Alfalfa and Diamonds, Blood and Coffee
Chloe Cleavage was pretending to do yoga on her living room rug so she wouldn't have to talk to boyfriend "Pierre", an OccupyDCer. She pulled a piece of lint off her $300 silk/cotton/spandex yoga pants, then elevated her legs. It was bad enough he had conned her into renting a tuxedo for him because he had a huge surprise event to take her to, and she had purchased a $1,500 dress in Georgetown for said event, but the humiliation! She had already posted a photo of them in their fancy attire on Facebook before they even left the apartment yesterday! When he told the taxi to take them to the Capital Hilton, she was wildly excited! Perhaps all his months of hobnobbing with the OccupyDC folks in McPherson Square had finally led to some VIP connections in this city! But NOOOOO! She lowered her legs and glared at him sitting at her desk surfing the internet on her computer. To arrive at the Capitol Hilton and realize it was surrounded by a mob of OccupyDC protesters! To be used as an eye candy accomplice in an embarrassing attempt to crash the Alfalfa Club's annual dinner! To have her boyfriend hold up a sign with the acronym O.B.A.M.A. spelling out "Obama's Bank of America's Main Accomplice"! God knows who might have seen her in the lobby--was former Senator Evermore Breadman a member? Then to be kicked back out into the swarm of protesting riffraff! She gave Pierre's back the finger, then went into a lotus position. What the hell am I going to do now? She knew the McPherson Square's encampment's days were numbered, and he might move all his stuff into her condo at any moment! How am I going to get you out of here? Pierre suddenly turned and winked at her, then got up from the desk and told her she looked really hot in the yoga pants. Maybe I'll give him one more week to sort his life out....
Down at the Capitol Hilton, Angela de la Paz was looking out the window at the 16th Street sidewalk, where there were few remaining indications of last night's hours of OccupyDC protesting. She wasn't sure what her next Heurich Society assignment was, and she felt anxious with nothing to do. She had wondered if Charles Wu would try to spend the night with her last night, but he hadn't. She went back to the couch and picked up the television remote control, but she didn't turn it on. The Alfalfa Club dinner tickets were courtesy of former Senator Evermore Breadman, who had told Wu his wife would have a heart attack if she had to enter the hotel through a police barricade. Wu had taken her to Georgetown to pick out any dress she wanted, and Angela had picked out an eye-catching magenta gown--which Wu had promptly accessorized with a diamond necklace and bracelets. A lot of people had given the 17-year-old girl interested stares, and she had attributed this to being the youngest guest there, perhaps, or the bling--still unaware at how exotically beautiful she had been rendered after the Heurich Society's paid plastic surgery to mold the young agent. Why did he take me? She knew Wu was trying to pry her away from the Heurich Society, but his approach varied considerably from week to week. Was last night all about getting me a handshake with the President of the United States? Is that supposed to impress me? But somehow it did. The Heurich Society wanted her to use aliases and flit from one secret destination to another. Her "finishing school" in Kansas had certainly included preparation for seducing foreign operatives, but she knew they wouldn't be happy to learn that Wu was parading her around a black tie event just blocks from the White House. She clicked on the television, then clicked it off again and continued staring at the blank screen, wondering why she had not heard any conversation last night about the rabid protesters outside the soiree.
Several miles to the west, Heurich Society Chair Henry Samuelson was at Dulles Airport attempting a few last-minute phone calls before his private flight to Guatemala. The ex-CIA operative was on a mission of his own to find out what he could do to stop ex-dictator Rios Montt from exposing too much inconvenient information now that he was slated to stand trial for genocide in Guatemala. Salvadoran-American Angela de la Paz was not remotely an option for this mission, nor did he want to share with anybody in Heurich what he was doing. And what am I doing? he kept wondering to himself. After he was dead, he didn't care what people in general found out about his CIA past, and at his age, that couldn't be many years off. Do I really care what my son and daughter think? He had left a carefully selected trove of documents and records for his daughter, Button, to receive after his death, hoping at that point she would have the maturity to understand the importance of his work...and safeguard it. But would she understand? He sipped coffee and replied to another text message from Guatemala. He wasn't even sure she would understand the legacy he had carefully crafted for his children--he really did not want any extraneous information coming to light that would complicate things unduly. His son was a longshot at best, secretly adopted away from a South American political prisoner, but somehow he had always harbored a feeling that his daughter was destined to be the heir of all his work. Almost three decades had passed since he was in Guatemala, and reconstructing this part of his legacy had not been on his to-do list. He pulled out the index card with the eight neatly written code names on it and was disappointed to realize he had still not memorized it, so it would have to stay in his pocket for now.
Back in Washington, Ghost Dennis flew away from the grim mood at McPherson Square and back to the White House, where he hoped to do some more whispering into President Obama's ear.
Down at the Capitol Hilton, Angela de la Paz was looking out the window at the 16th Street sidewalk, where there were few remaining indications of last night's hours of OccupyDC protesting. She wasn't sure what her next Heurich Society assignment was, and she felt anxious with nothing to do. She had wondered if Charles Wu would try to spend the night with her last night, but he hadn't. She went back to the couch and picked up the television remote control, but she didn't turn it on. The Alfalfa Club dinner tickets were courtesy of former Senator Evermore Breadman, who had told Wu his wife would have a heart attack if she had to enter the hotel through a police barricade. Wu had taken her to Georgetown to pick out any dress she wanted, and Angela had picked out an eye-catching magenta gown--which Wu had promptly accessorized with a diamond necklace and bracelets. A lot of people had given the 17-year-old girl interested stares, and she had attributed this to being the youngest guest there, perhaps, or the bling--still unaware at how exotically beautiful she had been rendered after the Heurich Society's paid plastic surgery to mold the young agent. Why did he take me? She knew Wu was trying to pry her away from the Heurich Society, but his approach varied considerably from week to week. Was last night all about getting me a handshake with the President of the United States? Is that supposed to impress me? But somehow it did. The Heurich Society wanted her to use aliases and flit from one secret destination to another. Her "finishing school" in Kansas had certainly included preparation for seducing foreign operatives, but she knew they wouldn't be happy to learn that Wu was parading her around a black tie event just blocks from the White House. She clicked on the television, then clicked it off again and continued staring at the blank screen, wondering why she had not heard any conversation last night about the rabid protesters outside the soiree.
Several miles to the west, Heurich Society Chair Henry Samuelson was at Dulles Airport attempting a few last-minute phone calls before his private flight to Guatemala. The ex-CIA operative was on a mission of his own to find out what he could do to stop ex-dictator Rios Montt from exposing too much inconvenient information now that he was slated to stand trial for genocide in Guatemala. Salvadoran-American Angela de la Paz was not remotely an option for this mission, nor did he want to share with anybody in Heurich what he was doing. And what am I doing? he kept wondering to himself. After he was dead, he didn't care what people in general found out about his CIA past, and at his age, that couldn't be many years off. Do I really care what my son and daughter think? He had left a carefully selected trove of documents and records for his daughter, Button, to receive after his death, hoping at that point she would have the maturity to understand the importance of his work...and safeguard it. But would she understand? He sipped coffee and replied to another text message from Guatemala. He wasn't even sure she would understand the legacy he had carefully crafted for his children--he really did not want any extraneous information coming to light that would complicate things unduly. His son was a longshot at best, secretly adopted away from a South American political prisoner, but somehow he had always harbored a feeling that his daughter was destined to be the heir of all his work. Almost three decades had passed since he was in Guatemala, and reconstructing this part of his legacy had not been on his to-do list. He pulled out the index card with the eight neatly written code names on it and was disappointed to realize he had still not memorized it, so it would have to stay in his pocket for now.
Back in Washington, Ghost Dennis flew away from the grim mood at McPherson Square and back to the White House, where he hoped to do some more whispering into President Obama's ear.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 2:27 PM
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