by Joseph Nagle
Michael toyed mindlessly with the edge of his wine glass. He had switched from white to red—from a Chardonnay to a Malbec—in anticipation of the meal to come. He had already ordered for both of them: a colorful tomato tart for her and the marinated sablefish for him. Next to her place setting was a chilled 2003 Les Blanchots Chablis that awaited the touch of her narrow lips. The Chablis was her favorite, but he was slightly worried that the maître d’ had poured the glass too soon.
Less than an hour ago, while Michael worked in his home office, Sonia had called. She had a hint of excitement in her voice. A patient of hers had cancelled at the last minute and freed up her schedule for the next two hours. She didn’t have to beg Michael to get him to meet her at Citronelle, Georgetown’s newest and hottest restaurant. He ran out of the house but had to run back to grab a suit coat. Citronelle required all gentlemen to be in proper attire; they will not seat you otherwise.
It was well past the lunch hour, nearly two o’clock, and the dining room was full: a testament to the chef’s reputation.
Sitting alone and in the corner, the restaurant was darkened and intimate. Michael could feel the anticipation as he waited for his wife.
Michael dared not take a sip of his wine; he wanted to show his wife that he had control of his drinking. The deep red of the Malbec looked inviting, and its full-bodied smell caught his attention. His mouth watered as he checked his watch. His left knee bounced nervously under the white-clothed table.
A sharp set of taps on the window next to him caught him by surprise. Outside, and on the other side of the window, was Sonia; she was smiling widely as he waved back. Michael was always impressed at the amount of energy and youth that she displayed.
For a woman that worked as hard as she did, the effects never showed physically on her. Her eyes were almond-shaped and inviting; they had not even the subtlest signs of the wrinkling that attacks their corners with age. Her jet-black hair had been recently cut into an A-line. Michael didn’t know what that meant, but he was impressed with the outcome. Michael knew that he was with a woman whose trim appearance and exquisitely shaped body defied logic.
From across the room, he watched as she walked toward him—glided, really. They had been together for more than seventeen years, and her beauty had become only more radiant with time. He watched almost trance-like as her hips gracefully and invitingly undulated from side to side. Her strides spoke of strength and ability, all of which was true.
Even with a tough schedule, Sonia always found the time to maintain her toned physique. She rose early to do yoga while he still slept, and she ran nearly every day. No matter the time, Sonia always found a way to run. And her runs were not those ineffective housewife-like trots that lacked both intensity and form that one typically sees. No, Sonia ran. Her gait was strong and impressive, her strength obvious. When she ran, she looked like a bounding gazelle.
Michael knew that he was a lucky man.
As she neared the table, Michael stood to greet his wife; she stood on her toes as he bent down to kiss her. The smell of her perfume wafted into his nostrils; it was his favorite, and it reminded him, for a moment, of when they first met.
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. I barely made the train,” she said.
“What kind of husband would I be if I hadn’t? Besides, I needed an excuse to get away from my work. I am drowned in it.”
“I thought as much,” she said as she eyed the glasses of wine. “It looks like you started without me, Michael.” There was a hint of disappointment in her voice, or maybe it was a slight twinge of disgust.
They both sat, and Michael, ignoring the implication of her comment, said, “I know that you need to get back to the hospital, so I ordered for us. I got you that tart you like.”
Sonia’s eyes lit up, and she happily replied with a small, excited clap. “You must have read my mind! That’s the only thing that I wanted.” She reached over to the Chablis and pushed it away. “But I can’t have the wine—I have to head back to the hospital afterward.”
With a bit of defensiveness in his voice, Michael pushed the glass back and said, “One glass won’t hurt. You won’t be back for over an hour.”
Sonia’s eyes took on a more solemn gaze. She stated matter-of-factly, “Michael, I can’t, and you shouldn’t either.”
“Sonia, please don’t start. Not today.”
Michael’s left hand was draped across the table. Sonia laid her right hand on top, and said, “I am worried about you. You’ve been drinking a lot more since we moved out here. You have been working ridiculous hours. Michael, I want you to cut back—on both.”
When a man has been with the same woman for seventeen years, more than ten of which had been in marriage, he should know better than to disagree with his wife. It was typically, if not always, a futile prospect—especially when she was right. Michael knew that he was drinking more lately, but felt that he had control of it. He could count the number of times he had been drunk, truly drunk, by the number of fingers on one of his hands. He wasn’t one of those red-nosed, fat-bellied alcoholics that couldn’t live without booze and had the body and face of a man twenty years older. He was the opposite.
“Michael,” Sonia continued, “you drink every day.”
And there it was.
This wasn’t the time to argue, and so he conceded in the only way he knew how. “Sonia, I am going to use the restroom. When the waiter comes by, ask him to take away the wine and to bring me a cranberry tonic.”
He stood up and kissed her cheek; she smiled at him.
Michael walked toward the restroom, which was through the bar. In one corner, a small group of patrons and restaurant staff had gathered. They were staring up at the screen, but none said a word.
Michael was drawn to them. One of them, an older woman, seemed to be crying; a man was comforting her.
As he neared the group, what he saw on the television sent a jolt through him. Senator Door, the head of the Intelligence Oversight Committee, and the president of France had been killed. Even more shocking was that Notre Dame was destroyed.
The news footage was aerial; some was on the ground. Where there should have been a magnificent, centuries-old work of intense gothic architecture was rubble. Dazed, dust-covered faces of the injured, some bloodied, cast confused gazes that stared through reality. Medical personnel and police were everywhere, assisting those that still lived and ignoring those that were already dead. The two CNN anchormen appeared frazzled, if not overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they were reporting. Across the bottom of the screen, the headline flashed, stating that all Paris landmarks would be closed indefinitely.
It was at that moment that the BlackBerry attached to his belt vibrated. Looking at it, he saw that an emergency meeting was being called for two hours from now.
Out of habit, Michael called out to the bartender, “Scotch, neat.”
The bartender slid a short glass in front of Michael and asked, “Black Label okay?”
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Michael responded, “Yeah, and make it a double.”
The bartender poured, and Michael downed the drink in one motion.
“Shall I pour you another, sir?”
Michael looked at the glass and said, “No. How much do I owe you?”
“Thirty-five.”
Michael had already pulled out his money clip when the bartender told him how much the shots had cost. He paused in disbelief for a moment. Prices certainly were not as much in Denver. Michael threw two twenties on the bar and said, “You want my next born, too?”
The bartender gave Michael an odd look.
“Just a joke,” Michael said. “Keep the change.”
Forgetting the bathroom, Michael returned to the table. Their meals had arrived, but Sonia wasn’t touching hers.
“You’ll never believe what just happened in France,” Michael said as he sat. “Notre Dame was destroyed in an explosion, and Senator Door was inside! I’ve been called to Langley.�
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Sonia just sat. She didn’t move or respond, only cast a stony gaze across the small table at Michael.
“What?” Michael’s question was like that of a child having been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“You know what, Michael.”
“Sonia, what’s with the evil eye—why are you so upset?”
“Goddamn it, Michael. Don’t bat your pretty blue eyes at me. You know damn well what! I saw you down a drink at the bar!”
She saw that?
Sonia stood up to leave.
“Wait,” said Michael. “You don’t have to leave.”
Sonia looked down at her husband; there was a small tear in her eye. “Michael, you have a problem, and you need to fix it. I don’t have time for this right now; I need to get back to the hospital. Give me your keys.”
“My keys? Why? Let me drive you back.”
“No, Michael!” The sharpness in her tone rose a few levels, and some of the other patrons took notice. But Sonia didn’t care. If Michael had learned one thing about her, it’s that her convictions couldn’t be halted once started. She was about to unleash some heat on him, and there was nothing he could do.
“You are in no shape to drive! Look at you—your eyes are red, your pupils dilated, and you look like you haven’t slept in days. Take a cab home, Michael.”
Sonia’s pain had flashed into anger. This wasn’t good. He knew better than to argue with her—something about a woman being scorned told him not to. He sheepishly handed his keys to her. She snatched them from him and, before leaving, she shot him a pained look; it told of her worry for him, and it told him that she was right.
He could jump out of planes at high or low altitudes, rappel the face of any cliff, and put a bullet into the forehead of a man at one hundred yards while in a dead sprint, but this—this he couldn’t do: he couldn’t put down a bottle of wine. Michael closed his eyes and tilted his head back. For a moment, he stayed there, contemplating what was next.
Opening his eyes and casting them at his plate, Michael just sat and stared at his fish: his appetite was suddenly lost. The waiter was standing over him; Michael hadn’t noticed the man’s discreet approach. Clearing his throat, the waiter announced his presence and offered Michael the leather-bound check. Apparently, the waiter had seen more than his share of married couples arguing and was well versed in the telltale signs that a meal was over.
Michael took the bill and offered the waiter a sheepish smile. Opening the bill, he eyed the amount: $225.37, tip not included.
Just great, thought Michael as he reached for his wallet. I just got in a public fight with my wife, realized that I am a borderline alcoholic, and all I got for three hundred bucks was a double shot of Johnnie Walker Black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1725 RHODE ISLAND AVE
NW WASHINGTON, DC
The Cathedral of St. Matthew stands Romanesque between Connecticut and Rhode Island Avenues, just off 17th Avenue in Washington, DC. It was still early in the afternoon, and the church was nearly empty. In one of its darkened corners, an old man hunched over a broom and slowly swept a section of its marble floors. As he puttered along, he paid no attention to the powerful man that knelt in the third row of the church’s pews. Over the years, he had borne witness to many of the elite. To him, all men that prayed there were the same.
Senator Matthew Faust’s knees were firmly pressed into the padded top of the pew’s wooden kneeler; he was quietly murmuring his prayer. His eyes were shut tightly, and his thoughts focused on his conversation with God. He was nearly finished when his chief of staff abruptly interrupted him.
Justine Miller had graduated magna cum laude with a master’s degree in public policy from Harvard’s John F. Kennedy School of Government. She was a fast riser, ambitious and rather bright. She knew that when the senator was praying, which he did daily, that he was not to be interrupted under any circumstances. However, this time, she felt the situation warranted an exception.
She could hardly contain her excitement and felt awful, albeit for only a moment, that the situation had excited her. Justine touched the senator on his left shoulder and, in a loud voice that drew the ire of the old man sweeping, said, “Senator Faust!”
He didn’t respond.
Senator Faust’s eyes remained closed, and his mouth still moved in prayer. He would finish; no one came between him and his conversations with God—no one. Immediately, Justine recognized her mistake and was instantly sorry for her impetuous behavior, but she knew that what she would say would pave the way for forgiveness.
Making the sign of the cross and kissing his rosary, the senator quietly rose and dropped the cross into the inside breast pocket of his impeccably tailored, hand-cut suit. Turning toward his chief of staff, he said, “Justine, this had better be good.”
It was.
Justine was a beautiful woman. A bit plump, perhaps, but still beautiful. Her body was shaped the way a woman’s should be and was draped by long red hair that was always pulled tightly back in the classic strong-woman style. When she let it flow, it draped down to the middle of her back in long, spiral curls. As was customary with red-haired women, Justine’s skin was a porcelain white that, interestingly enough, was bare of the freckles that were the norm with redheads.
Her cheeks were now flushed crimson, a color that stood out starkly against her pale skin. She could feel her temperature begin to rise as she silently wondered if she should have waited to tell the senator the news.
“Sir, I am sorry, but this couldn’t wait. You need to know right away.” She stopped speaking for a moment, gathered her strength, and flatly stated, “Senator Door is dead.”
So quickly?
Senator Faust could hardly believe that the plan had taken shape so fast. The Iranians had been repaid with interest, and now Door was dead.
Things were certainly looking better.
He needed to react accordingly.
Senator Faust slowly tilted his head backward, but only slightly. He let Justine’s words sink in, taking the time to dissect what she had just said. The thief had been successful. He knew he should have shown some visible sign of emotion or concern, but he didn’t. In just a few, brief moments, Senator Faust calculated his next steps.
“When?” His question was pithy.
“About ten minutes ago,” replied Justine, and then she added, “in Paris. There was an explosion at Notre Dame; she was there with the president of France—he’s dead too, along with a large number of tourists and visitors.”
Senator Faust scratched at his cheek, thinking. He asked, “Terrorist attack?”
Justine smiled; she knew the game. “No word yet, Senator. The news out of France is coming in fragments.”
Looking at his chief of staff, Senator Faust commanded, “Get a press conference together within the hour, Justine. Get Senator Door’s husband on the phone. I want to personally offer my condolences. Then get Senator Steinman on the phone. No, scratch that. I will speak with Senator Door’s husband in the car. You will take me straight to Senator Steinman; I don’t care where he is, just get me there. Understood?”
Justine’s lips were curled in a wicked smile. “Sir, I have already scheduled the press conference. It will be at CNN’s studios. They are expecting us in less than an hour. Your car is waiting outside, and I have spoken with Senator Steinman. He is waiting for you at the University Club.”
Justine handed a phone to her boss and said, “Sir, Senator Door’s husband is on the line, just un-mute the phone when you are ready.”
Senator Faust reached out and took the phone. He eyed his chief of staff much like a proud father would his child; perhaps with something a little more. He said, “Justine, I knew there was a reason I hired you.” He was about to unmute the call, but before he did, he added one last thing. “But if you ever interrupt my prayer again, I will fire your ass faster than you can blink.”
Quickly, he brushed past Justine, whose face was even redder,
and said into the phone, “Francis, I just heard the news, I cannot begin to tell you what a tremendous loss this is for both your family and our country…”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AULNAY-SOUS-BOIS
PARIS, FRANCE
Charney could still hear sirens in the distance. He smiled at the outcome of his work. It had been brilliant.
The world was in shock.
He turned his eyes toward the bed.
Jeannette had long ago fallen asleep. Charney could not. Instead, he sat in the corner of his room and stared at the outline of her silhouette as her chest rhythmically expanded and contracted from her nocturnal breathing. He was transfixed; his eyes followed the rise and fall as the roundness of her femininity held his gaze. She was nearly as perfect as her sister. He imagined that it was his Annette that warmed his bed. Every so often, and on the rarest of occasions, his imagination would feel real for a brief moment. This was one of those moments; it felt like it was Annette on his bed.
Closing his eyes, he held onto that feeling, knowing that it would quickly abate.
Annette. He tilted his head backward, chasing his dream to the ceiling, but all he could do was stare. It was already gone.
Disturbing his thoughts, a chime filled the air and roused Jeanette from her sleep.
“Were you expecting someone?” she asked.
He lowered his eyes to where she lay in the bed. “Yes,” he replied, his voice was low and with an emotion that didn’t seem to belong. He wasn’t sure with whom he spoke. The two women were blending as one. He loved Jeannette; that much was certainly true. He just didn’t know if it was her or the proxy that she served as.
He stood and put on an undershirt. Walking to the bedside, he put his hand on her stomach and leaned in to kiss her. She smiled and said, “Go and take care of your business, then come back to bed.” He kissed her once more, this time on her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and finally on her lips.
Jeannette smiled, caressed the side of his face, and then curled up onto her side.