Authors: Dale Brown
Washington, D.C.
Z
en and Breanna Stockard were one of Washington’s power couples, and while few people would literally trade places with them—Zen, after all, had spent two decades in a wheelchair—they were still envied by many, not least of all because they seemed to have an excellent, even perfect marriage. They supported each other’s careers and worked together to take care of their daughter Teri. While they were only sporadically seen on the political cocktail-dinner circuit, they did get around—Zen had box seats for the Nationals, and Breanna’s position on the board of directors of the Washington Modern Dance Company meant they often attended shows there.
Not a few of which Zen was reputed to sleep through, though no videos of him snoring had yet been posted on the Internet.
But even so-called power couples still took out the garbage: a task Zen assigned himself tonight while Breanna was working on homework with their daughter. Teri’s English Language Arts class was studying Shakespeare, specifically
The Merchant of Venice
. The language had been scaled back and the theme watered down to make it appropriate for third graders, but it was still an ambitious project.
Teri had won the role of Portia. Two other girls were sharing the part, and to really shine, she needed a judge’s costume to die for. Breanna had many talents, but sewing wasn’t one of them. Still, she was giving it a good try, and not cursing too much, at least not loud enough for her daughter to hear.
Zen wheeled himself outside with the garbage. He loved his daughter dearly, but there were plenty of times when he wished he had a son as well. He could have made a cool sword for Basanio.
Zen wrestled with the plastic top of the can. It never seemed to want to unlatch when he needed it to. That would be an asset, undoubtedly, in a rural area where there were raccoons or even bears prowling for midnight snacks, but in the wilds of the Washington suburbs, it was more than a little annoying. When he finally got it open, he felt as if it was yet another triumph on the day—nearly on par with the passage of his legislation.
Breanna was waiting in the kitchen when he returned.
“How now, fair queen?” Zen asked. “How goeth the princess?”
“The princess is off to bed, awaiting your kiss.”
“Her costume is done?”
“Such as it is.”
“You know we could—”
“Zen, we are
not
going to hire a seamstress to make it.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” said Zen. He was fudging: he’d been thinking of Anthony, his tailor.
“You spoil her,” added Breanna.
“That’s my job,” said Zen, rolling down the hall to Teri’s bedroom.
Most senators had two homes, one near Washington, D.C., and one back in their home state. Since he represented Virginia, Zen was lucky enough to need only one—though he saw the value in a ready excuse to leave town.
“Hey, Portia, you done for the night?” he asked his daughter as he rolled into her room.
“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “It’s a good uniform.”
“I think they call them judges’ robes.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” he mimicked, bending over and kissing her. “Say your prayers?”
“Uh-huh.”
“See you in the morning, all right?”
Her head popped up as he started to roll himself backward.
“Are you taking me to school?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Sometimes Mom does.”
“Sometimes Mom does. Not tomorrow.”
“Can we do my lines in the car?”
“You haven’t memorized them already?”
“I need practice.”
“We’ll practice. Sleep now.”
B
reanna took the bottle of champagne out from the bottom of the refrigerator and got two glasses down from the cupboard. It had been a while since they used them, and they were covered with dust.
She ran them under the water in the sink to clean them. They’d gotten them for their wedding, but now she wasn’t sure who’d given them.
“Champagne?” said Zen, startling her.
The glass slipped from her hand and fell on the floor, shattering.
“Damn,” muttered Breanna.
“You OK?” Zen asked.
“Oh, I’m fine.”
She picked up the stem and the largest fragment, dropping them into the garbage bin.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Your law,” she said, going for the broom. “Today’s vote.”
“It’s not a law yet. Still a bill.”
“It will be a law. It should be a law.”
“Tell that to the President.”
“I will.”
“I think she’ll sign it. Hell, I’m going to Kiev for her.”
“Kiev?”
“Well, not really for her. Did I tell you—Al Osten had a heart attack.”
“Senator Osten?”
“Yeah, he’s OK. They got him to the hospital in time, thank God.” Zen swung around to the cabinet and got out another glass. “He was supposed to go to the NATO meeting next week in Ukraine. I’m going to pinch hit for him. I called him at the hospital to see how he was doing—you know that’s all he wanted to talk about? He wanted to go himself.”
Breanna felt something stick in her throat. She swept up the fragments of broken glass and dumped them into the garbage. By the time she put the broom and dustpan away, Zen had poured them both some champagne.
“You’ve got a juice glass,” she told him as he handed her the flute.
“Can’t reach the fancy stuff. Tastes the same. Here’s to us.”
“To your bill.”
They clicked glasses, then each took a small sip.
“Not bad,” said Zen.
“Why are you going to the NATO meeting?” asked Breanna.
“Your President needs someone she can count on.”
“That’s you?”
“Not really. But Tompkins can’t go. She sure can’t send someone from the other party. And we need someone important there. So that leaves me. I suggested it,” he added, shrugging.
“Jeff—there have been threats.”
“Yeah, I know, Bree. There’s always threats. The security people will do a good job.”
Breanna took another sip of the champagne, a deeper one this time. She had thought the days of worrying about her husband were long over.
“I don’t . . .” she started.
The words died on her lips. What was she going to say? She didn’t want him to go? But she couldn’t prevent him.
“There are always intelligence reports about people who want to break these things up,” said Zen. “Remember last year, the OPEC meeting? The CIA was convinced there was going to be a bomb attack. Nothing happened. Nada.”
“I know.”
“Come on. Let’s go sit inside. Bring the bottle.”
Breanna watched as Zen carefully positioned his glass between his useless legs and wheeled himself toward the living room. How much different would their lives have been if the experimental operations had been a success? she wondered.
How much different if he’d never had the accident?
Breanna sat in the green chair opposite the fireplace, wondering how much to say. Zen turned on the music, sliding the volume low to make sure they didn’t wake Teri. He fiddled with the control screen, bringing up a play list of jazz that included most of her favorites.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said when he turned back around. “I want you to stay home.”
“I’m sorry, babe. It’s too late for that.” Zen took a sip of his champagne. His casual smile was gone now; he looked as serious as if they were back at Dreamland, outlining a mission. “What’s up?”
“I think it’s dangerous.”
“Something else is bothering you. Something big.”
She’d never been able to keep secrets from him. Breanna drained her glass, then reached for the bottle.
“The intelligence is very good,” she told him. “The Russians want the meeting disrupted.”
“So? They going to bomb it?”
“We believe they hired a group of assassins to disrupt it. They’re pretty nasty folks. The idea would be to kill some of the ministers, and make it look like a terrorist attack. Or simply to stop the meeting from taking place.”
“Hired assassins?”
“It’s a group called the Wolves. Have you heard of them?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Not necessarily. Whiplash is involved.”
“Oh, really. Why wasn’t the oversight committee notified?”
“No action was endorsed. This is being undertaken as part of a joint task force project lead by the CIA. There’s an NSC finding.”
“A thin white sheet of paper to cover everyone’s behind.”
“Are we talking as husband and wife, or senator and Tech Office head?”
“Both. What’s Whiplash’s involvement? You’re providing security?”
“Not necessarily, Jeff. Don’t ask me.”
“Don’t ask you?”
“I have to draw the line.” Breanna got up.
“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean, you have to draw the line? Wait just a second there, Bree.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said defensively, even though she had started for the kitchen.
“Tell me about what you’re doing,” demanded Zen.
“I can’t, Jeff. You know that. There’s a line.”
Zen took one of his exaggerated, I’m-holding-everything-in deep breaths.
Breanna hated when he did that.
“You’re not talking to a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee,” he said finally. “You’re talking to your husband.”
She remained silent.
“All right, so the Wolves are assassins,” said Zen. “Why should I be more afraid of them than run-of-the-mill Russian spies?”
“You shouldn’t,” she said.
“Good.”
Zen took another sip of his champagne, a bigger one this time.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“I don’t think you should go.”
“Because of the Wolves.”
“Just because. Just because.”
Z
en let it rest for a while, drinking silently. But he knew there was more to her concern—Breanna didn’t worry easily. She’d show concern over his missions back when he was in the service, but she didn’t show outright fear.
She’d never, ever, told him not to do something.
He brooded on it through another glass of champagne. How far should he press? And was he pressing as a matter of national security or as a concerned husband?
Both.
“Well, I don’t want you to break the law on secrecy,” Zen told her after he refilled both of their glasses. “But you can’t just let that hang out there and not expect me to ignore it.”
“You should ignore it.”
“What’s bothering you, Bree?”
“Jeff—there’s more to the Wolves than I can go into right now.”
“More than I can get in a security briefing?”
“I’m sure you can get a full briefing if you go through channels. You’re on the intelligence committee.”
“How full will the briefing be?”
“Oh, Jeff.”
I
t stayed there, simmering for the next half hour. Breanna felt the pressure building inside.
She couldn’t keep a secret like this from her husband. Not now. Not under these circumstances.
And yet she felt as if she had to.
If he hauled her before his committee, what then?
That would be silly and petty. Ridiculous.
The bottle of champagne was empty. It was still early, but she decided she would get ready for bed.
Zen caught her arm as she rose.
“Hey,” he said. “What?”
“Jeff . . .”
She
had
to tell him.
“This is between you and me, do you understand?” she asked. “Husband and wife—not senator.”
“Go ahead.”
“We think they’re enhanced.”
“Huh?”
“Biologically enhanced,” said Breanna. “Using drugs and implants. We have scattered evidence, but nothing solid. We think they’ve been operated on, and given drugs, and different biomechanics.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. Reid has pieced together a lot of different strands of intelligence.”
“And all that makes them, what? Superhuman?”
“I don’t know,” said Breanna. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. That’s our mission.”
“These are the people who are going to attack at Kiev?”
“We think so, yes.”
“You’re not going to let them, are you?” Zen asked.
“No. Not at all. Not if we can help it.”
“That’s it?” Zen asked.
“No. No. We think we know who one of the assassins is.”
“Does that matter?”