Lethal Affairs by Kim Baldwin, Xenia Alexiou

outing.
Friday
    A late-model limo awaited Domino, its driver a young man she guessed to be one of the Organization’s current crop of senior students— dark-haired and about seventeen. When he opened the door for her, Pierce was seated in the back, handsome in formal black tie. Beside him sat another ETF op named Cameo—an attractive blonde, close to her own age—dressed to seduce in a low-cut red cocktail dress and stiletto heels. Though this development surprised Domino, she revealed no trace of her reaction in her expression or greeting.
    “Good evening,” she hailed them both, as she slipped into the empty seat on the other side of Pierce. Her own black dress was only slightly less provocative than the other woman’s; both were standard fare for female ops assigned to a social event where they might have to extract information or make an impression. And that morning she’d finally had her straight, medium brown hair trimmed to just below her shoulders, the long bangs styled to sweep away from her oval face in soft waves. Her makeup was understated,—a bit of rouge, a hint of eye shadow and mascara to enhance her blue-gray eyes, and a shimmery bronze lipstick. She had designed her entire appearance to convey tasteful elegance.
    “You remember Cameo?” Pierce said as the limo pulled away from the curb and headed toward their destination.
“Yes, of course. Nice to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too,” the blonde answered. “Long time.”
She wanted to ask Pierce whether he had learned anything about the Miami tape, but now wasn’t the time. Although the car was a safe environment, they all knew not to discuss any specifics of their assignments—past, present, or future—with other operatives. “What brings us together tonight?” she asked instead.
Pierce plucked a trace of lint from the crease in his trousers. “Cameo is going to make a new friend.”
“Why am I joining in?”
“You will arrive separately, avoiding contact with either of us,” he replied, handing her an invitation to the event. “Mingle with other guests until Cameo signals you. You’re to make sure her new friend has no problems with you.”
“If they do?”
“Then you are to leave ASAP and contact me from somewhere safe,” he replied. “Cameo will introduce herself as Michelle tonight, and I want you to use the name Jennifer.”
“Understood.”
The gala affair, in the candlelit ballroom of the Washington Hilton, had the formal ambience required when soliciting generous donations for a worthy cause. Crisply starched white linen covered the tables, the wineglasses were fine crystal, and one of the city’s leading chefs was supervising the preparation of the five-course gourmet meal.
But the attendees didn’t include the usual mix of big-money conservative businessmen who so often dominated fundraisers in the nation’s capital. This benefit to help fund AIDS programs always drew an eclectic mix of guests—hip Hollywood stars, conservative politicians, trendy artists, flamboyant queens, rock legends, preppy students, medical professionals, and nearly everyone else imaginable. The cause united them, for a red AIDS ribbon was pinned on nearly every lapel and gown.
“Good evening. May I see your invitation?” The young man at the door was representatively dressed in a black tux with a whimsical pink cummerbund and tie that said the evening should be a lively, fun affair.
Once inside, Domino scanned the area like a predator looking for a vulnerable stray. Though solitary by nature, she had learned to fit in, to make light conversation, to observe. She grabbed a glass of wine from the tray of a circulating waiter and headed for a distinguishedlooking man about her age who stood nearby staring at his drink.
“Interesting crowd, don’t you think?”
After a brief, superficial conversation, she moved on to an older woman, a doctor with the Centers for Disease Control, and from her to a budding young artist with a mohawk.