On Scope

28

Mrs. Mary Monroe was in her early forties, in her prime, and she owed it all to her loving husband, Senator Jordan Monroe. It was very sad that they could not stand being in each other’s lives for too long at any one time. She still liked him very much, just not in that way, so they had developed a comfortable relationship of living apart and getting together on occasional weekends. Neither wanted a divorce.

Mary was eleven years younger and a political asset to the senator in Washington with her beauty and grace. That standing was fueled by his growing power within the military, which had led to her being hired by a defense contractor as a vice president with unspecified duties and a middle-six-figure salary, plus generous benefits in New York. In the old union days, it would have been called a “no-show” job. A fair trade for everybody involved, she thought.

“I love you, Jordan,” she cooed into the little telephone. “Do you want to come up this weekend? We could catch a play, and I’ll take you to a decent restaurant.”

“Love to, hon, but I can’t. Three fund-raisers and two churches back home. Want to come along for the BBQ and some hymns?” The senator had his eyes closed, single malt Scotch in hand, and was sprawled on his sofa. It was dark both inside and outside of his apartment in the Watergate. “Been a helluva day.”

She checked the antique clock on an oak bookshelf. Fifteen more minutes before Richard showed up for their date to see Rossini’s Moses in Egypt at the City Center. Rural Missouri and endless miles between the ditches and drippy BBQ and uncomfortable pews and grip-and-grins sounded awful. It made her wince just to think about it. “Then how about just the two of us spending the weekend in bed?” she countered with a purr. “I can still make a mean omelet.”

“That’s more like it,” he said with a short laugh. They might not be together often, but Mary was still the woman in his life. Mistresses came and went. She had made a deal to campaign in Missouri with him four weekends every year, and this one was not on the calendar. “Really. Let’s do it soon. I miss you.”

She looked at the skyline, where the neon and traffic of Manhattan were calling for Mary Monroe to come out and play. With the flick of a fingernail, she adjusted an eyebrow. The blue dress clung to her figure, and the jewelry accented it. “Me, too,” she admitted. “I’m going to the opera tonight.”

“Girlfriend or boyfriend?”

“Half and half: Richard.”

That brought a loud guffaw from the senator. Richard was an artistic director from the West Village and her squire on speed-dial when she needed an escort. He was a good guy, as was his life partner, Phil, the backup escort. Both men looked great in tuxedos. “Have a good time, honey.”

“I will. You stay out of trouble down there.”

“You know me. Always one step ahead of the alligators. Talk to you later.”

“Bye. Try to have fun in Missouri.” Mary hung up. She would go to the opera and the reception with Richard, but probably would not come home with him. Jordan wouldn’t care, just as she didn’t care whom he slept with as long as it was discreet. It was not important, and was part of their deal.

He tossed the phone aside and exhaled a long, tired breath. It was rare that he had an evening to call his own, but barring some end-of-the-world cataclysm, the senator planned to do some serious nothing tonight. He struggled out of the big sofa, picked up the remote, and started the hidden Bose sound system. Kat Edmonson’s silky jazz voice over a background piano softened the room. From the fridge, he snared a cold German brew, then snapped off the kitchen light as he went to his bedroom. The clothes came off leisurely and were scattered without thought. In the bathroom, the Jacuzzi tub filled, and steam clouded from the surface of the bubbling water.

Naked, he eased into the hot pool and slid down, resting his head on the sloping end. He placed a folded washcloth across his eyes, took a sip of beer, and felt the problems of his world lose some weight. He had called the Arab guy, Rebiane, and passed along the desired information, and that should be the last of him. By Monday, Doug would have dreamed up some way to tip the authorities about the extortionist while keeping Julie Scott and Michelle safe from being kidnapped again. He knew that the next time, they wouldn’t be returned, and that scared him. Well, Douglas was a very clever boy. He would think of something.

The bath bubbled and whirred, and Senator Jordan Monroe hovered on the edge of sleep. Then the bubbles stopped.

“Hello.”

Monroe snatched the wet cloth from his eyes. A woman in black jeans and sweater was seated with her legs crossed on a little chair, staring at him. He blinked and she came into sharper focus, although the lights in the bathroom had been switched off and there was only the background light from the bedroom. She had dark hair. Against one cheek, she rested a big pistol.

“What? Who?” he sputtered.

Sybelle Summers kept her voice low and even and threatening. “You have been asking a lot of questions about Task Force Trident, Senator Monroe. Well, here I am.”

The senator caught his breath and tried to assert his authority, demanding, “How the hell did you get in?”

“It’s what I do,” she said. “People have been breaking into the Watergate since 1972, back in the Nixon years. It isn’t exactly rocket science.”

He gripped the green beer bottle tightly and saw her adjust the pistol in response. A thin red laser beam darted out, and she pointed it at his groin. “Don’t even think about throwing that bottle. I came only to talk, so be a good boy and I won’t have to shoot you.”

“This is absurd. Why would you shoot me?”

“That’s another thing I do.”

“I’m a United States senator.” Bluster.

“I’m an executioner.” Total calm. “I kill high-value targets who are enemies of my country. People like you.”

He stirred as if about to get up. “You’re crazy. Don’t you know that I will call the police as soon as you leave?”

Summers ignored him and put a boot on the side of the tub. The red dot danced along his bare chest. “Not if you’re dead. Why are you asking about Trident?”

“I’m not telling you anything, Ms. Whoever You Are. Get the fuck out of here right now, or I will have your damned head on a plate. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Why are you asking about Kyle Swanson?”

“None of your business, bitch. Leave now. Send this Gunny Swanson by to see me. Maybe I’ll be willing to talk with him, face-to-face.”

“He’s dead, Senator. You wouldn’t enjoy that at all.” Sybelle got to her feet, the gun hand steady, the red beam traveling up and down his body. “You’re going to have a dreadful home accident getting out of the tub. Maybe you grabbed for the towel rack and missed, and cracked your skull open on this nice tile floor. Stand up.”

“Like hell I will!”

He could see her better now, and she still wore that curious smile. “Well, a suicide in the tub would work, too. So depressed over your treason that you shoot yourself in the head; the blood will be contained and easily washed away. Electrocution is also possible.” She cocked her head to one side and listened to a voice in a small earbud. “How long?” she asked, talking into a small microphone. “OK. I’ll be done by then.”

The senator suddenly realized this woman was not bluffing. She was willing to kill him right in the bathroom. The color dropped from his face. “Who are you?”

“A kindly night visitor with a warning. You’re on our map now, and that is never a good place to be, because you can’t get off of it.” She put away her weapon. “I am an omen of bad things yet to come for you tonight, Senator Monroe. I will let myself out, but remember that we can reach you anytime we need to. Run, and I will find you. Try to expose us, and I will kill you. Right now, I advise you to dry off and get dressed. Two FBI agents have unknowingly saved your life with a nick-of-time arrival, just like in the movies. They apparently are here to take you over to the White House.”

Then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the apartment, somehow leaving without a sound. The senator stayed in the water, gulping air in fright.

Receiving a telephone call in the early morning hours never troubled billionaire financier Sheikh Marwan Tirad Sobhi, who only slept an average of four hours a night anyway, with a one-hour rest after lunch. Business was always being done somewhere in the world, and his skill at timing when a deal needed to close for the best price and advantage was widely known, thanks to a Fortune magazine profile six months ago. This was no ordinary call, and that made him instantly alert. On the other end of the conversation, in Seville, Daniel Torreblanca of the Islamic Progress Bank and the Group of Six was falling apart.

“They almost killed me tonight, Sheikh. The killer came right into my house! He took a picture of my child!” There were loud voices in the background, children and women crying and men shouting.

Interesting, the sheikh thought. “How are you still alive?”

Torreblanca coughed. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Four of the private guards, some of Rebiane’s best men, were slaughtered outside. The rest are all around us now, when it’s too late. They are useless morons.” His voice dropped softer. “The police are also investigating. I wanted to call and let you know what happened.”

For Sobhi, several decisions needed to be made, and the first was easy. “Then our meeting at your place in Seville tomorrow evening is obviously not going to happen. Rebiane and his gorilla boy are probably on the way, but you can inform them that I will not come to an unsecure location. Add that I am once again disappointed with both of them.”

The man in Spain understood. “I cannot blame you. I would do the same in your shoes.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Marwan, he took a picture of my son, right outside my bedroom door! A man must protect his family.”

The sheikh knew Torreblanca was under incredible stress. “That is true, my friend. Are you going to continue the Spain project?”

Another pause. “I regret that I cannot do that, Sheikh. Three of our friends have already fallen, and I was obviously the next target. I will tell Rebiane when he arrives that a replacement is needed for me, at least to give me some distance from the publicity. My bank’s directors will react strongly tomorrow when they learn that I am in real danger and the bank’s reputation might be tarnished. I doubt if they will continue to support the Spain plan. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“This is not your fault, Daniel. Look, my friend, business deals fall through all the time for thousands of different reasons. I thought this project might have been overly ambitious from the start. Conquering Spain for Islam remains a noble cause, and we should continue to support it in the future. But we could have helped our faith there without bringing down this backlash of revenge on ourselves. The Rebianes mishandled it.”

The sheikh wanted to get off the telephone and contact his own security chief. Torreblanca had been spared, but that did not mean Marwan Tirad Sobhi was no longer a target. It was time for a vacation. “So I also am out of the plan. We are bankers and financial experts, Daniel, not street-slum fighters. We will live to give battle another day, in our own way.”

“Then the money pipeline will close on your end as well?”

“Yes. I am happy that you survived, my friend. Now take your family on a holiday while I leak to the financial press that the Group of Six has ceased to exist, and its offer to help the Spaniards recover from their recession is withdrawn. That should remove the threat to our lives.”

“Barcelona.”

“Probably. Djahid Rebiane could have just worked in the background and let Spain endure its riots. The nation is still rotting from the inside and not going to get any better for at least a decade. There was no need to goad the Americans with such a violent attack when simple bribes probably would have worked to advance the cause.”

Torreblanca had already settled down. “Yanis will be furious.”

“Tell him that his old-style terrorism is nothing but a pinprick to Americans anymore. They are a tough people. Look at how they reacted to the Boston Marathon and other strikes; instead of being fearful, they are rising in wrath, and the Congress passed that new NSOS Act that tightens the security net even more. All Djahid and Yanis accomplished was to alter the way in which Washington responds. They did not go after the actual perpetrators of the crime in Barcelona, but immediately came instead after us, the sponsor! It took years for them to track Osama bin Laden to the ends of the earth, but we were placed in the crosshairs in a matter of days. No amount of protection is good enough to stop them if they want to eliminate someone.”

“We probably need to prove that we are no longer involved, Sheikh. They may not accept our words and back-channel signals.”

Sheikh Marwan Tirad Sobhi agreed. “I concur. Let us feed them something valuable. Like Djahid, the Barcelona butcher.”

“Yasim, too?”

“If necessary. Probably.”