interior.
“What kind of work did you do?”
She dragged herself from her near-catatonic state and searched for an answer that wouldn’t open Pandora’s box.
“I worked at the U.S. Department of Commerce for five years.”
And then she’d accepted the position on Congressman Kent’s staff.
Lord, what a mistake that had been! But Dillon Porter, Kent’s senior staffer, had lured her up to the Hill with tantalizing visions of helping shape laws and policies that would affect the nation’s balance of trade for decades to come.
“Commerce, huh? What did you do there?”
“Nothing very glamorous. I was an analyst with the Market Access and Compliance Branch of the International Trade Administration. Basically, I crunched numbers to track U.S. exports to and imports from Canada.”
“Sounds like a big job.”
“It certainly kept me busy. More than half a trillion dollars in goods flow between the U.S. and Canada every year. Most of the trade is dispute-free, although things got dicey for a while over softwood lumber.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “I helped draft the agreement that finally settled that decades-long dispute.”
“I’m impressed.”
Looking back, Mallory had to admit that was her finest hour. She’d played a minuscule role in the landmark agreement, mostly providing historical trending stats, but her input had been valuable enough to win her a spot at the signing ceremony. It had also brought her to the attention of the House Committee on Banking and Trade.
How swiftly the proud can fall. Swallowing a sigh, Mallory skirted that dangerous ground.
“You said you’re a wine broker. How often do you log onto the International Trade Administration’s database?”
“When I need to.”
The vague reply aroused her professional pride. “You should check the database regularly. ITA updates it daily with the latest data on markets and products. You can also use that system to report unfair competition and dumping by foreign competitors.”
Cutter was on shaky ground here. What he knew about the Department of Commerce and the International Trade Administration would make for an extremely short conversation. If he didn’t want to trip himself up, he’d better steer the conversation into different channels…like Ms. Dawes’s most recent occupation.
“I’m surprised you stayed at Commerce for so long. From what I’ve seen as an outsider looking in, a good number of Washington’s brightest bureaucrats get lured into the political arena and end up either as lobbyists or working on a Congressional staff.”
Her glance was quick and suspicious. Cutter kept his eyes on the road ahead and let her mull over her answer. A signpost at the juncture of the road gave her an out.
“Look, there’s the turnoff for St. Malo. Don’t your directions say the villa is only two kilometers ahead, on the right?”
“On the left,” he corrected.
He’d let her off the hook for now. With Hawk back at OMEGA control, inserting spikes into every wheel, she wasn’t going anywhere soon. Cutter would have plenty of time to worm Ms. Dawes’s secrets out of her.
“Looks like this may be the place,” he announced after a few minutes.
Slowing his rental, he pulled up at a set of iron gates decorated with gilded scrollwork and mythological creatures. Cutter noted with approval the tamper-proof screens protecting the security cameras mounted above the gate. Pressing the call button, he identified himself to the disembodied voice that answered.
“ Bon soir, Monsieur Smith. We have been expecting you.”
The gates swung open to reveal a long drive that wound through acres of manicured lawn and led to a château perched on the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. Complete with towers and turrets, the castle was right out of the fifteenth century.
Mallory’s jaw dropped. Cutter caught his just in time.
“This is your seaside villa?” she asked incredulously.
“I, ah, heard about it through a
“What kind of work did you do?”
She dragged herself from her near-catatonic state and searched for an answer that wouldn’t open Pandora’s box.
“I worked at the U.S. Department of Commerce for five years.”
And then she’d accepted the position on Congressman Kent’s staff.
Lord, what a mistake that had been! But Dillon Porter, Kent’s senior staffer, had lured her up to the Hill with tantalizing visions of helping shape laws and policies that would affect the nation’s balance of trade for decades to come.
“Commerce, huh? What did you do there?”
“Nothing very glamorous. I was an analyst with the Market Access and Compliance Branch of the International Trade Administration. Basically, I crunched numbers to track U.S. exports to and imports from Canada.”
“Sounds like a big job.”
“It certainly kept me busy. More than half a trillion dollars in goods flow between the U.S. and Canada every year. Most of the trade is dispute-free, although things got dicey for a while over softwood lumber.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “I helped draft the agreement that finally settled that decades-long dispute.”
“I’m impressed.”
Looking back, Mallory had to admit that was her finest hour. She’d played a minuscule role in the landmark agreement, mostly providing historical trending stats, but her input had been valuable enough to win her a spot at the signing ceremony. It had also brought her to the attention of the House Committee on Banking and Trade.
How swiftly the proud can fall. Swallowing a sigh, Mallory skirted that dangerous ground.
“You said you’re a wine broker. How often do you log onto the International Trade Administration’s database?”
“When I need to.”
The vague reply aroused her professional pride. “You should check the database regularly. ITA updates it daily with the latest data on markets and products. You can also use that system to report unfair competition and dumping by foreign competitors.”
Cutter was on shaky ground here. What he knew about the Department of Commerce and the International Trade Administration would make for an extremely short conversation. If he didn’t want to trip himself up, he’d better steer the conversation into different channels…like Ms. Dawes’s most recent occupation.
“I’m surprised you stayed at Commerce for so long. From what I’ve seen as an outsider looking in, a good number of Washington’s brightest bureaucrats get lured into the political arena and end up either as lobbyists or working on a Congressional staff.”
Her glance was quick and suspicious. Cutter kept his eyes on the road ahead and let her mull over her answer. A signpost at the juncture of the road gave her an out.
“Look, there’s the turnoff for St. Malo. Don’t your directions say the villa is only two kilometers ahead, on the right?”
“On the left,” he corrected.
He’d let her off the hook for now. With Hawk back at OMEGA control, inserting spikes into every wheel, she wasn’t going anywhere soon. Cutter would have plenty of time to worm Ms. Dawes’s secrets out of her.
“Looks like this may be the place,” he announced after a few minutes.
Slowing his rental, he pulled up at a set of iron gates decorated with gilded scrollwork and mythological creatures. Cutter noted with approval the tamper-proof screens protecting the security cameras mounted above the gate. Pressing the call button, he identified himself to the disembodied voice that answered.
“ Bon soir, Monsieur Smith. We have been expecting you.”
The gates swung open to reveal a long drive that wound through acres of manicured lawn and led to a château perched on the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. Complete with towers and turrets, the castle was right out of the fifteenth century.
Mallory’s jaw dropped. Cutter caught his just in time.
“This is your seaside villa?” she asked incredulously.
“I, ah, heard about it through a
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