Alias: Mia Bianchi—Six Years Ago

Alias: Mia Bianchi—Six Years Ago

There are lots of people trying to be the brightest and best help to Andrew Marshall. Smoke blowing and ass kissing are the two main qualities every employee and volunteer possesses. I decide to take the opposite route. It’s risky for sure, but I don’t care how inflated your ego is, blunt honesty has more value than blind worship, and if Andrew’s smart enough to get this far, he knows it.

I’m currently embedded in Andrew Marshall’s political campaign as he makes his bid for governor of Tennessee. When I got my first set of instructions for this job, which listed my new identity as Mia Bianchi and the address of my new apartment in Knoxville, Tennessee, there was a handwritten note on the bottom of the page that said: You’re moving to the big leagues so don’t fuck this up.

Even though I’ve been working for Mr. Smith for a little over two years, I have never met him in person or talked to him on the phone since the Kingston job, so I’m guessing that added footnote was from Matt.

Everything goes through Matt.

The second set of instructions came a week after I settled in Knoxville. It listed Andrew Marshall as the mark and informed me that Mia Bianchi would start work on his campaign the next week. My hair, makeup, and clothing were to be flawless. I was to be the brightest person in the room. I was to make myself indispensable. There were seven days to do a deep dive into Andrew Marshall’s life and everyone associated with him, including his opponents, so I’d be ready for my first day on the job. Moving up is all I’ve wanted, so there was no way I wasn’t going to be prepared.

I’ve come a long way from that first job. I was reckless just like Mr. Smith said. It was messy. And luck had been on my side. Jenny was in a medically induced coma for a week. The hit on the head mixed with all the drinking and pills made for a bad combination. When she came to, she had no memory of the entire twenty-four hours before the fall. I was in the clear. Or rather, Izzy Williams was.

I have checked in on Miles a couple of times over the last two years. The Kingstons are divorced now, and it looks like Miles lives with Mr. Kingston and the latest Mrs. Kingston. The last time I stalked the new wife’s Facebook page there was a post she shared from an interior design company she’d hired to remove all traces of Jenny. The post showed interior shots of the newly renovated home, including one of Miles’s room. When I zoomed in on the bookshelf, I spotted an origami swan sitting on one of the shelves. I’ll never know if it’s the same one I made with him that day or if he’s learned to make them on his own, but seeing that swan displayed as if it holds some importance is proof that I existed there, even if only for a very short amount of time.

Maybe I’m not quite the ghost I thought I was.

The Andrew Marshall job is the first time I’ve had to settle in, because I was told in the beginning it would be a couple of months before I got any further instructions. It is also the first job that came with a thick packet of cash for expenses, like rent and utilities, and other incidentals needed to become Mia Bianchi. This next rung on the ladder is pretty sweet.

It’s taken me three months, but now Andrew Marshall turns to me for my reaction on anything from which tie to wear to whether he should attend a certain event. A nod or quick shake of my head is all it takes to blow someone else’s carefully made plans for him.

Andrew Marshall is the only one okay with this.

I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to see the target painted there. His staff has dug into my background, trying to find anything that will knock me from my throne, but they’ve come up empty.

I am Mia Bianchi. Even though I’m only twenty-two, new-hire paperwork shows I’m twenty-seven. The right clothes and makeup are key. I’m a graduate of Clemson University—Go Tigers!—and I excelled in my public policy classes and killed it on the debate team. I can’t even begin to understand how someone was able to add my image into a pic of a debate against UNC a few years ago. But there it was. Just grainy enough that if you were looking for me you’d find me, but not so clear as to draw questions from the students who were actually present.

After two years of working with Matt, I know he isn’t capable of what it would take to insert me so fully into this engineered life, and I grow more and more curious about the team behind Mr. Smith. I wonder how many people he has out there doing jobs like this.

But those are ponderings for another day.

The subject up for debate today for Andrew Marshall is the American Bar Association event at some fancy hotel in Hilton Head, South Carolina. It’s a weekend conference at which lawyers, including those like Andrew, who no longer practice but still keep their license up to date, will get continuing ed credits in between a morning round of golf and afternoon happy hour. It’s as much for rubbing elbows and networking as it is for thirty-minute crash courses, like the latest tech for small firms. And since my third set of instructions finally arrived and made it clear that Andrew most definitely should be there, that’s what I’m pushing.

But there is another opportunity for him, one that is better for his campaign, in Memphis at the same time. And given he’s running for governor in Tennessee and not in South Carolina, it’s an uphill battle.

Andrew’s wife, Marie, is weary of me. I have not given her a single reason to think I want her husband in any way, but women are funny. I don’t have to give her a reason for her to still expect it.

The surprising thing about Andrew Marshall is that he’s a good man. I have searched through every file and personal record I can get my hands on. And since he doesn’t suspect a thing from me, I’ve had access to all of it. There’s not a hint of stealing or skimming money, no back-door deals, no promises he wouldn’t admit to publicly, he’s as in love with his wife now as the day he met her, and he’s good to his employees. Even his pets are rescue dogs.

All my past jobs centered around me getting something Mr. Smith wanted or needed—whether it was computer files or documents or any other piece of physical goods or property. But this job was different from the beginning.

Now I know why I’m here. Andrew Marshall will be the next governor of Tennessee and Mr. Smith wants to own him on day one.

Since there was no blackmail to be found, I will have to create it.

His chief of staff has just finished laying out all the very good reasons to pick Memphis over Hilton Head. My very good reasons for picking the convention have already been laid out. The Hilton Head choice is a regional event, not just for South Carolina, and there will be some pretty big hitters attending, since the keynote speaker has just announced he’s running for president, so media coverage will be on the national level. The networking and potential for new campaign donors is greater. And with social media transforming the landscape of politics the way it has, to become the governor of Tennessee you need to think bigger than Tennessee.

The room is quiet as everyone present waits for Andrew to either accept or reject the invitation to the Memphis event.

Andrew knows my choice. He looks at me and I’ve got a few seconds to decide if I’m going to help ruin a perfectly good man.

A quick shake of my head seals his fate.

---

Andrew believed I left for Hilton Head a day ahead of him and the rest of the team to get everything set up so we could make the most out of his time there. But that wasn’t the reason I headed east a day early, and Georgia was my destination, not South Carolina. On Friday morning I’m in Savannah, an hour south of Hilton Head, waiting for the first ride of the day on the Hop on-Hop off Old Town Trolley.

When it’s time to board, I go straight to the back, taking the aisle seat on the last row on the driver’s side, hoping no one asks to squeeze past me for the window seat.

The tour company is efficient enough that we are loaded and on the move within a few minutes. An enthusiastic older man is on the mic, his booming voice so loud that not only the occupants of the bus but everyone on the street we pass gets schooled on all things Savannah.

By the time we finish the first loop, I’m the only passenger left from the group I started with, since the others disembarked at different stops along the route.

On the second stop of my third pass, a tall, thin Black man boards the bus and ambles down the center aisle, stopping in front of me.

He’s wearing an Atlanta Braves tee and hat and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. “Is that seat taken?” he asks, pointing to the window seat I’ve been guarding.

I pull my legs in tight and gesture for him to help himself.

He scoots in past me, sits down, and sets his backpack in his lap.

“Devon, I presume,” I say. “I appreciate all the cloak-and-dagger but I have a lot to do and wasting two hours riding in a circle wasn’t in my plans.”

He nods toward the speaker set in the ceiling of the trolley, and I notice for the first time the tiny little red light hiding behind the mesh material. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they act when they are left waiting too long.”

I focus my attention back on him. “I guess I passed.”

His smirk appears for just a second then it’s gone. “With flying colors, Mrs. Smith.”

It was probably dumb but I couldn’t resist using the same fake name my boss does. I found Devon on the internet a year ago when I was looking for some tech I couldn’t get on my own that I needed for a job. This is the first time we’re meeting in person, which is why he made me jump through hoops before showing his face.

I appreciate the level of paranoia though.

“What is it you require, Mrs. Smith?”

This is where it gets a little tricky. “I’m not exactly sure yet. I have a job in Hilton Head but won’t get full instructions until I get there and therefore won’t know my needs. Once I do, I’ll need it quick, so I’m asking that you be on hand to offer goods and support as needed.”

He looks out of the window and doesn’t speak. It’s a big ask, which is why I wanted to do it in person rather than our usual channels of online communication.

Since the night I was almost arrested at the country club, I’ve understood the value of having people in place to ensure someone will protect me if things go wrong. The help Mr. Smith sends will take care of me as long as it doesn’t hurt him, though. I need to have someone who’s looking out for me, and only me. It’s time I start building my own team.

Finally, Devon turns back to me. “What if you require something I can’t put my hands on at such short notice?”

“Then I’m hoping you can work the problem with me and offer another solution.”

He’s looking out the window again while the trolley stops to load and unload passengers.

“It sounds like you are expecting a problem,” he says.

I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. “I am. Call it a gut instinct. The job is being set up by someone who doesn’t understand the players as well as I do. I’m trying to get ahead of the moment when I’m presented with my instructions and determine the plan won’t work.”

“This is not how I normally do things,” he says.

“I understand. I will make it worth your time. Also, if you ever need help from me, I will be there.”

He gets what I’m asking for—a partnership. We’ve had a solid working relationship the last year; he knows I pay well and I know he delivers.

“We are in a trial phase, Mrs. Smith. The first hint of a problem and I’m gone.”

I nod as I pass him a slip of paper from my bag that includes all pertinent information for the weekend. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Just as the trolley stops, I ask one last question before I get off. “How did I pass with flying colors?”

“You sat here like you had all the time in the world when I knew that wasn’t the case. And that tells me everything I need to know.”

---

Andrew Marshall and the rest of the team have arrived in Hilton Head. Once I get Andrew settled in his suite, I check into my much smaller room, four floors below. I’ve just kicked off my shoes and unzipped my bag when there is a quick knock on the door.

A guy in the hotel’s uniform smiles at me when I open the door. I look down at the domed covered plate that’s sitting on the pushcart in front of him.

“Wrong room. I didn’t order room service,” I say, and go to close the door.

The guy pushes the cart toward the door just enough to keep it from closing. “Matt sends this with his compliments.” His voice is low and deep.

This stops me cold. I’ve never met anyone else who works for Matt. Doing a quick scan, this guy looks like he’s in his midthirties. His hair is short, streaked with gray around the temples, and he’s only a few inches taller than me. The name tag on his uniform says George. His face and body are plain enough to make him easily forgettable. But the way his eyes never leave me ensures I won’t.

I pull the door open farther and motion for him to come inside. He parks the cart in the center of the room then leaves without another word. Lifting the domed cover reveals a piece of carrot cake and an envelope similar to what I would typically find in the mailbox.

It’s unsettling that they know carrot cake is my favorite.

I take the cake and the envelope to the small table so I can dig in while I see what’s in store for the weekend.

But after reading his instructions, I’m sure the chances of this plan working are slim. It’s a weak plan. Super weak.

Just as I feared it would be.

Matt had bragged that he would be in charge on this job, which led me to believe Mr. Smith wanted to see what he was capable of. I guess I wasn’t the only one moving up. But after dealing with Matt for the last two years, I wasn’t confident he was ready to be let loose like this, so I reached out to Devon.

The next time there’s a knock on the door, I know what to expect. A bellhop, not the uniformed George, pushes a luggage cart into the room then unloads three large boxes. I tip him and off he goes. I get the monitors set up and hook up the laptop, logging into the site on the paper I received earlier. The screen fills with small blocks, showing every angle of Andrew’s room and balcony.

Matt somehow got Andrew’s wife, Marie, an invite to a very coveted event in Nashville to guarantee she won’t be around when a woman approaches Andrew during the cocktail reception tonight to entice him to take her to his room. And I’ll be here making sure it’s all captured on camera.

I’m almost offended by how dumb this plan is.

Because what Matt doesn’t understand is that, if given the opportunity, Andrew will not cheat on his wife. It doesn’t matter how many beautiful, scantily clad women throw themselves at him. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a room to himself. It doesn’t matter how many drinks get fed to him. He’s not a cheater.

Matt didn’t do his homework for this job and it shows.

But I can’t come out of this weekend empty-handed. It’s clear I’m playing a bigger game now with a lot more at stake. I’m past petty theft.

Relief that I brought Devon on board is the only thing that keeps me from panicking. I make the call, and within half an hour, we have a new plan. A better plan.

While Devon scrambles to get what we need, I pick up my cell phone to call Andrew. He answers on the second ring.

“Hey!” he says. “All settled in?”

Andrew’s room is one of the largest suites this hotel offers. There is a huge sitting area and dining room in addition to the bedroom. And there’s a camera covering every inch, allowing me to watch as he paces the room, his phone to his ear.

“Yes. All settled. How about you?”

He drops down in one of the large chairs near the window. “Yes. All good here. Looking forward to a little downtime since I don’t really need to be at the conference until tomorrow morning. I think I’ll skip the cocktail thing tonight and just see everyone at breakfast. Plenty of time to rub elbows at the conference and the dinner tomorrow night. I’ll just get some room service then hopefully a good night’s sleep.”

And that’s Andrew Marshall. Squeaky clean and a tad dull.

“You know I’m supposed to fill every minute you’re here with things that will help your campaign,” I say, laughing into the phone. “Especially since we pissed everyone off by coming here rather than Memphis.”

I see him hang his head low. “Mia, I need one night off.”

Guilt bubbles to the surface until I remember the Kingston job. This is not my world. I’m just a ghost passing through. It’s enough that I’m able to shove those feelings way down deep and press forward. “How about this—I’ve looked at the list of attendees and there are some big hitters here. Why don’t I pick a handful for a private cocktail hour in your suite? Very low-key. Mingle with them for an hour then I’ll clear the room and let you have the rest of the night to yourself.”

Now his head is lying against the back of the chair, his hand rubbing his face. “One hour.”

“Got it! I’ll have room service send up a bar setup and some food.” I disconnect the call and put the rest of my plan into place.

Every man I invited to Andrew’s private cocktail party jumped at the invitation. I was very particular with my list, choosing men from all over the South, since this was a regional conference and not just one for South Carolina. And since all my jobs from the last two years have taken place in the South, I’m up to date on the political climate in each state, including the good and bad on every big name here.

Like Andrew, there are a handful of lawyers attending who also hold a range of elected positions, from local government office to the Senate. But I only invited the bad boys looking to play. The same ones who will quote the Bible along with their great love of family, faith, and God at their next rally.

Might as well make the most of this for him politically while I’m at it.

Andrew works the room with one eye on his watch as he counts down the minutes until this is over. The booze is flowing freely, thanks to the girls I brought in to serve it. I hand Andrew a beer and he nods his thanks. He rarely drinks, but when he does, it’s always a Miller Lite. Just one.

He sips his beer then says quietly, “Not sure I would have invited Senator Nelson or Congressman Burke.”

I’m not surprised by his comment. Both are self-serving pricks, but then so are all the men I’ve invited here tonight. “I know, but this is part of playing the game. Like it or not, these are the guys who have the most pull.”

I nod to one of the girls and the music becomes a little louder. Ties are being loosened. Hands start to stray.

Andrew senses the change in the party, and he looks at me in confusion. He’s also sweating a little. His eyes glazing over.

He leans in close. “Maybe we should call it a night. I’m not feeling good.”

I give him a sympathetic look. “You don’t look good. Let’s get you some air.” I lead him to the balcony, then help him onto the lounge chair. By the time his head hits the headrest, he’s out. The beer in his hand falls to the floor, the spiked liquid spreading across the tile.

“Sorry, Andrew,” I whisper, then head back into the party. It’s time for the girls to make their move.