”
“Well, that’s good.” I hugged her again, praying the whatever that didn’t involve any of us had nothing to do with the Dingo. “Glad you made it through safely, Mom, whatever it was,” I whispered in her ear.
Got another bear hug, but this one was shorter. “Me too.”
“I do hate to break up the mother and child reunion,” Pierre said. “But more guests are coming, and I believe Angela and Sol have assigned duties.”
“We do,” Dad said. “Lead on, and we’ll get to work.”
Pierre and my parents headed off as the doorbell rang again. It was going to be a long night.
Unsurprisingly, our nearest neighbors were the next to arrive, in part because
most of them had walked across or down the street. By now we knew most of them, and Pierre had a laundry list of their quirks, habits, and dislikes, as well as who was cheating on and with whom.
When we’d first moved to D.C. I’d been forced into the Washington Wife class. I’d hated every moment of it, but, shocking one and all, I’d actually picked up some tips and decorum along the way.
Therefore, I did all the greetings to foreign dignitaries properly. Oh sure, not as well as Jeff did them, but I made do. Of course, I didn’t have to give Olga or Adriana any fancy greeting other than a big hug, but I did pull out all the stops and give Olga’s husband, Andrei, a decent curtsey. Hey, he was the Romanian ambassador and his wife and granddaughter kept me informed and, in at least one case, alive, so I figured he deserved a good showing from me.
“Don’t Get Mad, Get Even” from Aerosmith was playing. “Excellent song choice,” Olga said with a wink. “I heartily agree with the sentiment.”
As our local neighbors headed to the main room, “Ray Bands” by B.o.B came on. Jeff winced. I ignored it. I had a nice tune from ELO coming right after this one, and that’d teach him for telling me that I had to have some bands other than Aerosmith playing during this party.
Sure the song was about someone trying to get goodies based on another person’s fame. But that was appropriate for D.C. Besides, it was especially fitting considering who I could see on our near horizon.
Sure enough, the invitees that excited me the least were here—the Cabal of Evil had arrived.
CHAPTER 12
I DIDN’T WANT HALF of these people in my home, but Cliff had overruled any and all objections with a very simple point—these people were important enough that slighting them would cause us far more problems than if we just played along and pretended to like them. He’d been saying this to us for months, and we’d listened and played along and, honestly, liked a few of them now. But not all of them.
Of course, many former members of the Cabal of Evil were dead or in prison, all thanks to us. Our importance in the grand scheme of things was proven by the fact that the rest of the Cabal went on as if their former members’ deaths or imprisonment had merely been unfortunate circumstances we’d had no choice but to help facilitate. Washington, it really had the best people.
It also had pretty much all the same people it had had before Operation Destruction. What Pierre called our New World Order was simple, but somewhat scary as well. This year was supposed to be an election year, for the House and a third of the Senate. However, due to the massive alien invasion, and terrifying proof that there was a lot of life on other planets—much of it paying attention to Earth—the President had requested that elections be suspended.
It was unprecedented and, per many protesting groups, unconstitutional, but the President wasn’t asking for total control. No one was sure Earth wasn’t going to be invaded again tomorrow, and the President wanted to ensure that the U.S. government remained stable. And that meant keeping anyone who was holding elected office in place an extra two years, which was when his second term would be ending anyway.
Shocking everyone, Congress and the governors of all fifty states agreed. Most of the countries worldwide were doing the same thing. This probably had a lot to do with what the “visiting dignitary,” also known as King Alexander from Alpha Four, had said when he was cleaning up the intergalactic mess. Alpha Four was all about stability, and Alexander had definitely shared that he didn’t want to have to come right back with his huge space battle cruisers and explain the Alpha Centaurion position to new folks any time soon.
So protests happened, we were blamed or praised, depending—but mostly blamed—and everyone who’d been elected stayed elected. All of them seemed happy about the extension of power and being able to stave off a re-election campaign for another year or so. But my hopes of one or more of the Cabal losing their seats were definitively dashed. Always the way.
As usual for the Cabal, they all arrived together. Operation Destruction had shifted power in the group, however. Senator Vincent Armstrong had moved from Senator Being Somewhat Manipulated to Big Man on Cabal Campus. He’d made this move because he’d aligned himself with us. That Armstrong owed us favors, as we did him, was something I’d managed to accept over the past few months, albeit unwillingly.
Accepting that Armstrong was planning his run for the Presidency wasn’t as hard, because I’d realized that was coming during Operation Destruction. Armstrong had become an extremely pro-alien politician over the past many months, meaning he was considered a Friend of American Centaurion, title totally implied and important. We needed friends, and powerful ones were, these days, good to have.
His wife, Elaine, was with him. I’d gotten to know her over these past months and actually liked her. Sure, she was a career politician’s wife, but she wasn’t odious, obnoxious, or even overly fake. Mom liked her, too, which was the final seal of approval I required.
Barely had a chance to say hello to the Armstrongs when the unofficial spokesperson for the Cabal came toward us, smile beaming. On some people this would be pleasant. On Lillian Culver, it was horrific. The woman was attractive, but only at first glance. Longer looks shared that she was all bones and angles, a well-dressed skeleton with skin on. She also possessed the widest mouth this side of a top super villain. I called her Joker Jaws to myself for a reason.
Culver was all in red, including dramatic red lipstick, which just made her look more like the Joker in drag to me. Managed to control my impulse to jerk away from her outstretched paw—I was pretty sure she didn’t have an electroshock buzzer hidden in her palm, though I’d never have bet money on this.
However, Culver was a powerful lobbyist for a variety of defense contractors, and therefore a bad person to be overly rude to.
“Kitty, you look amazing,” Culver said.
“You, too.” Hey, I was amazed with her resemblance to the Joker.
Culver’s husband, Abner Schnekedy, self-proclaimed artist, Most Influential Spouse of Someone With Actual Power on Cabal Campus, and odious twit, grinned at me. “Happy Holidays, Kitty.”
“To you, too.” I was doing great with the short, polite replies, and they were doing great with the not saying anything obnoxious. So far, this part of the event was a success.
My ability to remain monosyllabic was instantly tested. Always the way. Eugene and Lydia Montgomery were the next from the group to come within speaking distance. Lydia was the junior senator from New York, and Eugene was her husband. She was racing as fast as she could into the power centers of D.C. He was dull and normal and an actuary by profession.
When we’d first moved here, Eugene had been my only friend in the Washington Wife class. That friendship had been strained to the breaking point when I’d discovered that he’d been using me as a front for his affair with Nathalie Gagnon-Brewer, who I could see standing with her husband, Representative Edmund Brewer, right behind the Montgomerys.
Nathalie was a French expatriate and a former international model. But unlike Reader, who was a faithful spouse to Gower, Nathalie didn’t enjoy her husband’s preoccupation with being a fast-tracking politician. She’d been happy being married to a successful California vintner; not as happy married to a political animal. Couldn’t blame her, of course.
Meanwhile Eugene had felt ignored and shoved aside by Lydia. Opposites had attracted and she and Eugene had started a passionate affair, which I’d discovered during Operation Assassination.
Over the past months Eugene had moved into the Cabal with what appeared to be ease. Oh, sure, he was clearly Low Man on the Cabal Totem Pole, but he was accepted as one of them now, which meant he was dead to me.
He also kept trying to repair our friendship, but I wasn’t having any of it. In part because I couldn’t trust that he wasn’t trying to renew the relationship in the hopes of yet again using me as his excuse for when he went off to do the deed with Nathalie. Or even worse, for some new, nefarious Cabal plan.
&nbs
p; “Hi, Kitty,” Eugene said. “It’s great to see you.”
“Yes.” Focused on keeping to the single syllables. I couldn’t get into trouble with those, could I?
Lydia nodded. “We need to get together and do a couples’ date sometime.”
My gaze traveled to Nathalie without benefit of my brain’s approval. “Ahh, sure . . .” My only other single syllable options were “No,” or “No way in hell,” neither of which seemed diplomatic in any way.
Jeff disengaged from Abner and Joker Jaws and rescued me. “We’d love to. We’ll need to coordinate schedules.” Jeff flashed his Happy Diplomat Smile. “Of course, it’s not appropriate to do so tonight.”
“Of course not,” Lydia said with a bob of her head. “Whenever it’s convenient for you, Ambassador.”
The Brewers stepped up and we were suddenly outnumbered two to one. Brewer and Armstrong had been having a lot of meetings with Jeff over the past months, and Jeff actually seemed to like Brewer. He certainly wanted me to like Brewer, though I’d resisted all the “couples date” ideas Jeff had forwarded. They did the manly handshake-hug-backslap thing and Jeff’s smile looked genuine.
Jeff had also tried to get me to hang out with Nathalie, but while she was, after Armstrong and Elaine, the least objectionable member of the Cabal to me, I couldn’t get past the adultery thing. I didn’t want to talk about her sleeping with Eugene, I didn’t want pretend I didn’t remember that she was sleeping with Eugene, I didn’t want to hear about why she was sleeping with Eugene, and I saw no way to avoid any of this if she and I went to lunch or tea or whatever. So whenever Nathalie tried to set something up, I had Pierre explain how busy, busy, busy I was.
“You’re a vision, Ambassador Martini,” Brewer said to me after he and my husband had finished being all Washington Gangsta.
“So are you,” Nathalie purred at Jeff.
My mind chose this moment to note that Lydia, like Nathalie, was giving my husband goo-goo eyes. Brewer was giving me an appraising up and down glance. Eugene looked bitterly at Jeff and Brewer, then shot me a Sad Panda look.