The French ambassador’s residence in Accra, Ghana, was a beautiful white colonial building in the center of a leafy walled-off parklike landscape, sandwiched between the U.S. and French embassies in Accra’s Cantonments district.
The French embassy grounds were arguably even more secure than the American embassy next door, since the State Department had decided that the U.S. embassy property would not have razor wire rimming the top of its encircling fence. It was a bad look for America, or so they’d decided back in Foggy Bottom. The French, however, had no such qualms. Though the French residence and embassy were beautiful and as ornate as anything anywhere in the huge metropolis of Accra, from the outside it looked like a third-world maximum-security prison.
Yet even though the building was surrounded by an unwelcoming fence, the resplendent residence inside was known for its lavish but tasteful parties.
Tonight’s reception for the chief diplomat of the European Union had been in the planning stages for months, and the planners were well versed in throwing summertime soirees, so well versed that they knew to account for the fact that this event would fall during the rainy season. Plan A had been to host the ninety or so guests out by the pool, under the trees and stars, but the evening was muggy and misty with the promise of rain that could come at any time, so the party had been efficiently moved inside, into the vestibule, the living room, and a long, wide gallery in the seventy-year-old two-story structure.
The French had entertained over one hundred guests at a time in this space in the past, so they knew tonight’s event would fit nicely indoors.
The French ambassador had insisted on hosting the EU diplomatic contingent when they came to town. They’d invited local government officials as well as the Americans, and they’d pulled out all the stops. High-quality champagne from Épernay, exquisite Sancerre from the Loire Valley, pinot noir from choice vineyards in Bordeaux. The food was Ghanaian-infused French hors d’oeuvres crafted by local chefs in partnership with the full-time chef here at the embassy. Even the music was from a well-known Ghanaian DJ who kept the tunes pumping in the background as the residence began filling with partygoers at seven p.m.
Nichole Duffy had come alone, but she had no problem working the room, ambling from conversation to conversation with other FSOs and French diplomats while the party got started. She wore a dark burgundy gown, her hair up and her heels high yet manageable. Tomorrow she would fly up north with the delegation, and dress would be casual for the travel. Tonight, on the other hand, was one of only a few opportunities for her to wear one of the three nice dresses she owned, all bought around Washington, D.C., after receiving last-minute work-related invites to posh parties there since joining the Foreign Service.
She nursed a glass of white wine, telling herself she had to stay sharp because tonight was work as well as play, but even as she chatted with French diplomatic counterparts and Ghanaian officials, her eyes continued flitting towards the vestibule and the front door, because she eagerly anticipated her husband’s appearance with the U.S. ambassador, who had yet to arrive.
Just then the door opened and Jay Costa, the regional security officer, stepped into the room just ahead of Jennifer Dunnigan, the U.S. ambassador to Ghana. Jay would be in charge of the ambo’s security tonight, Nichole knew, and her husband and one other special agent would be here to support him.
Jennifer Dunnigan was a fifty-five-year-old career diplomat who’d most recently served as the deputy chief of mission in Peru. African American and tall at five foot nine, she had bright eyes and an easy smile. She was known here in Ghana as being a good listener and a tireless supporter of good relations between the United States and the West African nation.
Next to Dunnigan was Manfred House, Nichole’s boss as the State Department’s political chief of the embassy, and standing next to him was Chad Larsen, the assistant regional security officer and Josh’s slightly younger coworker.
The other ARSO, the new guy here at Accra station, trailed behind the small entourage, and Nichole smiled a little as she saw her husband in his dark suit, the coat open so he could access his firearm, if necessary, and his brown eyes flashing left and right, just like the other two security men.
Nichole couldn’t deny it. It was kind of a turn-on to watch Josh work. It wasn’t something she’d ever experienced when he was a civilian contractor, except for about ten minutes the first time they met, and she’d never been around the few times he’d done protection work in D.C. with Diplomatic Security.
The only time she’d really ever seen him doing any kind of work at all was in that year or so he was employed as a security officer at Tysons Galleria, after his leg injury and before he’d taken the contracting job in Mexico that nearly killed him but ultimately turned his life around. She’d meet him at the mall for lunch some days, and they’d sit on a bench in the parking lot or somewhere in the food court and eat sandwiches brought from home, but at the time Josh had been so utterly depressed about his injury and his financial situation that those lunches had hardly been occasions to remember.
But tonight, Josh was fully in his element. Nichole Duffy had had this week on her calendar for months for several reasons, but one of the main ones was she knew she was going to get to see Josh on the job, doing the work he loved.
As the American ambassador began shaking hands with a contingent of French embassy officials in the vestibule, Nichole moved next to a statue in the gallery and looked on, her glass in hand. Josh stood thirty feet away from her, his hands clasped in front of him as he scanned around the area, and in no time at all his eyes locked on hers.
She gave him an exaggerated wink, like a drunk girl in a bar making an awkward pass, and he smiled sheepishly and looked away, rolling his eyes.
Nichole loved embarrassing him, almost as much as he loved embarrassing her, but right now she had him at a disadvantage and she knew it.
Soon Dunnigan stepped deeper into the residence, her three-person security team remaining vigilant but not overly so, as the real security work wouldn’t start till the next day.
Soon enough, the ambassador entered the galley, took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing server, and entered into conversation with the French ambassador, a sixty-two-year-old with bushy gray hair, a wide smile, and a booming laugh.
Nichole accepted a cheese canapé offered by a server and popped it into her mouth, then grabbed a second when the man turned and began heading in the other direction. The ambassador was just a few feet away now, so close that Josh positioned himself against the gallery wall, just next to his wife.
“How’s it going?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine.
“It’s going,” he replied, still watching over the room. “You look amazing.”
“You’re not supposed to have your eyes on me,” she joked.
“Why not? Everyone else does.”
“ ’Cause you’re working, Special Agent.” She smiled, fighting the urge to grab her husband and drag him into a coatroom.
The ambassador told a story to her French counterpart, and a few feet away Josh spoke softly to Nichole. “How’s the wine?”
“It’s outstanding, sorry to say.”
Josh wouldn’t be drinking tonight, Nichole knew.
The ambo finished her conversation with the French ambassador and then noticed Nichole standing there. She stepped closer; both women complimented each other on their dresses, and then Jennifer Dunnigan said, “I’m sorry your husband had to work tonight. I don’t think there’s a safer place on the continent right now than the French embassy in Ghana, but the protection order is over my head.”
Nichole tipped her wine to the ambo. “No problem at all. It’s funny to see him all serious and in detail mode. He’s not quite so stiff at home. All those years as a contractor’s wife, I definitely never saw him at work.”
To this Josh said, “First time I met you, I was working.”
Nichole smiled. “Okay, that’s true.”
“Where are the kids? With the nanny?”
“Yes, Portia has both of them and Chad Larsen’s son, so she’s got her hands full tonight. They’re having a pizza party at our house, and I told her I’d be home no later than nine.” Nichole looked down to the Apple Watch on her wrist. “I’ll duck out of here shortly before, unless you need me for anything.”
Dunnigan shook her head. “I’ll need you over in Takoradi, in Kumasi, up in Tamale, and in Akosombo, but tonight, consider yourself off the clock. Have a little fun.”
The ambo was greeted by a Ghanaian official, directing her attention away for a moment, and Nichole grabbed a small skewer of grilled shrimp from a passing tray and took a bite while Josh stood next to her, keeping his eyes on the ambo.
Nichole gave a soft moan, luxuriating in the flavor of the hors d’oeuvre. She said, “Oh my God, have you tried the shrimp?”
She was teasing him, and he just sighed.
“I’m sorry, babe,” she said after another bite. “I’ll drop a few into my purse for you for later.” She stood next to him, looking out at the room. “Seems like a well-behaved bunch.”
“Except for the lady who won’t leave me alone to do my job.” Then he shrugged. “She’s hot, though. I’ll give her that.”
She said, “I don’t even know why you guys have to cover her inside the French embassy.”
His eyes remained on his ambassador. Costa was on the other side of her, and Larsen to his right, both doing the same.
Josh said, “We didn’t clear this guest list, the French did.”
“You don’t think anyone is going to try anything, do you?”
“Trust me, Nik. The minute you start thinking you’ve got nothing to worry about is exactly when you’ve got everything to worry about. I always assume we’re two seconds away from trouble.”
Of course she understood. She’d once been flying in her Apache in Syria, setting up a rocket attack on an enemy miles away, when, from out of nowhere, she’d been knocked out of the sky.
“Complacency kills,” she muttered.
“You get me, babe.”
The front door opened and a new security team entered; they looked especially switched on and intense, and soon he saw why. Behind them, Johanna Aldenburg, high representative of the European Union for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy, entered, wearing a cream-colored dress and designer eyeglasses.
Aldenburg took a glass of champagne, then made her way over to the French ambassador to Ghana.
“Think she’ll recognize you?” Nichole asked.
“No way. I never saw her again after that thing in Embassy Row. She sent us that nice letter and a fruit basket, though. Or one of her people did.”
Ambassador Dunnigan stepped up to Aldenburg and the French ambo, and they all spoke for several minutes, but finally the Dutch woman’s eyes flashed up to the security man standing along the wall next to the beautiful woman in burgundy, and Josh realized quickly that he’d been wrong, she did recognize him.
Aldenburg crossed the space quickly, a look of both surprise and pleasure on her face. “Mr. Duffy?”
“Very nice to see you again, ma’am.”
“This is quite the surprise. What are the chances I’d run into you here?”
“I’ve read about how much traveling you do, so I guess the chances were pretty good. I’ve only been here in Accra a couple of weeks. May I introduce my wife, Nichole?”
Aldenburg and Nichole shook hands.
“An honor to meet you,” Nichole said.
Josh said, “Nichole is a political officer.”
“A family affair. How nice.” Josh kept scanning the party while Aldenburg addressed his wife. “May I just tell you that your husband very well might have saved the life of my daughter. My own life, as well, as I was doing my best to get out there and help, and I’m not exactly much of a fighter.”
“That is who he is, ma’am. He saved me once, as well, as a matter of fact.”
The diplomat clearly took this as nothing more than a sweet metaphor, though Nichole had meant it quite literally.
“That’s wonderful. Will you be coming along on the mission tomorrow?”
“We both are,” Nichole confirmed.
“It should be a whirlwind.” She looked at Josh. “Here’s hoping it’s an easier outing than the last time you were on my detail. Of course, you’re on Ambassador Dunnigan’s detail now.”
Josh looked around at the EU security men, all standing close by. “Looks like you’ve got a solid crew.”
At this, she turned and motioned to a man close to her. He was in his thirties; his hair was dark and combed back, he wore a gray suit and a red tie, and Josh had already ID’d him as the agent in charge of her European Union security detail. “Julian Delisle, meet Joshua Duffy. I told you about what happened with Ria in Washington. Joshua was the one who fought his way in and fought his way back out with my daughter.”
While shaking Delisle’s hand, Josh said, “My memory is a little fuzzy, but I think I only fought my way most of the way out.”
All of them laughed at this; Aldenburg gave another handshake to Josh and to Nichole, and soon she turned and began speaking with Ambassador Dunnigan and the Ghanaian foreign minister.
Josh began following them as they strolled into the living room, and Nichole called out to him. “I’m going to make another pass at the food table. I saw an éclair with my name on it.”
“Can’t wait to hear all about it.”