The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (13 page)

What I see next makes me shudder. Department of Justice Assistant Attorney Blake Reynolds, and Lee’s National Security Council liaison, Todd Courtland, came out of Vice President Drucker’s office just when the other two attendees—the director of intelligence, and the director of DARPA—walked toward the Oval Office with Lee.
 

Blake tried to indict me for treason along with Carl, because he refused to believe Carl doped me up in order to use me as a human shield during his escape from Gitmo. Todd is a conniving political animal, but I’ve yet to catch him doing something underhanded.
 

There’s a first time for everything.

In the video, Blake and Todd exchanged knowing glances, but then went their separate ways: Todd, to his own office in the West Wing; and Blake, out the reception area of the West Wing, presumably back to the Department of Justice.

Within ten minutes, the security directors entered the Roosevelt Room. The West Wing aide escorted the scientists in from the anteroom.

I fast-forward to the next time the doors open: about twelve-fifteen, when the group breaks for lunch.
 

Before joining the others in the dining room, the scientists were shuffled into the Oval Office for their official photos with the president. Lee carried a folder with him.

The DOI and DARPA directors grabbed their phones to check messages as they moved toward the West Wing dining room.

I check the time stamps on the breaches. Apparently, they took place within the lunch hour.

During that time period, Lee and the two male doctors—Rudy Brooks and Norbert Welles—moved from the Oval Office down the hall to the West Wing dining room. I notice Lee doesn’t have his folder with him, so he did indeed leave it in his office. Had he put it in the safe, like he insists?

The third scientist, Shelley Wollstonecraft, walked back into the Roosevelt Room. When she left, she had her purse with her. With it in hand, she headed to the women’s lavatory, near the West Wing lobby. Within five minutes, she’d rejoined all the men, who were already seated in the dining room.

Whereas there was hustle and bustle in the hallways, the meeting’s attendees stayed put in the dining room.
 

The waiters roamed in and out of the room with various serving dishes and pitchers. When dessert was finally proffered, Rudy headed out into the hallway that goes from the dining room to the closest men’s lavatory.
 

When he came out, instead of going back to the dining room, he made his way to the Roosevelt Room. He was there for only a few moments, but it was certainly enough time to take pictures with his cell phone.

Just as Rudy made his way out the door, the two members of the West Wing’s kitchen staff were entering with fresh hot drink urns in their hands. They seemed startled to see him. To put them at ease, he laughed, and was kind enough to hold the door open for them. This time it was left open. A Secret Service agent stood at the threshold and watched them, so they are cleared from off my suspect list.
 

When they left through the lobby anteroom, the Secret Service agent was still standing by the door as Eve entered from the hall leading from the Oval Office. She placed Lee’s personal mug in front of his seat, then
 
said something to the Secret Service agent that made him laugh.

At the same time, Babette walked down the hall to the Oval Office reception area. With no one there to stop her, she entered Lee’s office. Did Babette have time to find the DARPA file and compromise it?
 

I flip to the feed to see what she did. Yes, she went into the Oval Office, despite the door being shut.

A few minutes later, Eve returned. At first, she didn’t notice that Lee’s door was closed. When she did, she went to investigate. After talking to Babette for a few moments, she left to fetch Lee.
 

Maybe three or four minutes went by before Lee was seen following her back to his office. The feed showed her closing the Oval Office’s door behind him.

A few moments later, the First Lady exited with Lee.
 

By then, the others had finished their desserts. Lee joined them, but skipped dessert. Ten minutes later, the whole group made its way to the Roosevelt Room.

When Lee joined them, he was carrying his folder.
 

Either he or Babette could have compromised it.

I send the security files to the Acme’s cloud server, and text Arnie that he can access them there to do further analysis.
 

I walk back into the Oval Office reception area to say goodbye to Eve when I hear, “Donna Stone? What are you doing here?”
 

Ah, hell, it’s Babette.

Chapter 7

Black Widows

The term “black widow” is used to describe a species of spider that release a venom particularly harmful to humans, sometimes deadly. Like the majority of spiders, the black widow is dark in color. However, it does have one distinguishing mark on its abdomen, which resembles a red hourglass.

“Black widow” is also a slang term for a woman who is suspected of killing her husband.

Should you resemble the latter, here are a few tips:

1: Don’t leave clues of how you did him in. Here’s where your obsession with spit-spot cleaning counts most!

2: Act bereaved. Alas, that means resisting the urge to flirt with the handsome detectives that show up to investigate. (And broad hint: If they refuse your offer of a cup of tea, it means they’re on to you!)

3: Make sure he really, truly is dead. Why? Because you don’t want him to quite literally come back to haunt you.
 

Scorn drips from Babette’s voice as she spits out my name. She can’t—make that, won’t—attempt any semblance of politeness.

I’m not the only one resisting the urge to blanch at her menacing tone. Unlike some who must tread these hallowed halls of power in her wake, those whose jobs don’t tether them to her side quickly scurry from view.

In the couple of weeks since I last saw her, her barely-there baby bump can now be seen. And if her couture maternity frock is any indication, the announcement of a new addition to the First Family was made while we were out of the country.
 

I wonder how well the proud papa took the press corps’ questions on the topic.
 

As if reading my mind, Babette’s face turns crimson with shame. Instinctively, she raises her hand protectively, as if covering a scarlet A on her breast.

She should know by now that her secret is safe with me.
 

“I’m Donna
Craig
now, Babette,” I declare with as much honeyed sweetness as I can fake. “Don’t you remember? I was married a few weeks ago. You were at the wedding. In fact, you planned it—sort of…Ah, well, no matter.” I smile brightly. “So glad I ran into you!”

“Really? Me and not Lee?” She sniffs the air, as if she smells a foul stench.
 

Babette’s minions—Narcissa Belmont, her chief of staff; and Lucretia Suchoff, her press secretary—also raise their noses in disdain. This is certainly a change of venue from where they are more accustomed to having them: firmly up their boss’s ass.

“Why, yes, of course,” I assure her. “While Lee and Jack went to play golf, I asked Eve to point me in your direction so that we might have a little chat—”

The moment I say this, I catch the look in Eve’s eyes. Bambi in headlights is putting it kindly. A sixteen-point buck at an NRA convention is more apt.

To Eve’s credit, she’s got a reason to sweat. Babette’s head twists around quicker than Linda Blair’s in an
Exorcist
reboot. “Is that so?” Her words are leavened with an acidic sweetness. “I didn’t realize Eve knew I even existed, since
I’m always the last person to know my husband’s schedule
.” She drills Eve with a deadly glare before swiveling so that I am now in her sights. “You, for example. Why wasn’t I told my old friend Donna…let’s see, what are you calling yourself this month? Oh yes—‘
Craig
’—was coming?”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment trip. We’re checking out colleges for our ward, Evan Martin.”

“Poor Evan! First, his father is murdered by his mother, and then his mother meets her untimely demise, in prison no less!” Babette squeezes out an alligator tear. “Maybe it was for the best. Orange was never her best color.”

Babette’s cruelty never ceases to amaze me. I’m willing to guess she looks somewhat washed out in that same color. Maybe we’ll soon find out.

With that in mind: “Babette, dear, do you have a few moments to meet with me?”

“Why?” Botox keeps Babette from frowning. Still, the trepidation in her voice is palpable.
 

Her pack of she-wolves picks up on it. Narcissa’s surgically enhanced lips poise in a partially opened position, ready to object with some bogus excuse to steer clear of whatever turbulence I have in store for her boss. Lucretia’s broad shoulders dip, as if she’s ready to block or tackle me if I make some sort of desperate move toward the first lady.
 

Ha! Wishful thinking. So that they calm down, I take a step back. “A few words, about…a mutual friend.”

The hard line of Babette’s mouth goes soft. She thinks I mean Salem.

Good, exactly what I hoped. I really don’t have anything to say about him, and I’m certainly not going to tell her about his unexpected resurrection—especially having been the one to put him back in a grave again.

She turns to her entourage. “Get lost. I’ll text if I need you.”

Narcissa and Lucretia don’t have to be told twice. The pungent scent of
eau de I’m so outta here
fills the air. I am left alone with a woman whose beauty and position awes an admiring public, but whose inhumanity never ceases to stun those who know her too well.

I am in the latter group.
 

Babette knows this, which is why she closes the door to the Oval Office firmly behind us, blocking out any protests that Eve may have about us being in there without the great man himself.

Frankly, I can’t think of a better place to interrogate the First Lady about any terrorists she may still know personally. Perhaps it will bring home all she has to lose: the pursuit of happiness, not to mention her liberty—

And if the crime merits it, even her life.

To soften her up, I start with what should be a soft pitch over home plate: “It’s so kind of you to make time for me today.”

Babette rolls her eyes. “Cut to the chase, Donna. You may have dropped off your new hubby to play golf with Lee, but you didn’t expect to run into me before you took off back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

Is this the way she wants to play it? So be it. I don’t get bitch-slapped without hitting back. “My, my, my! Was it that obvious?” I raise my hands to my face, in mock horror. “Look, I’ll do my best to be civil if you will. Quite frankly, I’m here because I wanted to see how you were doing after…after the, er, accident.”

“How am I? Lousy! The morning sickness is over, but I’m still in mourning.” She sinks into one of the Oval Office’s large wingback chairs, and massages her brow, as if rubbing away her grief. “You said you had something to tell me. What is it?”

“Frankly, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She looks up, suspiciously. “No, no, no. That’s not how this works. If you want to get something, first you have to give something.” A smirk rises on her lips as a thought comes to her: “How about this? For each question you have, I get one too.”

Hmmm.
“Okay, Babette. Why don’t you start?”

She blinks innocently as her lips curl into a smile. “Lee is under the impression that Salem was a terrorist. Did he get this ridiculous idea from you?”

“What did he tell you?”

“What do you think he said?” she sneers. “He told me it was classified, and that he can’t tell me a damn thing. Only, in this case, he was angry enough about…this”—she looks down at her belly—“to call Salem a whoremonger. Even worse, he called him a
terrorist.
He indicated Salem died in some special ops mission. He said it was for the best; how I’d be hung for treason if the truth of our…our relationship got out.” She sighs.