Senate Intelligence

By C J Houy

Melissa O’Brien is a plain-looking space genius who earned a PhD from Stanford at twenty-one and worked at the National Reconnaissance Office for ten years in a secure vault amid the nation’s secrets.  She accepts a job working for the Senate Intelligence Committee only to learn how unprepared she is for life on Capitol Hill whe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles J Houy
• Release date: Jul 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999218730

Book preview

Chapter One

Tuesday, January 1st

The chosen few in first and business class began to file off the plane. The young man reached a muscular arm down and pulled his backpack from under the seat, then reached overhead for his carry-on. He checked his watch. Tapped his foot. Frowned. It would take at least ten minutes before the great unwashed in coach plus could start to exit. At least he wasn’t trapped with the riffraff in a middle seat back in steerage.

Complimentary champagne after takeoff followed by several glasses of red swill had barely improved his foul temper but led to a fitful sleep—and now a pounding headache. It was seven o’clock in the morning. The PA system was making announcements in French. He struggled to understand a few words. Good practice.

He checked his watch as he exited the plane, only seven minutes after the plane parked at the gate, a new record. Spotting the signs for customs, he headed through the giant vacuum tube escalators—a Parisian fashion statement—at Charles de Gaulle airport. His progress was halted at the visitors’ customs line that snaked back and forth, row after row after row. He envied those sauntering through the French nationals queue. He fought the urge to pull out his French passport. He couldn’t do that. This wasn’t an emergency.

The pounding in my head should qualify as an emergency. He frowned. But that won’t cut it with the boss.

After fifteen minutes of slithering along the queue, he was signaled forward by the inspector at passport control. The official examined his documents—and eyed him for any sign of nervousness or agitation.

So, Mr. Goldson, what is the purpose for coming to France? The inspector spoke English to the holder of the Israeli passport.

Business.

What kind of business, Monsieur?

Antiques. I’m on a two-week trip buying French antiques to sell in Tel Aviv.

Is this your first trip to France?

No, sir.

The inspector flipped several pages and looked at him quizzically. I don’t see any previous notations in your passport.

Oh. It’s a new passport. He racked his brain to remember the date of issue and recalled it was two years earlier. I haven’t been traveling recently. My wife had twins. I’ve been staying home to help. They’re almost two now. Starting to sleep all night. So my wife said, ‘Go ahead.’ And I’m very happy to be on the road again. Double diaper duty is far worse than I ever expected. He grimaced at the inspector.

The inspector cocked his head, stared for a moment. A hint of a grin? He stamped the passport and handed it over. D’accord, Monsieur Goldson. Enjoy your shopping.

Thank you, sir.

He walked past baggage claim and through the perfunctory customs check, not even pausing when handing the agent his customs form.

The signs for the shuttle bus and train to Paris showed him the way. It would be faster to ride the train than to take a taxi or a bus even on a holiday. The station was two blocks from the apartment.

Less than an hour later, he walked up the steps at Châtelet kicking litter out of the way. A typical winter morning in Paris: damp, gray, thirty-five degrees. A brisk gust of wind hit him in the face and lifted fast-food wrappers and plastic bags into the air. He zipped his jacket while shivering slightly. He stepped over an upended trash can and maneuvered through the quiet streets to Rue Jean-Lantier and up to a large wooden door. Pressed the intercom button.

Hallo?

Bonjour, Madame Giroux. Je suis ici.

Oh, bonjour, Monsieur. Attendez un moment, s’il vous plait.

A couple seconds later a buzzer sounded, and he pushed the heavy door open. He stood facing a small cobblestone courtyard. A wrought iron table and four chairs stood off to the left. He noticed that the flower boxes along the windows were empty. That made sense. It was January. Nothing else had changed.

He started across the courtyard toward a glass door. Off to his left and behind him a door opened, and a chubby, brown-haired, middle-aged woman peeked out. Bienvenue, Monsieur. She chattered rapidly away in French, saying something about coffee and juice. The door opened a little wider, and he could see she was still in a long royal purple robe and fuzzy pink slippers. There was a bit of gold glitter in her hair.

He held up his hand to stop her and smiled. Anglais, s’il vous plait, Madame Giroux. Could you please say that again in English?

Oui, d’accord. I taked café and jus to apartment pour vous.

Oh, bon. Merci beaucoup. He waved, smiled, and turned toward the opposite side of the courtyard. Passing the elevator, he took the stairs to the first floor. The key lay above the door, as usual. The room smelled a little musty, but everything seemed in order. He opened the heavy gray drapes, and light streamed in from the courtyard. Directly in front of him past the tiny bath on the right and the tinier kitchen on the left was a bedroom and double bed that beckoned him. He was sorely tempted to crawl in and sleep, but he’d done this enough to know the right thing to do was to stay awake. Get outside. Reset his body clock. If he slept now, the jet lag would be worse. It would take days before he acclimated to the time change.

He started a pot of coffee, stripped off his clothes, and stepped into the tiny, claustrophobic shower—a real luxury in a Paris apartment.

After letting the warm water pound on him for five minutes, he still felt groggy but a smidge more alive. Shaking the water off his face, he stepped out and toweled off. In the kitchen, he poured a cup of coffee and emptied it in three gulps. He stretched his taut back muscles and poured a second cup. From the bedroom closet, he grabbed fresh underwear and pulled on a gray turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and leather shoes. No jeans, sweatshirt, or running shoes here—not in Paris. He finished the second cup and grabbed his black leather jacket. With his wraparound shades and knit cap, he could pass equally well for an average Parisian or a French hitman. He grabbed the key and locked the door behind him. At the bottom of the stairs, he exited through the back door of the apartment building to the alley.

It was eerily quiet for Paris at 9:00 a.m. The pâtisseries and cafés in the neighborhood were closed. The bakers and cooks were home nursing hangovers. He remembered his first New Year’s Eve in Paris. The whole city had come alive at midnight with cars racing through the streets sounding their horns in one unceasing honk. The cacophony kept all Parisians awake. But, then again, who would dare sleep in Paris on New Year’s Eve? There was too much champagne to drink and too many beautiful women to kiss.

The next morning was a different matter. No honking. No shouting. No pedestrians taking in the sights.

This New Year’s Day, he made a solitary figure walking across the Seine to the Île de la Cité. To the left, Notre-Dame Cathedral. He turned right and hurried through the chilly streets to the Pont Neuf. He looked out over the Seine. The frosty breeze stung his ears and brought tears to his eyes as he stood on the open bridge. It partnered with the caffeine, stimulating his senses.

He followed his nose to an open café with fresh croissants and strong coffee. After a double espresso and a croissant with marmalade, the cobwebs finally dissipated. The pounding in his head had stopped with the first cup of coffee. But it wasn’t until after this little breakfast that he started to feel human again.

Refreshed and alert, he headed back to the apartment to check the day’s news. Rounding the corner on Rue Jean-Lantier, he spied a black sedan parked in front of his apartment building. Steam billowed from its exhaust. He’d use the rear alley entrance.

As he approached the back door, a man in a dark suit stepped out of the recessed doorway and glared at him. Over his shoulder he glimpsed another man wearing a plaid sport coat and charcoal-gray slacks stepping out of the shadows behind him. The man in front was young, six foot two, broad shouldered. He figured he could take him, or at least outrun him if necessary. He continued straight ahead. The man behind him quickened his pace on the cobblestone alley. He’d catch up about the same time he reached the first guy. He took a deep breath and prepared to run. Tires squealed as the black sedan rounded the corner and blocked his planned escape route. Turning, he saw that the man behind him held a 9mm pistol aimed at the back of his head, fifteen feet away but closing fast.

The guy in front ordered in heavily accented English. Get in ze car.

He reached inside his jacket and clicked open a small switchblade knife, keeping the blade concealed inside his jacket sleeve. He was about to wheel and fire it at the throat of the man behind him when the driver’s window rolled down. A gray-haired, gray-complexioned man wearing dark sunglasses spoke.

Aaron, get in the car. Please don’t hurt anyone.

What? You? What are you doing here?

Just get in the car, Aaron.

He relaxed and snapped the switchblade shut.

And drop the knife, please. I don’t want any accidents.

He did as instructed and was escorted to the car by the guy in the dark suit. The 9mm still pointed at his head.

He slumped in the back seat. The two bodyguards smirked as they got into the car on each side of him. The gray-haired man snapped, "Wipe those stupid smiles off your faces. If I hadn’t been here, you’d both be dead. And shut the door.

We’ve got to get out of here."

He hit the accelerator, and the car jumped to life. Two quick turns and the car zoomed down Rue de Rivoli toward the Place de la Concorde. It turned right off the Place and stopped two blocks later in front of a small tailor shop on Avenue Matignon. The gray-haired man tossed the keys to the armed bodyguard. The man in the dark suit grabbed Aaron by the elbow as he stepped out of the car. Aaron tried to yank his arm away, but the gray-haired man sighed. Don’t fight, Aaron.

The three of them entered the shop and disappeared into a large fitting room at the back of the store. The older man stared at the ceiling. A full-length mirror swung open revealing a hidden passageway. They climbed down a set of concrete stairs. At the bottom, the younger man entered a code into a keypad. A thick steel door opened onto a long narrow corridor. He led the way to a small room and beckoned Aaron inside.

The room contained a metal table with four rigid plastic chairs. The walls were gray, concrete, windowless. A large mirror hung on one wall. Take a seat.

Aaron sat facing the mirror, the gray-haired man across from him. The other man stood in the corner near the door.

OK, why don’t you tell us in your own words what happened.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why am I here?

You know why we pulled you out, right?

Aaron shrugged. Yes, of course. But why am I here?

Tell us your side of the story.

What story?

About the girl.

What girl?

The gray-haired man sighed and rested both palms on the table. C’mon Aaron. I’m on your side. Just tell me what happened?

No, you tell me what happened.

Aaron, this will go a lot easier if you cooperate.

I am cooperating. What do you want from me?

We want you to tell us what happened to the girl.

What? Aaron’s bored expression twisted into a scowl. You know what happened to her. She died. I should be asking you what happened to her.

Did she fall?

Yeah, right! Aaron scoffed.

Aaron, Aaron. The gray-haired man shook his head. What did you do?

Me? I didn’t do anything. Who are you trying to con?

OK, Aaron. Must I report that you won’t cooperate?

Aaron’s face had returned to the same blank calm it had shown at the beginning of the interrogation. I am cooperating.

You haven’t answered my questions.

You haven’t asked any I can answer.

OK, Aaron. Have it your way, but this won’t look good. He shook his head. You know, this could tarnish your heroic image. He stood up and reached inside his coat pocket. Here, I have a couple Romeo y Julieta Robustos for you. Your favorite, no? And a case of Pontet Canet has been sent to the apartment, compliments of the prime minister himself. He chuckled. You might have saved his job. He slid the cigars and switchblade across the table, then motioned to the bodyguard to open the door. Enjoy your vacation.

Aaron picked up the knife and cigars, shook his head disgustedly, and walked out. He made his way up the stairs, out of the building, and onto the chilly street. He guessed it was about five kilometers back to the apartment. A walk through the Tuileries Gardens would do him good. It should be nearly deserted on New Year’s. Besides, it was far too cold for tourists or locals to be out walking.

As he walked, his mind whirled through every detail of the strange encounter. He could still hear the old man’s words ringing in his ears. Tell us your side of the story.

What story? There was a girl. She knew too much. She was killed. It’s happened before and will happen again. What makes this different, and why are they asking me? They had to know what happened to her. Didn’t they? Do I have it wrong? It couldn’t be.

The wind pushed him along. The sun was beginning to peek through the clouds. He pulled a cigar out of his inside pocket and his knife from the outer pocket. He flipped the knife open and cut a cross in the end of the cigar. Folding the knife closed, he returned it to his pocket and pulled a lighter from his slacks. He drew on the cigar, and the butane flame quickly ignited the Cuban. The taste of cedar and earth hit him in the back of the mouth. He exhaled a large cloud of smoke and continued his trek along the river, back toward the apartment.

He spotted the Pont des Arts. As always, it was decorated with hundreds of small metal padlocks symbolizing lovers’ commitment to one another. Love locks hadn’t originated in Paris, but where else would a public display of amour be more appropriate? He smiled wistfully, thinking about the thousands of lovers who’d scratched their initials onto a metal padlock and fastened it to a bridge to show their love. City workers were kept busy cutting them off almost as quickly as they were attached. Parisian officials feared the structural damage that thousands of locks were doing and were installing clear plastic barriers to end the practice. He shook his head. Quel dommage.

He chuckled a little as he recalled that the Pont des Arts was said to be the bridge for a lover’s fling. Hanging a lock on the lesser known Pont de l’Archeveche—now, that showed total commitment to a love.

Chapter Two

A year and a day earlier

Sunday, December 31st

Arlington, Virginia

Despite the late hour, Melissa pushed her shoulder-length, wavy red hair behind her ear and picked up the phone. She’d seen the caller ID number. Hi, Mom. Happy New Year, I guess.

Oh, Melissa, I was hoping you weren’t home, and I’d leave a message wishing you an early happy New Year. It’s eight o’clock here.

I know, Ma. It’s eleven here. They’re about to start the watch on the ball at Times Square. Whoopee.

Oh, honey, why are you home? Are you alone? Why aren’t you out celebrating?

I am celebrating. I mean, it’s not Dick Clark, but I’ve got Ryan Seacrest at Times Square, a little black bottle of champagne, and nacho cheese tortilla chips. What more could a girl want?

But you shouldn’t be home alone. You should be out with friends or making new ones.

Melissa shrugged her shoulders. Are you out with friends? No, you’re home.

Well, I’ve got your father to help me celebrate. Plus, we’re not thirty anymore. We’re supposed to be home while you youngsters paint the town red. Her mother paused. So, why aren’t you?

What do you mean? You want me to go out, get drunk in public and kiss some total stranger at midnight, and maybe go home with him? Melissa glared at the phone. Is that really what you want me doing, Mother?

Melissa, honey, I want you to be enjoying life, having fun. You work too hard. You spend your entire life in a vault surrounded by old men, space weapons, and classified documents.

That’s not exactly true.

Well, it’s pretty close. I worry about you. And on New Year’s Eve of all nights, you should be living it up a little, not sitting at home drinking by yourself.

Melissa picked up the champagne bottle with her free hand and rested it meditatively on her knee. It’s only a half bottle, and I might not even finish it. I bet you and Dad have already started on your second bottle of wine. I don’t think you should be talking about my drinking.

Lissa, I’m not talking about your drinking. You know what I mean.

Well, I’d rather be home by myself than out at some bar watching a lot of people get sloppy drunk. The last thing I need is a hangover. You know I’m starting on Tuesday.

Of course I know; we’re so excited for you. Do you think the senators will call you Dr. O’Brien?

From what I hear, I think it’ll be ‘hey, you.’ Senators are the ones with titles. Staff are just staff.

Even though you’re a doctor? I bet the chairman knows you’re a doctor.

I’m sure they told her I have a Ph.D. But I haven’t even met her yet. How would I know what she knows? They said I’ll probably meet her on Wednesday when the Senate comes back from the holidays.

Well that’s all very exciting. But I wish you were out tonight. Hanging out with friends. Celebrating your good fortune instead of drinking alone.

I’m fine, Mom. I’m going to have a second half glass of bubbly to celebrate my good fortune, as you say, and hit the lights about the time the ball drops. Are you and Dad going to ring in the New Year?

Your father and I will probably wish each other a happy New Year with a kiss when Chicago celebrates and call it an evening. We’ve had a few too many New Years together to get too excited about it. But we’re excited for you. We know your new year will be terrific with new challenges and wonderful opportunities around every corner. And, I might add, maybe some new friends. Your father sends his love. Call me Tuesday when you get home from work.

I will, Ma. And I hope you and Dad have a very happy New Year too. Love you.

Melissa hung up the phone and turned up the volume. Watching the thousands congregating at Times Square, she couldn’t imagine what the attraction was. Most of those on the