Alien Diplomacy (22 page)

“Can, have, and will, darling. Carry on, and enjoy yourselves.”

Oliver and I joined Jeff and Chuckie as Len and Kyle entered the room. “Why is he coming with us?” Jeff asked.

“He wants to, and he might help.”

Chuckie rubbed his forehead. “Unreal. Fine, yes, why not bring Mister Joel Oliver along?”

“We can discuss his intelligence while we’re heading to the medical center.”

“I’m refraining from comment,” Chuckie said dryly. He looked at Len and Kyle. “Have they been searched yet?”

The boys looked shocked, as though they were being accused of treason. Jeff motioned to an A-C, who zipped over and did the
whole search and scan thing. “They’re clean, sir.” He did the same for Jeff, Chuckie, Oliver, and Pierre. “All good, sir.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Len asked.

“We’ve been infiltrated,” Jeff snapped. “Kitty’s purse was loaded with bugs, our investigative reporter here was loaded, too.”

“You think we did that?” Kyle asked, looking both stricken and angry. Len was stone-faced, but his eyes were flashing. The boys weren’t liking this accusation at all.

Chuckie examined them. “No,” he said finally. I relaxed, Jeff grumbled, the boys looked relieved and still hurt. “But right now, we can’t be sure.”

I thought about yesterday’s fun-filled timeline. “If I was bugged, it wasn’t by the boys. They haven’t been around long enough. Same with MJO, they weren’t around him long enough to bug anything. And he and Pierre found all of his bugs last night.”

“Plenty of time if you’re good enough,” Chuckie said.

I shook my head. “They aren’t that good yet.”

“Thanks a lot,” Kyle muttered.

“What’s going on?” Len asked.

“We’ll fill you in on the way to the limo,” Jeff said firmly.

Before we could leave, the melodious tones of the front doorbell rang out. “Are we expecting company?”

“Not that I know of,” Jeff said.

“I haven’t had time to finalize calendars, but no, Walter didn’t inform me of such,” Pierre said, as he dashed off, presumably to get the door.

“All of you,” Jeff said to the agents, “get the place cleaned up and make sure it looks human, top speed. Get the bugs over to Dulce, pronto. I want all the intelligence on them as fast as possible.
Our
fast, not human fast.”

I blinked and the bugs all disappeared and things were put into place. The agents were nowhere to be seen. “Hyperspeed rocks.”

Pierre stuck his head in. “There’s quite a large a group of gentlemen and ladies to see you, Ambassadors. And you, too, Mister Reynolds. They wouldn’t take no or come back once you’ve scheduled an appointment for an answer, either.”

We all looked at each other. “What’s going on?” Jeff asked.

“No idea,” Chuckie said. “But I think we’d better go find out.”

“I
’VE PUT THEM INTO THE SMALL PARLOR
on the first floor,” Pierre said. “It’s the most businesslike room closest to the front door. I did my best to ensure they saw as little of the Embassy as possible.”

“Thanks, Pierre, good job.” Jeff jerked his head at me and Chuckie. “Let’s go and see who’s dropped in for a visit. Jocks and reporters stay here.” They all looked disappointed, but didn’t argue.

“How the hell does anyone know I’m here?” Chuckie asked quietly as we walked down the hall.

“You’re here a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” Jeff muttered as we reached the stairs and headed down.

We entered the room to find it packed with people. I knew some of them—Esteban Cantu, Madeline Cartwright, and Vincent Armstrong. Cantu was a rather handsome Latin man who was the head of the C.I.A.’s Antiterrorism unit. A unit that didn’t report in to the P.T.C.U. in any way. Armstrong was the senior senator from Florida and looked the part. And Cartwright was their Pentagon liaison.

There had been a fourth to their little cabal, John Cooper, from the C.I.A. He’d been one of the ones in charge of Operation Confusion. Happily, he was long dead now—Chuckie had taken him out after he’d tried to kill us all several different times.

I suspected the three of them still wanted to get rid of Chuckie and us so they could take over Centaurion Division, but so far we had no real proof. They were also on several committees that dealt with South America, national security, and anti-American activities,
meaning they interacted with Centaurion Division and the C.I.A.’s ET division frequently. However, normally we dealt with them at Langley.

“Reynolds,” Cantu said with a hearty smile. “I figured we’d find you here.”

“Cantu. What can I do for you?” Chuckie asked, voice clipped. They pointedly didn’t shake hands.

“Oh, I think it might be what we can do for you,” Armstrong said. “Madeline, why don’t you make the introductions?” There were six more people, three men, three women, all dressed according to the latest fashions from Intimidation Weekly. They all had the “look,” too. We were in a room full of political animals.

Cartwright was an older woman, with short hair and cat’s-eye glasses, and she always dressed severely. It was like she was trying to channel Lotte Lenya in
From Russia With Love
, only the American version. Of the original four and now three of them, though, I liked Cartwright the best, which was a classic example of damning with faint praise.

She managed a fleeting smile. “Ambassadors. How things have changed in the last few months, haven’t they? Especially for you, Missus Martini.”

“Pretty much completely, yes,” I said cheerfully. Why let them know we weren’t enjoying our new jobs?

“How’s your daughter?” she inquired.

“Doing great. I’ll force baby pictures on you later. But we’re late for a meeting, since we had no idea you were stopping by, so could we get to why you’re all here?”

“Absolutely. Please allow me to introduce Senator Lydia Montgomery, Miz Lillian Culver, Mister Guy Gadoire, and Representative Edmund Brewer. I’m sure you know Marion Villanova, the Chief Aide to the Secretary of State, and Secretary of Transportation Langston Whitmore.”

“Only from TV.” I hadn’t met any of these people in person yet, but I knew their respective spouses quite well. Lydia Montgomery was Eugene’s wife, Lillian Culver claimed dear Abner as her husband, Guy Gadoire was Vance Beaumont’s main man, and Edmund Brewer was Nathalie’s vintner husband. Marion Villanova and Langston Whitmore were the ones playing pretend with Leslie Manning and Bryce Taylor.

Whitmore gave me a beaming smile. “I believe you’re in the Washington Wife class with my personal assistant, Bryce, aren’t you, Missus Martini?”

“Ambassador Martini,” Chuckie corrected. “American Centaurion recognizes two Chiefs of Mission.”

“Of course, my apologies,” Whitmore said. “Is there a formal apology method your people prefer?”

“Oh, Langston,” Villanova said, “the first word in their country’s name is American. Stop acting like they wear feathers or something.” He chuckled in a way that I knew was supposed to be boyishly contrite while she smiled apologetically. “You have a lovely Embassy.” Considering Whitmore technically outranked Villanova, I thought this was an interesting little piece of theater.

“Thank you.” I tried to channel Pierre. “We do our best.”

“My friend Leslie says you’re quite the life of the party in class.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s me all right.” Either Leslie had lied like a wet rug, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, Villanova was being sweetly snide, or she was trying to put a nice spin on things. I tabled my decision on this for later.

The youngest woman stepped forward. “You must be Kitty,” she said, extending her hand. She was the first one to do so. “I’m Lydia.”

We shook paws. “Eugene’s told me so much about you! Nice to finally meet you.” She looked like Eugene—average. There was nothing wrong with that, but I could see a little more why this transition was hard on him—they’d really been regular folks before Lydia had gone into politics.

“I agree. Eugene speaks so highly of you, I was hoping we’d have time to meet before now.”

“Me too. Better late than never, though, right?”

Representative Brewer shook hands with all of us, marking him as the only one in the room who might possibly have been raised right, though I was willing to cut Lydia some slack. He looked exactly like I’d expect a winery-owner-turned-politician to look. He also looked like your quintessential Californian—tall, tan, laid-back, and confident.

“My wife, Nathalie, says she can’t wait to see your ensemble tomorrow night,” he shared as he got to me. “She expects it to be spectacular.”

“Does she? I guess I’d better make sure it is, then. How’s the wine business?”

“Good! I have wonderful people in place, running things. Allows me to focus on my constituents. Let me know if you’d like me to send a case over. Our Chardonnay is particularly fantastic.”

“Thank you, but it’s against our religion to drink.”

“You’re Mormons?”

Why this was always the first question was beyond me. More people than Mormons didn’t drink. “No. American Centaurion has its own religion. But thank you for the offer. If we were allowed to drink, I’m sure we’d love it.”

Lillian Culver was one of those women who, when you first looked at her, seemed really stunningly attractive—not Dazzler-level, but still hot for a human. But the longer you looked at her, the more you realized she was all bones and angles, and the moment you realized this, you also saw that she wasn’t really all that attractive. If you looked a little while longer, you started to wonder if she ate meals, and how big her head really was in proportion to her body.

Culver hit me with a wide smile, and I mean wide. She looked like she was auditioning to play the Joker in drag. It was sort of attractive but mostly horrifying, and also somewhat hypnotic. “My Abner’s described you perfectly.”

I jerked myself out of my almost stupefied study of her looks and back to the present moment. “Really? I’m sort of amazed that all of your spouses and friends are interested enough in me to talk about me outside of class, let alone to all of you.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Brewer said. “You’re one of the youngest ambassadors on the Row, maybe
the
youngest. And I think you’re the highest-ranking politician in the class, therefore.”

Social climbing. Well, there were worse reasons for these people to come calling. I was pretty sure they all had those worse reasons in mind, though.

Gadoire had saved himself for last. The men got hearty handshakes. I, on the other hand, got a sweeping bow and the back of my hand kissed. He didn’t do it very well, and I resisted the urge to ask for a moist towelette.

“Madame Ambassador, it’s truly an honor. My Vance says your wit and charm makes everyone around you laugh all day long.” He spoke in a French accent I was 99% sure was faked.

I had to censor the first ten responses that came to mind. “Does he? How sweet,” was all I could manage that wouldn’t fall on the snide or sarcastic side of the house. I was certain, however, that if I was around Gadoire for too long, I’d certainly be laughing all day long. Or washing my hands constantly. Or both.

Chuckie and Jeff both looked as if they were controlling their gag reflexes. “Cantu, while this is very pleasant, I’m wondering why it couldn’t wait until the President’s Ball tomorrow night.”
Chuckie’s tone was very light. “The ambassadors have a tight schedule today, and you’re disrupting it.”

The entire gang put expressions of dismay and chagrin on their faces. I didn’t buy it for a New York minute. Culver’s expression mirrored the Joker’s when he was pretending he was sad that he’d killed one of the Robins or put Batgirl in a wheelchair. It was official—this woman creeped me the hell out.

Culver took the lead. “I’m so sorry. Blame me, Mister Reynolds. We wanted a chance to talk to the ambassadors. American Centaurion is very influential in circles that affect us, and we just wanted to be sure we could start off on the right foot. We’re also here for you, any of you, should you need help navigating these new waters.”

I was sure the nine sharks in front of us would be more than happy to help us swim right into their maws. But I didn’t say that. “What influence are you hoping we’ll exert for you?” Hey, it was a lot better than calling them all Great Whites or something or, in Culver’s case, calling her Joker Jaws. To her face.

Joker Jaws waved her hand in that “it’s no big deal” way. Pierre did it a lot better. “There are certain…programs moving forward that represent the next evolution in protection of individuals and municipalities. We’d like to have American Centaurion’s support for these—in terms of defense, your little principality carries a great deal of sway.”

“In return,” Brewer said, “we’d of course look closely at any issues American Centaurion might be having and do our best to…smooth them over.”

“Would you?” Jeff asked. I could tell he was controlling himself from tossing them onto the street. We were saved by the bell. “Who’s here now?” Jeff asked.

“I’m not expecting anyone.”

“We were expecting to be gone by now,” Chuckie added meaningfully. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to have been gone at least fifteen minutes ago.