Long ago, William Shakespeare once declared of hardships, “Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.”
Today, such a concept got you a snort, a scoff, maybe even a derisive laugh. The idea that adversity might be good? Get real. Outdated ideas belonged in outdated eras. Frankly, Chuck Howe wasn’t too keen on more hardships, especially when the last year had introduced enough struggles to keep his life in disarray.
Life had certainly taken a detour from convenient to wearisome ever since his move from Austin, Texas to Washington D.C. Once his former employer Premier Petroleum went belly up, the corporation deep-sixed about 40,000 jobs, including his. Bad for sure, only to worsen when an ugly cocktail of scant job openings, skittish employers, and a stagnant economy brought his decade-long career to a screeching halt.
Minus real employment, his livelihood crumbled into dust shortly afterwards. Everything Howe once worked for—dignity, esteem, security—steadily flittered away. Rock bottom hit when he had to live off of welfare checks simply to meet his obligations, sort of like needing debt to shop at the dollar store. Six months at the Brookings Institution, a D.C. based think tank, helped temper Howe’s demons but so far, the job fell short of expectations. Particularly his pay. Since he made so little, Howe found himself in a constant, oftentimes one-sided battle to make ends meet. Really, it evolved into a strange dichotomy, trading the stain of unemployment for the stigma of starting over.
He rolled his eyes. Welcome to the real world, Chuck.
So if more adversity came his way, he tended to run in the opposite direction. No reason to add more stress when he already had enough to keep him awake at night. A psychiatrist might label his woes a stubborn case of the blues but deep down, Howe thought otherwise. Months of fighting through the same tired ills would fry any man’s perseverance sooner or later.
Slowly crawling out of bed, unable to sleep, he ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. Seemed less lush than normal. A groan followed. Nobody needed to remind him that the noticeable bald spot parked on his forehead would only broaden in the coming years. He joked it went well with the age freckles flourishing at the base of his neck. Pretty soon his deep blue eyes would fade and the slight hints of gray above his ears would march inexorably north.
Throwing on a pair of faded red knit shorts and a wrinkled Rice University tee shirt, his alma mater, he headed to the refrigerator for some leftover manicotti. After tossing the plate into the microwave, he checked his iPhone for any new messages. Not a one.
The reheated pasta didn’t do much to help his mood. Nuked manicotti tasted like worn out rubber. Howe tossed the plate in the sink.
Just then, his cellphone rang.
At midnight?
He practically leapt to answer it, oddly grateful to have something to do. Once caller ID brought up the number, his joy vanished.
Kevin Malka. My boss.
Often labeled a patriarch of Brookings, Kevin Malka brought genius, tact, and competence to the long, rich history of the Institution. Like Howe, he worked at the Saban Center, a division of Brookings devoted to researching policy for America and the Middle East. Established by Jewish philanthropist Haim Saban, the center sought to present a comprehensive look at the Middle East, specifically Arab-Israeli relations vis-a-vis the United States.
As a senior fellow, Malka enjoyed a robust clout at the Center and more than a few suspected Malka’s pronounced Israeli heritage had something to do with it. The center had been heavily criticized for a pro-Israel slant and Malka, Jewish through and through, heightened the chauvinism. As one of two senior fellows covering the Arab-Israeli conflict, he made sure to put his stamp on any material before it went public. Never mind that meant doctoring research and proliferating biases at times. Or that he and Howe regularly locked horns over the definitions of partiality versus neutral.
Like any working relationship, Malka had his ways, and Howe had his. The two got along most of the time; it was just…well, whenever your superior called this late, the reason was never good.
Howe answered, trying his best to sound groggy.
“H-hello?”
“Chuck. It’s Kevin. I need a favor.”
“Kevin? What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
“Midnight? And you’re calling me why?”
“Does the name Valerie Court ring a bell?”
“Nope. Should it?”
“Actually, yes. She’s a Senator from South Carolina and a big friend of Brookings. She sends donors our way. You might say she helps keep us employed.”
“Super. What’s she want?”
“She doesn’t want anything. Her executive assistant, Kristen Visser, does. She’s got some information she can’t figure out. I figured you might be able to help.”
Howe knew what that meant. It meant this Visser gal first called Malka and Malka decided to dump the chore on Howe.
“What kind of information?”
“Don’t really know. She tried to explain it to me but I couldn’t make sense of it. I told her you’d call.”
“Now?”
Malka’s tone carried a steel edge. “Yes. Now.” He passed on Visser’s number.
Howe scribbled down the digits. “Look Kevin, you sure you want me? I mean, if you couldn’t understand it…”
Left unsaid was the obvious. Don’t expect me to.
Malka seemed undeterred. “You’re perfect. You can relate to her.”
“Well, just don’t get your hopes up. You know, like you tend to do.”
Malka didn’t acknowledge Howe’s caution. Rather, he parted with a final edict. “Just help her however you can. Call me as soon as you’re done.”
Howe mumbled something noncommittal in reply. He dialed Visser’s cell, praying she wouldn’t answer.
That hope died after the first ring. A precise female voice answered. “Kristen Visser.”
“Kristen, ah, I’m Chuck Howe from Brookings.”
“Hi.”
“I understand you need some help—”
“Yes. Did Kevin tell you why?”
“He mentioned you have some information and you don’t know what to make of it?”
“Mrs. Court forwarded it to me a couple hours ago. She received it from a friend of hers.”
“Who’s the friend?” Rooting out any information’s meaning, Howe knew, always began with an understanding of its author.
“I’d rather not say.”
Nowhere else but D.C. would anyone be so protective of a silly name, he thought. “Okay. Well, can you tell me what it is, or maybe email it to me?”
She hesitated. “I need to keep it in my possession. So, no.”
“Why?”
She sensed Howe’s irritation. “Look, it’s nothing personal. It’s just I don’t really know you and—”
“You don’t really trust me,” Howe said, finishing her thought.
Something like that, she admitted.
“Well, fine. But if you can’t send me the info, I can’t really help, can I?”
“Well, do you mind meeting me somewhere where I can show it to you?”
“Sure.” He yawned. “What time tomorrow?”
“I meant now.”
There was a long pause.
“Right now?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Isn’t it a little late?”
“I’m following orders, Chuck,” came her snappish reply. “Kevin told me you’d do the same.”
Howe grimaced. The things he did in the name of keeping a worthless job.
“Tell you what. Can you meet me at the Tryst Coffeehouse in half an hour? Do you know where that is?”
Of course I do, she replied, hanging up.
Less than two miles away in D.C.’s Georgetown district, the silver BMW motorcycle sat on a neighborhood street, lights and engine off. Iyad, every inch the watchdog, kept still as his radar-like eyes swept the front of unit 1224, a pleasant three story townhouse on 29th Street NW. Nestled among a host of historic brick homes, the condominium thoroughly exemplified the Georgetown themes of antiquity and wealth.
On the opposite side of the street sat another row of residences, two with interior lights lit, though blunted by curtains. A dog barked in the distance, followed by a second yelp farther off. The next block over, he heard the faint yowl of a cat. A taxi motored down the street but never slowed down. Iyad removed his helmet, listening intently.
Nothing. No sound. No movement. Nothing at all.
Perfect.
He dialed a number on his Samsung. Moments later, an upstairs light flicked on in 1224.
“Hello?” asked a sleepy voice. “Who is this?”
“Yes, Mrs. Valerie Court?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Jawad Salah, I’m Bishr Abdul’s assistant. I-I need your help.”
Court noticed a vein of trepidation in Salah’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Something…something’s happened.” He hesitated. “Someone tried to kill Bishr tonight.”
She bolted out of bed. “What! When? How?”
“Someone tried to shoot him, Mrs. Court. He’s very scared; he doesn’t trust anyone. And now I’m scared. I think…no, I’m sure I’m a target too.”
“How do you know? What’s going on?”
“I need to talk to you, Mrs. Court, in person. Bishr ordered me to reach you. He needs help…we both do.”
“Where are you? I’ll have someone pick you both up right away.”
“No, please, I-I took a taxi to your street. I’m around the corner…I don’t want to be seen.”
“I’m coming downstairs. Come to the front door. Stay on the phone.”
“Yes, of course.”
He ducked to the sidewalk. Once the porch light flicked on, he jogged to the front door. Court came out in her robe. She hurriedly waved him in and shut the door, locking it.
“Now.” She turned to face him. “Tell me what this is about—”
She stopped, her heart abruptly in her throat. Iyad leveled his gun directly at her.
“I’m sorry about this, Mrs. Court. I really am.”
“Who are you?”
No answer. Iyad fired two shots into her chest. She died in a matter of seconds.