A/N: So welcome to chapter 4—which originally began its life as the back half of chapter 3—when the final draft finished out at sixteen pages, I clearly saw that I had two story elements that worked independently, and so I just separated them. And thanks so much to Jinx of the 2nd Law, the unbelievably talented bluenique whose illustration of this scene and attention to detail makes my little Virgo heart beat with joy, and to the irrepressible Eleni Dalby for the reviews that blew my doors off (and especially to Errol who brought the Royal Marines to my rescue)! The latter two assure me on a regular basis that Political Animal is "big in Europe." So off we go—thanks so much for reading. (Oh, and the thing about the olive and the parking tickets is real—and yes, I know the Plaza Hotel was closed for renovations in 2006, pretend it wasn't, I needed it, thanks.)
Legal line: Hank McCoy/Beast © Marvel Characters, Inc. Characters and Situations created in "X-Men: The Last Stand" © 2006 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. Sandra Fox/Renard, Harrison Sterling, Enrique Doble and all others © 2006 this author.
Chapter 4: Pass the Sweet and Sour Shrimp
By eight o'clock, Manhattan traffic had usually settled down from the frantic swarm of rush hour, but somewhere near the Metropolitan Museum of Art a three-car fender bender turned Sandra's cab ride into a stop-and-go ordeal that ate up the better part of twenty dollars. She had already been late, and had now probably missed the concert that was being held for the Secretary-General. Screw it, she thought, at least I'll make it for the food. At the corner of Fifth and Central Park South she tipped the driver and stepped out of the cab. Her heels made staccato taps as she trotted across the street to the entrance of the Plaza.
On the sidewalk in front of the hotel, a doorman offered his hand to a couple in evening clothes who exited a sleek, black Town Car, and Sandra entered the lobby behind a gentleman in a silk Nehru jacket who escorted an exquisite woman in a lavender and gold sari. They all exchanged polite smiles.
In the six years she had worked at the UN, Sandra had learned the subtleties of dressing for an evening reception: never better than the female delegates, and definitely never better than an ambassador's wife or his mistress. Her own dress had come from Barney's. A simple, black halter, not too short, not too long; a diplomatic dress—it subtly defined her as 'the help.' She had dressed it up with black and green pashmina, and carried a black envelope clutch decorated with an antique marcasite brooch. Her jewelry was good and moderately expensive, a choker length necklace of peridots and tourmalines with matching ear studs. Her dark hair was caught up in a simple fall, fastened with a jeweled barrette.
Typical of any United Nations gala, there was a slow crush of security in the lobby. Wisps of polyglot conversations as the delegates and their guests merged through the checkpoints. Polite apologies as credentials were requested and inspected, and handbags checked. Security wands were passed over Armani tuxedos and Vera Wang creations.
As she waited, Sandra considered that there was always something magnificent about coming to this grande dame of New York hotels. For nearly one hundred years, the Plaza had gazed across the southern end of Central Park. Its cool gold and marble lobby had seen presidents, kings and the common man, and its Grand Ballroom had been the scene for Truman Capote's spectacular Black and White ball; but mostly she loved it because it was the home of a precocious, fictional six-year-old troublemaker named Eloise.
The heroine of several fabulous books never intended for children, Eloise lived in a suite at the Plaza; cared for, in the absence of her socialite, jet-setting mother, by an exasperated English nanny. Eloise skibbled about the halls of the stately hotel at all hours, harrying the staff, inspiring her tutor to fits of apoplexy, delighted in room service, and consumed a great deal of time figuring out ways to get a present.
Sandra thought that Eloise pretty much had everything figured out exactly right.
Just past the security station, waiters cruised like helpful sharks on a coral reef, offering the delegates and their guests a selection of wine and canapés. She accepted a glass of champagne and a toast-point decorated with a dollop of something vaguely pink and sprinkled with chives that she hoped was salmon mousse. While the UN worried over climate change and improving global literacy, they were sometimes less than forward-thinking when it came to the hors d'oeuvres. It seemed she endlessly encountered the same sweet and sour meatballs, bruschetta, spring rolls, beef carpaccio and goat cheese tarts at every reception they hosted. Somewhere in the Grand Ballroom, she knew there would be a long buffet station that would resemble a gastronomic greatest hits from the various member nations, and she truly hoped she had arrived too late to sample the noxious potato, onion and anchovy casserole that the Swedes called Janssons Frestelse.
She spotted Sterling the moment she entered the Grand Ballroom.
She had known the Security Chief almost as long as she had worked at the UN. The son of a Savile Row tailor, he had served as a sniper in the Falklands, and gone on to train members of the SAS before an abrupt retirement and a move to the United States. He had worked for a time at Brooks Brothers before joining the UN as a Security Officer, and with his impressive military background and natural propriety Sterling had climbed quickly to his position as Chief of Security. Sandra wondered sometimes if his elite clientele had ever realized that they purchased their topcoats and ties from a former Royal Marines commando. In his off hours Sterling could be called upon to quote nearly any Monty Python routine from memory, and was a connoisseur of classic rock. He was an accomplished guitarist; his most prized possession was an autographed 1958 Gibson Les Paul Sunburst, the crown jewel in his collection of vintage electric guitars.
Sterling stood in the mezzanine that overlooked the sunken ballroom floor, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing as he kept watch over the gathered diplomats. He reminded Sandra of a lone cowboy tending a grazing herd of elegant cattle.
As she approached, he put a hand to his ear wire as he listened to the radio traffic of his officers, and spoke briefly into the microphone hidden in the cuff of his tuxedo. She smiled as she slid up beside him, and while he did not take his eyes from the assembly of diplomats she saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.
"Well, hello, Cinderella, don't you look lovely tonight?"
His eyes slid sideways to acknowledge her, and the tiny smile grew into smug satisfaction as he clasped his hands at the small of his back.
"Don't I look fabulous? It's Prada … and I'm carrying a gun," he replied, and rocked back on his heels a bit. "So, where have you been all evening that I haven't seen you, my pretty maid?"
She explained about the accident then added, "And I was trapped in that damned security check of yours! My God, I thought your boys were going to strip search me."
"Darius would love to, I'm sure," Sterling replied, and returned his eyes to the guests before he continued. "Security's tight tonight. I've got the Secretary-General, two prime ministers, and a cardinal from the Holy See here. The new Permanent Representative likes to wander, and despite that flawless, self-replicating bodyguard of his, he often succeeds in his attempts to skedaddle. We chased him down in McFadden's the other day where he was having a Black and Tan, eating shepherd's pie and watching the bloody Mets game. Worst of all, he'd taken Senegal and Mongolia with him! I don't know how those boys keep up with him," Sterling nodded toward the pair of Enrique standing nearby, and gave a sympathetic shake of his head. "So it is now also my obligation to spend the evening watching Henry McCoy," he smiled at her suddenly, and looked insufferably pleased with himself. "Aahh—sometimes I do so love my job."
Sandra found Hank easily. Impeccable in a shawl-collar tuxedo and onyx shirt studs, the new U.S. Ambassador was the center of a small knot of delegates and their various attendants, speaking in French with an excellent accent. He held a champagne flute in one hand, and like a conductor cuing an orchestra, he punctuated his conversation with neat waves of the other, his dark indigo claws etching the air as he spoke. He stood apart from them in every way, the epitome of an urbane New Yorker.
As Hank's comfortable laugh rolled across the room, Sandra returned Sterling's sigh, and nodded her head.
"God, I know. I used to read those Avengers comics until they fell apart. Okay, so it's not just me then, is it? There is something impossibly sexy about him."
Sandra was suddenly caught in the thousand-watt light of Sterling's steel-blue eyes. He drew in a deep breath, and released it with the contented sigh of a starving man sitting down to a feast.
"Oh, my dear, if mutant meant gay I would forget I was a lady and throw myself at your dear Ambassador's feet!" he confessed with a candor he rarely displayed in public. "I'm not usually into Bears, but every rule has its exception."
"Sterling!" Sandra exclaimed with astonished delight. Sterling infrequently discussed his private life. She had known him for almost a year before she had been invited to meet Marcus, the Wall Street broker who was Sterling's partner. Sterling returned his attention to the reception, but the smug little smile remained at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, don't act so shocked, my little vixen, you started it. But no such luck for me. Truth be told, the new Perm Rep had a nasty break-up not long ago."
She looked toward Hank once more. The little group had moved on. He exchanged greetings with a Bolivian Air Force Colonel, then turned to bow gracefully over the hand of a handsome African woman wearing a gele head wrap.
"Really?" Sandra said with curious intrigue. Sterling regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke.
"Mmmm—hmmm," he nodded judiciously. "Word is the NBC Evening News Harpy threw him over for her job. Of course, Family gossip says otherwise."
Sandra lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's the word on the Gay Grapevine?"
Sterling paused to give the room a clinical sweep before he focused his attention on Sandra. She recognized that look; the raised eyebrow, and the tight-lipped, self-righteous smile that presaged only the best of all possible bitchy queen dish. Slowly, he leaned down and whispered a single word in her ear.
Sandra's dark eyes widened as though she had witnessed a horrible accident, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the squeal that rose in her throat. She whirled on the UN Security Chief, nearly bent double as she clutched Sterling's Prada-clad arm.
"You are making that up!" Sandra accused with gleeful disbelief.
Sterling regarded her with the superior air of Queen Victoria, and solemnly raised three fingers in the Boy Scout salute. "You have my word as an Eagle Scout. Besides, it has to be true, I read it in The Enquirer. Marcus loved it so much, he clipped it out and put it on our fridge. Marcus simply loathes her. Two months later, newslady's bestial boyfriend had found himself a stylist, those dishy London suits and that big job in Washington." He gave a mock sigh and a theatrical 'tsk-tsk'. "Alas, poor Trish, no 'Mrs. Ambassador McCoy' for her."
"Oh, my God, that is the best thing ever!" Sandra's eyes glowed with unashamed delight. "What an amazingly stupid bitch!"
"Well, what do you expect from someone with that tacky Helena Rubenstein hair?" Sterling shrugged. When he looked at her once more, the schoolyard gossip smile had been replaced by a look of sincere concern. "You like him then? You know what kind of hell it could become. Bad on the face of it for him, and dangerous for you."
"I know," Sandra answered, and her eyes were not on Sterling when she spoke.
She felt a touch at her wrist, and when she looked up, Sandra saw a wistful understanding in Sterling's eyes, "Lord knows I'm absolutely the last person to comment on sexual taboos … but if you're asking Uncle Sterling, I say that it is time enough for you to put away your widow's weeds, and return to the land to romance and heartbreak."
"I'm not a widow," Sandra replied tiredly, it was an weary conversation between them.
"Then time to stop acting the part."
She gave him a sharp look, but there was only a kind understanding in Sterling's eyes, and a deeper look of affection. She sighed and looked across the ballroom once more.
"I can't do this, he's the Perm Rep, I'm an employee. You're right, it's absolutely dangerous, and I am scared to death."
"So is every little girl who sets off into the woods alone," Sterling intoned ominously as he slipped his hand against her back, and pushed her firmly forward. "But I say, go bag that Beast."
"I adore you, you know," she said, and meant it. It had been Sterling who had given her the copy of Eloise.
He looked back at Hank and smiled slightly.
"And I you, my sweet," he replied softly.
Hank surrendered his empty champagne glass onto the tray of a passing waiter and, after a brief debate with himself, politely accepted the refill that the young man offered. A glance at his watch told him it was just after nine and he wondered how much longer he needed to stay before he could make a graceful exit. The concert to honor Kofi Annan, the retiring Secretary-General, had been lovely-the food, however, was not, and Hank longed to say his good-byes, collect the various incarnations of Enrique, and head to the nearest Nathan's hot dog stand.
Still, the evening had gone well, most of his fellow delegates had been eager to welcome him as the new U.S. Ambassador. They had graciously laughed at his jokes and the champagne had been excellent. He had been delighted that the reception had given him the opportunity to speak several of the languages in his repertoire; but he could tell from the bemused expression on the Chinese ambassador's face that his Mandarin needed some work.
He gave another glance at his watch—a slim, Cartier tank-design that he liked because it nestled gently beneath the fur at his wrist-and was about to signal to whichever manifestation of Enrique was leaning on the mezzanine balustrade when he caught the scent of a familiar perfume: bergamot … but this evening, warm notes of amber and jasmine replaced the lime. He began to smile.
"Egypt's not speaking to Germany," a low voice beside him confided in the sort of whisper used by racing touts passing along a tip about a sure thing running in the Sixth at Belmont.
He turned, and his smile widened as he recognized her. Ms. Renard the Fox. He had seen her twice more in the Starbucks line during the two weeks of the debate of the General Assembly. He had complimented her on her interpretation skills, and she had dimpled prettily and claimed it was nothing; but that, so far, had been the extent of their encounters. He thought she looked lovely, and she was certainly a welcome diversion from the uninspired food and the murmur of politics.
"I beg your pardon?" Hank asked.
Sandra indicated a cluster of delegates near one of the buffet stations with a brief nod of her head.
"Egypt's not speaking to Germany," she repeated in the same conspiratorial tone, "because Germany just ate the last of the shrimp."
Hank gave a sharp look toward the group near the buffet station, and indeed four of the seven seemed to be studiously ignoring one another while they loitered near the entrance used by the catering service. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"You must be joking."
"Oh, I assure you I'm not; you should have been here last year when Azerbaijan hogged all the beluga. Norway about busted a gut," Sandra replied, and gestured to the buffet. "Welcome to the glamorous world of international diplomacy: We have celebrity ambassadors for UNICEF, a gallery exhibit on the symbolism and sanctity of the olive in Greek culture, and last I heard eighteen million in unpaid parking fines racked up by delegates who claimed diplomatic immunity."
"The olive was a keystone in the commerce of the Known World once upon a time," Hank replied dryly.
"So were pepper and salt, throw a little anchovy in there, and I think we've got ourselves one hell of a Cesar salad."
His deep baritone laugh rolled across the ballroom once more. "May I get you a drink?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Sandra gave him her pussycat smile as Hank hailed a passing waiter.
"Are you working tonight?" He asked as they touched the rims of their glasses in a playful toast and he took a sip.
"Yeah," she nodded, and raised a finger toward the ceiling. "I have a room upstairs … hundred bucks. Thousand if you want to spend the night."
It had been a long time since Hank had done a spit-take. His laughter forced its way through his coughing and the wine that had rushed into his sinuses. When he wiped the tears from his eyes he saw the familiar snarky smile was firmly in place.
"I may have deserved that, and I'm certain I should have phrased that differently," Hank admitted with a laugh. "I suspect I'm going to have to watch myself with you, Ms. Fox."
"Well, you know how we foxes are," she smiled.
"Hmmm, clever and sly," Hank nodded. "I am, however, curious about your rather unique observations of this organization. We certainly do more than appoint actresses as Goodwill Ambassadors and celebrate the accomplishments of Mediterranean fruit."
"Well, after you've been here awhile you tend to have seen and read many interesting things," Sandra replied. She paused for a sip of champagne. "I probably don't need to mention that in addition to the UN's successes at eradicating smallpox and combating terrorism, they are also responsible for the Oil-for-Food scandal, and the deplorable behavior of the Peacekeeping Forces in Bosnia and Congo."
"Yes, and those reprehensible situations have been addressed," Hank said soberly. "Ms. Fox, it is my earnest desire to make this world a better place for all of humanity to inhabit. And I plan to make that my main goal as the head of the U.S. Mission."
Sandra raised her glass in a salute, "Mr. Ambassador, your track record so far leaves no doubt that you will achieve every goal of your Mission. But I'm sure that, you particularly, are aware that things are not always what they appear to be, and there are lots of things that go on in an organization that rarely make the papers."
"Point taken," Hank conceded graciously, and began to suspect that Sandra Fox might be a very useful person to know. They finished their champagne, and Hank gave a long sigh, he was hungry, and, despite the delight he found in his present company, he was growing bored with the evening and he suddenly stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. Sandra tilted her smile at him.
"Am I keeping you up?" she asked.
"It's been a bit of a long day for me," he confessed with a small smile.
"Yeah, me too," she agreed, "and you can only take so much baba gannouj and escargot, before it's time to call it a night."
Hank spoke suddenly, "Ms. Fox, may I see you home?"
Sandra felt as though she had been asked to the prom by the star quarterback—and perhaps she had. She forced herself to swallow before she answered,
"I'd like that very much, Mr. Ambassador, but I gotta tell ya', I live on the Upper East Side, it'd be a bit of a drive back to the Waldorf."
"I don't live at the Waldorf, and please, my name is Hank," he replied, and caught Enrique's attention with a quick gesture. The young man looked relieved, and nudged his nearby dupe who grinned and hurried off to fetch the Navigator. With a quick snap of his fingers Enrique produced another double to take the missing man's place. The new man nodded a greeting to the Ambassador then turned his head to smile at a passing waitress. It was Tercero. Enrique Uno spoke a single, sharp word to him, and Tercero replied with a shrug. Hank sighed slightly then turned to Sandra who was regarding him with a suspicious frown.
"The residence for the U.S. Perm Rep is at the Waldorf Towers," she said cautiously, as though she were explaining something conspicuously obvious. "They did tell you that when they gave you the job, didn't they?"
"Yes," Hank chuckled, "I've used it for a press reception and hosted a dinner for the President there. It's lovely, but I don't care to live there, I have a place downtown."
"You live downtown? Uh, that's really a drive from the East 80s."
"Ms. Fox, I would escort you to New Jersey if I had to," Hank replied handsomely. "It's my pleasure to see you to your door." He frowned suddenly. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I didn't."
"Oh God, no!" Sandra said quickly, and cursed herself for an idiot. "I'd love to go home with you."
She bit her lip and closed her eyes as she saw Hank's smile return with a dangerous, playful edge; knowing that she had just committed the most grievous of all wise-ass faux pas: Never give ammunition to your opponent. She silently awaited the firing-squad of his reply.
"Usually I have to pay for supper before I hear that," he said in a low vibrato.
"That isn't what I meant," she spoke to the floor when she replied. Hank chuckled again, and placed a gentle hand on her back.
"Then I shall have to hope for better things," he said softly, and she felt a frisson of longing pass through her as the fur on his wrist brushed her bare flesh. "Home we shall go for now, though I have to warn you I'm making a stop at Nathan's on the way … I'll pay," he grinned at her.
Sandra bobbed her head in slow conformation. "I asked for that," she admitted with a resigned smile.
"Yes, you did," Hank concurred lightly, and offered her his arm.
She tossed a look back at Sterling who stood with his eyes trained on them both, his hand raised to his face, his three middle fingers were curled toward his palm, the thumb and small finger extended. "Call me," he mouthed at her with exaggerated delight as she accepted Hank's arm. Sandra gave him a sly wink. Sterling blew her a kiss.
Hank smiled to himself, and pretended not to notice.