Noel Hynd - Conspiracy in Kiev

Janet got to her knees in the bedroom.

The second transmitter fit perfectly under the headboard of the bed. Janet smirked as she fixed it in nicely. Bedroom bugs were endlessly entertaining.

She jumped back to her feet. Test time. Using her cell phone, Janet accessed both transmitters and primed them. They worked perfectly.

Great. Keep moving.

Another thirty-six seconds and she was out of the apartment and into the hall. Less than three minutes had passed. She gave a thumbs-up to Carlos, who was still standing guard.

No words were spoken.

Carlos went back to the elevators and turned them on. Janet popped into her uncle’s place and dropped off the DVDs. She’d get her feedback this evening as, again by coincidence, she was planning to come over for dinner and some tutoring on a graduate history course she was taking.

She retrieved her parka from the utility closet.

In another five minutes, she was crossing the lobby to leave. The doorman winked at her. She smiled and winked back. Secretly she was grossed out. He was probably three times her age.

A rich older man, well, that would be something else! But a doorman…? No way!

Carlos was already back out to the street via the service entrance.

They rendezvoused in the car shortly thereafter. Their day was going well. They just had one other job that day. Considering they were funded by the taxpayers, they were an outstanding example of governmental efficiency.

O utside, another unusually cold winter evening chilled the city of Washington. In her office, Alex shut down her primary desktop. She checked the email on her secondary computer, the one that carried classified material, and spotted a message that had come in minutes earlier. The sender wasn’t anyone she recognized. She grimaced. “I’m never going to get out of here today,” she whispered to herself. She clicked her mouse to open the email. Hopefully it was something she could dispatch easily.

The correspondence opened. Might have known.

For her eyes only: THIS IS A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION FROM THE GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND IS INTENDED FOR THE ADDRESSEE ONLY. IF YOU HAVE RECEIVED THIS EMAIL IN ERROR PLEASE IMMEDIATELY DELETE THE EMAIL AND ANY ATTACHMENTS WITHOUT READING OR OPENING THEM.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered, slightly louder. She had lately developed the habit of speaking to the computer, usually insultingly, when she was not happy with what was on the screen. The final hours of a long day often brought forth the habit.

But there was no changing the message. She had been summoned to a specially arranged meeting at the State Department the next morning. Main Building on C Street NW, only about a twenty minute walk from Treasury along Pennsylvania Avenue and then down Twenty-first Street. Room 6776 B. No further details. She was to be there at 8:00 a.m.

She stared at the text for a moment. Was this email official or some sort of late hours after work prank? The State Department?

Streamlined and reorganized in 2007, FinCen was a division of Treasury, which interfaced with other American intelligence agencies: the FBI, the National Intelligence Service, the CIA, the recently overhauled Immigration and Naturalization Service. It was through this connection that Alex knew a man named Robert Timmons. Timmons was an agent of the United States Secret Service, assigned to the Presidential Protection Detail at the White House. He was also her fiance, the wedding scheduled for the following July. On Alex’s left hand, she wore the diamond that Robert had given her.

The Presidential Protective Detail, these days known as “Einstein Duty.” All the presidents had their nicknames among the men and women of the Secret Service who guarded them. Clinton had been “Elvis.” Clinton’s successor, Bush 43, had been the “Shrub.” This president, newly elected the previous November, was Einstein, a tribute to not how smart the president was, but how smart the president thought the president was. That, and a certain distracted way with clothing.

A slight smile crossed her lips as she reconsidered this email.

Maybe…

She picked up the phone. She called Robert at the White House.

In addition to being one of the new president’s bodyguards, Tim-mons was also a liaison officer between the United States Secret Service and foreign protective services. He wasn’t above sending her an amusing personal message disguised as a work document. He came on the line. His tone said all business.

“Hey,” she said. “Is this the Black Dog?”

His tone softened and changed as he recognized her voice.

“Hey,” he answered. “That’s what some people call me.”

“Know anything about this meeting I’ve been summoned to tomorrow morning?”

A pause, then, “I know all about it,” he said.

“Why do you know all about it and I don’t?” she asked. “Or is this a trick to get me to call you so we can have a late dinner?”

“I’ll accept the late dinner,” he said, “but the State Department thing is legit.” A pause, then, “Think Orange Revolution.”

A beat, then she had it. “Ukraine? The old Soviet Republic?”

“Bingo. Presidential visit to Kiev in one month. I hope your passport is current.”

“The passport is current, but I’m not. Can’t you scratch my name off the list?”

“I suppose I could have, but I didn’t.”

“After nearly getting blown apart in Lagos, the only place I wish to travel to is the gym. Right now.” She glanced at her watch. Almost 7:00 p.m.

He was silent on the line.

“Then, Greek food later?” he asked.

“Why not?” Her tone was one of resignation. “Maybe I can impale myself on one of the skewers. Or better, I’ll impale you for not knocking my name out of contention.”

“Perfect,” he answered. “I’ll see you at the Athenian at ten.”

“Bring flowers,” she said. “I’m furious with you.”

“I wouldn’t dare arrive without them,” he said.

Alexandra and Robert had first met four years earlier in Washington.

Their respective employers required that they continue their “second language” studies. So both had signed up for advanced Spanish literature at Georgetown University.

They read bizarre but intriguing South American novels in the original Spanish, which they both spoke fluently. Characters could talk directly to angels, demons, and sometimes even God. They sprouted wings and flew. They wore magic rings, mated with wild animals, and slipped in and out of various universes.

Alex and Robert hit it off right away, bonding over shared experiences: rural blue-collar work-Alex had worked on a cattle ranch as a teenager, Robert put himself through college working on a dairy farm during summers in Michigan, feeding the livestock, hauling hay, shoveling manure, and taking the occasional dead calf out for burial. A few weeks after the course ended, the Secret Service assigned Robert to Seattle, then to San Francisco, while Alex worked out of FBI bureaus in Philadelphia and New York. They did not see each other for three years. Later, in 2006, when Robert was assigned to the White House and she had taken a job at Treasury, he tracked her down.

He was a Secret Service agent, but he was also a guy with a golden Labrador retriever named Terminator, whom he referred to as “my kid from a previous relationship.” He was Alex’s chess partner, a guy who wore a Detroit Tigers cap at home while he watched sports on TV, often reading a new book at the same time. He was a four-handicap golfer and an amateur guitarist. Unlike anyone else she knew in law enforcement, he could play the opening riffs from Led Zep’s “Black Dog.” This had given him a great nickname in his class at the Secret Service Academy in Turco, Georgia.