[ejenk21]

Synopsis: Who knows what lies beneath the surface of the chief diplomat of the United States?

Author's Notes: This is for FUN. What I hope to achieve is your laughter. Anything else is gravy.




Condy raised the divider arm and flopped her legs up onto the next seat. Her skirt hiked up, exposing chocolate cream thighs. She hated pantyhose; besides, she was ready to give an opponent a thrill if it would gain a negotiating advantage.

It was 3 AM, and the hooting of the press corps was at last quieted. The 747 winged its way backward across the Atlantic. Paris was a memory just hours old, but already slipping into the blackness. Condyloma Reese wished she could sleep. Or read. Anything to drive the glowing thought-ember of Kriegwelt out of her mind.

Kriegwelt was by no means her opposite number. He was a translating assistant to a third-level diplomat, and she was Secretary of State, but his chiseled features stirred up normally quiesced feelings.

Condy had never married. She almost did, to a sportsman, but their careers conflicted. She toyed briefly with the idea of being a racquetball mom, spending her mid-mornings in workouts, her late-afternoons to cheering on an imagined three children, her early evenings over black coffee and fiery liqueurs, and her nights....

Well, one couldn't do those things and be a National Security Advisor. Or, where that had led, Secretary of State. That didn't mean she had to be an abbess. She just had to be one publicly. America was still puritan in parts, especially the parts which gave her boss his primary support. Condy believed with them in the sanctity of the home, the primacy of the family, and the legitimacy of housewifery. It just wasn't for her. She had chosen to give herself over to a calling. Since this was not 1100, she could occasionally yield to her fleshly desires and copulate.

That was how she thought of it: very abstractly and Latinized. Mens sana in corpore sano. It was needed for mental health. It also kept your joints lubricated, which was a good thing.

She forced her mind back to her briefing book. Geo-economic Factors in the Rise of Sorthummistan -- an Introductory Essay. Damn! When were those boys going to come to some conclusions? Overview this. Introductory that. Preliminary study of whatever. She could make up her mind to launch a cruise missile while they were venturing toward tiptoeing away from a hypothesized confrontation.

Pussies.

A fist pounded on her private cabin door. What now? "Yes, what is it?" She already knew who. Only one of her aides could ignore rank that way.

"Besh is on the phone. You better let me in before you pick it up."

That level of intimacy rankled, but Condy let him get away with it. An old college chum, Carl Dweeb was physically protective and trustworthy. Whereas the Secret Service agents were merely respect-you-while-I'm-on-the-clock. "I'm stretched out. Couldn't sleep. Use the combo," Condy acknowledged. She pushed her skirt back down. A precaution.

A linebacker's body squeezed itself through the doorway. In class, on the sports field, on a date, Carla Dweeb had never gone for half measures. When she decided on the sex change, she insisted on maximum testosterone. The result was useful for leverage against Moslem chauvinists.

"You better be decent," Carl growled. "You ask for trouble, I'll give it to you."

"You wouldn't know the difference," Condyloma snapped back. "And I can handle you."

"Yeah, well...well...later. Duty calls. Maximus wants the private dirt on Paris. But this time I think he wants it prettified."

Condy was grateful for Carl's plain talk. Once in a while, not normally, the President wanted an extra layer of sugar coating from his serpentine Secretary. Girly-girly stuff that he didn't ordinarily ask for.

"Good morning, Mr. President."

"Just barely, here in DC, Condy. I was sipping on some cocoa--settles me after the little liquor I have now; Cora is glad it just about makes me sick now; God's justice sort of a thing--and I figured I better sleep on whatever you're going to tell me about Paris. Like to sleep on things, ya know. Move fast when you have to, but when you don't absolutely gotta, you give the ol' brain some quiet time. Otherwise you could, if you were me, just push the damn button... Almost have about six times this year as it is."

"I know you are joking, sir. I know personally that we have only had two crises that big."

"Yeah, but what you don't know is how pissed off I can get at Congress. Any way--Paris?"

"The French are being bi¢tardes, as usual. The Sorthummis have been willing to listen, ever since the king's thirtieth daughter came back from the Sorbonne with a truly charming boy from Villiers, but Premier Arrack won't communicate on our behalf. Would you like me to try the Swiss? Otherwise you may have to activate Force Iota."

"Iota? Why does that ring a bell? One of my ol' frat friends was an Iota? That it?"

Condy gritted her teeth. Besh was a fine man, and would be vindicated in the history books, but he could be distracted very, very easily by an old happy memory. "I don't want to talk about Iota even aboard this secure aircraft. Ask Chumsfeld to remind you."

*******

It was winter in DC, and dreary. Condy felt she just had to get away. At times like this, when her classical training in harpsichord was no longer sufficient diversion, she slipped off to New Orleans in disguise. At these times, only two people could reach her: Cora, the President's wife, and Carl. Carl, because he was always the normal channel for business, and Cora, because Condy knew that a backchannel was necessary. Should the moment come, Cora would keep her husband from exploding and yet make Condy available in the ultimate emergency. Despite his blusterings, Besh did not have Condy's cell number. Cora had it, and a really, really discreet middle-aged analyst in the DIA had it --and Condy had his number as insurance, no doubt about it.

In New Orleans, Condy wore a fat suit, an obviously fake blonde cornrow wig, and Stein's number DA3552 "Dark Negro" stage makeup. There, she was a bassist at the Jumbo Shrimp jazz club, and she was known only as "Maman". As an exercise, Condy pretended to be illiterate when playing this role. It was practice for not showing her hand in the showdowns that sometimes occurred in her day job.

Maman was a hoot. Lines like "yo' lookin' fo' a whuppin', boy!" and "where's de catfish?" showered spontaneously from her puffy lips when she was fully heated up at 1:30 AM.

So it was one night when the winds were chill and the crawdads were boiling. She had just finished a set and stepped off the stage, sweaty and panting, when a smooth-faced gentleman handed her a cold one.

"Est-ce que je peux vous acheter une bii¨re?"

She wasn't fast enough on her feet. Proper training from her childhood surged forward and took control. "Why, thank you! A beer would be wonderful!" emerged as "Merci mille fois! Une bii¨re serait merveilleuse!"

"So Maman really speaks French, does she?" the rogue continued ironically. "Who would have guessed? Je m'appelle Robert."

Gamely, Condy tried to go on. "What you say? Down heah in Nawlins, mos' everbody parlez some Francez."

"Vraiment? Miªme une putain comme vous?" That tore it. Condy hauled off and slapped him with all the fervor of a reformed harlot. He blocked her swing easily.

Dweeb appeared out of nowhere. He hooked an elbow around the man's throat and choked. He received a heel in the groin for his trouble and staggered back.

"Call off the dogs, Ms. Secretary," Robert said in a very low voice. "I'm backup protection. I'm paid to keep an eye on you. But tonight I'm on my own nickel"

"Who do you work for?" Condy asked while signaling Dweeb to hold off the second try.

"Tonight, nobody."

*******

The fat suit lay on the floor like a molted snakeskin.

Condy stretched luxuriously. She ran her finger around the smooth, well-defined pectoral muscle. "Thanks. I needed that," she said to her comatose partner. She continued tracing muscles around to the back. "The serratus is connected to the latissimus. The latissimus is connected to the trapezius. The trapezius is connected to the deltoid...." She reached the site of the deep fingernail scratch she had left just minutes ago. It contained less than a milligram of thanatopsine, but enough.

Robert was never going to wake up.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Chummy," she declared. She showered, warbling a coloratura "I enjoy being a girl!"

*******

Besh addressed Condy, with the rest of the Cabinet in attendance. "Now, I want ya to be firm, FIRM, with the Sorthummis. They're with us, and we'll put up a big ol' Air Force base with a movie theater and everything, and drink all their oil at sixty bucks a barrel, or they're against us. Against us means they do Al Qaeda web hosting and channel Jugoslav RPG's and accidentally lose high-level strontium waste.

He spoke to Science Advisor Shlimmelman. " Shlipstick, I read that white paper on nukular reprocessing. It was an eye-opener, lemme tell you. I want ya all to read it. Read it good. Condy, get 'em all copies off the Xerox, there's a good girl.

"If the Sorthummis are against us we're gonna go in there. Not today, maybe, and not tomorrow, but soon, and fer as long as it takes."

Even Condy was somewhat uneasy at this undisguised bluntness. "Sir, I have advised against this face-to-face with a regime we do not officially recognize, but I will do as you order. I will make the threats. But don't you want to try Iota first.?"

Besh drew himself up. "There is a time and place for Christian soldiers. We are past that point now."

*******

The 747, nicknamed Golda, was a deception. It was parked at Orly, and the press crew was informed that the Secretary had an intestinal problem which would keep her in bed for days. They were encouraged to enjoy the night life of Paris, and discovered discreetly placed packets of hundred-euro bills in their hotel rooms.

Condy flew off in a vintage wooden monoplane, radar-stealthy, to land in a disused airport near to Nova Kasaba, Bosnia. Obscured in woods, a Sorthummi embassy was a few kilometers away.

Shiraz bin Mukhtar epitomized the worldly Moslem prince. Smoke drifted lazily from his Belgian cigarette as he gestured for Condy to sit at one end of the Hawaiian koa wood table. "Wine?" he suggested. "We keep it here at the embassy for Western infidels. It is a very good Bordeaux, Chateau Ausone 1980. Not at all fruity. I like fruity myself," he said engagingly, "but the embassy thinks our religion utterly forbids it."

"I am familiar with Ausone. I last drank it with a German attache. A provocative little wine; indolent, yet orderly."

"Oumar," he called, and took his seat at the other end, twelve feet away.

A bearded dwarf rolled a miniaturized cart into the room. He waited for Condy to bend down so he could pour her wine.

"Hungarian crystal," Condy analyzed. "Pink, therefore tinted with erbium, a rare earth. Very nice."

"Rarer still is such knowledge, but I would expect it from a woman of your caliber."

Twenty minutes passed in such pleasantries. A normal-sized Berber served lunch: lambs' brains, a bin Mukhtar favorite from his time as a student in Mosul, Iraq. Thoughtful of Shiraz to not make her practically kneel to get fed, Condy thought.

Condy got down to business. "The President is extremely upset at what he sees as your support for terrorism."

"One man's terrorist is another man's tyrannicide," Shiraz replied mildly.

"The Queen of Holland could hardly be called a despot.

"There are those in my world who would disagree. She encouraged women to wear pants, did she not?"

"I doubt it. I have never seen a photo of her in anything but a long dress. And even so, wearing pants is not a capital crime.

"No, not to you, Madam Secretary", Shiraz said with distaste.

"That is Ms. Secretary," Condy replied with venom.

"Another example of Western decadence."

This was getting nowhere, and irritating as well. Condy tried another tack. "We are interested in establishing friendly relations with Sorthummistan. We would like to place a modern Air Force base near Kublakhan."

"So you can easily democratize us by force when the time is ripe?"

Condy silently wished that Besh was not so transparent. "That is not our intention. A base would serve as a convenient nucleus for other, joint, ventures."

"Such as?"

"A fuller exploit...use of your very significant oil resources."

"Ah!" Shiraz exclaimed. "Now you are talking."

They discussed sweet and sour crudes for several minutes. Then, Condy was horrified to feel fingers tapping at the inside of her knee. Well, mostly horrified. The fingers were warm and expert. They tapped out, "It is I, Oumar," in Morse code.

"There is a pro-Western, pro-republican element in our country, particularly in the economic sector," the tapping continued. The imams are against, naturally, and the army, but the navy and the air force lean our way. We would not look unkindly at American assistance to discard the monarchy."

It was difficult for Condy to converse with Shiraz at one level and communicate with Oumar at another. "How do we know you are legitimate?" she tapped out on a skull. She could not reach any lower with grace.

"I think we may come to agreements," Shiraz said convincingly. "Money makes strange bedfellows. I will push this up the food chain, as you say in America."

"He is lying," tapped Oumar. "Your military and your engineers and traders will be devoured after they enter our land and are lulled to sleep. Ask your own intelligence what they know about Project Abu Uzza."

"I am most hopeful," Condy said to Shiraz. "But I am instructed to point out that if there is duplicity here it will be answered with...intolerance."

Shiraz exploded. "Do not think this is still 1900 by your calendar! We are not weak and backward as you would like to think. We have our own scientists, our own industry, our own genius! Do not tread on scorpions!"

She pressed forward as commanded. "This is not the Carter administration. We will repay your stings with hellfire, not another cheek."

"Good job!" tapped Oumar.

"Your version of hellfire does not frighten a believer," scowled Shiraz.

*******

Condy adequately suppressed her nervousness until she reached the sanctuary of her cabin aboard Golda. Then it burst forth in full glory. She bid Dweeb to get her a cigarette. She hadn't smoked since high school, when she was walloped out of the nascent habit. And twice more...

She ran through alternatives. If Oumar was truthful, the Sorthummis were laying a trap, and there was a chance of overturning them without American blood shed. But if Oumar was blowing hookah smoke, the chance of reconciling with the leadership was badly reduced. Then the oil would be lost. But suppose Oumar was really a multi-layered deception?

Dweeb came back with a nearly full pack, strong-armed off a petite blonde stringer for the Passaic Times who was never going to fly on this plane again if she didn't deliver. "I haven't seen you smoke since that one time at the Pi Upsilon Kappa house, when you were on the knee of that jock, Butcherboy Freedkiss. Say," he frowned, "wasn't that the time you lost your cherry?"

"Get your mind out of my memory hole and leave me alone!" Condy squawked.

"You don't overawe me, Ms. Reese. I know your innards, so back off issuing orders. You can pooper-scoop after yourself for the rest of the night. Ms. Reese." He stomped off.

"If ever there was a time for a smoke," she screamed silently, "this is it. I feel like I'm going to shake apart like a 1945 plane at the sound barrier."

Images of thermonuclear nightmares flashed in her head. The Sorthummis bought from anybody. They could put together a North Korean warhead on an Israeli missile and make the world take notice that they couldn't be pushed around.

Unconsciously, she began to bite her fingernails.

V4.3

DIdn't quite read it all, not in the mood right now but what I read had a nice flow, very natural writing style to me. I liked it, not overly funny but not bad.

[ejenk21]

You have this under parody and satire, but in the poems. I assume you meant to put it in the stories.

my bad