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  “Three: And speaking of Pakistan, we will of course commandeer their nuclear weapons for Caliphate use against – others, and you will raise no objection.

  “America will use its influence throughout the world to further the cause of the Caliphate. In none of this will Americans be harmed, unless you foolishly choose to send troops, planes, drones, or missiles into Islamic territory.”

  Haskin smiled. Conning had a slight feeling of relief. Perhaps he could actually pull this off without being discovered and impeached. Fine.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “You need to get back to the Angolans now,” said Haskin. “We may occasionally send you words of encouragement, but I hope that your actions as President will accomplish our goals without my having to contact you further and put you at risk of exposure.

  “If you fail to follow our proposals, a few documents sent to The Washington Post will end your career and ensure your place – not a highly favorable one – in history. Especially seeing you attained the Presidency by having Ezra Barnes killed.”

  Conning turned pale and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Oh, come on, Mr. President. Didn’t you at least suspect Barnes was killed so you could keep your Senate seat?”

  “Well…,” he hesitated. “But it wasn’t on my orders.”

  “Not even a wink and a nod?”

  “No!”

  “I have a very good collection of circumstantial evidence that would take a long time to disprove, if ever.”

  “No one will believe I had Barnes killed!”

  “You might be believed, yes, by some people; perhaps even by most people. But your presidency would be over, and you would be shamed or worse.”

  Conning’s face showed a mixture of hope and terror.

  Sybille Haskin smiled, then turned and left.

  Unknown to both Conning and Haskin, a junior aide of the Senator’s had noticed the two going into the anteroom and closing the door. “More of that hush-hush defense stuff,” she thought, appreciating the air of mystery. An unusual honor to meet with the Pres without any staff present, not even the photographer.

  On her way back to her desk, she remarked to an intern “I’ll bet Sally Netherton’s company is going to get a lot more defense contracts now,” to which the intern nodded, as if sagely.

  Marie Conning, waiting for her husband in an outer office and hearing the aide’s remark, looked around just in time to catch a glimpse of the departing Sybille Haskin, known to her as “Sally Netherton.” Jesus, she thought, he’s still seeing her! Visions of Clinton and Kennedy and FDR and several other Presidents and their sexual adventures in office slithered through her mind.

  Marie was a jealous woman, but she had grudgingly put up with her Senator husband’s indiscretions. But President! He just couldn’t do that anymore, or he’d be ruined. And not some flirty reporter or intern, but an older woman. And he’s been seeing her for – what? – two years now, at least.

  That could be serious. Marie felt a deep threat. Divorced or shamed, laughed at. Marie didn’t immediately know what she was going to do, but she was going to do something. A First Spouse had certain powers that a Senator’s wife would never even know existed.

  Sybille Haskin noticed Marie Conning while leaving the suite. It was obvious to her what Marie had been thinking. What a laugh! Going to bed with that overweight coward? Or any other man. Sybille was glad to know that, if everything went well, she’d never have to see him again and once more have a slight risk of exposure.

  That evening, Marie had a long talk with herself about what she should do about her unfaithful husband who was putting them both at risk of shame, laughter. Would the Secret Service help out by warning that woman off? Not likely. They were just as apt to be enablers.

  Should she confront Sally Netherton herself? That might not work. Might be dangerous. Just taking that kind of action would be a scandal if it ever got out. What if she visited Netherton and then Netherton called the Post? Very bad. Anyway, she had no idea where Netherton lived, or in which of the many ConDyne facilities she worked. And making enquiries would itself be risky.

  Perhaps she could hire a private detective. Yes, why not? Not giving her name, of course, or her reasons, just say a Sally Netherton had occasionally visited ex-Senator Thomas Conning’s office, and Marie wanted Netherton’ home and business addresses, telephone number, email address, police record if any, and so on (she’d already tried Facebook – no listing). That sounded innocent enough as a first step.

  Marie looked online for local PI firms that seemed reputable, and picked J.P. Portney almost at random. She bought a burn-phone and called him. A brief conversation resulted in a deal, and Marie sent the agency the agreed retainer of five thousand dollars by means of an anonymous stored-value card.

  She told Portney what she wanted to know about a woman named Sally Netherton, a ConDyne employee, and provided a description of the woman in question, and mentioned she’d been seen in five specific different places (where she had probably never been), and also around the Russell SOB, especially near the office of then-Senator Conning. Marie would try to get a photo of Netherton if she could. Her requests were granted, because the card was legit and Portney’s business was scarce these days, and the mystery client hadn’t asked the firm to do anything illegal. That would have cost more.

  There had been a number of photographers covering the President when he was meeting with the Angolan leader. As herself, Marie Conning called The Post and asked if she could look through the photos their own photogs had taken that day. Her husband, she said, wanted to have a few printed for his future memoirs.

  After one and a half minutes of serious consideration of her request, Marie Conning was invited to the The Post to view the hundreds of digital images from that event, only five of which had been used in the paper or its online edition.

  After just short of two hours, Marie found three photos that included Sally Netherton in the background, one of them more in-focus than the other two. She asked for jpgs of both, and got them, along with thirty-five others she had no interest in. Back home, she fumbled around on her computer trying to crop out her husband and others, leaving only Netherton’s severe face. Finally she succeeded, and phone-mailed them to J.P Portney.

  Portney now had more leads than he needed. Why had his mystery-client not done some of the legwork him/her/themselves? He located Sally Netherton easily, by finding some of Conning’s former Senate staff and then asking them outright about her. One aide had a contact number for Netherton; Portney traced it down and camped outside a rather stately but stodgy apartment building on Connecticut Avenue until a woman who seemed to fit Netherton’s description was seen leaving and entering. He began following her, but found out very little except her habits were very habitual, and boring.

  Initiating a parallel inquiry, Portney sent images of the woman to a dozen other PI firms he’d worked with in the past. Getting no results, he solicited a few more, and then sent out a general emailing to the database of PI firms registered with various local authorities. Gaining no intelligence from tailing her, he thought she might have come to the attention of other investigators, and he could discover what she might really be up to, and then bill his unknown client more, perhaps a lot more.

  Now Sybille Haskin was cautious by nature, and had spotted Portney the second day he followed her. She placed Portney as a detective, not a sexual predator on cruise control, by his demeanor and taste in apparel.

  Haskin was greatly concerned about the detective, not because he might discover her business (which she carefully disguised), but because of who had been concerned enough to put a tail on her. Who could that be? Some possibilities crossed her mind:

  The President? But that would risk exposing his own complicity, whether or not the surveillance was being done by the Secret Service.

  The FBI? They might suspect she was working for a foreign power owing to various calls and shipments to and from Europe and Asi
a. No matter how innocent and arguably legal, this would be of interest to the government. So the FBI was a possibility.

  Her employer, Al-Ma‘raka? The thought made Haskin catch her breath and abruptly sit down. They didn’t trust her. They suspected she knew more about them than was tolerable. They thought she might be double-dealing, informing the U.S. government of every move. Any or all of those things. But the fact she’d been followed and not yet killed reassured her somewhat. Al-Ma‘raka was known for deleting any of their agents who’d completed their missions and hence “knew too much for their own good”. A phrase the Arabs had picked up from a Dashiell Hammett novel and liked to quote.

  One way or another, however, having a tail was a very bad thing, even if no harm was intended. If Al-Ma‘raka wasn’t behind her follower / detective – and if they found out she was being tailed, no matter by whom if it wasn’t them – there would be nowhere to hide and she would soon go permanently missing. She made plans to move out of her apartment soon, and to discontinue the “Sally Netherton” identity with extreme prejudice.

  Twelve days later, P.J. Portney informed his client Sally Netherton didn’t seem to be employed, even though she lived in a pricy apartment building. That he had found no connection between her and ConDyne, although some of their work was highly classified and he hadn’t been able to get to it. She didn’t seem to have any friends or anyone who might be in a relationship with her on a regular basis, sexual or otherwise. As to habits, she seemed to have none other than Starbucks and a local gourmet delicatessen. And she kept to herself aside from occasional visits to the Hill and Administration offices. She stayed in at night. She had no police record.

  Marie Conning was somewhat comforted by learning Netherton was such an ordinary person, but still annoyed that her husband was risking his career, and what was worse, her own.

  About the same time Haskin became aware she was being tailed, Malcolm Chukash, having seen P.J. Portney’s e-flier with a picture of a woman of interest to him, called Portney and asked him who this person was.

  Portney responded by saying Chukash should tell Portney everything he knew about the woman, and then they could discuss business.

  Chukash said fuck that, I won’t tell you fucking anything unless you give me some fucking info I can use. Portney responded by saying, fuck yourself, you want my help, I want money up front.

  Malcolm Chukash called Hub Landon that evening, and informed him another PI firm had been circulating a photo of the woman the Agonauts had been referring to as ‘Stephanie Bloomberg,’ asking for an ID. Malcolm was prepared to respond if Hub said OK. Hub said OK, reveal what you have to and get what they know and get me a quote before you do that.”

  More negotiations ensured, including a mutual exchange of insults and information, which resulted in Chukash’s calling Hub and saying he needed twenty thousand dollars to pay for information.

  Hub called Jill and Liv and the three agreed to extract twenty thousand dollars from Jill’s credit union account and send it to Portney via Chukash.

  Chukash sent Portney the agreed ten thousand dollars and kept the rest as his fee.

  Meanwhile, Portney called the burn-phone, saying a west coast outfit knew something about Sally Netherton but they wanted money to say anything more. Marie Conning said hell yes, pay what you have to. Portney made up a large number, and Marie said WTF that is a very large number do you think I’m made of fucking money, and Portney replied yes, I actually do think that.

  Thirty thousand dollars arrived the next day at the office of P.J. Portney, which he kept. Displaying some level of honesty, he and Chukash did complete the information exchange and now both parties had new information about Sally Netherton aka Stephanie Bloomberg.

  P.J. Portney chortled. No one, he mused, had “chortled” in many years; but making a profit of thirty grand for ten minutes’ work, forty overall? – yeah, that was to chortle for.

  Now, the known relevant facts and surmises as provided to the Agonauts, as summarized in a conference call among the principals the next day, were:

  .. The woman’s name was Sally Netherton or Stephanie Bloomberg or something else.

  .. She had an apartment in Northwest D.C.

  .. She was thought by Portney’s client to work for a major defense contractor, probably ConDyne, but Portney had not verified that, especially as ConDyne had refused to provide access to its employee roster.

  .. She had been spotted at a Presidential event. (Marie had eliminated her husband’s image from the photos, but the background was unmistakable to anyone familiar with the White House.)

  .. She had been very much interested in the webV show “Try Try Again,” to the extent of speaking about the show with its producer and the tech group responsible for the final cut, and making certain statements that were very probably untrue.

  .. She had attended the trial of Charley Dukes for the murder of Ezra Barnes.

  P.J. Portney left a message on the burn-phone the next day and related what he had found out from the Coast. His feeling, he summarized to Marie Conning’s electronic surrogate, was that Sally Netherton might be engaged in questionable activities and should not be trusted. They had not yet observed any of her sexual activities, but they were watching for any such with interest.

  Marie studied the information she’d received; didn’t amount to much, she thought. Nothing she could confront her husband with except Sally Netherton used a pseudonym somewhere in the West. But Tom might have known that already, or wouldn’t care.

  It occurred to Marie she hadn’t thought as far ahead as she should have. Tell Tom? But then she’d have to admit she’d been snooping, had even hired an investigator. But if she didn’t tell him, who knew what kind of trouble Netherton could get him into? Hard to say. Her attention drifted from sex, which Netherton apparently did not believe in except with Marie’s husband, to undue influence, perhaps secret payoffs.

  Anyway, Netherton didn’t seem to be much of a threat to her marriage; Marie might just have to tolerate Tom’s apparent interest in her. She decided to sleep on the problem. Once again, Tom Conning was elsewhere that night. With Her, Marie thought.

  But of course that wasn’t the case. If all of Washington’s messes were about sex, little actual harm would have been done. There was a moral here, as a webV commentator in Grantwood, Pennsylvania mused some time later.

  The next morning, Marie called P.J. Portney and told him to stop work on her assignment and destroy all evidence of same. Portney sent a note to Malcom Chukash that “Client X” had dismissed them, and so there was no longer an opportunity or need to share information.

  JILL

  That night, Hub and Liv and Jill had a long-distance discussion. What, if anything, should be done now?

  “We still don’t have proof that Stephanie / Sally has broken any laws,” said Liv. She could be an industrial spy, or an agent of a friendly government – or a spy for our side.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Hub. “I think we should turn our information over to the FBI, in case they might have an interest in her now or later, and just get on with our lives.”

  “You know they won’t do anything,” said Jill, “just rumors.”

  “Probably not,” Hub acknowledged.

  “Look,” Jill said. “We have her linked to Charley Dukes – attending his trial, I mean – and linked to President Conning – being at one of his public events.”

  “What are you getting at? said Hub. “Do you think she was behind the Barnes assassination?”

  “Could be,” Jill said. “I can’t think of any other way to put those two appearances together.”

  “So are you saying she had Barnes killed so Conning could be re-elected to the Senate? Why?”

  “Perhaps she does work for a big government contractor and has Conning in her pocket. She got rid of Barnes so her influence over Conning would still be valuable.”

  “For that to work,” Hub said, “she’d have to be blackmailing Conning.”


  “Could know something from his past.”

  “Not likely. You know how Presidential candidates are vetted by the press. It’s hard to believe that any fatal flaw hasn’t been revealed by now.”

  The two were silent for a moment. Then Hub spoke.

  “One thing,” he said, “really a last straw. I want to find out who hired that other PI firm to check up on our suspect. Whatever his or her connection to Bloomberg, I’d like to know about it.”

  “Think they’ll tell you?”

  “Not directly, but their client has dismissed them; if we hire Portney to tail this former client and report on him or her to us, Portney wouldn’t be directly breaching any business ethics, because they wouldn’t be revealing any information they were told in confidence.”

  Jill thought she could almost hear Liv frowning deeply over the phone, but neither said anything.

  “OK!” said Hub. “I’ll call Malcolm Chukash tomorrow and work through him. Jill, get your checkbook ready. What we’re asking won’t come cheap.”

  Coldly, Jill said “Checkbooks don’t exist anymore, but I get what you mean. Perhaps my days of having to deal with being rich are about to end.”

  Later that evening, Hub talked it over with Malcolm, who told Hub his idea was too damn complicated: Malcolm would just offer Portney a bribe to rat out his client. Hub asked Malcolm if Portney would go for it. Malcolm said, “I would.” That statement did not leave Hub with an easy feeling.

  However, when Malcolm called Portney with the offer, Portney told him that the client was unknown, had never given Portney her name and had been careful not to be traceable.

  “Her?”

  “Yeah, she was a her. Pretty sure. Ya get a feeling for this shit. And sounded like it on the phone.”

  “Interesting. But I have an idea.” He continued talking.

  The next day, Malcolm called Hub and told him Portney was indeed willing to earn a very large retainer, especially since his client had just fired him, but the sad fact was his client’s identity was still unknown. Calls from a burn phone, never met in person, anonymous money transfers, and so on.