THE IMPERIALS #5

It’s Showtime

The melodic strains of show tunes filled the walls of the windowless office. Jon Doe sat behind his computer reading the morning cable traffic. A large hulking physique, bald head, and intense facial expression belied his effervescent love of the musical Chicago. Jon had a fondness for musical theater in general, but was obsessed with Chicago. He loved the stage production. He loved the movie. He owned the DVD of both. He owned the soundtrack. It played constantly in his office as he sat mouthing the dialogue that he had so diligently memorized.

As the station chief for The Agency of Which We Do Not Speak, it was Jon’s responsibility to compile and deliver the daily intelligence brief at nine o’clock each morning. He copied and pasted, copied and pasted, mostly benign snippets from the open source file. Launching into the next song, he maintained the rhythm striking the print key on the down beat. Bobbing his head and dancing in his chair, he grabbed the page from the printer, placed a giant scarlet TOP SECRET stamp across the header and slid the document into a similarly marked briefing folder, keeping the tempo all through the process. Leaving his musical sanctuary behind, Jon ventured down stairs. Rendezvousing with Raymond outside the RSO office, the two walked in step down the marbled hall to the Executive Office.

Ambassador Howell had only been in country for a week but had already found the opportunity to completely redecorate the office in her own personal style. Reminiscent of the Oval Office, she had replaced the desk with a much larger, imposing, solid oak, monstrosity more fitting The Ambassador’s stature. Situated in front of the bay window, facing the door, it commanded the entire room. A large area rug with the State Department Seal woven into it lay in the middle of the room. Mounted on the walls was the pantheon of the political elite from The Ambassador’s Party. There were pictures of Madeleine Howell with the President, with the First Lady, with the President and the First Lady, with the Vice President, the wife of the Vice President, the Vice President and his wife, and the Secretary of State. There were pictures of The Ambassador’s granddaughter with the President, with the First Lady, with the President and the First Lady. It was a veritable who’s who of who can be bought in Washington DC.

The Ambassador sat in a high wing back chair with Jon and Raymond seated on the low sofas on either side. Jon handed her the red briefing folder and tracking form for her signature. Her eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. A socialite with a security clearance, she appeared to derive great pleasure in being presented with classified information. There was nothing of any significance in the document, but Jon had learned quickly that The Ambassador was happier, and he got back to work quicker, when the report was classified Secret or above.

Madeleine Howell tilted her head back and peered down over her nose at the document while Jon provided a brief oral summary. There was a long awkward silence after he finished as she continued to peruse the paper. Finally she lay the paper in her lap and said, “That is very good, Jon. In the future I would like you to report on possible Al-Qaeda activities here in Nordeland and how they may affect regional stability.”

“Yes, Madam Ambassador,” Jon answered submissively.

Turning to face Raymond she continued, “Now what is the security situation?”

Raymond cleared his throat and hesitantly began, “Madam Ambassador, the Department of Homeland Security National Threat Advisory is Yellow, or elevated. Locally, there are no indications of threat. The Royal Nordelandian Police intelligence estimate is positive, no credible threats. Our surveillance detection operations have identified nothing. Routine crime is almost non-existent in Nordea City. No significant danger there. With consideration for our operating environment I would place our threat assessment locally as Blue, or guarded risk.”

The Ambassador looked at him quizzically and asked, “Exactly what do you mean?”

Caught off guard Raymond replied with a stutter, “I’m just saying… Our security situation is… I’m just saying… There are no credible….” He stopped in mid-sentence.

The Ambassador’s superficial smile was gone. She glared at him with displeasure and forcefully said, “In the future I would like you to report on what you are doing to counter Al-Qaeda and other transnational terrorist threats against the Embassy.”

Blondes, Brunettes, & Redheads

Craven Weaselman sat with the résumés spread out before him on the desk. He was hiring a new administrative assistant and it was a hard decision. All three were gorgeous women, and one even had some secretarial skills. He wished he could hire them all. His appreciation of the fact that his wife, Evelyn, had left him and taken her kids with her was growing by the day.

Their previous posting had been to Manila, The Philippines. They had enjoyed the casual, laid back, tropical lifestyle. The extra hardship pay intended to alleviate the adversities of life in less developed nations, and the strong US dollar, bought the maids, gardeners, chauffeurs and just about everything else needed to live like royalty. Evelyn had been thrilled when he suggested they bring their maid with them to Nordeland. She hated housework, cooking, basically anything domestic, and with the high cost of living in Europe they wouldn’t be able to afford to maintain their previous lifestyle. It was unusual for Craven to be so thoughtful, but she unsuspectingly, enthusiastically agreed. Craven bought the pretty young woman a plane ticket and arranged for her to meet the family in Nordeland.

Evelyn had been quick to make new friends upon their arrival. She was an adventurous spirit and liked to travel. Having taken a three day shopping excursion to Stockholm, she returned home earlier than expected to find their young maid was providing a wider range of services than she had realized. No wonder Craven had been so keen to bring her along. Evelyn packed up her three brats, moved back to the States, and filed for divorce leaving him deliriously alone in his sprawling seafront villa. He had never reported the divorce to the State Department and continued to collect the additional allowances for a family of five. Once again he was living like a king.

It became awkward bringing other women home. The maid had taken on the air of lady of the house. It made for some embarrassing moments. Finally Craven gave her six months severance pay and a ticket back to Manila.

Pushing sixty years of age with the personality of Lounge Lizard Larry and the face of a basset hound undergoing an enema, most women found him repulsive. But to that select few he was apparently irresistible. And no matter what country he was in he was always able to find that select few.

As Management Officer he ran the embassy like Vito Corleone, dispensing justice in reciprocity for service. Planning ahead for his pending retirement, he intended to open a small collectibles shop on the old square of his home town, he had been preoccupied for years buying antiques and hand crafts from around the world and shipping them home through the diplomatic pouch. Craven was going to be well taken care of; spare no expense to the tax payers.

He looked again at the résumés. The blonde was the sexiest. But sexy blondes were nothing uncommon in the Nordic countries. Craven was almost bored watching them. The brunette was a goddess. Tall, graceful, regal. But Evelyn had been a brunette. Not as pretty, but still somewhat similar looking. He was ready for something different. The redhead. Craven had always had a thing for redheads. She had never worked as a secretary, and had none of the required skills or experience, but with long sculptured legs, an alabaster complexion with a shadow of freckles splashed across her face, and piercing blue eyes, she was absolutely stunning. And he had picked up a bit of a vibe from her during the interview. Her name was Siri, and Craven was confident she would make a first rate assistant.

**********

Also by E.C. Jacobs

THE COAST

Evan Stanley is a disillusioned insurance fraud investigator. When a friend is savagely murdered while investigating a claim, he is drawn into a journey of intrigue and suspense from which he may not return.

Evan likes his work but hates his job. He is an experienced Special Investigator for National Insurance Company, but management doesn’t like his attitude. While investigating a routine personal injury claim on the sultry Mississippi gulf coast, he inadvertently uncovers a conspiracy of corruption and murder. Traversing the back roads and bayous of the Deep South, from Biloxi to New Orleans to Memphis, Evan follows the trail through a storm of events to an explosive conclusion.