The Saboteur
by David Santiago
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4 |
part 3
The networking event was held at the National Press Club, the venue where the International Conference on Public Health was to be hosted. Ofelia and Chloe arrived a little after 3:00 pm and followed the signs to the First Amendment Lounge, a large, blue-carpeted room with a mahogany bar and floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of the White House and the Washington Monument. There were several dozen people gathered in the room when Ofelia and Chloe arrived, with most people milling about catering tables like ants drawn to sugar.
“I love petite sandwiches!” exclaimed Chloe. “It feels so... British.” She scratched her head. “Does that seem odd to you, serving afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches in the capital of the United States?”
“Psst!” hissed Ofelia, covering her mouth. “Julia Jennings is in the middle of the room, near the center column.”
“Okay, got it,” mumbled Chloe, who was chewing on a mini gouda-filled croissant she had taken from a passing server. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I need you to distract her so I can take her briefcase.”
“I think I missed that. Can you repeat what you said?”
“I need you to distract her so I can take her briefcase.”
“That’s what I thought you said. Dang it.”
Chloe plucked an egg roll appetizer from a passing server and stuffed it in her mouth.
“Okay, let me explain a couple of things to you, Ofelia,” said Chloe with her mouth full. “I’m not trained in the art of, whatever you call this.” She swallowed. “Espionage. Being a decoy. And I’m also definitely not certifiably crazy—”
Ofelia grabbed her hand and pulled her towards Julia, weaving around roving servers and isolated pairs of minglers. As they approached Julia, who was leading a discussion near a catering table with half a dozen people, Ofelia silently slipped away into the crowd.
“Ofelia?” called Chloe, just feet away from Julia. “Oh, where has she gone to now?”
Julia stopped speaking; and, turning toward Chloe, her grin widened as she seemed to register who she was. Her coterie of like-minded, do-good associates, dressed in Ann Taylor dresses and blue blazers and slacks that did not belie their white-collar approach to humanitarian work, angled their heads in Chloe’s direction inquiringly.
Ofelia was standing on the opposite side of the center column, her back pressed against it, her hand cupping her right ear to improve her hearing. Prior to heading to the National Press Club, she had changed into a tan halter top with brown crop pants and brown block-heel sandals that blended into the wooden center column. Or at least, she thought the outfit helped her camouflage.
“Ah, Dr. Burgos!” proclaimed a wiry, elderly man with a gray beard, red beret, oversized suit, and walking cane.
“Shhhh!” shushed Ofelia, waving the man away dismissively.
“Did you say something, doctor?” He tried again, louder this time. “I’ve been having issues with my hearing aids.”
Ofelia stared at Joseph Duchamps, whom she had known for years. He was an expert in monitoring and evaluation but should have retired at least fifteen years ago. His principal contribution to public health projects at this point was getting AARP discounts for car rentals.
“So nice to see you, Mr. Duchamps. But I can’t speak right now. I’m practicing deep listening.”
“Is that so? I’m not familiar with that. What are you listening to?”
“I am transcending the intrapersonal and interpersonal levels to focus deeply on the voices of the group. Good day to you!”
Ofelia shut her eyes and struck a meditative pose, praying that he would get the hint. A couple minutes later, slowly opening one eye, then the other, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Coast is clear!” she said under her breath.
She sidled her way toward Julia, her back still against the center column, until she was just a couple feet away from her. She could make out Chloe, who was blushing from embarrassment. Julia appeared to have just made the group laugh.
“There’s nothing wrong with community college, mind you,” said Julia. “It’s certainly a more affordable option. But if I were USAID looking for experts in the field, I would caution that you get what you pay for.”
This line is so old, thought Ofelia. So what if Chloe has an associate’s degree? She scanned the floor and noticed that Julia had placed her briefcase a foot away from where Ofelia was standing. It was the same briefcase she had seen her carry when they met at the Ronald Reagan Building. It was a beige, Italian leather briefcase, with brown leather handles and a black fabric shoulder strap. It was stuffed with a laptop and papers and had not been zipped shut.
Bingo! she told herself. Ofelia did another quick survey of the room, then bent down and pulled the briefcase to her.
Shocking how disorganized she is! Ofelia thought, as she started rummaging through its contents. She found a presentation folder with the Chemonics logo and pulled it out. It was bulging with paper and had many handwritten notes and sticky pads.
What a bore! Academic papers.
She did a quick skim, then placed it back in the briefcase. She dug deeper into the bag and retrieved a small box. Keto fat bombs? All natural chocolate bars with only ONE net carb, she read. If she wasn’t such an insulting snoot, I’d ask her opinion about this!
She returned the keto bars to the briefcase and pulled out a leather portfolio binder. She unzipped it and found several pens and a calculator tucked into pockets on one side. On the other side, there was a legal pad with handwritten, bulleted notes. It was difficult to decipher the cursive, but she could make out the words RFP win plan and taking out the competition. Attached to the lower right of the legal plan was a receipt from the Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown, Washington D.C.
“Ha!” Ofelia yelled out loud. “I knew it!”
The moment may have gotten the better of her, because she had intended to be more subtle with her detective work. Spontaneous forays into occupations other than one’s own have a tendency to create complications. Amateur stunt drivers, for example, have been known to lose traction with the surface of a highway.
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
Ofelia was still crouching over the briefcase, portfolio binder in both hands, looking up at Julia. “Well,” she huffed, “that was what I was going to ask you!”
“That is my briefcase!” cried Julia, her eyes bulging.
“There you go! So you admit it!”
“What are you talking about? Give me back my briefcase!”
Ofelia closed the binder, placing it back in the briefcase, then stood up defensively, cradling the bag protectively like a quarterback. A hush fell over the lounge, and a crowd formed around Julia and Ofelia. Chloe was a few feet behind Julia, next to a server who had followed the commotion out of curiosity. She was chewing a brie-and-apricot sausage roll thoughtfully, her eyes glued to the women like a spectator at Monday Night Football.
“I will not,” said Ofelia stubbornly. “I want to know what this all means!?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“What were you doing at the Ritz last night?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you. You’re a nutjob,” said Julia, stepping forward and reaching for the briefcase.
Ofelia juked left, sending Julia reeling. “Thought you could get away with it, huh, trying to sabotage your highly qualified competitor!”
Julia ended up lying on her side on the floor, her face crimson, glaring at Ofelia. The crowd was larger now, and becoming more animated.
“I’m betting the chalk on the blonde,” said someone in the crowd.
“What are the odds?” asked another.
“I’m taking the little brunette!”
Julia jumped to her feet and lunged again at Ofelia, this time grabbing the briefcase’s dangling shoulder strap. Ofelia tried to swing out of her way, pirouetting toward Chloe, but Julia wouldn’t let go and was pulled along.
“Mine!” cried Julia.
“No! Mine!” yelled Ofelia.
It’s worth pausing this scene to emphasize that Ofelia and Julia both had PhDs in International Health from Johns Hopkins University. They were, in fact, classmates.
A vigorous tug of war ensued, with Ofelia pulling the briefcase in one direction and Julia pulling the shoulder strap in the other.
“You thought you were so clever, booking my room at the Ritz,” panted Ofelia. “Thought I’d just sleep in and miss the orals!”
There was a ripping sound as the briefcase tore apart, causing Ofelia and Julia to plunge to the floor, while the laptop crashed and papers flew everywhere. Ofelia was sprawled out on her back, her limbs spread in an ungainly manner. She stared at the ceiling lights and observed, momentarily, that two of the light bulbs needed to be replaced.
What she remembered in the immediate aftermath of the fight was largely a blur. There were at least two muscular men in white polyester button-down shirts and navy blue clip-on ties who lifted her by each arm. They carried her to the elevator and then outside, where they left her sitting on the street curb. It had begun to rain, and puddles were forming around her feet.
* * *
“Um, so that went reasonably well,” said Chloe a few minutes later, crouching down beside Ofelia. “You know, it could have been, theoretically, worse.”
About thirty minutes later, Ofelia and Chloe were sitting in the back seats of a cab, soaked and shivering. “I suppose...” said Ofelia, sloshing in her seat, “I suppose I may have slightly jumped to conclusions.”
“Could be.”
“I mean, in retrospect, I might be able to recall a bit of a conversation with Julia last night. Something about her sister’s bachelorette party and having a night out on the town.”
“Ah, yes. She mentioned that to the security guards. Among other four-letter words.”
“She just seemed so guilty.”
“Yeah, she has a guilty look to her.”
“So full of it.”
The cab’s brakes squealed, and the driver leaned his elbow into the horn. “Watch where you’re going, you lousy, no good, good-for-nothing!” he shouted, as the rain whipped Ofelia in the face through the driver’s open side window.
“I’m really at a loss about this whole situation,” said Ofelia, hugging herself to keep warm.
“It’s hard to understand,” replied Chloe.
“It’s the fair-weather drivers,” interjected the driver. “They can’t handle rain. And God forbid the snow...”
“Um...”
“You know, the worst thing about this city is how people are always trying to get ahead. Cutting corners, weaving in and out of lanes, being reckless and selfish. I mean, if this isn’t the epitome of a rat race, then I don’t know what is.”
Ofelia stared at herself in the rear-view mirror. Her hair was wet and matted, her top was stained in several spots, her mascara was smudged under her eyes, and there was no denying her strong resemblance to a very sorry-looking drowned rat.
* * *
“You didn’t have to escort me back,” said Ofelia as she slogged through the Ritz Carlton’s lobby toward her room moments later.
“What, and leave you stranded on the curb?” said Chloe, placing her arm on Ofelia’s sopping shoulder. “We’re friends. Plus, I wanted to be around just in case you decided that Kendrick wasn’t your type.”
Ofelia groaned. “I completely forgot about him. Maybe I should skip dinner...”
“Nuh-uh, sista, you’re not missing this. He’s expecting you in an hour.”
They stepped into the elevator, and Chloe began humming:
“He’s so fine
Do-lang-do-lang-do-lang
Wish he were mine
Do-lang-do-lang-do-lang.”
Ofelia’s cell phone buzzed as they entered her hotel room. She had unread text messages:
(Mathew) Everything okay?
(Everly) Heard about the incident.
(Everly) Don’t worry. Go out and enjoy your last night in DC. Your keynote will be a smash tomorrow!
(Luis) Rough day?
(Mother) OFeliA. CALL me.. what happened today???
(Mother) you work TOo much
(Mother) STRESS makes you GASsy!!
“Wonderful. Who doesn’t know about today?”
“I didn’t want to bring it up.”
“Bring what up?”
“Well...” said Chloe, shuffling her feet nervously.
“Well?”
“You’re trending on YouTube.”
“I see.”
“Half a million views already.”
“Is that good?”
“Viral.”
Ofelia was fastidious about packing extra outfits when she traveled, and her planning was rewarded for once. She had just taken a shower and slipped on a high-notched collar, V-neck red dress with puffed shoulders and a belted waist. She felt much more herself now, and had had some time to think while soaking under the hot water after Chloe left.
The messages You work too much and You’ll be a smash rang through her head.
* * *
Shortly after 7:00 pm, Kendrick was waiting for Ofelia in the lobby lounge bar in the same spot she had seen him earlier in the afternoon. He was still wearing his light gray pinstripe suit, but had ditched the tie, leaving his collar open. Boris was curled on his lap and began wagging his tail when he saw Ofelia approaching.
“Ofelia!” exclaimed Kendrick, placing Boris on the ground. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Apologies for being late,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “You don’t happen to watch YouTube often, do you?”
“YouTube? Uh, sometimes, I guess. For the occasional cat video.”
“Ah, good.”
“Why do you ask?”
“What? Oh, no reason. Just making small talk,” she said, grabbing Boris by the leash and hurriedly walking towards the door. “Where to?”
Kendrick jogged after her. “I made a reservation for Filomena’s. It’s not far.”
Filomena’s was crowded, but felt homey, if a little dated. It was a traditional Italian restaurant in the heart of Georgetown, with antique furniture, heavy oak tables, and Murano-glass chandeliers. They took a seat at a table in the back, where Boris could sit under the table without causing any distractions.
“Eat here much?” asked Ofelia, twiddling her thumbs nervously. She hadn’t been on a date in over a year, although this is most certainly not a real date, she thought.
Kendrick placed his hand on hers reassuringly and smiled. “I just want to say again how stunning you look tonight. Your hair is beautifully coiffed.”
Ofelia felt her face reddening and pulled her hand back. She had been perfecting the art of coiffing.
“My mother’s side is Italian,” continued Kendrick. “I’ve always been drawn to these types of restaurants. Reminds me of my grandmother, Nonna Giuseppina.”
A waitress walked over and handed them two menus.
“Could you bring some Gaudianello sparkling water and a bottle of Produttori del Barbaresco?” asked Kendrick as he took off his suit jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. “When I first saw you,” he said to Ofelia, “I felt we had some sort of connection. I would never have asked a stranger to watch my little Boris, but with you it was different.”
“Well, that’s nice. Too bad I don’t remember our conversation.”
“You have an amazing life story. What you’ve accomplished. Being so well respected in your industry.”
Ofelia sat a little more upright at that statement. I would never mention how well respected I was to anyone. That would be, well, pompous. Like Julia.
“The conference event page has a nice profile on you,” said Kendrick. “Would you like to walk me through your keynote speech?”
Ofelia relaxed and sat back in her chair. She glanced to her right and saw a couple, their arms extended across the table, their hands intertwined.
“It may come as a surprise, but I’m not a fan of public speaking. Maybe it’s because English isn’t my first language.”
Kenrick nodded empathetically. “A lot of health professionals struggle with public speaking.”
“It’s like I have a stodgy file clerk in my brain who decides to slam the file cabinet shut to my hippocampus when I have to give presentations to large groups of people. It’s very annoying.”
The waitress walked over to their table and filled their wine glasses. Kendrick stared momentarily at his wine glass, then clapped his hands excitedly.
“I have a thought. Have you heard of the power pose?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Okay. So there’s a psychologist who gave a Ted Talk a few years ago about how our body language affects not only how people think of us, but how we think of ourselves. If you take a private moment, in front of the mirror, and hold your arms up like this,” said Kendrick, raising his arms up in a V-shape, “it will make you feel more confident before a speech. Why don’t you give it a try in the restroom, then come back and practice your speech on me?”
Ofelia drummed her fingers on the table and stared at the couple again. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties. The woman wore a sleeveless, pink summer dress and appeared small and fragile next to what Ofelia assumed was her boyfriend.
“You know what, why not?” she said, standing up and straightening her dress. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Ofelia made her way through the crowded dining area to the restroom. As she started pushing the restroom door open, she turned back, momentarily, and glimpsed Kendrick leaning into the table. He dropped something into a wine glass.
Of course, she thought. What a shame.
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by David Santiago
