by Josie Brown
In any case, we haven’t detected a breach, which would show itself in the exterminations of our key assets.
When Carl was alive, he kept a close eye on two Acme assets: Jack and me.
He hated that Jack lives in his house. And that Jack sleeps in his bed.
Most of all he hated the fact that Jack took on the role of father to his children.
Maybe it’s a good thing that Carl no longer walks among the living for the sole reason that he made my life a living hell.
Is Jack cut out to play my husband? Some (say, the forty-two percent of the contest’s voters) would say no. Before the mission to take down the Quorum, Jack’s reputation as a womanizer was just as notorious as Dominic’s.
But he won over my children.
And in doing so, he won me over, too.
So, why does he feel threatened, now that Dominic Fleming is here in Hilldale?
No. let me rephrase that. He doesn’t feel threatened. He feels challenged. I’ve seen that look on his face before, in our most trying times. It says game on.
“Darling, they’re waiting for us.” Jack sounds nonchalant, but he’s anything but that as he places his hand in the small of my back and guides me firmly toward the conference room.
As if he has anything to worry about. I love him with all my heart.
But it doesn’t hurt to flirt a little, now does it?
“Old chap! You haven’t changed an iota”—Dominic Fleming grabs Jack’s hand in a firm grip—“except perhaps for that slight pouch around your waist. Perhaps fake married life is agreeing with you a bit too much.”
He ignores Jack’s glare, choosing instead to lock and load those baby blues on the object of Jack’s very real affection—
Me.
Yes, I’m blushing.
But before Jack blows a gasket, I step in between them and hold out my hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Donna Stone.”
“Ah! Finally I’m face to face with Acme’s infamous manslayer, Donna Stone.” The next thing I know, Dominic has lifted my hand to his lips. I can feel his gentle kiss on the back of my hand.
I’m not old enough for hot flashes, but right now, a warm tingle surges through me.
Very nice.
“In fact, I’ve been following your career almost since Day One, Ms. Stone. I find you…fascinating.” As he says this he draws out the last word, his voice strokes me—well, certainly my ego—with this velvet purr. “Your motive for joining Acme was pure of heart. Your spycraft is always spot on. Shall I say it? But of course! Everything about you is sheer genius, especially when your back”—His admiring gaze at my ass has me quite literally backing up, until I’ve smacked into the conference room’s batten-and-board paneling—“is against the wall.”
He looms so closely over me that I can admire the shadow plaid in his bespoke Savile Row suit. The musky scent of his cologne—Floris Number 89, I’m guessing (or at least it’s been rumored)—is quite dizzying.
If I should faint, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation is always an option for my revival. Just putting it out there, front and center.
“Forgive me. I’m sure my adoration makes me sound like a foolish school boy.” His gaze sweeps over me before seeking out my eyes, where I’m sure he can read my every thought.
And yes, I have a few. Gimme some lovin’. Stroke me hard, fast, and often.
But I say nothing because opening my mouth now would expose me as a blithering fool. Instead I melt into the closest chair—
Only to land on my ass.
I wasn’t expecting Dominic to pull it out for me.
“Oh…a gentleman! How refreshing.” I glare at those who have the audacity to snicker: Emma, Arnie, even our field handler, Abu Nagashahi.
And of course, Jack.
At least he has the decency to give me a hand so that I can get back on my feet.
Still, I make it a point to punish his impudence by grinding my heel into his toe. As Jack swallows a groan, I pat his taut belly. “Guess I’ll have to quit making desserts until you get back into shape.”
He shoves me down into the chair. “I think Ryan wants to begin.”
In tandem, Dominic and Jack make a move for the chair beside me. Dominic gets there first.
“Sure, okay, age before beauty,” Jack murmurs.
Dominic shrugs. “Don’t you mean pearls before swine?”
“You’re quoting Dorothy Parker?” Jack snorts. “Oddly enough, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Nor should it, dear boy. After all, she was one of the last century’s foremost wits.” He scrutinizes Jack as if he were some odd specimen under glass in a natural history museum. “I dare say, your tenure in suburbia has made you quite a sexist! No doubt your female colleagues find it somewhat off-putting, what with having to endure your lascivious remarks”—Dominic’s sympathetic look in my direction catches me off guard—“not to mention a compromising position or two.”
I pink up as I think of all the times Jack has kept me out of the loop, or made me the unwitting dupe of his shenanigans.
Not to mention some of the compromising positions we’ve enjoyed.
“What? Donna will be the first to tell you that I’m the perfect gentleman.” Only now does Jack look over at me. Seeing me red-faced, he does a double-take.
His look says it all: traitor.
Dismayed, Ryan shakes his head. “Now, now—gentlemen. I hope we’re able to play nice for the following week—seeing how you’ll be spending it together, in Paradise.”
Well, that remark certainly has turned all heads.
Ryan gives his iPad a quick tap. A verdant island, ringed with white beaches and surrounded by an azure sea, appears on the large monitor that is mounted on the wall behind him.
“Donna and Jack, you might recognize this island as Misfit Quay—Jonah Breck’s former getaway.” The monitor’s screen has changed to show recent development on the island. “Since his demise, the trust that manages his estate has partnered with a hospitality corporation, Fantasy Properties. In fact, Misfit has been renamed Fantasy Island, and portions of the island have been developed into three very distinct resorts.”
The monitor now shows a photo from a brochure. In it, a tow-headed boy and girl are building sandcastles on a beach with a man and woman in medieval dress. A thirty-something couple who are just as blonde as the children toast each other while relaxing on nearby lounge chairs.
“One of the resorts is called Kamp KidStuff,” Ryan explains. “Its slogan is, ‘The Best of Times Have Both We Time and Me Time’ because it promises parents a lot of time to enjoy each other, while their children are occupied with activities led by counselors who double as famous storybook characters.”
He had me at me time.
The screen dissolves to another picture. In it, boardwalks raised over sugar white sand lead out to tiki huts that are suspended on stilts. On the beachside, more huts seem to be floating in the palm trees. Because it’s sunset, all the people in the photo—mostly couples, although some are foursomes—can only be seen in silhouette as they lounge on beach chaises, or sip cocktails on the tikis’ decks.
“This resort is called Eden Key, and it’s for singles only. In fact—” Ryan pauses under the pretense of wiping his eye glasses—“both Cosmopolitan andEsquire rate it Number One in the categories of ‘Casual Hook-Ups,’ ‘Rum-Fueled Romances,’ ‘Sex on the Beach' and 'Worthy of an Irish Layover.'
“Pardon?” Dominic murmurs. “Or, as the midget tart said to the bishop, ‘That went over my head.’”
“It means you wouldn’t mind missing your flight home, because the previous evening’s drunken debauchery was worth it,” Emma pipes up.
To Arnie’s consternation, Emma seems to go limp with lust as Dominic graces her with a smile.
“And the third resort—a fish, game, and gambling lodge–goes by the name of the Hunt Club. Reconnaissance will be more difficult there because access is by membership only—and its members must prove an inco
me in the billion-dollar range.”
“Well, that leaves me out,” Arnie says much too loudly and much too jovially.
Dead silence.
Arnie turns beet red. “By that I mean…never mind.” The flop sweat dripping off his brow is creating a puddle on the table.
Before the poor guy drowns in it, I take it upon myself to change the subject. “Ryan, why the sudden interest in Misfit—I mean, Fantasy Island?”
“Last week, the public was enthralled with Teddy Grodin’s disappearance”—I wince when he says this. I can hear the accusation in his voice. Yes, I know, I screwed up. I should have never left Teddy alone—“but the real threat to our national security is Dr. Lionel Mandrake, whereabouts unknown—until now.”
“Who?” Emma asks.
“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of him,” Ryan responds. “Under the auspices of the NSA, Mandrake was leading the team working on Operation Bugaboo—a weaponized plague bacteria. The plague is one of the world’s deadliest infectious diseases. The infected cannot be cured with drugs.”
Dominic shudders. “How barbaric.”
Ryan smiles. “An appropriate word for it. In fact, plagues have been used as weapons since the Middle Ages. Infected dead bodies were left where the opposing army would find them, or rebels catapulted them over castle walls.” Ryan waits for our uncomfortable chuckles to subside. “Both China and Russia have been developing strains of the pneumonic plague, which can be administered in an aerosol form. It could affect a whole building’s ventilation system, even structures as large as stadiums. Mandrake was nearing completion on an antibody-based vaccine,” Ryan frowns. “Last week, when word came down that government budget cuts at the NSA would affect his project, he disappeared without a trace, taking the project files and active bacteria and antidote samples with him. He has since surfaced on Fantasy Island.”
“How do they know he’s there, of all places?” Jack asks.
“During a routine colonoscopy procedure, the NSA encrypted him with a GPS chip.”
“You mean he has a bug up his ass?” Arnie asks with a chuckle.
Ryan frowns. “Not quite. It was placed in his foot, without the good doctor’s knowledge.”
Emma frowns, “Isn’t that an invasion of his privacy?”
Deep in thought, Dominic’s finger taps the table. And yes, every woman in the room—Emma, Ryan’s secretary Janine, and I—is mesmerized.
Not with the tapping, but with the thickness and length of his fingers.
Ryan shows his annoyance by snapping his fingers in Janine’s face. “As a matter of fact, prior to signing on, every employee working on the project willingly agreed to the implant, except for Dr. Mandrake. The NSA agreed to his terms because of his superior knowledge and his previous discoveries in this area of research.”
“And because they knew eventually they’d get the chance to implant the chip without him ever knowing about it,” Emma mutters.
Ryan shrugs. “The project falls under the auspices of PRISM, and therefore unwarranted surveillance of those working on NSA projects is a matter of national security. In this case, it turns out embedding a GPS chip was a good thing, since it may save millions of lives. One scenario is that he’ll use the island’s guests as guinea pigs to test the plague vaccine’s effectiveness. An even worse scenario is that he’s meeting with a few interested parties—an enemy nation, say, or a terrorist organization—and selling it to the highest bidder.”
“Do we know for a fact that he wasn’t kidnapped, along with the samples?” Jack asks.
“That very well could be the case. But unfortunately for Dr. Mandrake, a crucial four hours of video footage covering the time of his disappearance has been obliterated, from both his office and condo security feeds. Also gone is his NSA photo file and ID info. All we’ve got to go on is one photo of him, snapped by a colleague at the department’s annual Christmas party.”
The photo appears on the screen. Everyone scrutinizes it silently, but it’s too fuzzy to make out the sort of details we’ll need to validate a suspect. “I know it’s slim pickings,” Ryan opines. “Even so, our facial recognition software has picked up a few features that can help our ID process. Jack, as for your question, the bottom line is that we don’t know if the disappearance of Mandrake’s file was a kidnapper’s doing, or Mandrake’s. But after the Snowden and Grodin debacles, the NSA is taking no chances that Mandrake might indeed be a traitor. Our orders are to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Emma frowns. “At the same time, we have no idea what the good doctor looks like?”
“All we know is that he’s single and in his late forties, around five-feet eleven inches, with dark hair,” Ryan answers. “He’s a loner, has no family to speak of, and he has pretty much kept to himself. His hobbies are hunting and math games.”
“Other than the logical choices of the Hunt Club and Eden Key, it doesn’t give us much at all to go on,” Dominic and I say in unison. Instinctively I glance over at him. His sly smile makes me blush.
And yes, Jack notices this, which is why he’s now frowning.
Ryan’s expression warns us that all eyes should be focused on him. “He does have one distinguishing mark,” he continues, “a tattoo of a mushroom cloud, at the base of his spine.”
“I say, Ryan, are we to blithely ask the other guests to drop trou without so much as a promise of a dirty weekend?” Dominic chuckles as he asks the question, but he also seems intrigued by the thought.
Ryan’s eyes narrow at the inference. “Prime suspects with cause for examination will be routed to the mission’s honey pot.”
Meaning moi.
Oh boy, seems I’ve got my work cut out for me. From what the manifest shows, between guests and staff, there are at least hundred and sixty men on the island.
Time to change the subject, which I do without looking up from the note I’m writing to myself. (Lose eight pounds by tomorrow: Fantasy? Sexy muumuu: oxymoron?) “I take it we’ve at least pinpointed his location to the island, thanks to the GPS tracker?”
“Yes, but he’s apparently roaming all over the place—something which also merits suspicion. And sometimes the GPS signal disappears completely. All the more reason we have to bring him—and the plague samples—back to the NSA as soon as possible.” Ryan circles the room. “Acme has secured six seats on Fantasy Island’s weekly private charter jet, which leaves three times a day, from Orange County Airport. Each plane is met by the island’s Director of Resorts, Mr. Boarke—” The photo on the monitor has changed. It now shows an elegant man in a white suit. His face is regal, and his hair has grayed just at the temples—“and Battoo, his assistant, who is also the island’s head concierge.”
The monitor switches again. This time Boarke is standing next to a man who is a third of his height. The diminutive man’s suit, also white linen, is accessorized with a bowtie. “With Battoo’s help, Boarke prides himself on knowing all of Fantasy Island’s guests. Odds are one of them knows of Mandrake’s whereabouts. But since the island’s unspoken slogan is ‘What happens on Fantasy stays on Fantasy,’ we can’t expect them to break protocol.”
“Even if the island’s other guests are at risk?” Dominic asks.
“Unfortunately, yes. But one of Arnie’s jobs will be to monitor the air and water safety gauges that he and Abu will set up around the island. The first place to start is the water filtration system and the HVAC systems in all the resorts’ facilities.”
Abu nods. “Right, boss.”
“As for Boarke, he has an equity stake in the success of the resorts. The last thing he’d want is for guests to leave in droves, and rumors of an island plague epidemic would do just that. It would be his financial ruin. And unfortunately, Fantasy Island is not under the jurisdiction of the United States, let alone that of any favored nation. When it comes to finding Mandrake, we’re on our own.” Ryan stands to face us. “Two agents will work out of each resort. Abu, you and Emma now have gainful employment
in the Hunt Club, as a Gun Room concierge and a chambermaid, respectively. As such, you’ll have the access needed to identify possible suspects. Emma, you’ll have the added responsibility of assessing their backstories for anomalies.”
Emma and Abu nod as they take this in.
Dominic, you and Arnie will be embedded at Eden Key. Arnie, like Emma, you’ll be charged with profile validations, as well as any other tech ops.”
“Alright! Just two amigos playing with some fine ladies!” Expecting a high-five, Arnie raises his hand toward Dominic, who ignores it.
Hearing his enthusiasm, Emma’s face clouds over. If that was the response he was looking for, he certainly got it. Frankly, I don’t think it’s one he should want.
Dominic’s reaction is no more than a raised brow. “I say, chap, perhaps we should feign acknowledging each other’s existence. That way, we double our efforts.”
The diss goes over Arnie’s head. He honors Dominic’s suggestion with a fist pump.
“Jack and Donna will be based at Kamp KidStuff,” Ryan continues. “Donna, if you want, feel free to take your children along for cover.”
Albeit this mission seems less dangerous than most, but I wouldn’t want to take the chance that I’d put my children in the line of fire. Thank goodness my real excuse for nixing his suggestion gives me the chance to at least sound like a team player. “As it turns out, all my children are away at various camps and activities over the course of the next couple of weeks.”
“I see.” Ryan frowns in disappointment. “Well, that at least allows for a different combination, should the situation call for it.”
Dominic smiles. “May I make a suggestion?”
Ryan nods. “By all means.”
“Why not embed Emma and Arnie as youth counselors in Camp KidStuff? That way, you can shift Jack to the Hunt Club. His current cover as an international financier will certainly grant him entrée. Donna and I can cover Eden Key—separate huts, but of course.” He looks over at me and winks.