The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol Read online

  From here, his cursing is unintelligible. Finally, we hear him slam a platter onto the kitchen counter. He comes into the great room, followed by Mary and Evan, who holds Nicky as if he’s a keg of dynamite.

  “Okay, who’s up for pizza?” Jack growls.

  “Only if you order from the artisan pizzeria on Hilldale Avenue. The cornmeal crust is divine! Can we get at least one with sun-dried tomatoes on it? And perhaps broccolini? I’m willing to share, of course—especially if it’s an Acme expense…”

  As if the pronunciation to-mah-toes wasn’t already a dead giveaway, we look up to find Dominic standing in the front door.

  He’s brought a guest with him: Jean-Pierre.

  The handsome young man waves tentatively at me. He looks paler, and thinner. Despite his grin, there is a deep sadness in his eyes. His smile broadens, however, when he sees Mary.

  Evan frowns when she smiles back.

  I run over to Jean-Pierre for a hug. “It’s so good to see you up and about, Jean-Pierre!”

  “Thank you, Madame Craig. It is an honor to be in your home. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  “By the time I got to Biarritz, this young chap was already hot on the trail of our old friend, Pinky Ring.” Dominic slaps him on the back.

  Embarrassed, Jean-Pierre shrugs. “I was lucky. The bullet was a flesh wound. No need to nurse my pain. It is much more important that I find Gigi before she suffers the same fate as Nicolette and Suzette. I have a few clues to share, but I told Monsieur Fleming only if I am allowed to keep searching as well.”

  “You’re in,” Ryan assures him. “What do you have?”

  “When I was released from the hospital, I went to Gigi’s home, to inquire of her parents anything that they may know of her. They say she called them the day after the yacht incident, claiming she’d found work abroad, as an au pair, here in the United States. I asked to access their phone bill online. The call came from Chicago. I then sought out others who may have had contact with Monsieur Pinky Ring. The limo driver who helped load the man’s bags into a private jet says Pinky Ring had two women with him. One was not feeling so well. Her face was wrapped in a scarf. It could have been Gigi, and she could have been drugged.” He frowns. “The driver took them to the airport, and on to the tarmac. He also remembered the plane’s identifying number. Monsieur Fleming suggests its route can be traced from that.”

  “I’m on it,” Emma assures him.

  “Dad, when are we going to eat something?” Jeff yells from upstairs, just as Ryan’s phone buzzes with an incoming call.

  Noting the Caller ID, Ryan’s eyes grow big. He walks quickly toward the dining room, closing the door behind him.

  By the time he returns, he has the pizzas we ordered in hand: three extra large, with sausage and extra cheese, regular crust; and one mini-pizza with sun-dried to-mah-toes and broccolini, on a cornmeal crust.

  “I tipped the delivery kid a buck. From the look on his face, I guess he thought I was stiffing him.” He shrugs as he plops the boxes down on the center of the kitchen island.

  The way the boxes are torn open, it looks like a fumble on the five-yard line.

  Ryan lets loose with a taxi whistle. Everyone freezes. “The rest of you can chow down, but Donna and Jack, you’re coming with me. You too, Arnie.”

  Arnie’s mouth, which was already open wide for his first bite, sags into a frown. “But…can we at least take one of these with us?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t think POTUS would appreciate it. I know for a fact that he’s lactose-intolerant.” He’s out the door.

  Of course, Jack and I follow.

  Arnie sighs, tosses down the pizza, then lumbers out after us.

  Eve meets us at Lion’s Lair front door and ushers us into the conference room.

  It’s practically a full house already. Lee sits at one end of the table, Vice President Drucker at the other. On one side of the table, Todd Courtland, Blake Reynolds, and Intelligence Director Branham face us.

  This does not bode well.

  “Let me do the talking,” Ryan hisses to Jack, Arnie, and me. “Lips zipped.”

  Lee nods, but he doesn’t stand up. Instead, he turns toward Drucker. “Mr. Vice President, gentlemen: many of you are already familiar with Ryan Clancy, head of the security firm Acme Industries, as well as two of his key assets, Jack Craig, and Donna Craig. They are joined by Acme’s IT director, Arnie Locklear.”

  We round the table to shake hands. When I reach for Blake’s, it is limp and clammy. “Congratulations on finding a way to drop the ignominious surname of Stone,” he declares with a smirk.

  Director of Intelligence Branham looks over sharply. He gets the message loud and clear: I was related to that Stone—the former DOI, and the traitor.

  As I hold out my hand to Branham, I resist the urge to wipe Blake’s sweat off my hand first. “Yes, Director, if you didn’t already know, your predecessor was my ex-husband.”

  He nods. “I’m quite aware of it. I’m also aware of your role in exposing his deceptions, and in his extermination.” Smiling broadly, he takes my hand in a firm grasp.

  I stifle the urge to stick my tongue out at Blake.

  When I shake Todd’s hand, he murmurs, “Sweet.”

  I tamp down the desire to curtsey at the compliment.

  Vice President Drucker watches all of these exchanges carefully. When it’s my turn to, I say hello. Instead of answering me, he scrutinizes me, head to toe.

  You’d think someone in his position would have better manners, right? Well, don’t presume anything. Actions always speak louder than words.

  Ryan takes the seat closest to Lee, and across from DI Branham. Jack lets me sit next to Ryan, which puts me across from Blake. Jack nudges Arnie to take the seat next to me—that is, directly across from Todd. This way, if we need him to keep his mouth shut, he’ll feel two kicks as opposed to just one.

  “Thanks for coming over on such short notice,” Lee says to Ryan. “There is a crisis taking place in the intelligence community.” He nods toward Marcus. “DI Branham will explain.”

  “For the past few months we’ve lost contact with at least seventeen of our deep-cover assets, and five FBI agents who had infiltrated known terrorist cells here.” The looks on our faces give Branham reason to pause a moment, in order to let this news sink in. “Our operatives were positioned all over the world: cities such as Moscow, St. Petersburg, Beijing, Dubai, Lisbon, Istanbul, Ankara, and Cairo, as well as in Argentina, Brazil, Venezuela, South Africa, India, Pakistan, Kazakhstan, Sudan, Angola, and Ethiopia. We aren’t the only ones. CIA Director Bradley Lance would have been here to brief you as well. Instead, he is meeting with his UK, Australian, Canadian, French, German, and Japanese counterparts secretly in London, to get a handle on the situation. They too have lost operatives, in similar numbers.”

  “Have we recovered any bodies?” Todd asks.

  “No, not as of yet, which indicates to us that any and all may still be alive,” Lee replies. “At least, that is the hope.”

  “Well, then is it possible that these missing operatives could have been turned by, say, the Russians, or the Chinese—or the Islamic State, for that matter?” Drucker asks. “Such assets are poorly paid. With all the money our enemies have at their disposal to throw at them—”

  Branham shakes his head adamantly. “Vice President, I assure you that these are all highly-decorated men and women who risk their lives every day to protect their country. No offense to the highly paid consultants here at the table, but as you just pointed out, money has nothing to do with it.”

  Drucker’s nod comes with an unconvinced shrug. I guess he feels everyone has his price.

  Carl did. Again, actions speak louder than words.

  “All the more reason I feel it wise to inform the vice president and DI Branham of the security breach Acme stumbled upon a few days ago, regarding a Quorum operative who was previously thought deceased.” Lee turns to Ryan. “It
may shed light on why this may be happening.”

  Do you really want to do this—like, now?

  I give a sidelong glance to Ryan, then to Jack. In both cases, I’m met with imperceptible headshakes that tell me they feel the same way.

  In other words, shut up, and let Ryan do all the talking.

  Ryan starts by clearing his throat. “In fact, Donna and Jack had sightings with two such Quorum assets. They were able to exterminate one—again—but the other got away.”

  “What do you mean, ‘again’?” Blake asks.

  “A previous extermination of the first Quorum asset was verified by, er, two Acme operatives. A second extermination took care of the matter once and for all.”

  Ryan neglects to mention that the agents in question are actually sitting here, at the table. And to Lee’s obvious relief, he doesn’t mention that the Quorum operative in question was one of the Chiffrays’ oldest and dearest friends.

  “Acme failed the first time,” Blake sneers. “How do you know it didn’t happen again?”

  “The target was taken out in an explosion. What was left of the corpse was verified via DNA analysis,” Ryan retorts. “We’re not talking about a cat with nine lives here.” No need to mention that the only thing left of Salem was a finger.

  “What does any of this have to do with the missing CIA and FBI agents?” Drucker asks.

  “If what Acme suspects is correct—that the Quorum is behind it—the abductions may be tied to a new top secret program at DARPA,” Lee admits.

  Drucker frowns. “What does the program entail?”

  Lee shows his hesitation with a shrug. “Super soldiers.”

  Arnie leans over me in order to tap Ryan on the arm. “Isn’t now a good time to tell them how the breaches to Operation Hercules were committed?”

  When Jack and I kick him simultaneously, he yelps. But it’s Ryan’s glare that sends Arnie ducking behind me again.

  “What?...Breaches have taken place in this DARPA program?” Drucker turns white. “Why wasn’t I told of…of any of this?”

  “You mean, about the project? Because you don’t have clearance, Mr. Vice President,” Lee retorts.

  Anger puts color back into the vice president’s face. “I’ll be sure to point that out to the Senate Investigations Committee when they come for your scalp.”

  “Your loyalty is always appreciated,” Lee growls.

  He stares down his vice president. When the other man finally shrugs, the steam seems to go out of Lee’s anger. He leans back in his chair. “You’re overreacting, Tom, ” he counters. “The breach was internal, and therefore called for unbiased outside investigators who had no previous knowledge of the program. Since it was Acme who discovered the breach in the first place, I felt it was the organization for the job.”

  “Admit it! Your attraction to this rogue organization is its ‘loyalty’ to you.” Drucker drills each of us with a caustic gaze.

  It stops pointedly at me.

  I dare not blink, let alone move a muscle.

  Drucker faces Ryan. “So, despite knowing how it happened, you haven’t yet discovered the culprit?”

  This time, Arnie is smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  “In all honesty, Mr. Vice President, the investigation is far from complete,” Ryan explains. “This new information just came to light not even an hour ago.”

  “I’ll immediately recommend to the Senate Ethics Committee that the Department of Justice begin its own ‘unbiased’ investigation. I have no doubt my recommendation will get enough votes on both sides of the table.” Drucker’s voice shakes with rage. “Acme should be prepared to turn over all of its files on the matter—and to lose its government-sanctioned status.”

  Blake looks over at me. I want to slap the smile off his face.

  I turn to find Lee staring at me too. Why is there pity in his eyes?

  Shit.

  Drucker rises. “Do you know what this will mean to your administration, Mr. President—and for that matter, the party? No matter. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  He stalks out of the room.

  Reynolds is on his heels.

  Arnie drops his head onto his chest. “Well, this didn’t go well,” he mutters.

  He stifles his pain from our kicks.

  Chapter 11

  Ghostbusters

  When you see a spook, who ’ya gonna call?

  I doubt you’ll find it funny the first time you see a spirit from the netherworld staring back at you in the bathroom mirror while you’re flossing (yes, I know how you love to floss), so here’s why having a local team of ghostbusters on speed-dial is important:

  Reason #1: No matter how polite you try to be, you don’t want to be the one to ask the ghost to leave the premises. Why? Simple. His response may come with a tsunami of bile, a flaming ball of fire, or spitting a mouthful of nails. In any regard, them’s fightin’ words, so better let someone else take the heat in this existential battle.

  Reason #2: They won’t crap their pants at the various and sundry antics used by your ghost in the hope of getting you out. You may be able to sleep through a few shrieks in the middle of the night, or worse yet, some bed shaking, but what are you going to do when your spook starts to drag you into a hellmouth? Don’t ruin a good manicure by clawing at your bedposts. Better to leave the ghost chasing to the pros.

  Reason #3: The ghost was possibly there before you. If so, its occupancy in the property is valid if he never gave notice of termination and remained on the premises. The ideal solution: make sure your ghostbusters have earned their law degrees, and are members of the local bar association, because nothing is scarier than a long, drawn out legal battle.

  “What part of ‘keep your mouth shut’ do you not understand?” Ryan’s shout, directed at Arnie, reverberates through the car. “Who told you to offer up anything unless specifically requested by me?”

  I’m glad Jack is at the wheel. As angry as Ryan is, he could easily drive us off the road.

  “But…but Vice President Drucker was staring right at me! If he already knew something I thought it would look bad if we didn’t say anything.”

  “Who told you to think?” Ryan retorts.

  As Jack veers onto the shoulder of the road, I realize I should have taken the wheel instead. “Wait…Arnie, what did you just say?”

  “I said the veep didn’t seem surprised about the super soldier program—just that a breach was discovered.”

  “You’re right,” Ryan muses. “Which would indicate he already knew about the program, whether the president wanted him to, or not.”

  “If so, who told him about it?” Jack asks. “Branham?”

  “He doesn’t like Drucker any more than Lee does,” I reply. “And Blake and Todd aren’t good enough actors to pull off those stunned looks on their faces when they heard of Operation Hercules.”

  “As for awareness of the program itself, perhaps each of the lead scientists knew the name of the operation, but they had no idea of the roles of their counterparts,” Jack reasons. “And from what we can tell, none were in communication prior to the meeting.”

  “Is it possible that Drucker may have known the scientists?” I ask.

  “It’s something we should investigate—and the sooner the better. He’s out to sink POTUS. And since our lifeboat is tethered to him, if he goes down so do we.” Ryan looks at Arnie. “When we reach Donna and Jack’s place, we’ll grab our cars and head over to the office. I’ll need you to go through Eileen’s secure cloud and search for any whisper of knowledge that Drucker knew of Operation Hercules before today, or had contact with the project’s scientists.”

  Arnie nods solemnly. “Got it, Chief.”

  “While he does that, I think I’ll check in with Bosworth Hobart to see what kind of chatter the Spooks Anonymous members are hearing, if any, on the missing agents,” I suggest.

  “Great idea,” Ryan says.

  I joined Bosworth’s chapter of the internatio
nal support organization known as Spooks Anonymous to help with my own transition out of a covert life. A lot of good it did me. Instead, it convinced me to stay in the game. I met too many others who, like me, could never get over the thrill of the kill.

  Ah, well, we all have our little addictions. At least mine is government-sanctioned. Hopefully, it will stay that way.

  I text Bosworth’s telephone number with the coded message that requests admission into the next meeting: WANT TO MEET FOR A BAGEL?

  Ten minutes later, he writes back: SURE. TOMORROW MORNING 9AM IF U GET THERE FIRST, ORDER ME A RAISIN.

  Decoded, that means, to meet him at the meeting tonight at nine. “Raisin” indicates its location: the smallest ballroom in the Beverly Hilton: a large, anonymous hotel with lots of hallways, doorways, and escape hatches.

  Perfect for people who spend their lives looking over their shoulders.

  “The game agrees with you,” Bosworth Hobart, my former sponsor in Spooks Anonymous, admits wistfully.

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, lesser of all evils.” I poke my finger through the hole in the halo of haze from his vapor cigarette. “And how have you been?”

  “Busy, both in a good way, and a bad one.”

  I laugh. “Make my day and start with the good stuff.”

  “Fair enough. I’m learning origami. It’ll go far if I have to run to Japan.”

  “You’d be much better off if you learned to manage a cat café. They’re big there, you know.”

  He frowns. “Nah, wouldn’t work for me. I’m allergic to the critters.”

  “Oh.” I wait to see if he can add to his picture of current bliss. When he can’t, I sigh. “Okay, what’s the bad news?”

  “We should have a full house tonight. All of the disappearances are making people antsy.”

  “Great. I’ll keep my head down and my ear to the ground.” I look at my watch. It’s a quarter after nine. I nod toward the door to the meeting room labeled, Wilshire Gallery: “Should we go in?”

  He rolls his eyes. “The lapsed! How soon they forget.” He points to a closed door marked BROOM CLOSET.