Hair: Blonde, Eyes: Blue. Subject schedule fluid, frequently unverifiable. Communication link: Team commander only per subject request. On-person com links refused. He was meeting her at the airport for a debriefing.
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Hair: Blonde, Eyes: Blue. Subject schedule fluid, frequently unverifiable. Communication link: Team commander only per subject request.
On-person com links refused. He was meeting her at the airport for a debriefing. She read it carefully, her expression betraying nothing. For obvious reasons, the relationship had been kept under deep cover, although rumors had floated in the security community for years about the sexual leanings of Blair Powell.
Her job would be doubly hard if the subject refused to cooperate. She wondered briefly if her appointment as commander of the security detail assigned to Ms. She had been careful, but certainly not paranoid, about her personal life. Speculation was futile, and pointless. She usually interfaces with the police patrol division commander, Lieutenant Chuck Thayer, if Egret is travelling to some public function.
Both good people. Otherwise, we cover her internally. Everything he was telling her could have easily been relayed by anyone on the team. She was waiting for him to get to the point of this private meeting. He watched her watching him. Her rep was that she was a real straight arrow, by-the-book agent. She certainly looked the part. Beyond that scant information, she was a cipher. He met her gaze and made a decision. Privately, she does everything she can to make our job hell.
She refuses to discuss her schedule with anyone except the team commander. Then she changes plans without telling anyone. We almost never have time to adjust vehicle placement or equipment, so we have to shadow her on foot, which in New York City is a nightmare.
She absolutely refuses to wear a microphone or any other tracking device, even on direct instruction from the President. The first was a standard publicity picture, a close up of Blair Powell at the opening of the Reagan Library earlier that year.
As usual, she looked poised and confidant. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face, held with a silver clasp at the base of her neck. Her makeup was understated and flawless, serving only to accentuate the natural elegance of her sculpted face and clear, smooth skin.
Her designer dress highlighted her sleek form, complimenting both her athleticism and her subtle softness. She was, in a word, beautiful. The second photo was a candid taken when the subject was unaware. It was grainy, suggesting it had been taken from a unit with a telephoto lens.
The details, however, were clear. The woman in the photo wore tight faded jeans and a white cotton tank top.
Her breasts, firm and well-shaped, were clearly evident beneath the thin material and unencumbered by a brassiere. The clothes displayed her long legs, sleek torso, and toned limbs with brazen explicitness.
Her collar length blonde hair hung free around her face, mildly curly, looking as if she had simply run her hands through it in lieu of a comb. She exuded an energy that was palpable even in the poor photo.
She projected the sensuality of a jungle cat, and looked about as dangerous. She bore almost no resemblance to the contained, refined woman in the first shot. Cam handed him the photographs silently. It was his show. In that time, she can disappear in the crowd, walk into a restaurant unnoticed, get into a cab without a fuss. No one points a finger at her, or runs after her trying to get an autograph. He nodded agreement. Most of the time.
The problem is, we also need to protect her privacy, as well as her reputation. Blair Powell had no privacy. Any scandal regarding his daughter reflected on his parenting skills, and ultimately on his character.
Blowing out a breath, he cut to the chase. She knows it, and she uses it. She picks up women - women we have absolutely no way of identifying in the moment. We have no way to know where they might go, no way to put agents in place in advance. I wish to hell she did. Then maybe we could keep track of her. Blair Powell had lived with constant surveillance since her father had been elected Vice President for two terms, and governor of New York before that. Now that he was a newly seated President, she had at least three more years of even closer monitoring.
She was a prisoner in all but name, and Cameron doubted anyone could tolerate that for long. The political pressure to hide her sexuality must make it even worse. If she had the luxury of empathizing with the First Daughter, she would have felt deeply for her predicament. He extended his hand with a disarming smile. The others are inside the command post.
Welcome to the Aerie. A small conference room enclosed by glass filled the far corner. As they approached the group of people seated within, Phillips consulted a printout in his hand. You are scheduled to meet with Egret at eleven in the penthouse. She says if she must discuss her plans, it will only be once, and with the team commander.
As she walked, she was making careful note of the banks of video monitors, multi-cassette recorders, computer simulators, and a large grid of New York City, digitally indexed and showing up-to-the minute placement of police vehicles.
It was the same array of equipment used to monitor the White House and surrounds, and with the same reason. The President was vulnerable through his family. To avoid the appearance of that vulnerability, the First Family needed to be shown living as normal a life as possible, not shuttled about by armed guards.
Hence, their protection needed to be provided at a distance, with as little visibility as possible. The semblance of freedom was a ruse they all conspired to perpetuate - everyone, apparently, except Blair Powell. She glanced at each face, making brief eye contact with everyone.
Everyone present took their responsibility seriously, for the sake of their future employment if for no other reason, and each had felt the frustration voiced earlier by the departing team commander.
That dissatisfaction was heightened by the fact that they disliked Blair Powell, although none of them would ever say so, even to each other. Over the six months since Andrew Powell had been President, the obstructive, uncooperative attitude of his daughter had subtly undermined the confidence of the operatives. As she watched an elderly woman unlock the gate that surrounded the park, she spoke, her back to the room, but her voice clearly audible. Powell resents our intrusion into her life; she resents our presence in every public and private moment of her day.
She undoubtedly resents our observation of her personal liaisons and romantic encounters. Powell does not welcome our presence is immaterial. Our job is to see that she is able to carry on her life with the maximum degree of security possible. She has decided to make this a game. We have to play, and we have to win. There are no rain outs.
Now she understood at least one of the reasons she had been given this assignment. She has made it clear she does not want us around. She is not going to invite us along. We will switch from protective surveillance methods to investigative tactics.
You have to function essentially undercover. Ivy league starched, polished and presentable. About as obvious as the proverbial bulls in the china shop.
Powell is acting in some official capacity, no suits, no ties, no skirts. Street clothes, preferably something appropriate for the type of locales she is known to frequent. It was time to stop circling the primary problem. I want a summary of every gay bar and restaurant in New York City. Hours of operation, type of clientele, traffic patterns in the area, etc.
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She had not left the apartment in three days. Blair was keenly aware of her absence. The air seemed electric when Cam was around. She looked toward the door with relief when she heard the knock.
Above All Honor by Radclyffe