Dreams Unleashed (22 page)

At five foot three, Jackie held herself taller than her height, never letting a thing get past her. She was smart and beautiful, with dark hair, fair skin, alert brown eyes, and a large, plump bosom on a petite frame that attracted men near and far.

"You look good, girl; the West looks good on you," she cheerfully observed.

I laughed.

"I've missed you," I responded.

She hugged me again.

"Let's get a table, huh?" she asked, moving toward the door. She was always the no-nonsense type.

Bathed in red from the outside in, the Red Sea restaurant was the epitome of exotic. The Ethiopian women who worked the tables each had their distinctive unique bone structure, perfect chocolate skin, and bright, lovely smiles. Along the walls were hung huge travel-bureau-style graphic posters of Ethiopia, which brought even more color to the large, open room that smelled like exotic spices. Ethiopian music piped throughout the restaurant in the background, but not so much so that it distracted from conversation.

Oh, I've missed it here
, I thought nostalgically.

Jackie asked for a table for five near the front windows.

There wasn't one Ethiopian among all the restaurant patrons. Instead, the place was filled with Washington D.C.'s food connoisseurs. It was a perfectly cheery place to come with friends.

"Let's just sit; the other three will be here soon anyway," Jackie suggested.

"That sounds good."

The waitress led us up the stairs to the front of the restaurant, overlooking the street.

"Will this be okay?" she asked us with her hand extended to the large round table.

"It's perfect. Thank you," I replied with a smile.

"My name is Alem. Just raise your hand when you are ready to order," she politely suggested.

Jackie and I sat next to one another, leaving space for three others opposite us.

"Why don't we order for everyone? We've done this enough times. We'll just order the sampler like always, plus a few extras," Jackie decided.

A smile erupted from my lips at the familiarity of it all.

Eating at the Red Sea was a communal experience. The food was served on a huge platter that resembled an extra-extra-large metal pizza plate. It was covered with a flat dough-bread called injera. Individual entrées were poured on top of the injera by the waitress as she named each dish. Patrons eat by taking their individual napkin-looking injera, tearing off a piece to grab meats, vegetables, and sauces, then plopping the whole thing into their mouth for a taste extravaganza. It was here at the Red Sea that I first learned what steak tartare was. My friends thought it was a good idea for me to learn that it was raw spicy meat---by watching me eat a handful of it. I gagged and nearly hurled it all up, while Armond, Jackie, and our other friends laughed. Once, when Armond and I were eating in Paris, at La Fermette Marbeuf restaurant on the Champs-Elysees, I tried to trick Armond into ordering it, but he steered clear of my shenanigan. After the Red Sea incident, I loathed anything with the name
tartare
. Ethiopian food was dressed up with exotic spices, and as long as it was cooked, it was extraordinarily delicious.

"Along with the sampler, should we add the chicken doro wat?" Jackie asked.

Jackie called herself a vegetarian, but she ate chicken all the time. However, she never touched beef. It made no sense---but it was uniquely Jackie.

"Sure, sounds good. Let's also add the lamb lega tibs in the awaze sauce. I'm salivating remembering that," I added, looking at the menu.

"Everyone will love it. They'll already bring us a bunch of veggie dishes, so I think we've got it covered," concluded Jackie.

She raised her hand slightly so that Alem could see us to take our order.

After Alem left, we started to catch up, keeping an eye out for our three friends.

"So tell me how you've been Ann," Jackie prodded.

"I've been good---very good. I feel like I've found a pretty good groove at AlterHydro. I like the work there. Plus, I get to bring Lulu to work."

"You do? I wish I could bring my dog to work with me," she said pouting.

I laughed. Jackie was an artist and worked from her townhouse studio; she was allergic to dogs. Instead, she had what I called a cat farm.

"How many cats are you up to now?" I inquired, eyebrow raised.

"Well---four. Wait, wait, I know what you're about to say..." she preempted after seeing my mouth drop open.

"That's a lot of litter-doodle scooping," I interjected.

"No, no, you should see it, Ann, I got a little kitty door, straight out the back door. And I built a sand box for them---but I fill it with scoopable kitty litter."

"You're kidding. So you go outside and scoop the poop?"

"Yep," she proudly exclaimed.

"What do you do when it rains?"

"It's covered, like a little playhouse."

I laughed heartily. "Only you, Jackie, only you. Oh man it was gross when I roomed with you in your townhouse. I can't believe you left that nasty litter box in my bathroom. It was so gross when I went to take a shower with kitty litter stuck to the bottoms of my feet," I remembered, gagging a bit at the memory.

Jackie laughed hard and long at the memory. "Hey, you weren't paying rent. It was the price you had to pay, Ann."

"Maybe I
should
have paid you."

We both laughed together at that.

Just then, the three guys appeared at our table.

"There you are," Jackie said to them.

I hugged Scott and James, while Jackie hugged Bart.

"It's good to see you guys," I sincerely exclaimed.

Bart sat down on the other side of Jackie. Scott sat next to me, as James sat on the other side of him.

"We already ordered, so it'll be here soon," Jackie informed them.

Four of the five of us had known one another for many years, having met while in our late twenties while swing dancing to live big bands at Glen Echo park outside the Capital Beltway in Maryland. Once a month on Saturdays in the spring, summer, and fall, a nineteen-piece swing orchestra would assemble and blast out 1940s big band swing, while we would dance and sweat, and then sweat some more in the big restored ballroom. We bonded then---and it stuck.

With Jackie an artist, Scott a software developer, and James a reporter for the
Washington Post
, the four of us were a good mix of liveliness. Bart joined our group later, when he started dating Jackie. He was an attorney, arrogant and a control freak, but Jackie had been in love with him for years; that was enough for me to reluctantly accept his presence in our group.

We each talked about how work was going for us. Bart acted impressed that someone asked me to speak at a conference. He was all about the outward appearance of things. I overlooked that. Things seemed to be going par for the course for everyone, but something didn't feel quite right about our group's vibe. I couldn't put a finger on it, though.

Our food came about then. My stomach grumbled when I smelled the spicy platter. We feasted, with some cross-banter here and there. Mostly, we were all in our own world of food and spice and delight.

Scott started talking about a program he was writing, but no one listened but me, since I was the only one who understood what he was talking about.

"Why is it that no one ever wants to hear about what I'm working on?" he asked, slightly stilted when he realized no one was listening.

Everyone paused from eating.

"Because no one---except Ann---understands your geek-talk. And she's just listening to be polite, because it's boring," Jackie blurted out. He looked affronted, and she attempted to apologize. "I'm sorry Scott; you know I love you," she offered, making kissing noises toward him.

Scott feigned being offended. He was used to that sort of treatment.

"Well
I've
been working on this big story at the
Post
. It's probably one of the biggest I've ever dug up," James interjected.

"Do tell," I pleaded, interested in the excitement of my old life as a journalist.

"Sorry. This one's closed for discussion," James said.

"Then why did you say anything?" Jackie scolded.

"I'm just sayin'---I've got a hot iron in the fire."

We laughed.

"Well, as long as it's just an iron," I joked. "Now I know what isn't quite right," I suddenly added. "For years and years, every time we've sat down at this table we've discussed politics and government control...but not one word of it tonight. What's going on?"

Silence. Stern faces.

"What?" I asked, looking to everyone.

More silence.

"I'll talk to you later, Ann," Jackie said quietly to me.

"Do I have a booger on my face or something? 'Cause you all are acting strange," I teased them.

Only Scott laughed.

"Well at least you laughed," I said, looking at him.

"Bart, why don't you tell us what you've been working on?" Jackie prodded, obviously changing the subject.

Bart started talking about his legislative work for a politician on Capitol Hill, sure that it made him important. His monologue lasted fifteen minutes. Unable to restrain my sour expression for any longer, I excused myself for a leisurely trip to the ladies' room. I took my time washing and drying my hands, but when I returned, Bart was still droning on. Everyone but Jackie was horribly bored.

We finished dinner, vowing to get together again soon, which of course was impossible, since I lived on the other coast.

As we left the Red Sea, Jackie discretely passed me a note. I quickly read it.

Someone's asking questions about you.

Government. FBI?

They want to know about you going to China.

After reading the note, I made eye contact with Jackie.

But I didn't go
. I wanted to say.
What's going on here
?
I didn't do anything
.

Jackie shrugged her shoulders as a response to my silent frustration, as we all walked toward the metro station.

So that's why no one was talking politics tonight
, I thought, making the connection.

Everyone hugged their goodbyes at the station entrance; I was taking a cab back down the street to my hotel.

Jackie hugged me and whispered, "Be careful, Ann."

I hugged her hard in response. She cast me one more worried look and headed off with the others.

As I hailed a cab and was driven back to my hotel, I reread the note. It was time to call Bob Hadley.

Chapter 20

WASHINGTON D.C.

The Year 2015

I called the clandestine switchboard, leaving my name and number for Bob, explaining that it was urgent.

I hope he's not dead
. It had been a while.

The last I heard, Bob had retired, but when you spend as many years as he had with the Agency, he couldn't have possibly retired. The CIA owned him.
Or did he own them
? I wondered.

He called me an hour later.

"You interrupted my golf game, Ann," the gruff voice scolded.

"You're probably not any good anyway," I bantered.

"Wanna meet?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Secure?" he asked, wondering if I was going to talk about classified information.

"Not necessary."

"You know where Gravelly Point is?" Bob asked.

"Yeah, by Reagan National Airport, right?"

"Yes. I'll see you there at quarter past the hour."

"Thanks, Bob."

"I said my door was always open, Ann."

"So you did. I guess there's no expiration date on that. See you in a bit."

Lulu and I quickly hopped in the rental car to head out to the George Washington Memorial parkway in Virginia. It was normally only a fifteen-minute drive. We pulled into the parking area a few minutes early, right as a Boeing 757 took off one hundred feet over our heads, flying at one hundred and fifty miles per hour.

What a rush
.

"You picked a good spot, Bob. No one's gonna hear us here," I said out loud to Lulu, who howled at the plane. I laughed.

I first visited Gravelly Point when I was in my twenties. I was with a bunch of friends, and we came to the Point during airplane rush hour. Just four hundred feet from the end of runway 1/19 at Reagan National Airport, passenger jets took off every one to two minutes at rush hour, and sometimes you could hear a vibration crackle off the Potomac River when the water was calm. We would spread blankets on the roofs of our cars, then watch the jets fly overhead. The power of the jet engines would make the cars vibrate. It was a cheap thrill.