by Ward Salud
A rustle of papers could be heard on Jake’s side of the phone. “That’s the thing,” he said. “We ran a background check. House belongs to a Mr. and Mrs. James. Two kids. They seem to be a regular wealthy household to me.”
“Any business ties to the Middle East,” she asked. “Religious conversion?”
“None,” Jake said, stumped. “Whoever these people are. They’re like a typical American family. Two kids, a dog, a 401K account.”
Hillary walked over to the middle of the study, letting Jake continue. “There should be no reason why #2 would meet with these people,” he said. “None at all.”
•••
Just after midnight, the taxi pulled up to Huma’s Park Avenue South apartment building. Though the streetlamps gave off some light, the sidewalk was mostly dark with only a few lights on in the building’s individual apartment units. A single pedestrian walked by the apartment building, his muffled footsteps echoing in the night.
Huma paid her fare and stepped out of the cab, which began to pull away up the quiet streets. She looked up at the apartment building, its limestone exterior darkened by the night. This was her home ever since they moved away from Forest Hills shortly after Anthony’s . . .
Only a year ago, Anthony had his sexting scandal. She didn’t know why he sexted or why he needed to. She was coming back from a State trip overseas when she heard the news and his subsequent resignation from Congress. It was a difficult time, but all she knew was that she loved him and that . . . she would never stop loving him.
She made her way through the tiled lobby of her Park Avenue apartment building, giving it the air of Victorian charm, and then up the elevator towards the twelfth floor, and soon, she faced the door into her home. She fumbled for the keys inside her Prada handbag. She didn’t want to ring the doorbell, they’re probably asleep at this time.
At last, she managed to find the keys. The door creaked quietly, and inside, the apartment was dark with only the merest light from outside glowing from the closed blinds. Her State Department salary by itself couldn’t have made them afford the apartment, but her work for the DSS helped supplement their income.
Their living room and kitchen combined into one open space and would have opened to the New York skyline had it not been for the blinds. Contrasting with the prewar pedigree of the building, their apartment looked modern and stylish with the latest in appliances, kitchen cabinetry, and electronics like the flat screen television that took prominence in the living room.
She put her handbag down on a side table and quietly began removing her shoes. She’d somehow not noticed her aching feet all this time, but she felt them now. Had to remain quiet, though. Wouldn’t want to wake—
The lights turned on, and at the end of the hallway that led into the living quarters, Anthony Weiner, former Congressman of a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, stood with his hand on the light switch and squinting from the emerged light. Wearing a nightshirt and shorts, the handsome former Congressman’s eyes lit up upon seeing his wife.
“Hey,” he said to her.
She stopped, half hobbling, her hand in the middle of removing of her right shoe. Her contorted position would be humorous, but Anthony didn’t laugh. “Hey,” she said back, finally removing the last of her Hermes heeled pumps. Seeing him again, it was worth it. Sometimes with her job at State and the DSS, she wouldn’t see him for days at a time. Huma began to speak, but Anthony already knew who she was talking about.
“Sleeping,” he interrupted, referring to their one-year-old son. He came towards her, scratching the back of his neck, and then gestured towards their dining table where leftover Vietnamese food lay, a chopstick stuck out on one of the Vietnamese containers. “Takeout,” he said, “I, um, thought you might be—”
She didn’t let him continue, she only hugged her husband, the man she loved.
•••
WALDORF ASTORIA
NEW YORK CITY
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
SEPTEMBER 25, 2012
Was he making the right decision? Obama thought, holding a glass of Scotch in his hand. Beyond the window, the Manhattan skyline lay before him, some taller than the Waldorf, others shorter, but all seemed to deflect to his location. Or was he only kidding himself?
It had been four years since he was elected president with another election coming up. The race had been fairly competitive, though if he played his cards right, he would be set for victory in November. The Benghazi affair had been distracting him in his contest with Mitt Romney especially now that he had to make his decision.
“Hillary, forgive me,” he said quietly to himself.
Just then, caressing arms slipped in from behind. First Lady Michelle Obama embraced him and kissed his shoulder. “Come to bed, Barack,” she said, laying her head gently on the back of his head. The beautiful First Lady wore a dark night shirt, accentuating her striking figure.
“I wish I could,” he said darkly, still staring out at New York, the capital of the world. “How will history judge me,” he asked her, almost bitterly, as he continued to look out the window. “For what I’ve done and . . . what I’m about to do.”
Michelle raised her head and said nothing at first. “Barack,” she said, turning him around to face her. There, on his wife’s alluring face, it seemed she still held the hope and optimism that the presidency had stolen from him.
“History can wait,” she finished. Then, she kissed him, and their lips touched for what seemed like an eternity.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BUSHWICK, BROOKLYN
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
SEPTEMBER 27, 2012
Where is he? Hillary Clinton thought as she waited in a dark alleyway. She was in Bushwick, still a working class area in Brooklyn, though it had been experiencing some gentrification lately. Tenements and low rise buildings surrounded the area, some in disrepair or tagged with graffiti while others inhabited by young bearded people or “hipsters” as the kids called them these days. Across from her, a small bodega frequented by immigrants inhabited the bottom floor of a tenement, while a wind blew a plastic bag from the street onto the sidewalk. Over the horizon, the Manhattan skyline rose in the distance, seemingly like an otherworld compared to the low rise nature of this neighborhood.
She was supposed to be at the Waldorf this afternoon delivering remarks at the Connecting the Americas 2022 Ministerial, but there was more pressing work to be done. Her absence at the event, however, won’t be missed. Philippe already sent her body double, the other Hillary, to head the event assuring that her foreign counterparts and other dignitaries would be none the wiser. Hillary scanned the area again, but only a group of Hasidic Jewish men, in their Rekel frock coat and Borsalino hat of their faith, walked past, talking and conversing amongst themselves in Yiddish.
Still no sign of him, she thought. Behind her, however, a hand reached out and grabbed her around the mouth. She was about to cry out as she was dragged deeper into the alleyway and pressed against the brick tenement wall, but then, she saw him. A man placed his finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said, “It’s me,”
Hillary’s heartbeat calmed down after seeing that her informant was finally here. He was David Brock, and the handsome man, whose once youthful looking dark head of hair was now a shock of silver, stared back at her with heavy eyes. She knew him once as a young man, an enemy to be exact. Once an agent of the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy, a radical group of plutocrats she defeated back during her husband’s presidency, he had turned over a new leaf. He vowed to her he would atone for his dark past, but neither did he completely rid himself of his dark methods . . .
“I have what you asked for,” Brock said, taking out a manila folder from his suit. Still a creature of the 90s, her “oppo” researcher could not get out of the habit of the use of paper.
Hillary opened the folder to reveal a profile glamour shot of an aging but still pretty woman. “Alessandra James,” he explained. “Forty-one,
two kids,” He glanced from side to side to make sure no one was listening in. “Lives in a tony suburb, husband is a defense contractor.”
Hillary rifled through the large black and white photographs depicting Alessandra in various DC social hotspots, dancing in soirees and fundraisers, smiling in photographs with politicians including one with the junior Senator from New York and her successor in the Senate, Kirsten Gillibrand. The two blond women, both smiled for the cameras except Alessandra wore a designer dress while Sen. Gillibrand wore a women’s business suit consisting of a jacket and a skirt. “As you can see,” Brock continued, “Alessandra’s eager to climb the social ladder, even has her own Twitter hashtag.”
The next page she turned to showed a printout of a Twitter feed. All the Twitter posts had a glamour shot of Alessandra looking seductively at the camera and most ended with #igetwhatiwant.
“But as you know,” Brock said, reaching over and shifting over to another picture. “Everyone has their secrets.”
The new page Brock turned to was another black and white picture taken from what appeared to be a second-story window, showing a handsome Middle Eastern man in a Western style suit walking from the driveway to the front door. “A snoopy neighbor took this picture.”
“#2,” Hillary said, instantly recognizing the man from the White House briefing. A part of her was disappointed that their suspicions were confirmed. She turned her attention back to Brock. “Why invite this man?” she asked him. “Why involve herself with a terrorist.”
“That,” Brock said, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
Hillary took it all in and promptly thought of their next course of action. They couldn’t raid her house; that would only bring undue attention to Alessandra and scare off #2. They needed to capture him when he made another rendezvous to that house—if he decides to come back. They could arrest her instead and bring her in for questioning, but something told her, that wasn’t the right course of action either.
One thing she did know, they needed to act fast. Dee Romney and #2 were out there, and they had the HAARP array. “We need more evidence,” she said to him.
Brock smirked at her, and a gleam came into his eyes. “I have just the plan,” he said. Then, he leaned in close. “Socialite that she is. Guess who’s coming to a State Department fundraiser next week.”
•••
HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 6, 2012
Men in tuxedos and women in elegant dresses milled about the Benjamin Franklin Room on the eighth floor of the State Department building. Unlike much of the “The Building” as the Harry S. Truman building was colloquially called, the Benjamin Franklin room, part of a host of rooms called the Diplomatic Reception Rooms, eschewed the modernist décor of much of the State Department headquarters. On the eighth floor, the Benjamin Franklin Room, like the rest of the Diplomatic Reception Rooms, had a much more colonial aesthetic with antique furniture and decoration. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and Corinthian columns lined the long walls of the room. Guests were seated amongst the white linen draped tables, while in the middle of the room with windows overlooking the National Mall, a lectern and a row of seats atop a temporary dais acted as the centerpiece. A large banner hung above read “Patrons of Diplomacy,” and a rendition of Jean-Joseph Mouret’s “Rondeau” played in the background by a string quartet.
Hillary was not yet at the host dais. She wore a navy blue gown designed by Oscar de la Renta who mercifully made sure to tactfully hide her ankles, a feature that brought her criticism before. Former Secretaries of State Colin Powell and Madeleine Albright conversed with others in the event, and she was thankful. She had other business to attend to. A glass of Chardonnay swirled in her hand as she looked out for the arrival of their “special guest,” the socialite known as Alessandra James.
“No target in sight,” Cheryl, in a svelte black dress, whispered beside her. Hillary scanned the room. Her Chief of Staff was not mistaken, only finding the low murmurs of conversation and mingling of her guests. Called the “Patrons of Diplomacy” event, this was supposed to be a fundraiser for the upkeep of the Diplomatic Reception Rooms where treasures from America’s past, most from the Revolutionary War period, were housed. The Diplomatic Reception Rooms were often called “Washington, DC’s best kept secret,” and Hillary guessed they were right, officially of course.
“I can’t find her either,” Jake’s voice said in her earpiece. He was posted by the entrance of the Benjamin Franklin Room, a finger surreptitiously pressed to his ear as well as wearing a snappy tuxedo like many of the gentlemen invited to the event.
“Fashionably late most likely,” Cheryl said, not hiding her disgust.
“Keep an eye out for her,” Hillary whispered to both of them. An elderly gentleman and his wife passed by, and she smiled at the both of them.
Former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, in a black military coat and knee-high boots, made her way towards her, and Hillary was about to acknowledge Condi, but then Jake spoke up, catching her attention.
“Wait, wait,” Jake said, in muffled excitement. “She’s here, I repeat, she’s here.”
At the entrance of the Benjamin Franklin room, the aging but still beautiful woman, strode into the room. In a glittering white gown, no doubt designer wear, she cast about the room as if she was the guest of honor, her blond tresses flowing down onto her shoulder.
Before Condoleezza Rice could get to her, Hillary narrowed her eyes at the newly arrived socialite across the room. Alessandra James was here.
•••
Chevy Chase, Maryland
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 6, 2012
“She’s still in there!”
Philippe Reines and Huma Abedin, both wearing black turtlenecks and pants; the better to blend in with the night, watched from inside the SUV they rented earlier in the day. They were in a quiet residential street keeping a lookout for any sign of movement at Alessandra James’ mansion. It was a wealthy area, though McMansions dotted much of the neighborhood including Alessandra’s home. Much to their chagrin, a light still stayed on in the living room of Alessandra’s limestone McMansion. “It’s Friday night,” Philippe continued. “She should be out.”
“Maybe she’s a homebody,” Huma said. A black hard plastic case rested at her feet. She didn’t much like the stuffiness that came with staying inside vehicles for too long, but she had to concentrate.
“You’ve read her profile,” Philippe replied. “The daughter is popular. She can’t be a homebody—”
Headlights beaming onto the road, a Jeep suddenly pulled up to the side of the McMansion. A strapping young man in a hoodie sat on the driver’s seat, music blaring.
HONK HONK
The young man honked on the steering wheel once more. The front door opened, and a teenage girl ran out of the house towards the newly arrived Jeep, giggling as she did so.
Huma sat up in her seat on the passenger side knowing that it was almost time to act. Close by, Alessandra’s daughter went inside the Jeep and proceeded to French kiss her boyfriend. “Haha,” she said after their short make out session. “I thought you’d never come.”
She couldn’t quite hear what the boy said next, but Alessandra’s daughter squealed with laughter. They both shouted out obnoxiously, and the boyfriend started the Jeep and pulled it out onto the road.
They knew it was go time.
Philippe and Huma got out of their rented SUV and then hastily made their way towards the front door. “What are we looking for again?” Philippe asked.
“Not really sure,” Huma replied, the hard plastic case in hand. “Pictures, Files. Anything incriminating.”
At last, they made it to the front door. Huma kneeled down and placed the case on the ground. Opening it, she retrieved the cell jammer, a small handheld device with an antenna on top. The DSS supplied this device, and pressing
the button, Huma knew whatever home alarm system Alessandra had would be disabled. The cell jammer pulsed red, and then satisfied, she put it down and picked up another object from her case.
A lock pick.
She’d done this many times before. Continuing to kneel down, she put the pick into the turnkey.
“Hurry up, will you?” Philippe said, glancing from side to side, keeping on the lookout. “I’m not cut out for this.”
“Just a bit more . . .”
CLICK
The door went ajar, and Huma breathed a sigh of relief.
Philippe went inside, and she followed him into the darkened living room. It had an open floorplan, and the tiniest glimmer of moonlight revealed a fairly typical room. Couches facing a flat screen TV, wood flooring, and off in the corner, a quarter-turn staircase led up to the second floor. “That was easy,” Philippe said as he reached over to the light switch.
The lights turned on and more of the living room came into view. The far end of the room led into the dining room as well as the kitchen, away from view. A lighted ceiling fan hung from the ceiling, but there was something else . . .
Right in front of them, a Doberman growled and bared its teeth. It stood on all fours with menace in its eyes.
Huma stood rooted on the spot. A Doberman? she thought frantically. She didn't remember anything about a dog. Whether she liked it or not, however, the beast was about to attack.
Barking, it charged at her, no doubt ready to lunge at any moment. She couldn’t do much of anything except to shield herself with her arms. Any moment now, she thought, the dog would maul her, its hot breath closing in . . .
A spray sounded.
THUD
It took a moment, but when nothing happened, Huma peeked out from her protective stance. Philippe smirked at her, a small spray bottle in his hand. In front of her, the Doberman, who moments ago was ready to attack, now lay sprawled on the wood floor, fast asleep.