Chapter 2 - the meeting room

Jasmine opened the door gently and slowly, and walked into the room carrying the platter of wine-glasses with an elegance of sophistication that took her years to imitate.  The room was circular, 40-feet in diameter.  It was nearly devoid of anything, a large mostly empty space, without even windows.  A giant round crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the domed ceiling, above a large wooden table.  The spokes radiating from the center of the chandelier appeared wooden and what appeared to be white bone or maybe ivory; but bones that large?  The table, however, was semi-circular, a circle not quite cut in half, maybe about ⅔ or so, with one strait side.  Large all-wooden chairs were placed around the circle.  A larger leather-bound chair was the lone occupant of the strait side of the table, having crystal ornaments on the top and at the "handrests".  The tables and chairs were built from, and the walls, the floor, the ceiling were all covered in a fine-grained dark-colored wood that Jasmine’s pedigree did not recognize.  The boards in the tabletop were thin and radiated from the spot occupied by the leather chair.  The boards in the dome ceiling and floor were slightly thicker and all radiated from the center.  The boards in the floor, waxed and polished as they were, still creaked a bit as she walked on them, like true old hardwood, not modern "hardwood finished" flooring planks.  She subconsciously noted that the boards in the walls were well over 12-inches in width, since just last week she had been helping to remodel her sistah Sara’s mother’s kitchen, and this thought bubbled up to her conscious awareness even if just barely — those boards were either very old or very rare and expensive.  But she didn’t let her random thoughts interfere with her work, and quickly she refocused on the job at hand.

They had just hired her, and this was her first gig, and they promised her more if everything worked out.  It paid well.  REALLY well.  $10,000 for a few hours, maybe half-a-days total of her time including the train ride there and back.  But, yea, she might have to put up with some "grabby" kinda men.  The rich kind who think they can, or even do, own just about everything.  They warned her ahead of time, fair and square.  They found her bar tending in a seedy joint in an ally in East Jersey.  Somehow, they knew much about her background as a call-girl for the "low-level monkeysuits" that permeated the area from good ol’ N.Y.C.

“You likely won’t have to put up with much more than a pinch on the ass.  Worst, a titty-grab, maybe if one of them has already been drinking, but of course we can’t guarantee the actions of any individual.  These guys are not going to be in town for more than 20 minutes.  You will not be asked to spend the night or offer other services, because they don’t have time.  Just serve them, make them feel important, and you’re done.”  The guy in the black suit and silky-satin-looking tie (she never could tell the difference between silk and satin) told her strait up.  It seemed too good to be true, despite the flat honesty she saw in his presentation request to hire her.  “We just need a sexy looking girl to make these guys happy for a minute and bring them a drink or two, or whatever little accommodation they need at the moment, a snack or whatever.”  The word "sexy" broke her.  She was 35.  Still sexy?  She hoped…  But no one had hinted they thought that way about her in years now…

Five men were just sitting down at the table.  The head, the strait side with the padded leather-bound crystal-laden chair, was occupied by an old bald fat man.  Egregiously fat.  Egregiously ugly.  His neck oozed over his tight collar and necktie, drooping.  Liver spots on his hands and his face made him look even older.  The few uncut and unkempt hairs he had left on his head fell randomly, one across an eye, an eye that never moved, and had a subtle dull-gray tint to it.  He spoke as Jasmine came in to serve the wine.

“The day we have been waiting for has arrived, my friends.  The project is coming along as planned and expected, and it’s even within the current budget.”

“Amazing” another man said, slightly under his breath and with a slight sarcasm, as he settled in his chair and looked at his watch.

The fat man looked the other directly in the eye, and replied “Yes, this project has had some unexpected expenditures, and we thank you for accommodating them.  And as promised we have a personal GVT7800 ready for you now.  You will be the only one in the world to have one except for me.  Eventually the Space Force will get a fleet, yes, but until then you have exclusive use of this "groundbreaking" technology.  Just remember who you are showing it off to.”

The fat man turned to another at the table.  “Has the F.B.I. been misdirected as promised?”

“Yes.  And we managed to get the heat off the Crown Prince also.  We are certain they don’t even know he is here in this country right now, let alone why.”

Jasmine was circling the table delivering the glasses of wine as these men talked freely in her presence.  She had heard that the "ultra-rich" simply ignored the hired help, but this was quite a situation to ignore.  She was setting the glass in front of the first man to speak with the "leader" as he reached around behind her, grabbed her thigh, and ran his hand up under her uniform mini-skirt and under her panties.  Experience with men like these taught her not to respond.  Wisdom of 35 years living in the ghetto told her best not to respond in any way while in a room in a situation like this.

The man didn’t even look at her as he fondled her, his eyes were on the other guy around the table.  “Thanks, but I don’t care about your F.B.I.”  Suddenly he looked at Jasmine.  “With such a beauty here, who could worry anyway?”  His fingers got personal.  She struggled not to react, just smile the polite smile of a servant.  It would be over in a minute.  A $10,000 minute.  But a minute.  Not ten second later he said still looking at her “bring me a bottle of your best American Bourban”, and he removed his hand from her crotch.

Taking a slow, silent deep breath, not to be noticed by the men in the room, Jasmine continued around the table to deliver the last glass of wine.  She set the bottle of wine in the middle of the table, along with a crystal glass snack-tray that was full of various nuts.  The apparent Crown Prince guy grabbed the tray and pulled it over to himself, grabbed a handful of cashews, and started munching.  Jasmine turned for the door where she came in and it seemed she couldn’t walk fast enough while trying not to show her rapidly growing nervousness; or was it fear outright?

“And what about the Pentagon?  Do they have their budget issues solved in order to make the GVT7800 purchase?  Senator Bingsley’s office has been very nosy this past month.  I must remind you of the importance that we can’t let them know, especially in the violent political environment this year.”

Jasmine closed the door.  WTF was that all about?  More importantly, why did SHE hear about it?  She walked across the hall to the elevator and descended to the kitchen level.  The door opened, and the man who hired her handed her a bottle of bourbon.  She was a bartender, but she had never seen this private brand label before.  Neither said a word.  She took the bottle back up to the meeting room.

A bit more timidly this time, trying not to show her growing anxiety, she slowly opened the door and walked the bottle to the Crown Prince.  At least she guessed that must be him.  The old fat man was talking.

“We have your GVT7800 at the airport ready to ship to your country.  It will only take a few days to clear U.S. customs, as we have our man there on site, but the paperwork will still be a delaying factor.”

“Why can’t I just fly it out of here?”  Jasmine handed him the bottle of Bourbon.  He looked at it and said “no cork-screw?”

Jasmine reached into her apron pocket and produced the cork-screw, as the Crown Prince smiled widely.  “I’ll do the screwing!” he said as he took it from her and pinched her ass.  Jasmine quietly smiled and proceeded to refresh the wine glasses on the table from the bottle she left earlier.

The old man spoke up, a bit perturbed at the arrogance and childlike attitude of the Crown Prince.  “As we told you, we haven’t perfected the cloaking device.  We can’t let congress know, lest they try to leash us.  Then that causes more problems with the whole plan.  We don’t want a war so big that we can’t manage it.  Patience my friend, patience.  Good things come to those who wait.”

“Those who wait too long get old” the crown prince said to the old man in defiance.  He pulled the cork and turned the bottle up like a bohemian.

The old man’s one good eye winced almost imperceptibly, and he turned his attention to another at the table.  “What about the new subjects?  How is the plan coming along for collecting, sorting, and choosing them?”

“Guantanamo was a brilliant concept.  The C.I.A.’s own central division is setting up our facilities for us.  We have them so spun!  Jackson is such a fool over there.  He thinks it’s for contagion control.  We estimate 10 to 20 new qualified subjects per month, once mass deportations begin in full force.”

“Good.  That is in line with our production times.  The GVT7800 will go into full production next month.  The first few models will be used to transfer the qualified subjects.  We can launch them from subs in the Atlantic beyond land-based radar.  Another benefit of Guantanamo.”

Jasmine finished serving the wine and quietly, unnoticed, she slipped out the door.  “W.T.F.!?!?” she thought.  She didn’t even notice that she rode the elevator down to the kitchen level.  She got out.  She was heading though the empty, full sized commercial kitchen, full of pots and pans hanging from racks above, butcher knives and big serving forks stuck to magnetic holders on walls, walking toward the break room where her stuff was.

“Jasmine?” she heard a voice call out she did not recognize.  Seemingly out of nowhere approached a man from behind wearing a black suit and black sunglasses.  He looked like one of the old "Blues Brothers" her father had loved to watch on T.V. when she was a kid.  Her ghetto instincts took over.  She spun around to find him only 7 feet away, approaching quickly.  She couldn’t see his hands, but he raised an arm as he came within reach.  She instantly stepped forward and to the side and turned, grabbing his arm, sliding her hand down to his wrist to firmly grip the back of his hand, and spun around even more, using his momentum to spin him around her, pulling him off balance in a surprise he was not ready for.  Abruptly she stopped and twisted his arm and wrist as her Aikido sensei had taught her back when she was only 12.  An Aikido Master, 5-foot tall and 100 pounds, can repel 6 Judo Masters, 6-foot tall and 200 pounds each, in one move, and without ever hurting anyone, she was told by her father.  He made sure she was going to grow up in the ghetto unmolested, as his health had his days numbered.  And no man ever had, without her permission or acceptance.  Somehow, her new employer had overlooked her dojo training when they did a "complete" background history on her.

She put the man on the floor face down against his will within 2 seconds and a tazer-gun fell out of his captured hand, but one hand was still free.  He reached in his pocket, pulled out his smartphone, and swiped it with a thumb.  He was pushing a button that appeared on the screen as Jasmine broke her vows of peace, grabbed a fry-pan with a thick bottom, and smashed it edgewise across his temple.  He was out.  No.  He was gone.  A trickle of blood started dripping from an eye.

Panic began to overcome her.  Not only had she overheard an obviously top-secret conversation that she was not supposed to, she was now a murderer.  And the people on the other side?  Apparently some of the most powerful in the world.  Panic quickly became terror.  What about her daughter back home?  Her mother was gone when she was 3.  Her father when she was 14.  All other family was lost to her.  Her daughter was everything.  They would want to get to her daughter to get to her.

She heard voices and clamoring way down the in the hall outside the kitchen.  She had seen many different kitchens on that floor when her employer first escorted her in, some occupied and in service.  “Can’t go that way,” she thought as her reflexive mind took over.  She ran to the elevator door and closed herself inside.  Something in her said “confrontation on MY terms”, as ghetto life brought insight to her mind, and she pushed the button to return to the top-level meeting room.  There were only two buttons to choose.  A bunch of rich old men?  Better than fighting private security.  Or cops.  Or the C.I.A.

The door opened.  The room was empty.  Another door, previously unnoticed by her (or had it been designed to be hidden?), was open.  She ran to it to find a short hallway leading to a rooftop helipad.  A chopper was just leaving as she looked out the window and watched it disappear past the city-scape horizon.  The soundproofing amazed her, even in her state of panic.  No one was out there that she could see.  Cautiously she opened the first glass door, walked through the air-lock, and opened the second glass door and walked outside, over to the edge, and looked down - way down.

A rain gutter pipe was bolted to the wall.  She had climbed many trees at the park when she was young.  She got higher than any other girl, and all but one other boy.  And she loved the gym-bars there also.  Always hanging and swinging from them was her way of life as a kid.  But now she was 35.  And now she was well over 1000 feet in the air.

Her Cell Phone!  It was in her purse down on the kitchen level in the break-room.  She needed that phone to call her daughter!  Confusion hit her hard.  Go back down the elevator, or go down the gutter-pipe?  That was all she could muster for choices in a moments notice.  The very distant sound of a helicopter pushed her out of stalemate and over the edge in decision; literally.  She started shimmying down the gutter, holding on with all her faith in her hands, till she reached a ledge that afforded her a foothold and an open window.  She peered inside to see a ladies restroom.  The window screen was missing, and a bucket of tools was just inside on the floor, but no one was there.  A helmet and vest were there also.

She hopped inside and put on the vest and helmet.  She removed her apron and tore it to pieces to make a mask.  Some people were still wearing the Corona-Virus masks.  Silly, she always thought; now, she was happy about it.  But what about that mini-skirt server’s outfit she was wearing?  Didn’t look like a construction worker’s attire.  "Wing it" an inner voice said, and she headed out of the restroom, bucket of tools in hand.

The hall was empty.  She could see the elevator at the end.  She almost ran to it.  Luck was in her favor that day.  The elevator was empty.  It had buttons for the ground floor, and the kitchen floor, unlike the service elevator from the kitchen to the meeting room.  Cell-phone or escape?  Some one else would have a phone.  She chose the "ground-level" button and waited.  It seemed like forever, as she prepared to be apprehended when the doors opened.  And they did.

She timidly peered out to see the skyscraper’s lobby; a few dozen random people walking in random directions.  No one noticed her.  She didn’t hesitate to walk quickly to the front door.  Nothing.  Nobody.  No problems.  She was going to make it.  Then she heard an unfamiliar voice yell “Jasmine” coming from the far side of the lobby behind her.  She ran.  She ran.  She ran.  It felt longer than forever.  She heard them coming from behind, so fast, but how much faster?  Her high-heels did not help … oh, why did she still have them on?  She reached the door and pulled it to open it, and as she did, it stopped half way and alarms started buzzing and blaring.  She put her toolbucket in the way of the door closing, as someone came up behind her.  She turned, but there was no room to practice Aikido.  She was not yet a master, and her training had been so long ago.  Somehow, something inside her made her pull off her helmet and in one smooth flowing movement smash it solidly into the face of the guy in the black suit and black sunglasses who was upon her.  Somehow, he did not expect this even with all his training.  He landed on the ground, his nose pushed in so far the cartilage impacted his brain.  He didn’t get up.

She slipped out the door, which was trying to close automatically, mechanically, except for the toolbucket in the way.  She kicked it, loosing a shoe as she left, and the door closed behind her.  Another man in a black suit started banging on the door.  He fired his gun at it twice, but the glass barely chipped.  He screamed across the lobby, screamed into his cellphone, but the doors remained closed and locked for a full 30 seconds, long enough for her to hop in a cab waiting with an open door at the curb.

The cabbie was wearing a turban; he turned around and looked at her in surprise.  “GO!” she screamed as she reached in her bra and pulled out 20 $500 bills.  She put one in his lap.  He was from Palestine.  He didn’t need priming.  The cab was already running; it sped the fuck out of there a full 10 seconds before the skyscraper lobby doors were unlocked.  She was gone.  And she was no fool.  At the next stoplight a half-mile down the road she hopped out in traffic, told the driver to “keep running”, and got in another cab that was already occupied.  She whipped out another $500 bill and handed it to the couple in the cab.  “Take my cab” she said.  The lights were already changing yellow for traffic in the cross road.  “Now!” she screamed with such authority; they did not argue.

The lights turned green and she rode off in another cab of another color, free.  The couple she evicted from her new cab were only half surprised to be surrounded by a dozen guys wearing black suits and black sunglasses riding small motorcycles, one on an even smaller e-scooter, guns pointed through their cab windows at their heads.  The cabbie stopped driving in the middle of the street in traffic, held up his newly acquired $500 bill with two hands, stretching it out to be seen, showing it to the gunman.  “Take it!” he yelled out the window with a thick accent.  The gunman circled their bikes once, and sped away, splitting up in different directions.  The cabbie clutched his $500 bill and muttered, again with a thick accent, “too many times in one life!”  The couple in the back seat were holding each-other in a tight embrace, heads and faces tucked into each other’s shoulders; they lifted their heads and looked each other in the eye.  The guy opened his palm holding the brand new crisp but crinkled $500 bill, they both looked at it, sighed a sigh of relief, and looked back at each-others eyes.  “Well, here is the money we prayed for” he said, smiling cautiously.  Somehow they both knew they had saved a life in the process.