Turner’s voice trembled, and he replied, barely above whisper: “Perhaps a Goddess?”
“A Goddess? Are you gaslighting me? I do the gaslighting around here Turner,” Bass stood, sloshing his shot glass and spilling a bit of his precious Macallan whiskey on the carpet. “Now look what you made me do! That’s a least $500 dollars’ worth of whiskey, and I’m going to take it out of your hide…”
Turner grabbed a napkin and started wiping the carpet clean.
“There is no Goddess, Turner, unless my evangelical friends are turning against me—which I doubt. There is no one higher than me. The buck doesn’t stop here…I am the buck. I control the currency, and I control reality. I can make your reality whatever I want it. I can spin you like a top, chew you up and spit you out…”
“Yes sir,” Turner stammered, remembering how his former bosses and other military leaders had already been marched out of the White House, humiliated.
“If you control the money, you control reality. Remember that Turner. Now what is this nonsense about a Goddess?”
“Goddess is our code-name sir,” Turner continued, “We thought it was appropriate because we’ve never seen anything like her…we caught her on CCTV and she defies explanation.” Turner rose, opened his portfolio and quickly threw some still 8×10 glossies on the table, being careful not to spill anymore Macalan.
Bass’ eyes popped. The woman in the photo was beautiful beyond his wildest imagination. Angelia Jolie came to mind, but this woman was better, designed to perfection. Her image literally shone like a beacon off the dull paper.
“Goddess is a good code name,” Bass cooed, inexplicably calmer.
“The odds of an unknown woman hitting 100% on the beauty ratio are off the chart. Non-existent. Ten to the power of a million. It doesn’t happen.”
Both men sat. Bass gently reached across the table and filled a shot glass with Macallan, offering it to Turner. “Who is she?”
Turner gladly accepted. “We ran her through all our databases, the overt, the covert, the black op databases—all of them—and the only thing we got a hit on was that this woman—this single woman—was 100% accurate to the Greek Golden Ratio of Beauty PHI—the measure of physical perfection.”
“Whoa. I demand to meet this woman. Tell me who she is.” Bass was practically drooling.
“Uh, that’s the bad news.” Turner paused, once again imagining his career slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.
“Tell me,” Bass asked again. “I want to grab her by the pussy.”
Turner paused for exactly two beats: “She’s been scrubbed.”
“You mean, no hits on facial recognition?”
“You searched all the databases?”
Bass reached across the table and removed the shot glass from Turner’s hand. “As my Director of National Intelligence, you’re looking stupider by the minute Turner.”
“There is something different going on here,” Turner replied rapidly, relinquishing his shot glass. “We’ve caught glimpse of a woman representing the pre-eminent definition of beauty—so perfect it’s as if she weren’t human at all—and she’s associated with some escaped, mad scientists who are not only capable of making people behave like a flock of birds—they had enough expertise to kidnap or murder five NSA assassins without leaving a trace.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Bass retorted, returning the shot glass to Turner.
“Exactly,” he responded quickly, feeling assured he had not lost his job. “We’ll start exploring not only the possibilities—but the probabilities—no matter how outlandish.”