But Arabic speakers are golden. We might have to call in some markers to get a couple of those guys.” He looked back at Mohammed. “Unless…”
Seated across the room, Omar Mohammed read his colleague’s mind. “Oh, no you don’t.
Leopole got the drift, though he spoke neither French nor Arabic. However, Omar Mohammed spoke them fluently, and five other languages besides. Now he was nearing completion of a course in Indonesian.
“Hey, you did just fine in Pakistan on the Pandora Project,” Leopole insisted.
Mohammed almost winced at the memory. “Only because I was the default for Pashto and Urdu.” He shook his head. “Nope, no way, Jose.” The latter phrase, incongruously crafted in Dr. Mohammed’s cultivated tones, drew immediate grins and chuckles around the table. With his dignified manner and elegant Vandyke beard, Mohammed appeared the last person in Arlington, Virginia, who would employ colloquialisms.
Leopole spoke to Peters again. “Jack, I take it that our standby files don’t have anybody with the language and technical skills just now.”
“The people we have on file are qualified either in French or Arabic, or they’re gun guys. Not both, other than J. J. But I’ll see if Dave can get his personnel contacts to move faster.”
Mohammed had a thought: “Where is Alex Cohen? After all, he speaks fluent Arabic.”
Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. Without waiting for Leopole, she replied, “Ah, he’s traveling. Besides, I don’t think an Israeli-American would be too popular in a Muslim—”
“Sorry I’m late, everybody!”
Martha Whitney burst into the room. It was odd, Carmichael thought, how Martha inevitably “burst.” Partly it was her joie de vivre; partly it seemed calculated. Martha was a thespian at heart — always “up,” always “on.”
Most of her colleagues thought it noteworthy that Whitney, who hailed from Detroit, usually affected a southern accent. It was as if she went through life doing a decent impersonation of Pearl Bailey. At forty-eight, she was heavier than a few years before, partly the result of bearing and rearing two sons.
“There was a three-car pile-up on 395 just before the Washington exit,” she explained. “I tell you what, baby, it looked pretty bad when I drove past. There was this Subaru with the front end all…”
“Martha, thanks for the traffic report,” Leopole interjected.
Whitney barely registered the mild rebuke. “Well, I was gonna stop on account of my CPR training, you know? But the ambulance just arrived so I kept on a-comin’.”
Leopole made certain that everyone was introduced, then nodded to Carmichael, the tacit message plain on his face.
“Ah, Martha, we’re discussing a training mission in Chad. We think you could make a contribution so we’d like to discuss it with…”
Whitney arranged herself in the padded chair. “Well, I’m not much of an instructor, y’know. But I’ve worked in Africa before. In the field, that is.”
Carmichael didn’t know whether to take that last comment as a catty dig at her lack of covert ops experience. She decided to ignore it. For now.
“Well, there are other reasons for considering you for this mission. After all, you speak French, and that’s…”
Whitney waved a bejeweled hand. “Oh, c’mon, honey. You think I don’t know why I was hired? Same reason the Company hired me: I’m practically invisible. Baby, I be Stealth Woman. Despite thirty years of women’s lib and sensitivity training, the plain fact is that most folks don’t expect much from a black woman.” She gave a conspiratorial grin. “That includes some black men.” After a dramatic pause and a furrowed brow she added, “No, wait. That includes
Jack Peters had never met Martha Whitney. That was obvious to Leopole and Carmichael when he said, “Obviously it would help to have an African-American in Chad.”
Whitney’s cheery face abruptly wrinkled in disdain. She shook her head in one direction and a warning finger in the other. “Darlin’,” she began. “Don’t you be layin’ that PC BS on me. When I hear African-American’ or ‘Eye- talian-American’ or ‘Mexican-American’ that’s like a red flag to the bull, you know? It’s like you’re sayin’ I’m
“Well, I was just…”
“Now I’m tellin’ you for sure. If you figure you got to describe me racially, well, honey, I’m sorry for you. I’m a woman, and I’m black, so I’m a black female American. That’s an adverb modifying an adjective modifying a noun, and the proper noun is American! But I ain’t never an
He gulped visibly. “Yes, ma’am!”
It was too late; Whitney was spooled up. “Just ‘cause I can’t show you my pedigree don’t mean that I walk around like my oldest boy, wearin’ his kinte cloth. I don’t know what tribe sold my people into slavery, or even if they ever
Leopole smiled in spite of himself. Martha Whitney had given an impromptu English lesson and, knowingly or otherwise, had quoted the Gettysburg Address.
Peters stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. Martha, I’m Jack.”
She shook. “Glad to meet you, honey.”
11
Sandy Carmichael walked into the lobby of the indoor shooting range, toting her concealed-carry purse with her custom Kimber .45. She was a regular at The Bullet Trap; at least monthly, sometimes more. There were better equipped ranges at Chantilly and Springfield but Annandale was closer to SSI, just off Route 495.
“Hi, Ed!” Sandy gave the co-owner her cheeriest cheerleader grin. She took care to pronounce her greeting as “Hah, Ay-ed.” She had learned earlier than most females that a perky smile and a southern accent melted the testosterone in some males and pumped it in others.
Near as she could recall, she’d been about three and a half.
Ed Masterson liked to hint that he was related to the gunfighting Bat, but the frontiersman had carved his single notch three years before Ed’s forebears disembarked at Norfolk in 1879. “Why, Colonel Carmichael. We haven’t seen you around much, young lady.”
“Oh, Ay-ed, y’all’re u-shally workin’ too early for me. I been in here at least twice-et since I last saw y’all.” She waved a deprecating hand, adding, “Ah sway-yer, ya’ll’re avoidin’ me.” She batted her baby blues for effect.
Truth be told, sometimes it was so easy that it wasn’t even fun anymore. A mid-fortyish single mom with no steady relationship had ample time to perfect her flirting technique — no head tilt or hair flip this time — and poor, lovable Ay-ed was
Masterson actually blushed, his ruddy complexion contrasting with his pale blue shirt with The Bullet Trap logo. He recovered enough to reply, “Colonel, honey, you surely know how to shine on an ol’ southern boy.”
“Well dip me in honeysuckle an’ pour me full of mint juleps. The cornpone is getting hip deep in here.”
Sandy turned at the familiar voice: the lilting tones, the slightly exaggerated accent.
Martha Whitney.
She stood there, a formidable mixture of Queen Latifah fashion and Aunt Jemima bonhomie. Carrying a combination-lock gun case, Whitney advanced to the counter and nodded to her colleague. “Evenin’, Sandy.”
“Hullo, Martha.” Carmichael managed an ephemeral grin.
Behind the counter, Ed Masterson noted a perceptible drop in the ambient temperature. He knew Sandra Carmichael better than Martha Whitney, whom he had once introduced as “Martha Washington.” He never did
Shoving a registration sheet across the glass display case, he sought to retrieve the situation. “Just sign in,
