Currency War

by Lawrence B. Lindsey

  It was a great opening for a softball and the reporter grabbed it. “Mrs. Roberts, if the President were right here, what would you tell him?”

  The woman furrowed her brow to make it look like she was thinking and then came out with what was obviously a prepared home run. “I would tell him man up. He’s the president. It’s his job to stop the Chinese from stomping all over the American people.”

  “Turn it off, please,” Bernadette said. “I’m going to throw up.” Mercifully, the gate opened, letting the car in.

  In spite of the protest, she arrived early and headed straight to the Director’s office. She wanted to tell him about the weekend Ben had proposed for London.

  As she walked into the outer office she saw Lopez handing Bob Franks a sealed manila envelope and heard him say, “Good luck, son.” Franks saluted and the psychoanalyst in her detected a bit of moisture in Lopez’s eyes. She dismissed the thought but filed it away as she did so many other seemingly insignificant details.

  Lopez acknowledged her arrival with a curt nod. “So, Mrs. Coleman, exactly when were you going to tell me about going to London with your husband?”

  Bernadette realized the formality was to put her off guard. She decided whatever the reason was, she was going to play along, but make it clear she was not going to be pushed around.

  “Mr. Director, what is Agency policy on advance notice needed for a volunteer to take a day off?”

  Lopez didn’t flinch. “In my office.” He barked as if it were a command and motioned with his right arm to the open door.

  As she passed, she caught a glimpse of Lopez giving Bob Franks a pat on the shoulder. Another detail to file.

  When Lopez closed the door he said, “Bernadette, you are going to have to disappoint your husband. But I don’t want him to cancel the ticket or change the reservations.”

  “Of course, sir. Might I inquire why?”

  “Yes. But this whole thing is on a need-to-know basis. Let me just say I consider it a sound precaution based on some recent chatter. I will let your vast experience figure out the rest.”

  “Is what I just saw between you and Bob Franks need to know as well, sir?”

  Lopez knew that the “sir” was intended to unnerve him. And it did, ever so slightly. He flashed back to her use of the word volunteer and it suddenly hit him. There was zero chance she would stop helping or even slow her efforts. The woman was hooked. But he needed to acknowledge her sacrifice as he had with Franks.

  “My apologies. I was a bit out of line. You are volunteering and your service is invaluable. So let me push the envelope a bit on the need to know.

  “That young man just volunteered for duty that I would call extremely hazardous. And he did so of his own volition, bringing me information and offering to act on it without me saying anything. It may have not been the right strategy, but I was in the midst of acknowledging that when you walked in. Let’s call it bad timing, and no fault of yours.”

  Bernadette put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Hector, thank you. I caught the pride in your eyes.”

  “You mean the tear, don’t you? Not exactly in character, is it? I’m getting too damn old and sentimental for this job.”

  “Actually, it is in character. It means you care about the risks people take. You don’t view the people who work here as cannon fodder. I know you can’t tell them that. Feelings like that are never articulated, but they are displayed subliminally. Whatever Bob Franks is doing must be extraordinary and giving up a weekend in London is nothing.”

  Hector decided to end the sentimentality. “Even with Chairman Stud?”

  Bernadette withdrew her hand and said, “Hector, that was a low blow, but a good one.”

  “How’s he handling the situation now?” asked Hector.

  “Benjamin Augustus Coleman understands duty as well as you and I do, probably as well as Bob Franks. He tends to follow his own orders and not those of others, but his every waking breath is in the line of duty. Consider the trip off. He won’t like it and will want to know why, but he will salute when I tell him need to know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BERNADETTE AND HECTOR HAD AGREED that if she was going to meet Cynthia Turner for lunch, going in a CIA car was a non-starter. They were implementing the softer touch side of the plan that had been discussed at dinner. And the start was lunch at China Garden, a northern Virginia landmark for over six decades.

  She parked in the lot of a now ancient shopping center next to the restaurant seven minutes ahead of Cynthia Turner’s scheduled arrival. It would be well publicized. The motorcade would be obvious, and it would doubtless be augmented by an expanded press pool. The First Lady’s office had made sure this lunch would be well covered—that was the point of it, after all.

  Bernadette decided to use the time to touch up her makeup. It was then that she noticed the third car in the protection that Lopez had arranged. It hadn’t been hard for her to notice the first joining her as she pulled out from the long cul-de-sac that formed their neighborhood.

  The second had joined as they turned onto Route 7. Despite her training, the third car was new, and she realized it had been parked here all along to observe. The CIA was not allowed to operate as a law enforcement agency on U.S. soil, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t protect one of their key assets.

  When the motorcade came into view, she got out of the car and walked up to the entrance of China Garden. It made her part of the reception committee. The proprietor would be there, too, but would stand back as the First Lady held a brief and seemingly spontaneous press conference near the entrance. No restauranteur could ask for better advertising. There were no fewer than six cameras already in position in front of the door, the words “China Garden” were prominently displayed on the entrance awning.

  Cynthia stepped out of her limousine as soon as the accompanying Secret Service agents had given the signal. Then, as choreographed, she and Bernadette came together in front of the sticks, as the mics accompanying the camera crews were called. They gave each other pecks on both cheeks, part of your typical Tuesday lunch out with the girls—or so the casual viewer of the television news would believe.

  The First Lady stepped before the two dozen reporters crowding in with the cameras. “It is so good to get out and join my good friend Bernadette Coleman for lunch. I love the White House, but a little fresh air is good for the soul.” No one would consider the air in Seven Corners as fresh—not with forty thousand cars driving past every single day. But as with all news, this was theater.

  “To tell the truth, Mrs. Coleman and I are here because we want to emphasize the deep contribution that Chinese culture has made to American society. Chinese Americans, like people from all of the other parts of the world, have long been part of the history of this great nation of immigrants that we call America. And today, Bernadette and I are here to enjoy some fabulous dim sum.”

  Cynthia turned as if to walk in for lunch, allowing enough time for the reporters to shout questions.

  “Mrs. Turner, do you anticipate deepening hostilities between America and China?”

  “You’d have to ask my husband. Bernadette and I are here to catch up. It’s not part of our world. But I do know that the President is committed to making sure that our differences do not boil over.” She had given the administration’s answer while denying that she was here to do any such thing.

  “Mrs. Turner, what do you make of the protests now breaking out across America against the import of Chinese goods?”

  “It’s a free country and people are allowed to express their ideas peacefully in any way they wish. We are lucky that in America citizens can spontaneously organize to express their feelings. In many countries that is not allowed. It is the government that organizes the demonstrations. This is clearly not the case here.” Message delivered to Beijing.

  “Ma’am, what do you think of the boycott of Chinese goods now being called for?”

  “Folks can do what they want,
shop where they like, buy whatever suits their fancy. I really never look at labels. If I like the look of something or if it gets good reviews, I buy it. But that’s me.” Another signal sent. Housewives of America, spend your hard-earned dollars the way you want. Of course, the bit about labels was a bit of a stretch. Cynthia was wearing a Christian Dior dress, accented by pumps from Tory Burch and a Zac Posen handbag.

  “Mrs. Turner—”

  “Folks, I appreciate you all very much,” she said, “but I am really here to have lunch with a friend. And frankly, I am getting hungry.” With that she turned and made it clear she was through.

  The proprietor greeted them both at the door with the press snapping photos in the back. He knew he would have lots of photo souvenirs to collect from them.

  Once inside Bernadette took command. She spoke to the owner in Cantonese, the CIA and Secret Service having already researched his background. “Bring us an assortment of your best dim sum. I haven’t been here before, but your reputation precedes you.”

  A handsome young man in his late twenties served tea and then placed the pot on a warming plate on a nearby table. “May I get you ladies anything else right now?”

  The accent was perfect, too perfect in fact, as was his posture. Very polished and rigid. No sign of having grown up as a couch potato playing video games. He clearly had not grown up in Arlington. From his age and paler skin tone she guessed he was from northern China, quite possibly Beijing.

  Bernadette decided to try her Mandarin. “No thank you. By the way, would you mind telling me where you grew up?”

  The young man responded with enthusiasm. “Oh, you are familiar with Mandarin! Your accent is perfect, madam. It is a particular pleasure to serve you today. I grew up in Beijing. With all apologies, I am the nephew of the owner’s wife. My parents sent me here to polish up my English.”

  Switching back to English, Bernadette replied, “Well, in that case, let’s do our bit to help you. That way my friend can participate in the conversation.”

  The young man bowed ever so slightly, but his expression was blank. Surely he knew who Cynthia was, but gave no indication of it. “Thank you. You are most kind to help me.” Something in the way he said it suggested his English really didn’t need much polishing. The formality of the structure of his sentence seemed a bit put on.

  Once he left, Cynthia began the conversation. “It’s great to see you outside of that gilded cage they have us living in. I never realized how much of a prison it really is. All that security! It is supposed to be protecting us, and I suppose it is, but it also keeps us locked in. But even here it is a bit strange. There are no real customers in here! Just a couple of agents. Don’t you think the Secret Service is overdoing things a bit?”

  “I’m not sure it was just them,” Bernadette said. “Although they certainly didn’t object. Technically they can’t force the place to close down, just sweep it and all customers who might enter.”

  “Hadn’t thought of it that way. Yes, it is a blessing. But do tell me, how are you and Ben getting along? He seemed, shall we say, distracted at dinner the other night. I hope it wasn’t Will’s lapse of tact. I assure you I scolded him mercilessly. Sometimes the wide receiver in him keeps cropping to the surface.”

  “No worries. The President was most apologetic. Ben and I talked it through.”

  “Bernadette, you don’t have to spare my feelings. You and I have spent a lifetime reading men. It is in our DNA, and we wouldn’t be where we are today if we weren’t good at it. Ben was angry, and he had every right to be.”

  “I certainly won’t dispute you.” Bernadette pondered how candid to be, but something in her said this was not the time nor the place. She was saved from her quandary by the arrival of the first course served by the same handsome young man.

  “Ladies, these are shrimp dumplings. May I recommend that you try them with our sweet chili sauce?” He placed a small bowl of it between them, along with another bowl containing a darker substance. “Some people prefer the standard dipping sauce. This is a mixture of soy and rice wine with a touch of rice wine vinegar. Enjoy.” Again the young man left with a slight bow. Bernadette made note of how he exited with exacting precision.

  “I thought you gave some great answers out there,” Bernadette said, pivoting to current events. “I am not a practiced politician, but you certainly are. Three messages, each delivered. Dear public, we are not headed to war. Dear Beijing, the U.S. government is not behind these protests. Dear Wall Street, bet on stability. You left the media thinking you answered their questions. In fact, you said what you had planned to say and not a word more.”

  The women wolfed down the dumplings until Bernadette was stabbing at the last one with her chopsticks. As if on cue, the waiter returned.

  “My uncle’s own creation. A pork-and-vegetable mixture combined with bean threads and wrapped in an ultra-thin rice noodle wrap. It is then very lightly fried. I suggest some hot mustard, but this is good with any of the sauces.” He placed a small bowl of mustard on the table and then refilled their teacups from the pot on the warmer.

  “This is good,” Cynthia said. “I stuck to my half grapefruit for breakfast, so I am famished. But if I don’t slow down, I will be heading for a nap.” She paused, then returned to the subject at hand. “Thanks for the compliment. Strange what a campaign will do. You run the same basic thing day after day and the media calls it a stump speech. They stop covering it and try to force you off point by creating some irrelevant issue or scandal and asking you only about that. The discipline is to use the new stock answer then pivot back to the core message you want delivered and make it seem as seamless as possible.”

  “You’ve certainly mastered it,” Bernadette said. “As well as when and how to end the conference. That was brilliant. And I suppose it had the added advantage of being true. We were both hungry.” Bernadette saw Cynthia nibbling on the pork wrap and decided to let her eat. “You know, in my profession the key is to stick to the truth as closely as possible, whether on a mission or if interrogated. The key to success is always omission, not commission.”

  “Bernadette,” the First Lady smiled, “you didn’t even catch your own little Freudian slip. You said, ‘my profession.’ I thought your profession was a bored suburban housewife who took to writing to add interest to her days.” She gave a huge grin to show that the ribbing was good natured. What she didn’t know was that it exposed a small piece of vegetable stuck to one of her teeth.

  “Cynthia—” Bernadette made a move to scrape to the mirror image of the tooth in her own mouth, knowing that the First Lady would subconsciously follow. She did, and they both laughed. They now had a reason to be slightly embarrassed, enjoying the fact that they were developing an actual friendship.

  “You love what you’re doing, don’t you?” Cynthia asked. “Getting back into the action. Everyone says you are the best. And I need not remind you, it is not that you once were the best. It is that you are the best. It is hard to stray far from the gift that you were given, and you do have a gift. Even in your writing you were playing it out. Fiction can be a real release, can’t it?”

  The waiter returned. Oddly though, the two Secret Service agents were quietly coming up to the table behind him. “I hope you enjoyed the pork. This is your classic lettuce wrap, a dish for sharing.”

  One of the agents put a finger to his lips. Then lifted the warmer under the tea pot to reveal a small microphone.

  The waiter saw Bernadette’s gaze go over his shoulder and turned in time to see the agent with the warmer in his hand and the other agent pulling handcuffs out from his belt. The waiter bolted toward the table and sunk his hand under his shirt.

  “GUN!”

  Bernadette reacted instantly. With one hand she lifted the edge of the table and pushed it into the waiter, then came out of her chair and leapt at the First Lady, pushing her out of her chair and landing on top of her, cradling the top of her head with one hand.

  “Don’t
move—”

  There was a clatter and a loud thud, followed by the reassuring click of a pair of handcuffs.

  “It’s all right, ladies.”

  Bernadette raised up from on top of Cynthia Turner. “Well, this is awkward.”

  “Nonsense,” said the First Lady. “Thank you.”

  Bernadette helped her to her feet and brushed off her dress before starting on her own.

  “False alarm,” said one of the agents. He held a small tube of lip balm between two fingers.

  Bernadette held out her hand. “May I?” The agent handed it to her. She pulled off the cap and studied the balm. “Chapped lips?” she said in Mandarin.

  The waiter nodded.

  “It’s open but hasn’t been used.” She rolled the balm out of the tube and scratched at the waxy substance. The waiter strained against his captors as she did. She rubbed the balm between her fingers until it revealed a small object the size of a pea. “Potassium cyanide,” she said. “A popular item in the intelligence community since the Second World War.”

  One of the agents shook the waiter. “You little bastard—”

  “Not for the First Lady,” said Bernadette. “For himself.” She turned to the waiter. “You have some explaining to do.”

  The agent holding the waiter said, “Somebody does.” Then he turned his head toward the kitchen and in almost a shout called out, “Mr. Shu, would you come out here please?”

  The proprietor stepped out of the kitchen and the color dropped from his face when he saw the overturned table, the disheveled women, and his nephew in handcuffs. He hurried over to the table.

  “How long have you known this man?” It was the agent who had revealed the microphone.

  Shu stumbled a bit. “He is my wife’s nephew; his parents asked us to take him in while he studied English. Is there a problem?”