by Ward Salud
There wasn’t much need to explain as evidenced by the knock out spray in Philippe’s hand. “Like I said,” he bragged. “Easy.”
•••
Hillary cackled with laughter as the Assistant Secretary of State for South and Central Asian Affairs, Robert O. Blake Jr. nervously laughed back, clearly not sure why his joke was such a hit. Around them, the Patrons of Diplomacy event continued without a hitch. Guests and dignitaries conversed with themselves, while waiters, in formal wear, walked amongst them carrying trays of either hors d’oeuvres or drinks such as shrimp cocktail or Spanish ham with tomato and basil on flatbread or, Hillary’s favorite, tall glasses of champagne.
The Assistant Secretary of State’s expression then turned grave. “On a serious matter, Madame Secretary,” the brown haired State department employee said. “There’ve been reports of trouble in Kashmir. After Benghazi, we have to watch out for anything.”
Hillary, finished with her cackle, immediately wondered whether she overdid it. “I assure you, Mr. Assistant Secretary,” she replied even as she kept a close eye on Alessandra in the distance. She had been waiting for her chance to engage the socialite, but she always seemed to be in conversation as well as always seeming to have a glass in hand. At the moment, Alessandra playfully hit the chest of a man in a slick tuxedo, who eyed her back with interest. The man’s wife seemed to not have as good a time as the other two. “I’ll keep the relations of India and Pakistan well in mind.”
Far across, Hillary saw the man’s wife take her husband away from Alessandra. She finally saw her move. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, quickly moving away before she was dragged into another conversation.
She smiled at the various guests as she made her way through, careful not to engage anyone else in conversation. Ahead, Alessandra stood alone, looking around as if uncomfortable being by herself.
Hillary was ready too and hurried more, even bumping against a chair, but she kept going . . .
Two individuals stepped in the way, hindering her progress. Before her, an attractive bald man and a matronly older woman looked at Hillary excitedly but nervously. “Madame Secretary, Adam Parkhomenko,” the bald man said as he reached out and shook Hillary’s hand, who had no choice but to shake back.
“Allida Black,” the matronly woman said.
“Um,” Adam said and his eyes glanced to the side as if trying to remember something rehearsed. “We’re from Ready for Hillary.”
Recognizing the group, an unauthorized Super PAC, though quietly encouraged by her political allies, that advocated her run for the presidency in 2016, she held her breath, but she managed to keep her composure. “Well hello,” she said as she smiled back at them. Keep eye contact, Hillary reminded herself. Show interest.
“We’re big fans,” Adam said. Allida beside him laughed nervously.
“We’d just like to say, we hope you run in 2016,” she added. Their eyes looked upon her eagerly.
Hillary smiled demurely. She had her stock answer ready to go. “I’m flattered, but as you know, I’m out of politics,” she replied. Once more, she glanced back at Alessandra, who still stood by herself, sipping on her champagne. “I thank you for your efforts,” she said to them. “Excuse me,”
As she expertly extricated herself, Adam and Allida looked back at her with stricken faces as if their world had been shattered.
“Coast is clear,” Cheryl’s voice said in her earpiece.
“Roger that,” Hillary whispered back even as she made her way to Alessandra, who had finally noticed the Secretary of State heading towards her.
“Madame Secretary,” she said, leaning forward for an air kiss.
“Hi!” she said back, mustering as much enthusiasm as she could. Their cheeks touched one after another followed by a “mwah,” completing the air kiss. “Thank you for becoming a Patron of Diplomacy!”
“It’s the least I could do . . .” Alessandra looked confused for a moment. “To do whatever a patron diplomat does.” She then stood up taller as though she did something right and smiled back insincerely. “Always proud to help.”
“And we’re always proud to see concerned Americans such as yourself take a keen interest in preserving America’s treasures,” Hillary said. She knew she had to turn the conversation around from these inanities. Underneath the eager exterior, she already knew from David Brock’s “oppo” research that Alessandra didn’t try to meet contacts in the government out of altruism.
As she held her champagne in her hand, Alessandra’s eyes turned cold. “I hope the Madame Secretary would keep in mind my generous donation to your cause.”
Hillary decided not to bother with the niceties and her smile vanished. “Let’s get down to business,” she said, leaning close. “I hear you’re interested in procuring defense materials . . .”
•••
Philippe Reines threw his hands up in the air. “There’s nothing in this whole house!” Around them, Alessandra’s master bedroom was a flurry of opened cabinets, rummaged clothes, and spread out paper. Boxes piled up on the king sized bed, topped with comforter sheets.
Huma, bent down and searching the opened drawers of a dresser, tried to ignore Philippe’s grousing. She knew something was here, her intuition told her so. Yet, the drawer she searched only contained things like Alessandra’s jewelry or a set of cash. She felt slightly guilty that they were rummaging through someone’s personal effects like this. She knew what that felt like.
“What are we going to tell Hillary?” Philippe cried out, sitting down on the bed and crossing his arms. “Maybe Brock was wrong.”
She shook her head. “No,” Huma said quietly. It was around here somewhere, she just knew it.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something. In the back of a drawer, a felt liner stuck up as though . . .
She reached in and pulled up the felt, moving the other items out of the way. Carefully, the felt opened up and Huma breathed in. There was something there.
Underneath, there was a piece of paper and she reached in with her hand.
Curious, Philippe stood back up from the bed and went towards Huma by the drawer cabinet. “What’d you find?”
“I don’t know . . .” She grabbed the paper and then held it up to the light. Seeing it, Philippe looked at Huma worriedly.
The letters, made of what looked to be of papyrus, gleamed in the light as both Huma and Philippe stared up intently.
They were written in Arabic.
CHAPTER NINE
BISTRO CAPITALE
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
OCTOBER 9, 2012
Huma looked around expectantly as she sat in a corner booth of Bistro Capitale. The trendy DC hotspot was just the type of place Alessandra James would want to be seen, holding a view of busy Pennsylvania Avenue outside. Inside, the restaurant had a streamlined, contemporary aesthetic with modern light fixtures and light wood paneling on the walls. Warm light bathed the restaurant from the bank of windows facing the bustling sidewalk, while the various young professionals at this lunch hour solidified its reputation as one of DC’s trendiest restaurants.
Across from Huma, a couple eyed her surreptitiously, clearly recognizing her as Hillary’s assistant, but she tried to not notice them and hoped they wouldn’t disrupt her mission.
Last weekend, they had discovered letters in Alessandra’s home. Being fluent in Arabic, she had told Philippe of the contents of the letters before taking photographs and spiriting away. The official translation from the Arabists back at “The Building,” confirmed the same thing.
Love letters.
They were love letters. Apparently, #2 had a flair for the poetic, and in those letters, he expressed his undying love for her. As to how they met or where, she didn’t know, and now having figured out their torrid affair, they set up this meeting where hopefully, Alessandra will give up the whereabouts of #2.
“Vanity Fair, do you read?” Hillary said,
referring to Huma’s code name. Her boss was back in “The Building” in the Hillaryland Ops room where they had set up shop for this mission.
She quietly pressed a finger to her ear. “I copy,” she whispered back. Her Marc Jacobs tote bag rested beside her on the seat.
“Good,” Philippe’s mischievous voice chimed in. “Because the target is heading in. Good luck, Huma. Operation Homing Beacon is a go!”
Huma sat up in the leather seating of the corner booth in preparation for her “guest.” She had earlier invited her to brunch in a text, and today was the day of the appointment.
The glass doors opened, and Alessandra sauntered in. Wearing a Saks Fifth Avenue low-cut blouse and skirt, the blond housewife walked in as if everyone in the restaurant worked for her. Louis Vuitton purse in hand, large aviator glasses framed her face, concealing eyes that no doubt looked down upon the rest of the restaurant goers.
Huma waved at Alessandra and motioned to her with fake enthusiasm. She hoped it looked genuine. Noticing her, Alessandra had a smug expression on her lips and then headed over. At last, they met.
“Glad to finally meet you!” Huma said as she gave her an air kiss on one cheek.
“Hillary mentioned you!” Alessandra said with a raised voice, making sure the rest of the restaurant could hear the name-drop even as they finished the air kiss.
“So sorry for being late,” Alessandra continued as she sat down on her seat across from Huma’s own corner booth seating. She removed her aviator glasses and put it into her purse, which she put right beside her close to the window. Huma inched closer in her seating, making herself comfortable, and smiled at her “friend,” trying to act as interested as possible. “You know DC traffic,” Alessandra finished. She made an eye-roll as though stating the obvious.
“Oh I know,” Huma said, widening her eyes for effect. “I—”
“Like my jewelry?” Alessandra interrupted. She pushed out her chest to show off the necklace she wore, a clasped piece with a blue diamond at the center. “I bought it yesterday. Fifteen grand.”
Huma peered over and bulged out her eyes, trying to seem impressed. “Oh, that’s so lovely,” she said.
A college-aged waiter came to their table and gave the two women the restaurant menus. The foldout menus displayed “Bistro Capitale” in fancy lettering with a delectable picture of fried chicken atop a fancy dish, which emphasized the restaurant’s raison d’etre of American food with a French twist. “Welcome, ladies,” the confident waiter said. “What drinks would you like this afternoon? Our drink special today is the Citrus Manhattan.”
“I’ll have that one,” Alessandra said. “Make that two,”
“Just spring water for me,” Huma said.
The waiter nodded at both of them and then promptly left their table. As he did so, Alessandra checked him out especially his behind. “He’s cute,” she said to Huma. “And nice butt too.”
“Oh,” Huma said, quickly looking over at the departing waiter. She didn’t disagree about the waiter’s good looks, but she had her Anthony. “Totally.”
Alessandra made a closed-mouth smile and then folded open the menu. Huma did the same. She’d been to this restaurant before with Anthony and her baby so she knew how good the food was although she knew she wasn’t going to order. She had to focus on her mission.
“Everything looks so yummers,” Alessandra said, reading through the menu.
Huma looked down, and on the menu, it displayed the various platters and entrees ready for order.
“What are you getting?” Alessandra asked.
“Um,” Huma said, giving the menu another cursory look before folding it closed again. “I’m not that hungry,” she replied and then gave her a closed-mouth smile of her own.
Alessandra stopped for a moment and then placed a hand over hers. “I understand,” she said to her even as she patted her hand. “You’re on a government salary,” she finished, giving her a pitied look.
Huma only smiled back, trying to keep her composure in the situation.
The waiter finally arrived back to their table, carrying the tray with their drinks over his forearm. “Here you go,” he said, placing the drinks onto the table. Huma took her glass of water, removed the top of the straw wrapper, and took a sip. The cool taste gave her something to concentrate on besides Alessandra, which calmed her down.
He then took a notepad from his waist and folded it open. “What can I get for you, ladies,” he asked, pen in hand.
“I’ll have the Frisée salad,” she said, handing the menu over and staring confidently at Huma. “Nothing for her,” she added.
The waiter glanced over at Huma, and she nodded back. “Good choice,” he said, writing down the orders. “It’ll arrive shortly,” he finished.
“Hurry it along,” Hillary said in her earpiece as the waiter took away their menus and began to leave their table.
Huma tried not to act like she heard anything, but she knew she had to get down to business. “So,” she said to Alessandra as she swirled the straw in her spring water. “I heard you had some special interests . . .”
Alessandra glanced at her for a moment and then raised her chin up.
“We can, of course,” Huma added. “Reserve one for you. A, um, certain plane, ultra-exclusive of course.”
The waiter returned and placed a basket of Bistro Capitale’s famous complimentary French bread, its aroma wafting in the air.
After the waiter finished serving the bread, he grinned confidently at the women, but seeing that they ignored him, focusing on each other instead, his grin vanished. Rubbing the back of his neck as though hoping no one noticed, he left their table again.
Alessandra waited until the waiter was out of view before she spoke again. “Actually,” she said as she moved the breadbasket off to the side. Huma took a sip of her spring water. “I already have one. I got it a week ago . . . from my own sources.”
As she sipped, the water caught in the back of Huma’s throat. “What?” she said, coughing. Some of the water from her glass spilled onto the table. “What do you mean?”
Voices inside her earpiece erupted into panic.
“Oh my God, Oh my God,” Philippe cried out.
“What did she say?” Jake asked.
“How’d she get one? No one’s allowed to get one,” Cheryl said even as Hillary tried to shout over the raised voices.
“Calm down, everybody. Calm down!”
The blast of noise caused Huma to snap her head away adding another booming noise to her ear.
Alessandra looked at her oddly. “Something wrong?” she asked.
The booming noise receded in Huma’s ear. “Nothing,” she said. She wanted to brush her ear to clear the sound away, but she bore through the inconvenience. “It was, um, the water. It tasted funny.”
“Alright,” Alessandra said, shrugging. She then swirled her straw into her Citrus Manhattan. “So. . .” she said, looking at her keenly.
Huma suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. “So what?”
“You know . . .” A wily smile came to her lips. “Anthony. I saw what he texted.” She glanced from side to side enjoying every moment of titillation. “You must be a very satisfied woman.”
Her skin flushed hot. She knew Alessandra talked about Anthony’s sexting scandal a year ago where he sent some compromising pictures to several young women. His actions had real world consequences including being forced to resign his Congressional seat.
Huma gulped, and though she tried to maintain her calm, she got angry a bit. It was a private matter, and this woman had no right even as Alessandra waited for her to dish out the gossip. “I—uh,” she stammered. “I—uh”
The waiter arrived holding up the tray in hand. Atop it, an elegant Frisée salad rested. “Hello, ladies,” he said to them as Alessandra eyed him annoyedly. He put the tray down onto the stand and placed the salad in front of the socialite. “Anything else I can get for you?” he said, grinning once more and f
lashing his smile again.
“That’s all,” Alessandra said curtly. The waiter’s smile vanished once more, and bending his head down in disappointment, he left them again.
“Spike her food!” Philippe chimed in from the earpiece. “You have benzodiazepines in your purse. I put it there!”
“Bring her in for questioning,” Hillary added.
Huma eyed Alessandra who had taken a forkful of her Frisée salad topped with lardons and creamy poached egg along with a vinaigrette on the side that rested on a square, blindingly white plate, and then, she went to her tote bag to check for the drug.
“We’ve readied a call,” the Secretary of State continued. “Arriving . . . now.”
Sure enough, from inside Alessandra’s purse, the phone vibrated. “Excuse me,” she said, placing her forkful of Frisée salad back on the plate and then turned to pick up the purse beside her.
Huma quickly grabbed the benzodiazepine powder and spread the drug over her food. The benzodiazepine scattered onto the Frisée salad.
Alessandra placed the purse onto her lap and took her phone out. “Who was it?” Huma asked as Alessandra checked her phone.
“I didn’t recognize the number,” Alessandra said, putting the phone back into her purse and placing her bag beside her once more. Huma smiled back, though she did make a quick glance over to Alessandra’s now spiked salad. There, she thought.
At last, Alessandra ate a bite of her Frisée salad as Huma watched expectantly. “Mmmm,” she said, closing her eyes. Her mouth crunched down as though savoring every morsel. A few more bites, Huma thought. Then the drug should take its effect.
“That was delicious,” she said, and Huma raised her eyebrows in agreement.
Huma waited for her to stab another portion of the Frisée with her fork, but then, Alessandra put the fork down and then wiped her hands. “All done,” she said.
“What?” Huma asked.
“On a diet,” Alessandra said with smug satisfaction. “I gotta go,” she finished and began to gather up her purse.
“You, you can’t,” Huma stammered, causing Alessandra to look back at her quizzically. Feeling suddenly on the spot, Huma quickly thought of an answer. “We—we just got here.”