Daniel's Christmas Read online

  “Where did you get such nice hands?” Where did she get such a stupid question? But it was out there and now she’d have to live with it.

  He held one up as if to inspect it as they once again passed through the Palm Room and along the West Colonnade. The decorators had definitely been here. Garlands of green pine spiraled up each of the columns, broad red ribbons wrapped between.

  “My dad. I think I can blame my hands on him.”

  “Daniel Drake Darlington II?”

  “What? No, that was Dad’s idea of a joke, he’s Johnny by the way. He thought it was funny. He’d found two Daniel Drakes in the family tree. One, an authentic Brit turned pioneer, who stumbled into the Tennessee wilderness in the early 1700s and never left. The second, a lieutenant in the Civil War, fought for the South. Died young and stupid, but left behind a pregnant farmer’s wife who ran the place with an iron fist. Dad felt one a century was a good mark and realized that he’d better use the name in a hurry if he wanted to get it done in the 1900s. He added the ‘third’ just to be funny, I guess.”

  “So, you’re a slaver.”

  “Born and bred.”

  Alice followed him past another set of Marines who opened yet another set of doors for them before they could get there.

  “Should I worry?”

  “Nah. You’re not my type.” His voice was pure tease.

  “You’re not mine either.” She shot back. But it was wrong, on both sides. An awkward silence fell for a moment. She glanced sideways at him as they stepped past a pair of Marines and through a door. Then she faced forward and she squeaked.

  It was all Alice could do.

  She tried to speak, but all she could emit was another, equally ridiculous, high-pitched squeak.

  A quick turn to retreat back out the door she’d just come in proved fruitless. The Marines had already closed it behind her. She turned reluctantly back to face the room. It was huge. Magnificently furnished. Washington, Lincoln, and JFK stared down at her from the wall. She couldn’t say walls, because there was only one wall.

  The room was oval.

  Chapter 8

  The President entered and shook Alice’s hand a hearty good morning.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Thompson. You slept well I trust?”

  Wholly unable to speak, she again managed little more than another puppy-dog limp handshake in response. The man must think her totally witless. He waved her toward the inevitable cluster of seating.

  “Oval!” still rattled around in her brain like a ship lost at sea. Presidential portraits glowered down at her. The bloody Resolute desk, built from the timbers of the HMS Resolute anchored one end of the space and a large fireplace anchored the other. Nothing on television prepared her for the impact, for the sheer power of the room. It towered two stories tall, the Presidential Seal built into the center of the ceiling, mirrored by the one in the vast rug.

  She dropped onto a couch. Far more comfortable than it looked. It would be a good slouching couch for watching a sappy movie, she resisted the urge to test that theory. As she’d half expected, the President and his Chief of Staff took the two armchairs. A small rosewood table separated her from Daniel. From its surface, a rather stumpy Christmas gnome considered her carefully. His open satchel sported a selection of cheerfully wrapped chocolates.

  “I wanted a chance to speak with you before you left.”

  “Me?” She blinked hard, but remained clearly wide awake. The President didn’t fade leaving a Cheshire Cat smile, and they were definitely still seated in the Oval Office. Or maybe Daniel was the Cheshire Cat for he too was smiling at her, though in apparent empathy, as if reading her complete discomfiture at finding herself on the wrong side of the looking glass.

  “Yes, I’d like to ask for your professional assessment of the situation.”

  Her assessment? The situation? She checked her hands, but they looked normal-sized and clutched no little glass bottles or bits of half-nibbled mushroom. She really was here, in this room, with these two men.

  “I’ll try to help, Mr. President.” She glanced over at Daniel, “It’s not wearing off.”

  He shrugged and offered her a slightly crooked smile. “Don’t tell him,” he nodded towards President Matthews. “It will just make his ego even more unbearable knowing he has that effect on you.”

  The President ignored the comment. “Your Director at the CIA feels that the S.A.D. is the proper operational asset to deploy into this situation. He states that the Special Activities Division can extract and reinsert personnel with the lowest statistical probability of detection. Quite adamant on that point in fact.”

  She would bet Director Smith was adamant. To have end-to-end control of such a high profile situation would be a distinct feather in the agency’s cap.

  “I also spoke with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Brett was former commander of the U.S. Special Operations Command. As former head of SOCOM, he has an equally adamant predisposition favoring the SOAR assets. I’d like an analyst’s opinion. Director Smith speaks very highly of your acumen in these situations.”

  “Something he is careful not to voice in my presence.”

  “A bit taciturn, but an exceptional man for the role.”

  Alice couldn’t argue.

  “ ‘She possesses,” the President intoned in a fair imitation of Director Smith’s voice, “the finest operational instinct the agency has seen in a dozen years.’ I’d like to hear what your instinct says on this one.”

  Those were certainly words she’d never heard from the Director. In point of fact, over the six years since she’d first met the Director, that might be as many words as she’d ever heard from him, total. But that didn’t help her much in the Oval Office.

  Maybe if she could find a flagon of something that could make her shrink enough to completely disappear, then she’d feel much, much better.

  Shape up, Alice. You’ve been studying for this moment since you first played the Take Off! board game at age six, and then stayed up all night to memorize the country data on every single playing card.

  “Fact,” good place to start. “We have a tentative contact requesting an extraction and subsequent reinsertion of a single individual out of and back into North Korea. Fact, as odd as this request appears on the outside, if certain recent changes following Kim Jong-il’s death are considered, a certain logic may be conjectured.” She wished she had a white board. She always did her best thinking with a white board.

  She closed her eyes for a moment to let the patterns of the last three days of research reintegrate in her thinking. Then opened them again. They both still waited quietly. Well, she couldn’t ask for a more attentive audience.

  “Straight-line conclusions—”

  “What does that mean in analyst-speak?”

  “It means, Mr. President, that the only reasonable conclusions I can draw from the existing data lead straight to a single set of conclusions. Each change of factors decreases the scenario likelihood, significant decreases in this case. In other words, no matter what other geo-political influences I consider, I can only see one conclusion that makes any sense without stretching into impossible realms. And as my buddy, Sherlock says…”

  “Sherlock?”

  “Holmes, sir,” Daniel completed for her. “ ‘Once you have eliminated the obvious, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ ”

  It was like they’d been thinking together for years, the thoughts just flowed. Daniel just kept getting sexier. To get some distance, she stood and walked toward the far end of the room.

  “My dear Daniel Watson is quite correct.” She winced at her insertion of the word “dear” but forged ahead. The fireplace mantel had been adorned with a splendid collection of homey items, though she’d bet this was the White House staff’s doing, not some volunteers. Maybe even the President’s; this on
e little group of decorations looked age-worn and personal.

  Red-and-white candy-cane-twist candles. A little set of brass angels poised to ring tiny brass bells. A heavy iron strap sporting three very old bells the size of the palm of her hand. She picked it up and gave it a shake. Sleigh bells! Real ones. They clanged merrily and echoed loudly about the room reminding her of the auspicious place where she stood.

  She put the bells down hastily and turned back to the room. She couldn’t approach the problem head on, she always had to come at problems a bit sideways. So, she followed the wall past a grandfather clock and a curved door, the same shape as the wall.

  “The only thing that fits the data is that a high-ranking official of the North Korean government wishes to have an unofficial conversation with an equal member of the United States government. The trip must be a secret, hence the unofficial channels of the request and the request of non-North Korean transport.” She moseyed past the doors with a hazed view of the backs of the Marine guards, the glass so thick that it blurred the light. People shot bullets at this room. She shivered and hurried by only to be faced with Lincoln glaring at her from the ever-present oval wall. To his left stood a Christmas tree so perfect that it belonged in a catalog, not in real life. No family ornaments, no little kid decorations. A bachelor’s Christmas tree set up by others.

  “It must be a high-ranking official, one with sufficient profile to be recognized if traveling via normal transport. Hence, the request for clandestine transport. Perhaps even to be missed if gone overlong.” She whistled. She’d missed that. “Top six, at least that’s how I think of them. One of four leaders of the major political organizations: Central Committee, the Presidium, Worker’s Assembly, or National Defense. Or perhaps one of the two people who make up the ruling triumvirate with Kim Jong-un: Sung-il or Pak.”

  She ducked under Lincoln’s gaze and returned to the fireplace and its Christmas-bedecked marble mantelpiece. The room wasn’t actually that big, about the size of her whole apartment. Looking up she saw that a very solemn George Washington inspected her closely. This place was crazy. The first President’s steady gaze finally drove her back to face the current President’s thoughtful expression.

  “A three-day extraction, which means they’d be missed if they were gone longer. And they don’t want to be missed. They don’t want to be noticed as having anything to do with the Wicked West.

  “They aren’t stupid. They know it will take three days. Two days in transit, out and back in, and one day on the ground. The request mandates neutral territory. Neither China, Russia, Japan, nor the United States. We have three weeks to arrange a location, set and rehearse the extraction, and execute. And it must be flawless or the whole thing comes apart.”

  She sat back down, her throat dry from talking. Daniel had poured her a cup of tea in a delicate, holly-painted cup, and rested it on the small table between them. She’d never even seen him go to the sideboard. She took the lemon, careful not to spray the table or sofa arm, but didn’t add any sugar.

  “Special Activities Division?” The President reminded her.

  She considered the pieces. Knew the profiles of Saul and his crew, the best the CIA had in helicraft. Nothing else could perform this operation but a helicopter. There was no way to fly a comfy passenger- or military-jet into North Korea, twice, yet remain undetected. Saul had certainly done some nasty missions and come out with his crew and his cargo intact.

  “It must be one of the Top Six.” She whispered it aloud, even capitalizing it in her mind though there was no so-named group, to test the sound of the hypothesis. Unless it was… No, that theory didn’t quite work. Still, the factors didn’t block it. No! It was too ludicrous to consider. Certainly too unlikely to voice in this room or to this company.

  “Top Six,” she said it definitively and knew it was right. Most likely. Now she focused back on her audience.

  “Beyond secrecy, this mission will require finesse. The S.A.D. assets could do it. But if a North Korean Top Six asset caught the least little whiff of CIA involvement, or the attitude those fliers tend to carry with them, they’ll be gone. Never come aboard. No, you need a SOAR operative. One with the kind of finesse I’ve seen on Beale and Henderson’s reports. I’d trust your first instinct when you called them in last night.” And with that simple assessment, she’d probably just cancelled out every nice thing the CIA Director had ever thought about her.

  Chapter 9

  Daniel escorted Alice along the underground corridor to where her car had been moved and parked beneath the Treasury Building. A valet had it rolled up to the door, heater already running against the December chill.

  “Thank you, Daniel. It would have been just too weird walking through all of that security alone.” She glanced back through the glass doors at the last of three security desks they’d passed. Designed to keep people from getting in, it also made sure that she retained nothing important on her way out.

  “Always glad to serve as your Dear Daniel Watson.”

  Damn! She really hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, though of course he’d caught it. So, she did her best to smile in response.

  He held her car door for her, shooing the valet off with a five-dollar bill. By the boy’s expression, Alice could see that tips weren’t really called for, but he was being so overeager and helpful Daniel properly assessed it was the only way he could have a final private moment with her.

  Alice found herself not minding a private moment in the least.

  “I have a meeting tonight, but do you have plans for tomorrow evening?”

  She found herself shaking her head even before she could think as to whether or not she really did.

  “Good. I’ll come get you at 7pm. Casual.”

  Her first thought, as she tried to tug her cardigan more tightly around her, was there was no way she’d ever again risk wearing casual around Daniel Drake Darlington III. Her second thought was that she couldn’t wait.

  He clicked the door closed behind her, the closed window cutting off any chance of a response.

  It was only after she was driving away, and she spotted him still watching her departure, that she felt the warmth where his hand had brushed down her cheek before he’d closed her door.

  Chapter 10

  By midnight Alice had convinced herself that she’d imagined the whole thing, especially the line of warmth she could still feel on her cheek.

  By one o’clock she was pretty sure she hadn’t, and around two a.m. she decided she’d better be ready in case he actually came for her.

  Sometime around three she’d finally passed out for four hours of shuteye.

  By ten the next morning she’d dropped a significant portion of her next paycheck on a killer dress and new shoes. That had required a new winter coat to avoid looking totally ridiculous; can’t wear a killer dress with a worn blue parka. She’d had her hair cut just last week, the only reason she didn’t go in and have something drastic done to “fix” herself. Even in the salon, her hair had never behaved, though how she wished it would just for one night.

  To get over herself, she swung by the office and dove into her own analysis. Her premise, try to prove it wrong. If she couldn’t, well, then she had even more thinking to do. She reviewed the last six months of news from the incredibly spotlight-shy communist nation and its equally elusive leadership. Nothing revealed a softening to their strict isolationist attitudes. No comment reported by any of North Korea’s Top Six gave the least hint of who was coming out or what they’d want to talk about. The new supreme leader, Kim Jong-un, now named Wonsu, the highest active military rank, provided no indication of any change to his deceased father’s paranoid policies.

  When Betsy asked if she was coming to S.A.D. training or not, Alice observed the time in shock. Six o’clock. She locked down her work and was out of the building before Betsy could repeat the question. Thankfully no
cops waited along the two-mile drive to her apartment.

  A shower and fast change.

  The dress was nearly impossible to zip up by herself, but she managed, thankful for the flexibility gained in the S.A.D. gymnasium.

  Her nose shone, despite powder. Her cheeks didn’t, despite a bit of blush.

  Disgusted with the whole effort, she washed it all off her face and accidentally dribbled water down her cleavage. The dress hadn’t seemed so revealing in the store. She had just managed her shoes, a mid-heels compromise, as a knock sounded on the door. A quick glance proved that there was no way she was letting Daniel into her apartment in its current state.

  The couch had a rumpled afghan she’d knit years ago to snuggle under while watching movies, a fair pile of which she hadn’t filed away. A stack of books covered much of the armchair she didn’t use. Her home computer and a friendly disarray of paper, projects, and empty teacups were scattered about the surface of the dining table. With a quick kick, at least the clothes she’d stripped and dumped on arriving home would be out of sight.

  Coat. That was it. Be completely ready to leave. She snagged the knee-length wrap-around black cashmere coat. She overlapped it and tugged the wide belt tight around her waist. She liked that it had made her look like a modern secret agent in the store mirror.

  She opened the door just as the knock repeated.

  It wasn’t Daniel.

  She didn’t manage to suppress either her surprise or her disappointment.

  “Dr. Thompson?” The man was big, crew cut, mid-forties. The kind of square features you wouldn’t want to mess with. The incongruous black suit looked distinctly out of place on his fighter’s frame despite the good fit. The small coiled wire leading to an earpiece marked him for what he was, an agent of the U.S. Secret Service.