Book Review: WANNABES

 

WANNABES by Michael Logan

A Crime Thriller With A Supernatural Twist 

What is hell like? Strangely similar to working for the government. 

Michael Logan takes a satirical look at Anglo/American culture and the obsession with celebrity. From the hauntingly familiar bureaucracy of hell to the cynicism in the entertainment industry he paints a thoroughly engaging tale of murder and mayhem, colored with dark humor, and tempered with empathy.  

The writing is tight, the story inventive, the descriptions rich, the characters believable and the dialogue strong.  I absolutely enjoyed the book and highly recommend it.

 

THE IMPERIALS #14 – Part 3: CRISIS MANAGEMENT

 

It’s a Wonderful Day in the Neighborhood

Coop Vanderbilt stood atop the windswept ridge looking down on the lonely border crossing with Itäland. The guard booth was shuttered, the drop arm tied down and the high, razor wire topped gates padlocked. Coop stared into the camera, eyes moist with emotion, snow white hair waving in the breeze. "What about the children?" he pleaded in anguish. "Where are the countries of the world? Where is the help? What about the children?"

Bruno observed from a short distance. Tiring of the theatrics he walked to where Jané stood in front of her parked car nursing a tall paper cup from which emanated the aroma of strong black coffee, steamed milk and bourbon. "What's with Snow White?" she grumbled motioning toward Coop.

"In a ratings slump I guess," Bruno replied. They continued to watch the abandoned border post below them for signs of activity. The morning drug on with little more than Coop Vanderbilt's ravings to pass the time. Bruno began to scan the terrain in all directions. It was a peaceful fall morning with little movement on either side of the border. Forest covered hills stretching to infinity broken only occasionally by a farm marked by quaint houses and traditional red barns surrounded by pastures and fields.

Bruno’s attention was drawn to movement on the highway from Nordea City. Racing toward them at full speed was a three car motorcade complete with lights flashing and flags flying. As the vehicles approached the ridge they began to slow and pulled off the road coming to a full stop in the field on the opposite side of the road. Guns Andammo immediately got out of the lead sedan posting himself as security, looking outward through mirrored shades under the slate gray sky.

As Jané moved down the gravel drive Bruno's attention was again drawn to movement on the horizon. Materializing from the distance and flying straight toward him was the largest helicopter he had seen since his retirement from the Corps. It lumbered slowly across the landscape finally coming to a hover over the field directly across the road. Maintaining the hover the craft rotated clockwise until it faced the opposite direction then settled gently to earth. As the whine of the turbine engines subsided and the blades ground to a halt the rear ramp slowly lowered revealing the darkened cavern of the craft’s fuselage. In dramatic fashion, The Ambassador emerged from the shadows at the head of the phalanx of advisers and assistants marching boldly toward the assembled press.

Watching from the top of the hill Jané turned to Bruno and said, "Now that's an entrance."

During all the commotion little notice was paid to the second line of cars that approached and parked behind the first.

Bruno’s attention was drawn from the spectacle unfolding below him to the distant hum he could hear drifting on the breeze. Within seconds the hum became louder and more distinct. The thump of rotors cutting air. Turning to track the sound he spotted a second helicopter flying straight toward them, parallel to the border on the Nordeland side. Everyone on top of the hill instinctively ducked as the small, sleek craft passed low overhead. Flying past the border crossing it banked to the left and circled back toward Bruno’s position. Slowing to a hover over the field directly opposite Bruno, the craft gently sat down next to The Ambassador's.

"Who do you suppose that is?" Jané asked.

"Have no idea," Bruno replied.

Jané turned and continued down the hill.

 The rear door opened and a crew member in flight suit and visored helmet jumped out, opened the pilot's door and assisted the pilot out of the cockpit. The pilot, immaculately clad in a tailor made, pink silk flight suit, advanced alone to the front of the helicopter and stood as a conqueror inspecting the field of battle, hands on hips, gaze to the horizon through the mirrored visor of the flight helmet. The lone figure was soon surrounded by the JV Squad attired in color coordinated, powder blue flight suits. Standing behind the group was Anthony Michaels in his dark blue business suit. As the press began to divide itself between The Ambassador and the new arrivals, the leader removed her helmet to reveal Bebe Buchanan. Within seconds there were dueling press conferences.

"As Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States certified to both Nordeland and Itäland I am here to visibly express the American people's support for freedom and democracy throughout all the countries in the world, and during this time of crisis special emphasis is placed on the peace seeking citizens of Itäland," The Ambassador proclaimed.

Not to be outdone, just a few meters away Bebe lauded support for the beleaguered citizens of Itäland, "As the personal Envoy of the President of the United States of America I bring word of his full and unfailing support of all peoples who seek liberty and self-determination!"

They then marched with purpose to their respective motorcades and rode the one hundred yards to the top of the hill. Standing under the steel gray clouds, with expressions of pained determination on their faces, looking down on the solitude of the vacant border checkpoint, they provided a photo opportunity for news outlets around the world. In time the press grew tired of the spectacle and drifted away. Realizing they were no longer the center of attention, The Ambassador and the Envoy returned to their cars and the procession proceeded to the base of the hill then circled around coming to a stop in front of the border post. Soon the entire crowd was again assembled with cameras rolling and mikes turned on.

Once again claiming the spotlight the Envoy stepped forward. “Today I am an Itälandean. We are all Itälandeans, and we stand with the people of Itäland in their time of crisis.”

As the Envoy moved to return to her limousine The Ambassador, not to be out shown, stepped forward and with forceful resolve demanded, “President Takkunen, OPEN THIS GATE!” And with great commotion she turned marching to her car followed closely by her gaggle of advisers.

Within moments both motorcades were at the landing zone disgorging their passengers to the waiting helicopters. Rotors turned, tires spun and soon Bruno and Jané were left standing alone beneath the steel gray sky looking down on the abandoned border post. 

 

Strategic Response

“Strategically located between Nordeland on the west and The Empire to the east Itäland is vitally important to peace and stability in the region,” Jon Doe droned on in his presentation to the Country Team. “Long a vassal state of The Empire, Itäland was purposely left undeveloped to provide a buffer zone barrier from westward invasion. The country lacks an industrial base nor has infrastructure to support one. The one bright spot economically is the investment King Jani’s We Communicate has made. They have several component manufacturing facilities in Itäland that are an integral link in their supply chain. A prolonged crisis in Itäland could be devastating for We Communicate certainly causing major waves in the Nordelandean economy and possibly ripples worldwide.”

“Thank you Jon,” The Ambassador said as he sat down. “We have been using all diplomatic channels to attempt to contact the government of Itäland to no avail. We’ve tried back channels through the private sector with the same result. The question is now, what do we do?”

The room was abuzz with muffled comments of affirmation.

“We need to demonstrate our resolve in standing by the people of Itäland during this time of peril. We need to demonstrate that we, the American people, will not flinch in the face of oppression, will not alter course on the road to freedom and will not be shaken in our determination to stand by the downtrodden peoples of the world. We must do more than continue business as usual. We must put forth a symbol to the world of our defiance of tyranny!”

The room sat quietly absorbing the thrilling piece of rhetoric.

The Ambassador rose and stood stoically at the head of the table. After a few moments an expression of realization crept across her face. “We will have an event. The largest event we have ever thrown. That will demonstrate that we remain undaunted in our perseverance of our American ideal of democracy.”

The team murmured their agreement.

“We need a theme,” she continued.

“A celebration of freedom,” the Envoy interjected.

“No, we used that for the 4^th of July. We need something new. Something truly American.”

Dominic Vasquez spoke somewhat hesitantly, ”We are planning my daughter’s quinceañera. We could use that as a celebration of Americana and a chance to share our culture and our lives, with our friends here abroad.”

The Ambassador beamed, “An excellent idea! We could have the ceremony in the National Cathedral.”

“That’s a Lutheran church ma’am,” Dominic politely corrected.

“Well then the Gornostaev Cathedral. With the golden domes gleaming high over the city it would be a magnificent venue for the ceremony.”

“But Madam Ambassador, that is an Eastern Orthodox cathedral,” Dominic once again pointed out.

“Well Dominic, do you have a suggestion?” The Ambassador asked sounding a little perturbed.

“Saint Henry’s Cathedral?” Dominic venture cautiously.

“Well, I guess that will have to do,” The Ambassador acquiesced.

 

And the monster was unleashed. Like a fire raging out of control it consumed all of the oxygen, all of the energy, all of the embassy’s representational budget, everything in the path to the most grandiose, ostentatious display of American support for the downtrodden ever before put forth.

The final stage of young Isabella Vasquez’s journey to womanhood began at the embassy from where she was escorted by horse and carriage, ornately decorated with seasonal flowers, by Ben Franklin and Marten Martenson through the cobblestone streets of Nordea City to Saint Henry’s Cathedral. Emerging from the carriage clad in a gown of virginal white she was met by her father wearing his formal dress uniform. He escorted her beneath the arched swords of a double column of Marines in dress blues and up the marble steps into the cathedral. The ceremony was traditional with a mass during which the Isabella was presented symbolic presents from family and loved ones including a tiara presented by The Ambassador.

Following the conclusion of the religious portion of the celebration the young woman Isabella was once again escorted to her waiting carriage from which she headed the processional back to the Embassy for the largest private party ever covered by the society page editor of the Morning Nordelandean. Even larger than The Ambassador’s Welcome Gala. No expense had been spared. A jazz quartet was positioned near the flag pole in front of the mansion, a piano player was at the grand piano in the conservatory, and the most popular boy band in Nordeland had been hired for the main stage in the back courtyard. Tables overflowed with Isabella’s favorite foods and many more of The Ambassador’s. There was champagne and caviar. Open bars, coffee bars, tea bars and an oxygen bar. Any culinary delight or libation imaginable was available for the asking. As the hour grew late the party culminated in a remarkable fireworks display. Truly a democracy inspiring event.  

 

Epilogue

 

The border gates had been closed in accordance with a proclamation by the Prime Minister of a National Weekend of Rest commemorating the efforts of the working people of Itäland and soon reopened.

 

Soon after Presidential Envoy Buchanan’s return to Washington DC the President lost his bid for re-election and she her appointment and much of her influence, but she still had money.

 

With the changing of administrations The Ambassador resigned her position and retired to her family estate content to run The Howell Foundation, the family philanthropic organization devoted to contributing money to other like-mined organizations and write her memoirs, Madeleine Howell: A Life on the Battlements.

 

Anthony Michaels soon retired returning to academia where they call him “Doctor.”

 

Craven Weaselman was investigated by the Office of Inspector General for his abuse of State Department shipping services as a part of his personal retirement plan. He was found guilty, promoted and transferred to a better position at a larger Post. He took Siri with him.

 

Chris Flowers remained in Nordeland and continued to serve as Deputy Chief of Mission to the next ambassador, a handsome Wall Street executive about her age. Serving under him was a position she relished.

 

Colonel Joan Saindoux-Fessier retired from the Air Force returning to her home in Texas where she and Ashley opened a lingerie boutique.

 

Chandrit Singh resigned his position and returned to his condo in Dallas where everyone continually asks him what part of South America he is from.

 

Dominic Vasquez remains in the Navy and continues to reproduce in his effort to populate the world with devout Catholics.

 

Isabella Vasquez graduated from high school and attends college at UCLA. On her eighteenth birthday she posed for Playboy.

 

Bruno Jeffries continues to work as a dutiful public servant at the United States Embassy, Nordeland.

 

**********

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.

THE IMPERIALS # 13

The Visit

Madeleine Howell waited at the gate for her best friend, arch nemesis, political ally, fellow warrior in the struggle for gender superiority, and sister in the most select sorority in the world. “Have all the preparations been made?”

“Yes, Madam Ambassador,” Lynn promptly answered. “The envoy’s office requested to dine at a traditional Nordelean restaurant so we made reservations at The Nordean for dinner.”

“The Nordean,” The Ambassador mused.

“Yes, we were lucky to get in on such short notice,” Lynn continued.

“Did you explain who we are?” The Ambassador was astonished.

“Yes, I did. And when he found out I had to put him on the guest list for Friday night.”

“A restaurateur?” She was dismayed.

“It is THE restaurant in town. Especially for Nordelandean cuisine. And he’s a local celebrity. Think of it as inviting Wolfgang Puck to an event.”

“Oh Wolfgang,” The Ambassador sighed.

“And we have the basket of fresh, seasonal fruit – no citrus - in her room. We couldn’t find any Alaskan glacier water so we bought San Pellegrino.”

“The deprivations we must bear,” The Ambassador empathized.

“Chocolates,” Lynn continued. “Dark, not milk. We were able to find the original fruit flavored Skittles.”

“Skittles? Never heard of them.” Madeleine sounded puzzled.

“It’s candy. They specified it had to be the original fruit flavored. And the hotel put a bottle of Tanqueray in the room.”

“Tanqueray? Bebe doesn’t drink gin.”

“That is for Mr. Michaels. He forwarded instructions for gin and tonic, specifically Tanqueray.”

“Good. Good. We want them to be happy when they leave.”

They stood in silence, gazing out the window, across the tarmac at the airplanes making their slow descent to the runway. Madeleine was concerned… Troubled by the inequities of the world. She had raised more money for the cause yet it was Bebe who received the better appointment. It was Bebe who had been invited to attend a cabinet meeting. It was Bebe who danced at the White House galas. It was Bebe who went to the State dinners. Where was the justice? All because Bebe was sleeping with a Senator.

They watched out the window as the plane moved forward aligning the hatch with the jet way. Soon the double doors opened and the bustle of harried travelers poured out. The throng of business men and women, vacationers, families with small children surged through the waiting area past Madeleine and Lynn. As if choreographed by a benevolent being a brief lull occurred in the flow of humanity, and there to fill the void appeared Bebe Buchanan, tall and stately with her characteristically dour countenance a recipe of pretension: one part annoyance, two parts condescension, a dash of snobbery with pinch of aloofness. A gentle fundraiser’s smile crept across her face when she noticed Madeleine. Moving in dramatic fashion through the thinning crowd she arrived in front of Madeleine with outstretched hands. Madeleine matched her smile with one equally insincere. They clasped hands. Air kisses.

“Welcome to Nordeland,” Madeleine effused.

“Thank you, Madeleine. It is good to see you. And thank you for all you do.”

“And this is my assistant Lynn Nguyen, the back bone of the embassy.”

“Thank you for all you do,” Bebe repeated robotically as they shook hands.

“And that is Bruno,” dismissively motioning towards Bruno who was standing a few feet behind them. “He’ll get the luggage.”

They were soon joined by Anthony as he disembarked along with the bourgeoisie in Business Class. Once again the round of introductions was made. Upon reaching Bruno, Anthony immediately unslung the bag from his shoulder and handed it to him. “Well, are we ready to go?” Anthony was a bit anxious.

“I believe we are still waiting on your staff,” Lynn replied.

The appearance in the hall of the proletariat from Economy Class was marked by the discordant symphony of a multitude of ringtones as WeComs, Blackberries and cell phones were all activated at once. What appeared to be a junior varsity cheerleading squad dressed in denims, Capri slacks, tee shirts and flip flops, as if on vacation, emerged in a gaggle from the tunnel, all cackling incessantly into their phones (to each other) texting, IMing, and e-mailing simultaneously. It was quite surprising when the group stopped near Bebe and the squad captain approached. Putting her phone away momentarily, “Ma’am, we’re all here,” she said to Bebe.

“Well, have Bono gather the luggage and we’ll be on our way,” Bebe directed.

Curbside Bebe requested privacy during the ride into town banishing Anthony from the limousine and relegating him to the cheerleader’s bus. Anthony stood on the curb watching the limo speed away, fuming in silence, as Bruno assisted the JV squad into their vehicle. Closing the trunk on the last piece of hand luggage the car sped away, chasing after the limo. Anthony was dumbfounded. Never before had a man of his prestigious position been so poorly treated. Senior Foreign Service. Left standing at the airport.

“Well Tony, I guess it’s you and me,” Bruno said nonchalantly. “Give me a minute to get the rest of the luggage loaded in the van and I’ll give you a ride into town.”

Speechless, he could only mutter, “Anthony. Doctor Anthony Michaels.”

 

Rauno Viljanen busied himself making the final preparations for the night’s guests. As the premier restaurateur of Nordeland he had often played host to dignitaries: heads of state, captains of industry, film and theatrical stars, sportsmen, and the simply idle rich. But each patron was special and Rauno treated every one as his personal invited guest.  

Having studied at the Sorbonne and Le Cordon Bleu; worked in the finest restaurants in San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Hong Kong and across Europe, he had finally returned to his beloved home in order to establish and promote a style of cuisine in the Nordelandic tradition. And with a reputation spreading across Scandinavia he had been successful.

Like a maestro tuning his orchestra Rauno personally oversaw the details of his customer’s special requests. The rear dining room had been cleared to provide a private table for The Ambassador and envoy. Within sight, but not earshot, a table was provided for the envoy’s staff. A third table, out of the line of sight for the envoy, but with a clear view of the room, was provided for the security personnel. While the dining room staff were busy moving furniture the elite team of chefs were in the kitchen preparing a collection of Rauno’s signature dishes for the envoy’s pleasure.

The arrival was greeted with the fanfare of a red carpet walk. The Ambassador’s personal press team was positioned on either side of the entrance fully documenting for posterity in both video and still photos every occasion of her momentous reign. Rauno, the Sous chef, and maître d' formed a receiving line to welcome their honored guests. There was a slight hint of suspense in the atmosphere. The limousine pulled to the curb. The doorman assisted Bebe out of the back seat as Lynn scurried around the car and deftly intercept Rauno who was approaching with outstretched hands. In hushed tones she rapidly explained that the envoy was tired after her long trip and preferred a quiet dinner – not to be disturbed.

Her attempt to console the disappointed restaurateur was quickly interrupted by the appearance of Liesl, the cheer captain, with a stack of post card sized autographed pictures of the envoy. Shoving one into Rauno’s hand she said “Ms. Buchanan appreciates all that you do.”

 Rauno looked skeptically at the picture in his hands; Bebe Buchanan standing majestically on the steps of the US capitol at sunset, blood red sky in the background.

Liesl continued along the reception line, handing out photos and repeating the mantra, “Ms. Buchanan appreciates all that you do.”

Taking Rauno by the arm and walking toward the entrance Lynn continued in her personally unique style; part diplomatic, part coquettish and part condescending bitch, “I am sure you will cooperate and do everything in your power as host to comply with Ms. Buchanan’s wishes.”

Rauno was accustomed to dealing with divas. Their eccentricities were legend. He turned and led his disappointed staff back through the portal into the restaurant.

As blockers on a football field Lynn and Liesl ran interference as Ambassador Howell and Envoy Buchanan followed, enveloped in their sphere of pretension. An unwanted step-child, Anthony followed a few subservient steps behind.

The titans of foreign policy sat alone, sequestered in the private dining room, exchanging gossip regarding the who’s who of Washington elite. Dropping names and regaling one another with highly embellished tales of their diplomatic exploits, all in an effusive attempt to impress.

Dr. Anthony Michaels was relegated to share the kiddy table with the JV squad. He made the best of it by ordering gin and tonics all around. 

Rauno approached, hesitantly at first, but after pausing to regain his composure he marched forward, his usual flamboyant self. “Ladies, welcome to The Nordean. I am honored you have chosen my establishment in which to dine this evening. I hope you don’t mind, but in order to commemorate this momentous occasion, two such distinguished representatives of your country dining together with us, I have prepared a selection of my signature dishes for you to sample.” With a flourish of his hand an army of waiters and waitresses emerged from the kitchen, each carrying a large tray bearing multiple appetizer plates containing single servings of his finest creations. With great fanfare the smorgasbord was arrayed around the Ambassadorial table for their consideration. “If you find one to your liking it would be my greatest pleasure to prepare it for you in full.”

Bebe sat in stunned silence. Her facial features grew more pinched in appearance as the disgust welled within her. “I have never been treated with such disdain in my entire life! Imagine the presumption to prepare and serve the food without first even consulting me!” She then rose from the table, threw her napkin in the plate, and marched out of the restaurant.

“Madam….” Rauno tried to speak.

Rising to meet him Madeleine cut in, “I never expected this from a man of your reputation, Rauno!” then turned and followed Bebe out the door.

Anthony had been quietly sipping his G&T trying to tune out the babbling of his table mates when he suddenly found himself abandoned as the JV Squad rushed out in search of their leader. He took his time finishing his drink, enjoying the nectar and the precious solitude. A distraught Rauno approached. “But sir, what did I do?”

Anthony shrugged, dropped enough cash on the table to cover the bar tab and walked nonchalantly out of the restaurant.

 

The Green Miles

The caravan stretched beyond sight along the rural lane. Far to the front Gretchen and her press assistant patrolled, scouting for targets of opportunity.  A quaint village. A scenic wonder. An idyllic pastoral setting. A unique local industry. Any suitable photo opportunity would do. The embassy’s web site was already overflowing with pictures of the envoy and The Ambassador at the World Heritage site of an ancient Nordean village, the envoy and The Ambassador inspecting a herd of Holsteins grazing in the shade of a red barn, the duo listening to a children’s choir while visiting a local school. Each perfect image accompanied by expertly written prose fully documenting the historic journey of these two iconic women of American diplomacy.  Gretchen’s mission was to increase the bounty.

Next was the pace car with light bar flashing, large warning placards and a public address system on which to herald their arrival.

Strategically located behind the pace car, close enough to be within the sphere of security but distant enough to avoid the exhaust fumes, pedaled Ambassador Howell and Envoy Buchanan, locked in a race of wills.

The envoy would not be beaten. Her entire life had been a battle and she had defeated all adversaries. This would be no different.

The Ambassador struggled to keep up. Bicycle riding. Normally anything that required her to exert so much effort she would assign to a servant, but she would never be eclipsed by her rival. They would stand side by side in all the photos.

Maintaining their respectful distance from the Grand Marshalls of the parade Anthony Michaels accompanied the JV squad. Perspiring and panting he labored to keep up as the youngsters seemed to coast effortlessly, loudly singing along with the music in their heads or talking on the phone to friends half a world away. Once again Anthony was not pleased. Had he wanted to spend his days chaperoning field trips he would have never quit his first job, teaching high school history.

It had been a diplomatic feat of Herculean proportions.  Bruno had served a chief negotiator, shuttling between the opposing parties offering proposals and counter proposals. Roadmaps to consensus. Compromise and conciliation. After many hours of intense bargaining the deal was struck. There would be two recreational vehicles. One for The Ambassador. One for the envoy. They would be identical. Same vehicle make and model. Same size engine. Same floor plan. Same accoutrements. Same colors. Neither diplomat would garner more esteem than the other, or in any way shape or form be diminished, due to the status of their mobile home. According to the Memorandum of Understanding signed by both principles the recreational vehicles would be next in the order of march. Each would be in the lead for a specified period of time with the front position changing at predetermined intervals, thereby ensuring equilibrium of status between the two principles.

Next in line Bruno drove the van just in case one of the mere mortals became in need of a ride, followed by the mechanic in his support truck. Acting as rear guard and overall security coordinator was Raymond Hoffman driven by the Assistant RSO, Nick “Guns” Andammo, so named due to his fascination with anything that goes “BOOM.” With steely eyes behind mirrored lens both men maintained a constant 360^o scan of the perimeter looking for any threat.

The odyssey began at the Itäland border crossing; a six hundred kilometer bike tour of Nordeland, traversing the entire breadth of the country, east to west, ending at the water’s edge on the Gulf of Scandinavia. All conducted as a living symbol of America’s commitment to the environment.

 

*********

Also by E.C. Jacobs

                                   Last Chance in Amazon.com

Dive into intrigue and romance.  Be transported to exotic Southeast Asia and join Ian McEdwards, a down-on-his-luck American businessman living in Malaysia, as he weathers storms, outwits terrorist, and falls in love, all while looking for clues to the location of a sunken shipload of gold.

Ian works as a freelance international business consultant. That is how he earns a living. But his passion is SCUBA diving and the search for the wreck of the legendary treasure ship Sunchaser. Desperate for business, Ian unknowingly takes a client that is in actuality a money-laundering front for Abu Sayyaf, one of the most virulent terrorist organizations in Southeast Asia. Soon the CIA moves in to investigate and Ian finds himself falling in love with a young, beautiful, covert agent. Caught between terrorists and the Agency, while searching for a fortune in lost gold, Ian is grasping for one LAST CHANCE.

 

       

THE IMPERIALS #12

Body Count

“Quantifiables. We need more quantifiables. We need to illustrate to Washington we are accomplishing something out here.” The Ambassador was animated. “We need to build justification for our request to increase the budget. When we get more money we can then again increase the quantifiables!”

“Yes, Madam Ambassador,” the country team and her personal staff answered in chorus.

“Bebe Buchanan will be arriving next week and she will be impressed.” The Ambassador turned on her heel and marched out of the room followed in lock step by her company of assistants.

Madeleine and Bebe had maintained a begrudgingly friendly relationship for years. They were always in competition. Old money versus new. Heiress versus overachiever. King maker versus money raiser. Madeleine was not happy with the current situation. Her family had been a fixture in the Party for decades. They had worked their way to prominence by supporting candidates from the local dog catcher to the highest tiers of power in the nation. They didn’t just show up with a campaign donation. The Howells had earned their position of prominence. Even if that weren’t the case, Madeleine had raised more money than Bebe, yet Bebe prowled the halls of power with a domestic presidential appointment while Madeleine had been forced to settle for the ambassadorship to Nordeland. Banished to the fringe of civilization. She might not be in Washington, but by damn she was still going to make herself known.

“What is the head count?” The Ambassador demanded as she sat behind her desk.

“Quite impressive,” Lynn gushed. “More people attended your welcome party than that of any previous American ambassador for which we have records. According to the society pages of the Morning Nordelandian it was one of the largest private social events ever held in the city. Certainly larger than any other ambassador’s parties.”

“Excellent.” Madeleine beamed.

“Adding the attendance from the Solstice Celebration, the Whodunit Mystery Party, The World of Wine wine tasting event, the largest 4^th of July party on record, the movie nights, the lunches and receptions we have held, we are on track to report some very impressive, quantifiable outreach results.”

“Fine. Fine. I want a weekly update to Washington regarding the number of people who walk through those doors. Now what about press placements?”

“I have those figures from Gretchen. We are doing very well in that respect also. You have an article in Nordean Homes regarding the redecoration of the ambassador’s residence. It was very complimentary of your decision to paint everything “money green.” There was the column in the society page about the party. A mention in the metro column about the traffic jam created by the carriage ride to the palace. The press release from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs regarding your accreditation.  A short piece in the Peculiar Happenings section of the Morning Nordelandian about the Ben Franklin and Marten Martenson impersonators. You were mentioned in Nordeland Fashion Weekly for your unique personal style. A short profile in Nordic Woman magazine and a few other lesser mentions.”

“Oh, that does sound good.” Madeleine was definitely pleased with the impression she was making on Nordeland. Becoming very serious she asked, “How many press placements for Bebe?”

“Only three,” Lynn sneered. “Newsweek, the Wall Street Journal and US News and World Report.”

“Only three,” Madeleine laughed.

 

G & T’s

Anthony Michaels was a man meant for a different time, when diplomats were a select few. The elite of American society sent forth unto the world as representatives of a benevolent benefactor to bestow guidance, protection and goodwill upon the less fortunate of the world. Days were filled defeating fascism, fighting ignorance, eliminating poverty, turning water into wine and spreading the virtues of American capitalism. Evenings were spent relaxing under the swaying palms, sipping gin & tonics served by uniformed aboriginal servants, the aromatic smoke of a fine cigar wafting away on the breeze. Life as intended. Not a care in the world. Every whim provided for by the profligate institution. But those days were no more.

Anthony hated his posting in Washington. The Department did nothing for him. He had to provide his own home, utilities, phone service, cable, internet… Everything! He even had to drive himself to work. Barbaric. And most bewildering of all, there was no one at work to blame when something went wrong. He was responsible for himself. For his own well-being. For his own happiness. And he wasn’t happy. The pedestrian lifestyle was not his calling. He yearned for another cushy posting overseas. In the meantime he enjoyed his occasional jaunt abroad. For at least a few days every desire would be catered to. Someone would be at his beck and call. Once abroad there is almost nothing that the US government would not do for him. Fortunately, his current position as Special Liaison afforded at least the infrequent opportunity to visit posts abroad. On this particular trip he was babysitting the President’s Special Envoy, providing counsel, as she toured Europe with no apparent purpose. Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was a long flight, even with the spacious business class accommodations. It was a travesty that he had to pay for the upgrade himself. The government would only pay for coach seating even for persons of his stature, Senior Foreign Service. Appalling. He was subjected to such treatment just to save money.   

He had hoped to discuss the trip with Bebe during the flight but she had purchased a first class ticket and remained cloistered in the realm of the truly elite the entire duration. The thought passed through his mind that he should be grateful he was not crammed back in coach with their staff. It didn’t linger long. They were staff. Serfdom. He was Senior Foreign Service.

Bebe Buchanan had paid him little attention since their first introduction at the airport. She sat with her hands permanently attached to her WeCom, thumbs furiously massaging the keypad. Her personal assistant effectively ran interference until Bebe was able to take refuge in the serenity of the first class lounge.

Anthony tried again during their layover. He cautiously approached, much as he would a scared animal, trying not to spook her. It appeared that she was purposely trying to avoid making eye contact. She immediately rummaged through her purse, withdrew the WeCom, and devoted all her attention to the device. Never one to shrink from a challenge Anthony stood up straight and stepped forward. “Madame Envoy.”

Her thumbs stopped moving but her head remained down, eyes focused on the screen. Her shoulders heaved when she took a deep breath as if making deliberate preparations for the contact. She slowly lifted her head, raising her eyes to meet his, leering at him over a pinched face. “Not now. I am quite busy. Perhaps later,” she said dryly.

Anthony was somewhat stunned. She refused to talk to him. Instead, with a sloth like mannerism, she turned her attention back to the WeCom, and like a Muppet on amphetamines, began frenetically entering information into the keypad.