Andrew Britton - The Operative

Closing the app, he put the phone back into his pocket and realized the line in front of him had shortened while he’d stood there tweeting. It was still another ten minutes before he reached the cashier and five more before somebody gave him his order in one of those cardboard carrying trays that resembled egg crates.

Colin eased from the roiling mass of customers to look for a table, saw one on his left, and rushed over, holding his tray in front of him. A woman in a huggy tan-colored blouse and loose-fitting Capri pants with a big stuffed photographer’s satchel on her shoulder stood directly between him and the table. He noticed her partly because she was very attractive, and also because she seemed strangely oblivious to the hustle and bustle around her-neither recruiter nor job seeker.

Reporter?

He was squeezing past the woman when she abruptly turned, banging her satchel into his elbow so hard that his soda cup tipped over sideways. Halting in his tracks, Colin tried to catch it with one hand but was too late. It had spilled over everything else on the tray, drenching his chili dog and fries in a foaming puddle of Coke.

Colin’s angry eyes snapped up at the woman. She was oblivious to their collision, and it was then that he saw the earpiece of a Bluetooth headset on one side of her face and realized she must be listening to somebody over the phone.

“Pay attention, idiot!” he shouted after her.

People around him turned to see what was up as the woman made her way through the crowd as if he wasn’t there.

Colin looked back down at his flooded tray. Frowning, he walked over to a row of trash bins on one side of the dining area. He shook off the soggy hot dog and gulped it down, then dumped his fries into the bin labeled FOOD and the tray into one that said RECYCLABLES. Turning, he saw that the table he’d been approaching was still unoccupied and headed for an empty seat. He needed a couple of minutes to chill-and post another status update. People: if you MUST carry a bag or backpack in crowded places, plz b aware of ur turn radius AND the people around you.

Colin put away the phone and looked around. Another thing about those bags, was anyone even scanning the oversize monstrosities? He’d seen guards in the center’s Pratt Street lobby, but he was pretty sure they didn’t have metal detectors at the door. Also, he hadn’t noticed any security checks whatsoever over at the skyway entrance from the Hilton Hotel.

You can check on all that later, write it up as a sidebar, he thought as he eyed a bag of chips someone had left behind on another table. Scooting over and grabbing it, he felt slightly redeemed, as if the universe had regained a little bit of balance.

Tearing open the bag and snacking down happily, Colin left the food area, his eyes actively searching for the woman so he could return the nudge and even the scales a little more.

From the start, Julie Harper had realized that agreeing to cochair the planning committee and deliver the keynote speech for tonight’s advanced nursing conference was a recipe for trouble. No one had forced her to micromanage the entire agenda. As her husband, Jon, had sweetly reminded her before they left the house, “Most of this is none of your goddamn business.”

She didn’t disagree. But in a town where image was everything and spies and saboteurs were everywhere, where a social disaster was also a political disaster, hands-on was the only way to be. Jon knew that, too. After three decades of marriage-most of that spent in Washington-he had come to rely on his wife to have his back like this.

What was it that the former first lady had told her? “You have to host to be seen. You have to host well to matter.”

The Baltimore Convention Center contracted out to a professional catering service that set the course list and handled the food preparation for all its banquets. Even if you paid their fee and chose not to use the food, no one else got in the door. She was assured they knew their business and wouldn’t need her input, but that would make this conference no different from every other conference.

That was not “hosting well.”

So she fretted, even as H hour approached. Was the coquilles Saint-Jacques really the best choice for a seafood entree? They had assured her it would be, but she’d insisted they use only a high-quality imported Gruyere in the recipe. She’d paid for the upgrade out of pocket. Or rather, her husband did. He hated to see her upset because of something that money could fix. And what about their wine pairing? Did they have a white varietal, something textured and flowery like Esprit de Beaucastel Blanc? As for the poultry offering, Julie had requested-and paid for-a substitution for the caterer’s chicken Kiev. She wanted a lighter alternative. Lemon chicken, for example, was a reliable crowd pleaser. And what about the vegetarians or, God help her, the vegans? Asparagus with plum tomato casserole was the expensive solution.

Even now, as she greeted guests in the lobby outside the ballroom, standing near a table covered with name tags, Julie was mentally reviewing the seating chart, wondering if it was wise to segregate the Tea Party affiliates from the Democrats. It was a coin toss as to which was worse, a perceived snub or a political catfight.

“… introduce you to Dr. Jose Colon.”

Julie started slightly and glanced at Donna Palmer, the director of pediatric nursing at Sloan-Kettering in New York and nominally her assistant coordinator for the event. Beside her, a young man stood in the hall, his hand extended.

“Good Lord!” Julie exclaimed. “Am I really looking at Helen Colon’s little boy?”

“You are.” He smiled. “Mom has spoken often of you over the years, Ms. Harper.”

“What a dear she is! I haven’t seen her since our Mayo Clinic days.” Julie was suddenly choked up-pressure waiting for an emotional trigger like this. “How is your mother?”

“Very well,” he said. “Mom does in-homes for an insurance company. She told me I have to take pictures of us together, but you’re busy. I’ll find you later?”

“Please do,” she replied. She almost called him back to take the photo now- Carpe diem, she thought-but he had moved on.

Donna ushered over a man and a young girl. She turned to them and smiled. “Mr. Reed Bishop and his daughter Laura,” Donna said.

Julie took their hands, one in each of her own. Her eyes were beginning to glisten. The whole thing was more emotional than she had expected.

“Your wife’s trust fund,” she said to Bishop, “your mother”-she smiled at Laura-“has been a lifesaver for our organization.”

“Caregiving was her passion,” Bishop said. “I couldn’t think of a better way to honor her.”

“Thank you,” Julie said. She looked at the slender girl with strawberry blond hair. “Are you going to be a nurse?” she asked.

Laura Bishop nodded. “I’m getting my dad to stop smoking.”

Reed Bishop smiled awkwardly under Julie’s playful scowl. The words secondhand smoke all but floated above her head.

“That’s a very noble goal,” Julie said. “I’m sure your dad means to help.”

“Every bloody inch of the way,” he said.

Another round of thank-yous and the Bishops moved on. Julie looked past Donna at the next arrival. As she was shaking the hand of Connecticut senator Victoria Bundonis, she noticed a man standing just inside the door. He looked to be in his late twenties. He was wearing a navy blue sports jacket and dark trousers and carried an expensive-looking hard-shell briefcase. What caught her eye was his posture-slack and loose limbed, his eyes lowered. As she watched, he was visibly swaying on his feet.

As the senator moved on, Julie took Donna by her elbow and pointed from her waist. “Do you know him?”