Photo by Vlad Tchompalov on Unsplash
Standing before the bedroom mirror and applying light green eye shadow that matched her sleeveless cotton dress, Yvonne Brewster admired the smoothness of her bald head.
Years before Wakandan women warriors brought a violent grace to the Marvel Cinematic Universe, she shaved her head regularly, partly in anticipation of developing her late mother’s alopecia and partly from a desire to avoid the straighteners, treatments, wigs, and dyes that pushed women, especially Black women, toward beauty standards that were arbitrary, unnatural, and sometimes painful. With her height, athletic build, brown skin, red lipstick, hoop earrings, and distinctive hats, she forged her own path, not caring what others thought. She seldom lacked companionship, though many of the men she dated before her engagement, regardless of their own complexions, fetishized her as exotic. After a couple dates, some suggested she might want to consider a different look to get ahead in business. The retail manager across a table one Friday night joked she was a contradiction because, despite her fierce Afro-feminism, she read fashion magazines and followed footwear trends. Fortunately, as a gifted IT specialist, she was never unemployed and never dependent on any man for her well-being—which she made sure this man knew as she picked up her purse and left. “If you bothered to read more than sports yourself or just paid attention, you’d know I read a little bit of everything.”
Only LJ Doran had been nonjudgmental enough to begin a relationship without an undercurrent of control. When, finally, the shyness that had cut short his gazing into her eyes was gone, she felt him looking at her. When during intimacy he stroked her face or cradled her head, she knew he was touching her, not the absence of hair or a secret fantasy. When he gave a playful tilt to whatever she wore on her head—because, he said, attitudes like hers deserved a cocked hat—she knew he understood her. Despite her being five years his senior, and more grounded in practicality, they got engaged fifteen months after their first date.
In the three years since she had moved with him to Washington so he could accept a job with the FBI’s Cyber Division, she had established her own IT company. With clients ranging from small businesses to an up-and-coming multicultural theater company to four charter schools, YB Data Systems had thrived, growing from a one-woman operation to an office with ten employees. Some customers thought the Y and B were her initials while others were sure they were short for yottabyte, a term meaning a quadrillion gigabytes. She never clarified because she didn’t care. Having surpassed LJ’s government salary long ago, her personal income would, by next year, at last reach the next tier in the low six figures.
Not bad for a little girl from the East Side of Buffalo.
Despite passing their workdays in front of screens, Yvonne and LJ spent little time talking shop because she recognized what he did not, that IT people could be slotted into three broad categories—those who always thought inside the box, those gifted enough to think outside the box, and those whose thoughts floated in an ether that had no boxes at all. Her flexible inventory, attendance, and record-keeping systems put her in the second group and on a lucrative career path that suited her perfectly. LJ, on the other hand, was at the top of the third, in a job whose salary belied the growing necessity of his esoteric talents. His mother had said as much when they began dating, when Yvonne feared his parents—a white ex-cop in a wheelchair and a Black nurse practitioner—might object to their age difference. “My son dreams in a palette so far beyond technicolor almost nobody else can see it,” Peggy Ann had said. “That makes him vulnerable. Caring for him also means being ready to protect him. Loving him will only increase that responsibility.”
Echoing his wife a year later, when their son was being courted by the FBI, Jimmy Doran, who’d earned his wheelchair on the job, said he was relieved James Doran, Jr., would ride a keyboard rather than serve as a field agent. Seated beside him at the kitchen table that day, Jimmy’s former partner Gideon, now a private investigator LJ viewed as a cross between an uncle and older brother, added, “He’s like the researcher who finds a cure, not a doctor who treats a patient. What he brings to the party is worth a hundred guys with guns.”
The subject of articles in the Buffalo News, area magazines, and the Buffalo State newsletter, LJ had last been mentioned publicly in a Channel 4 news segment about his imminent departure for the FBI Academy. Now, much of his work in the pursuit of cyber criminals—sanctioned hacking, the man who recruited him called it—was off limits for discussion, even at home, until the results of an investigation were made public. So Yvonne took it upon herself to get him out of their apartment as often as possible for less rarefied low tech fun—movies, miniature golf, bowling, skating, dancing, trivia nights at Lou’s City Bar or Red Bear Brewing, occasional fine dining, or dinner cruises on the Potomac.
Today, a warm Saturday in May, was the first time in a month her work or his had not leached into their weekend. While there was no comparison between a networked inventory system for the Brainy Playthings educational toy chain and the shutdown of an international ransomware and phishing operation, both Yvonne and LJ had been working hard recently. She was determined to make this an enjoyable day—perhaps even memorable—screen-free, carefree, and delightful.
The collapse of ECCLES had resulted in the arrest in Finland of Kiril Pavel Ivanov, sixth on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List of Cyber Criminals. Though media accounts of the op had identified no team members, Yvonne learned afterward LJ’s hacking had uncovered decryption codes for ransomware victims, and the virus he inserted into the ECCLES system had made hash of personal data gathered by web-wide phishing bots. He was not permitted to comment on rumors that—a fifth of the world away—he hacked Ivanov’s Mercedes S 500, stalling him north of Helsinki for easy police pick-up. Having saved victims millions of dollars—literally—LJ was under consideration for a meritorious service medal. Though the case was far from over, with ECCLES associates still being rounded up worldwide, he deserved a good day.
Stepping back from the mirror, Yvonne put on a narrow-brimmed straw hat with a thin brown band that matched her sandals and the large purse she hoisted onto her shoulder. Then she went into the living room. In jeans and a collarless white shirt that hung loose on his thin frame, LJ was already by the door, holding his own shoulder bag. Smiling, she went to him and kissed him, softly—as always grateful they were so close in height such moments felt light and effortless.
“Let’s go have some fun,” she said.
Because DC traffic could spoil a perfect day, even on weekends, they left their car in the garage and summoned an Uber to take them to Tatte Bakery on Connecticut near Dupont Circle. This vibrant neighborhood was one of their favorite parts of Washington, with lots of places to eat and drink, bookstores, clothing stores, theaters, cinemas, museums, galleries, studios, and food markets. Despite the Saturday crowd, they were lucky enough to score an outdoor table near the corner by 10:45. The table across from theirs, Yvonne noticed, had a twentysomething mom with a preschooler on the verge of a post-breakfast meltdown. Just as they left and were replaced by a tall man in jeans and a gray shirt, LJ signaled a server. They ordered brunch and began to discuss their day.
“Apart from miniature golf, we can do whatever you want all day,” Yvonne said. “I just need to hit Whole Foods right before we go home, for a few things I forgot yesterday.”
“When’s our reservation?” LJ asked. “And what course are we on?”
Yvonne opened her purse and pulled out the tickets for Swingers Crazy Golf, a few blocks away. “Waterwheel, tee time at three.”
He looked pleased. “Good course. Drinks after, wander around, dinner somewhere.”
She returned the tickets to her purse. “So we have plenty of time to walk off brunch and then stop at the chess tables.” She pointed to the shoulder bag he’d hung on the back of his chair. She knew it held chess pieces he had designed and produced on their 3D printer. “I know it’s been a while.”
He nodded, absently gazing about, lower lip now caught between his teeth.
She looked at him as he took in the scene around them, at his guileless eyes and his smooth coffee skin, at the way the sunlight caught flecks of his now deceased father’s blond hair in his semi-tight curls. After a moment she drew his attention back to her by brushing her fingertips over the back of his hand. “Where are you, baby?” She grinned. “Thinking about the egos you’re gonna crush while I read?”
“So many people out today,” he said. “I may have to wait in line for a game.”
“Once you win, the table’s yours as long as you want it, until we have to leave for Swingers.”
He shook his head. “I don’t win every game I play.”
“Just most of them.” Her grin widened. “You made me appreciate chess in a way Pop never did when he pushed it on us. But what I really love about you is, you don’t get puffed up when you win and you don’t get miserable when you lose. Especially when it’s to me.”
He shrugged. “Because everything is a learning experience.”
“Spoken like a true blerd.”
He laughed. “God, I hate that word! Sounds like the noise you make when your gas can’t figure out which exit to take.”
“I’m a blerd too,” she said, with mock defensiveness. “Long before I had my Black Nerds Matter t-shirt, Pop used to tell me and Cissy in the end, the nerds win—not always but often enough to be important people. He didn’t care we weren’t sons. What mattered was we were smart enough to take care of ourselves.” She was quiet a moment. “Wish you could’ve known him, maybe played chess with him.”
“I woulda liked that,” LJ said.
Presently, their food came—his breakfast sandwich on sourdough and her Croque Madame, which she had to eat with a fork.
As they ate and chatted, Yvonne looked over at the man at the next table. Mid-thirties, black-framed glasses, wavy chestnut hair. His untucked gray short-sleeved shirt revealed corded forearms too pale to have developed from outdoor work. His jeans were crisp, his blue sneakers pricey-looking. A map was open on his table. He studied it as he worked on scrambled eggs, marking it with a yellow Sharpie. She noticed him earlier when, back toward them, he pulled out his chair and sat. She found him vaguely familiar—until he spread out his map and bent over it. Then she dismissed him as a tourist plotting a walk to the White House, eight or ten blocks away. Now that he was eating, his chair at a different angle, she could see his shirt was a clerical model, with a white collar in place.
As if sensing scrutiny, the minister looked over, locked eyes with her, and nodded a greeting, which she returned. Then he went back to his map and another forkful of eggs.
Sipping coffee, LJ noticed the silent exchange. “The rev’s a tourist. Want to bet where he’s from?”
“Our usual bet?”
“Is there a better one?” He set down his cup. “Along with trivia games, that’s the thing you almost always win.”
Yvonne batted her eyes like a cartoon temptress. “Which means we both win.” The usual bet was who got to call the shots the next time they made love. “There’s no better bet, but where he’s from is too broad. Cities, states, regions—could be anywhere.” She leaned forward, fork suspended above her plate with the last bite of egg and gruyere cheese. “How about where he’s going? General vicinity.”
“All right.” LJ thought for a moment. “Corn-fed country boy looks. From somewhere in the heartland, the Midwest or the South. I say he’s headed to…Ford’s Theatre, or one of the Smithsonians, maybe Air and Space. Everybody loves Air and Space.”
Yvonne pondered what he said. “Could be.” Then she made a show of reaching across the table and shaking his hand. “But you’re on. See, I think he’s headed to the Mall, maybe someplace like the Washington Monument, maybe even the White House.”
“The White House? He can’t think they do walk-in tours.” LJ leaned toward the minister’s table and raised his voice. “Excuse me, reverend. Or is it father?”
The man turned to him. “Pastor,” he said in a mild baritone. “How may I help you?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you settle a bet I have with my fiancée?”
“And a lovely fiancée she is,” he said, placing his fork on his now empty plate.
“Why thank you, pastor,” Yvonne said. “You’re too kind.” And too handsome, she thought, now that they were facing each other. His kind of rugged youthfulness seemed out of place above a ministerial collar. And that voice! Was he a MILF with a different M—or maybe PILF, if a new term were needed?
The pastor’s eyebrows climbed a notch. “I’ll help if I can, though if it’s directions—”
“No directions. We see your map but we live here. I’m James and this is Yvonne.”
“Nathan Bromley,” the minister said, rising and shaking their hands. “But all the kids in our youth group—and now all the kids at the conference we’re here for—call me Pastor Nate.” He sat and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “You must be wondering where the kids are. They’re getting ready for a tour of National Stadium before this afternoon’s game. One of the boys has a grandfather who came up from Virginia to see him. I gave him my ticket and with the game sold out I couldn’t replace it. There are enough parent chaperones and pastors. After two days of riding herd on teenagers, I figured an afternoon on my own couldn’t hurt. I’ll join them for dinner.”
“I bet you’re the cool pastor,” Yvonne said. “The kids must love you.”
He shifted uneasily, as if embarrassed, and reached for his orange juice. “Well…”
“Where are you from?” LJ asked.
“Idaho.” Pastor Nate slid his chair a few inches closer. “Well outside Boise. But in February, I got my own church, in Wichita. My wife’s my co-pastor. Pastor Jean’s holding down the fort while I’m here. I usually spend Saturday afternoon writing my sermon, so this is a treat.” He took a swallow and looked at them. “So, Yvonne, James, how can I help you?”
“We figured you for a tourist,” LJ said. “The map and all. First time in DC?”
“Does it show?”
“Lots of tourists come here. First timers can’t stop looking all over the place, except when they hunch over maps. We made a bet where you’re heading when you leave the cafe.”
“That’s it?” He set his now empty juice glass on his table.
LJ shrugged. “That’s it.”
Pastor Nate narrowed his eyes. “Out of curiosity, what’s the bet?”
LJ’s cheeks reddened a bit but Yvonne plunged ahead. “The winner gets to cook up something we’ll both enjoy.”
“Sounds delightful! Jean and I love cooking together but the kitchen in our parsonage is small.” He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Anyway, I thought I’d go down to the White House.” He held up the map, the yellow highlighter line snaking from Dupont Circle to Pennsylvania Avenue. “Thought I’d take a tour, if they’re open.”
Yvonne sat back and laughed as LJ’s jaw dropped.
“You saw the line,” he said, stabbing a finger at her. “You saw the yellow line!”
“Just a glimpse of its direction. Recently I read a piece in the Post about disappointed White House drop-ins.”
“I don’t understand,” the minister said.
“It means I get to cook, he gets to eat.” Yvonne resisted the urge to wink at LJ.
Cheeks darkening even more, LJ drew in a deep breath. “We prefer win-win bets.” Then he cleared his throat. “But I gotta tell you, White House tours have to be booked weeks in advance.”
“Oh…”
“Only after your congressman recommends you.”
“Oh my!” He began to fold the map. “Guess I stepped on a fresh cow flop.”
“Don’t feel bad,” LJ said. “We’ve lived here three years, I work for the FBI, and we still haven’t been on the White House tour.”
“Goodness!” He slid the map into his left back pocket. “You work for the FBI?”
LJ waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. “Nothing dramatic,” he said. “I’m a desk jockey, not a field agent. When you see the FBI on TV and somebody says, ‘Run that plate,’ I’m the guy in the background who runs that plate.”
“Remember, baby, you promised no work talk today.”
“Sorry, honey.”
Yvonne turned to Nate. “You can still have a good afternoon. The Lincoln Memorial is so much better in person than in the movies. Ford’s Theatre has a good tour. The Air and Space museum is popular.” She snapped her fingers and sat forward. “I bet you’d love the Bible museum! A couple blocks south of Air and Space. You might need to Uber.”
“I think…I think conference organizers are planning something there. Tomorrow.” Pastor Nate hesitated and patted right back pocket. “I think I left my conference program at the hotel.”
Without responding, Yvonne sat back. Gazed at him. Gazed at his sneakers.
LJ broke the brief silence. “You can do lots of stuff right around here. Dupont Circle has benches if you just want to sit. A beautiful fountain but it’s been down for repairs since we moved here.”
“Maybe it’ll be on today and give us both a heart attack,” Yvonne said tightly, pulling her purse onto her lap.
“If you want something you can walk to without it feeling like a merit badge hike,” LJ rattled on, “there are small museums in historic houses. Art galleries and stores. Miniature golf, but you need reservations.”
“Once more, curiosity.” Pastor Nate leaned closer again, as Yvonne struggled against her stiffening spine. “James, how are you spending your afternoon?”
LJ beamed. “We’re gonna play golf later but before that we’ll go to the Circle and I’ll get in a few games of chess while Yvonne reads. They’ve got stone chess tables, first come, first serve. You win, the table’s yours till you lose or step away.”
“I tried to organize a chess league in the youth group, but most of the girls weren’t interested and all the boys preferred things like Call of Duty.” He held up both hands as if surrendering. “The Heavenly Father said, ‘Judge not,’ but forgive me for thinking church is no place to blow people up, even if it is make-believe.”
Both men laughed. Yvonne did not. Heel beginning to tap, she looked at her phone.
“Hey, Vonnie, no screens today,” LJ said. “If I have to follow the rules…”
“Sorry, baby. I’ll just be a sec. A text from Shirley.” She hated lying around LJ but looked right at Pastor Nate. “I’m the boss, and she needs me to authorize an emergency job.”
As the pastor nodded, LJ put his shoulder bag on the table. “Let me show you something,” he said. He slid plates aside, unfolded a couple paper napkins, and spread them flat. Then he opened his bag and began removing chess pieces, setting one after another on the bed of napkins, waiting a few seconds so each could be appreciated.
“My God!” Pastor Nate said, genuinely surprised. “They’re beautiful! Just beautiful!”
The placement continued until one piece of each rank was on display. One of the pawns was a crouching African warrior, his opposite a kneeling soldier in the white helmet and red coat of the 19th Century British army. The knights were an African horseman and a British horseman, the rooks a tall round-topped hut and a redcoat holding a Union Jack, the bishops a warrior with a shield and a redcoat with a rifle across his chest.
“I designed them myself,” LJ said, “and pumped them out of a 3D printer.”
“If they can print rocket ships, why not chess pieces?” Nate said. “You must have painted them by hand. I can tell your African king from his size and headpiece and your queen from her dress and necklace. The white queen looks like Victoria, which makes me think there’s some history here.” He pointed at the last piece. “Is the king Prince Albert?”
LJ shook his head. “Albert was already dead. The guy with the receding hairline and Superman curl is Benjamin Disraeli, Victoria’s prime minister during the Anglo-Zulu war.”
“I don’t believe I know much about that one.”
As LJ smiled at his chance to explain something, Yvonne returned her phone to her purse and kept her hand inside. She tried to force down the tension building in her throat.
“Well, the Zulu king is Cetshwayo, from the House of Shaka,” LJ said. “He had four wives so the queen’s name is a tossup. He was a big guy, well over six feet and more than three hundred pounds.”
“Wow!” The pastor let out a breath. “I’ve heard the name Shaka Zulu but don’t know anything about him—or Africa, for that matter. This king was a descendant?”
“Yes. Long story short, Cetshwayo wasn’t interested in being part of a confederation under the British Empire. So Britain and Zululand fought a war about it in 1879. It lasted about six months, and the Zulus eventually lost. But the first battle? I read a book about it when I was a kid and saw the movie Zulu Dawn. Oh man, the Battle of Isandlwana was an overwhelming Zulu victory!”
“So you made this chess set to commemorate that victory.” The minister smiled. “Outstanding, LJ!”
Now or never!
Pastor Nate’s breath caught. His eyes met Yvonne’s as she pulled her hand from her purse. It was clear he realized his mistake, but the X2 was in her hand, the red laser dot on his chest, and the wired cartridge punching through his clerical shirt before he could exhale. His low, throaty scream as he tumbled off his chair made her flinch and diners seated nearby scatter apart. But she rose and moved toward him anyway as LJ shouted, “What the fuck are you doing!” She stood over Pastor Nate as he twitched, her finger on the two-shot Taser’s second trigger and her right foot ready to stomp his pretty face.
“Somebody call 911,” she said over her shoulder, calmly. “And James…” She paused a long moment to let her use of his given name sink in. “James, call whoever you need to at the FBI.”
***
Later, Yvonne and LJ were seated at a table somewhere inside the Hoover Building, in a narrow room that was not part of the public tour. They had been questioned separately over the past two hours. Together at last, they had been ordered not to speak as they awaited what Yvonne prayed would be their final interrogation. With their chairs facing what was probably a two-way mirror, they barely even looked at each other.
Finally, the door swung open to admit Frank de Lancie, LJ’s immediate supervisor. DeLancie was broad-shouldered, bullet-headed, with close-cut black hair and dark eyes. “Hello, James, Yvonne,” he said in his smooth tenor. Unbuttoning his suit jacket as they returned his greeting, he took the chair across from them and set a file folder on the table.
“I was having a quiet day until I got calls from our duty officer and the DC police.” He let out a long sigh. “Yvonne, self-defense law is tricky when it comes to hitting people back before they throw the first punch, but DC police will not be pressing assault charges.”
Tension draining out of her shoulders, Yvonne thanked him.
“Don’t thank me. It might have been luck but you made a good call.” He opened the file folder to reveal a full-page photo of the pastor. “The man called Nathan Bromley is part of ECCLES. Real name William Spiller. He’s got a record. His cell phone confirms he was in two places you said you may have seen him earlier—near your apartment that morning and in a market two blocks over on Friday. Yes, he was here to assassinate your fiancée.”
Yvonne and LJ exchanged a look, her face reflecting her relief and his Adam’s apple bobbing with apparent surprise. They reached for each other’s hand at the same moment.
“His Sharpie had two caps, with a needle inside the top. The needle held a ricin micropellet, just like a KGB umbrella. At some point he would have collided with you, James, maybe stumbled into you, pen in hand, and scratched your arm. The embarrassed minister would have apologized before going on his way. Then three days later, lights out. Introducing yourselves forced him to start revising his plan. You probably threw him off.”
Yvonne squeezed LJ’s hand tight enough to hurt him but he said nothing.
DeLancie flipped over Spiller’s picture. “Yvonne, what do you know about ECCLES?”
“Only what I read online or in the Post,” she said. “Ransomware, phishing, spoofing. The FBI brought them down.” She glanced at LJ. “I know he was on the team but he doesn’t share what he can’t, and his name was never in the paper. How’d Pastor Nate know him?”
“Plenty of articles were written about this wunderkind when he was a student. That’s how we found Little Jimmy Doran, and courted him. But from the start he was James here.”
“Only his family calls him LJ now,” Yvonne said.
“But there were articles about his recruitment. ECCLES dug up public information. That’s how Spiller slipped and used LJ without either one of you saying it.” He pursed his lips. “Do you know where the name ECCLES comes from?”
“Ecclesiastes?”
“The classical Greek word ecclesia, for assembly. But the Bible is close enough. Kiril Ivanov’s targets were chiefly religious assemblies. In the US, they targeted very conservative churches for ransomware and phishing attacks, churches unlikely to go to federal authorities they don’t trust if the ransom isn’t too high or the scandal can go away with a payoff. Ivanov needed people on the ground to infiltrate congregations or scare ministers photographed in the wrong bed or in possession of kiddie porn. Spiller was one of his foot soldiers.”
LJ released Yvonne’s hand and leaned forward. “Sir, I wasn’t the only one working the ECCLES op. Anybody else been targeted?”
“Not that we know of, but we’re calling everyone in, here and in field offices around the country, as well as foreign stations. Yvonne, you put us on high alert for Ivanov’s people. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Your statement lays it all out but I’ve been watching you and I know you haven’t told James yet. I think he should know, but neither of you can tell anyone about it after you leave this room. You’ll have to testify.”
I had his back, Peggy Ann, but I can’t even tell you about it, Yvonne thought as she turned to LJ. “It wasn’t just your name. The look on his face when I mentioned the Bible museum—he didn’t seem to know what it was. How does a minister come to a conference in DC and not know about the Bible museum? Then he told us God the Father said, ‘Judge not.’ That was God the Son in Matthew. So I used my phone to see what church conference was in town. I couldn’t find one.”
DeLancie laughed. “My favorite part is the sneakers! Please tell him about them.”
Slowly, Yvonne shook her head, not in refusal but in exaggerated disbelief. “When I saw him I thought those sneakers looked expensive. The last thing I did on my phone was look them up. Louis Vuitton Nike Air Force Ones. Freaking Louis Vuitton! How does a Kansas minister with a kitchen too small for two people to cook together afford a pair of sneakers that are $6,000 used?”
DeLancie closed the folder and stood. “Great deductive reasoning, Yvonne. Maybe you should work for the FBI too.”
“Thanks, sir,” she said. “But I can’t afford the pay cut.”
Gary Earl Ross, Prof. Emeritus, University at Buffalo, is author of Blackbird Rising, Beneath the Ice and Other Stories, Shadows and Mirrors: Four African-American Suspense Plays (including the Edgar Award -winning Matter of Intent), and the Nickel City mysteries with Buffalo PI Gideon Rimes.
JMWW 