ONE, NOT BOTH
Tuello turned to Tapping to face her, both having just studied the material on their respective laptops. Although Rita had been 'read into' this stuff, she said she preferred to listen, rather than get caught up in uncertainty.
Indeed, the uncertainty was why Tuello had advised, "we can do one, not both."
The information on the microdots that Sam, the Mayday lady, kept bringing had one, hopefully not fatal flaw. The stuff on it was devoid of context. If the 'dot's publisher had been an asset that Tuello was 'running', it would be different. But the information was 'one-way'. Whoever it was who was sending these, was truly embedded - high up in New Gilead. Wanted anonymity, from everyone.
Still, none of the previous 'targets' had turned out to be false flag. They'd been genuine. Whoever it was passing this stuff to Canada actually did want certain people within New Gilead dealt with. The embedded person, he/she sent info - and the Americans-in-exile did the wet-work. Okay, maybe not 'in-exile', more than many Mayday people lost their lives in the various operations, operations born from microscopic dots on pamphlets.
The stunning thing? If news of a sacrificed, Mayday-life filtered through Canada's Mayday network, three more volunteers stepped up. (Rachel Tapping surmised that that was the reason why Gilead itself was eventually doomed - no one IN or OF Gilead put their lives on the line. Indeed, the higher-up someone was, the more they'd been 'on the take'. With the possible exception of the publisher of the microdots.)
Rita thought it might be time for her to pipe up. Of the three, she was the only one to have walked Boston's streets, the only one to have seen other marthas hanging from lamp-poles, the only one to have participated in spiriting Handmaids and their babies off into an uncertain night.
Rita said, "Look, I'm no expert, but that two-week itinerary looks genuine." Rita made mention of two days sketched out in the information, "my bet is that is when the guy is at Jezebels. Probably in D.C. There's no more of a stationary target than a guy in Jezebels."
Tuello hoped he was not stifling participation when he noted, "that's a lot of 'ifs' Rita."
Rita gathered what confidence she had to say, "well, that's what I have."
Tapping said, "Okay, I've heard enough. None of this is rocket science, and people on the ground in New Gilead know the risks. Unless either of you have objections, I'm passing the name, those two dates, and 'Jezebels in D.C.' to Sam down at the border. She can handle it from there."
Both Tuello and Blue were silent. So Tuello wrapped it up by saying, "Okay, I guess in a couple of weeks we'll know. If we get a high value target, I'm buying the beer."
"But I'll tell you one thing," Tuello said as he prepared to go home from the Consulate. "I wish to God we knew who was sending this intel. It's solid, I get that. But once, just once, I want to be able to put in an order - a target of our choosing."
Tuello couldn't extinguish the feeling that the once-vaunted The United States of America was doing someone else's dirty work. For that person's reasons.
THE MORNING SHOW
"Okay, this is where I'm going to ask for a minute." Serena's make-up person had been glued to the little TV monitor, the one brought by the television network so that they could see, real time, how the interview was going.
The location was everything. The ITWC had offered a corner of the large foyer, on the civilian side of security, complete with ferns and natural light. The network was going to go for it, but Serena, herself, nixed the idea. Despite now having the run of the city, Serena said that all interviews would be done from her cell.
She and her production assistant had rearranged the spartan belongings in the cell, to seem even more spartan in the background behind her. Now that the first questions had been asked, the hired-make-up assistant stopped the show.
"The light's not right, I can fix it applying more make-up." Serena cautioned the assistant that she could not look like she'd just come from a salon. The assistant said, "Look, I can make you look like you've just done time in The Colonies, if you want!" Serena asked her not to get carried away, nor say such things within earshot of Canadian media, even if in jest.
This was serious business.
Thirty-minutes later, the filming was back up and running. Serena was going through the theses of her books, of a new, radical-feminism where women embraced their natural destinies. Where governments should be tasked with making the fertility crisis, job-one - and that that by necessity placed women in elevated, not subjugated, positions.
Everyone, men and women, needed to embrace their tasks with sacrifice in mind.
No less than that, and the world might survive. "Tipping points, they are in view," Serena said, "but they're not yet here." Serena continued - skillfully packaging her words to prevent some post-production editor from dulling the impact of her message.
Serena left it to the last minute, to decide if she'd make a big deal of her amputated finger. She knew she had to deal with that 'up front', to get in front of her critics who called her the ultimate hypocrite.
"Me, I paid the price of sacrifice," she said leaving her hand in her lap. "Was Gilead right to do it? I don't know the answer to that. Has Gilead made mistakes? Of course it has. Gilead has failed to hold Canada to account for those 86 stolen children, most of them still here in Toronto."
Adroitly shifting gears, she concluded, "but even that is a testament to the wide breadth of the plan Gilead is trying to implement. Gilead gets blamed for what it's NOT doing, yet the world denies Gilead resources by imposing unfair sanctions." She debated the use of Gilead-speak, but she went for it anyway. "Sanctions harm the very econo-people the world claims is downtrodden. The common-folk."
"Is Gilead doing it for itself? Of course not." Looking directly at the camera, as instructed by the TV people, she concluded, "go on the internet, you can find our web-presence. Decide for yourself which side of 'Earth's-healing' you want to be on."
There was a good five seconds of silence. Then the interviewer said, "that was excellent."
Serena stood, then added, "of course, according to our agreement, I get approval over the final cut?" The interviewer said, "yes, I remember. I hope you remember, Mrs. Waterford, that in exchange we get exclusive rights."
When the TV people had finally packed up and left, Serena now alone sat on the bed, then lay on her back. She rubbed her now empty womb, there was still pain there from 'losing the baby'. Those three words were the only ones she'd allow to describe what, for her, was an unfamiliar complexity of feeling and emotion.
Serena was so, so alone.
At that, there was a rap on her cell-door. The guard came in and said, "Mrs. Waterford - Annie Bankole is at the desk in the foyer. Do you want us to bring her in, or will you be going with her on a day-pass?"
Still frightened by the known-unknowns in Toronto, Serena sat up, said, "No it's all right, bring her in here. Oh, and can we have our lunch in here? I don't want to be too much trouble."
TENSIONS IN D.C.
"That should not be," Commander Mackenzie said to his driver as they entered the Capitol parking area. "Before I get out, find out if Wharton is in the building. Jesus, he'd better not have made it to his office."
The parking area was subterranean, below the Capitol building itself. This had been the very place during the 2nd Revolution where the Sons of Jacob had chased the sitting Vice-president, and by-office the sitting President of the Senate - had chased him from the Capitol building on the night of the Electoral College certification. Without the old-Congressional certification, American democracy had suffered a fatal hit.
In such parking areas lay the future of whole nations. Wharton's SUV was surrounded by enough Guardians to guarantee that no Park Officer would ticket it. But what worried Mackenzie was how many Guardians were upstairs, Guardians and Angels still loyal to Wharton.
Mackenzie asked his driver/Guardian, "how many guns can we muster?"
The driver asked with surprise, "in the Capitol, sir!?"
"Yes, in the Capitol," Mackenzie barked.
"Not enough," was the answer. "Whatever Wharton's people are doing, sir, they're winning."
Mackenzie sat in the back for a silent minute. Then he said, "you, you stay here. I need to do this on my own."
The driver patted the AR-15 on the passenger seat beside him. "If I come, sir, you won't be alone."
Mackenzie said, "look, a Commander values people like you, you have no idea. But I need to go up. Alone. It may as well just be me. If it goes south, you can get back to your family."
As it was, Mackenzie exited the SUV from the back, attracting zero attention from Wharton's phalanx.
A Capitol security Guardian called for the elevator. Mackenzie got in alone. Up he went.
JEZEBELS
Earlier.
The D.C. version of Jezebels was three steps up from the rural houses. Out in the sticks, the bar was always, 'pour your own'. In Boston, the first institution reopened following the kidnapping of the children, was Jezebels. Although Boston needed a new bartender, 'Billy' had disappeared.
In D.C., the waitresses were by policy all topless. Because it was a classy place, they were not to be groped or harassed. They were professionals, and the tips were built in to the tabs that Commanders would run.
Commander Mackenzie, he had two nights in the 'hotel' part of Jezebels, time well spent. His own home was only a few miles away, Tabitha thought he was back in Boston dealing with the aftermath of the terrorism at Rubies Preparatory. All of that was now in the hands of the propaganda people - having had no kids killed, that was working against Gilead. They'd needed a 'body-count' involving children, Gilead knew how to monetize that within the international community. Rubies Preparatory? No luck.
It was Mackenzie's second and last night at Jezebels, he was taking time to get to know the women there - in a way that his otherwise busy itinerary prevented. Serving Gilead afforded little R&R like this.
So it was, an unfamiliar sound. Right in the hotel! Because of his military service, he could tell a civilian automatic weapon from a military one. The one firing out in the hall was decidedly civilian, but probably just as deadly. There was yelling out there, there was gunfire.
A small explosion opened the heavy oak door, sending it pancaking onto the floor inside the room.
Before he could dash into the bathroom, through the dust he spied a woman in martha's garb, hand held aloft. Her hand was not empty.
He'd lost six hours. His driver-guardian cleared away debris, and said, "sir, we have to get you to a secure location."
Mackenzie slowly got his bearings, but the ringing in his ears did not abate. He said to his man, "Wharton?"
"I don't think so, sir. It has the hallmarks of resistance." The driver picked Mackenzie off of the floor, with debris falling to both sides.
"I've got to get you to a secure location," the driver said.
"Nix that," Mackenzie said shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear the ringing. "I've got to get to the Capitol. Even if it's not Wharton…."