Dutch and Gina: The Power of Love (32 page)

“Yes, I get your meaning.
 
I get that you three men, one of whom is my friend, two of whom are among the highest ranking members of the U.S. government, met in the beautiful Virgin Islands and concocted a scheme to rape my wife.”

Shelly’s heart dropped.
 
“Oh, no, Dutch, that wasn’t what we met about.
 
That wasn’t it at all.
 
That was just Robert talking about this magic drug.
 
Nobody believed him.
 
I certainly didn’t.”

“But that was the plan, right?” Crader asked. “To rape the First Lady?”

“No.
 
It was all about embarrassing the president so that he could step down.”

“I see.
 
So you and the Speaker met with Robert Rand in a scheme to unseat the president?
 
You three men were planning a coup to overthrow the federal government.”

Shelly stood in horror.
 
“No!” he screamed at Crader.
 
“Absolutely not!
 
A coup?
 
Are
 
you joking?
 
A coup?
 
Seriously?
 
I would never---”

“That’s all, Shelly,” Dutch said as calm as Shelly was hysterical.

Shelly looked from Crader to Dutch.
 
“Ah. . . eh. . . Sir?”

“That’s all.
 
You may leave.”

Shelly, and everybody in the room, was stunned.
 
“I can leave?
 
I can just leave?”

“Yes.
 
You can leave.”

“But. . . Don’t you want to know, I mean, don’t you want more information?”

“No, thank-you,” Dutch said with a smile that was so tight it almost came off as a grimace.
 
“That’ll be all.”
 
This time Dutch said it with finality, which Shelly knew meant that he had better quit while he was ahead.

“Yes, sir,” Shelly said.
 
He glanced once again at Primrose, whom he viewed as an ally, glared once again at Crader, whom he knew was his enemy, and left.

The tension in the room quickly deflated as soon as he left.

“So that was it,” Crader said.
 
“Some date rape drug!”

“I can get tested,” Gina said, relief all over her face.
 
“That drug is still probably in my system.
 
I can get tested, Dutch.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dutch said, leaned forward in his chair.

Gina looked at him.
 
“It won’t be necessary?
 
What do you mean?
 
I can get tested, they can find the drug in my system, which can be scientific evidence of what Shelly was saying,
 
And Prim can have all three of them arrested.”

“Right,” Prim agreed.

“I don’t need to know anything about any date rape drug,” Dutch snapped.
 
“I’d already worked that part out.”

“You had?” Crader asked, surprised.
 
“And how did you figure that so easily?”
  

“I began with the fact of the matter.
 
Gina doesn’t fuck any man but me.
 
That’s a fact.”
 

This blunt but very personal admission took Primrose by surprise.
 
She walked over to the window, looked out.
 

“And her face,” Dutch continued.

“What about my face?” Gina asked.

“Your eyes were always closed.”

Crader smiled.
 
“Hate to be the bearer of common knowledge, Dutch, but most people close their eyes when they’re having sex.”

“Gina does too.
 
But not when she’s doing me.”

Gina immediately grabbed the envelope that was on Dutch’s desk, found the photographs that showed her hand on Robert’s penis.
 
And Dutch was right.
 
Her eyes were closed every time.

Gina looked at her husband.
 
“You’re right,” she said.

Primrose walked back over to the president.
 
“So what’s the game plan, sir?” she asked.
 

“Business as usual,” Dutch said.

Primrose stared at him.
 
“You don’t want an arrest, sir?”

“No,” Dutch said.
 

“You mean not now,” Crader said.

“I mean no,” Dutch said.
 
He looked at Primrose.
 
“Go back and attend to the affairs of my Justice Department. I’ll take care of this.”

Primrose respected Dutch Harber above most men she knew, but she also knew there was another side to him.
 
A more aggressive, almost vigilante side.
 
She’d heard all of the rumors about what he did to Henry Osgood, his daughter’s former boyfriend, and what he ordered to have done to the man who assaulted his wife before they were married.
 
She’d heard a lot of rumors about him.
 
But she’d heard them going in, before she agreed to become his new attorney general.
 
It would be malfeasance, she felt, if she started complaining about his tactics now.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and went on about her business.

When she left, Crader shook his head.
 
“The men who would be king.
 
That’s what their whole scheme is about.
 
Power.”

“That’s what it’s always about,” Dutch said.

“Or money.”

“No.
 
Never about money.
 
Money helps get power.
 
In the end, it’s always about power.
 
Power corrupts.
 
And absolute power, the kind Robert is after, corrupts absolutely.”

“So what’s the game plan?” Gina asked Dutch.

He looked at his wife.
 
The idea of her lying unconscious and naked in that snake’s bed, with him doing whatever he wanted to do with her unconscious body, had him reeling with rage.
 
He, in truth, wanted to tear Robert Rand apart with his bare hands.
 
But he knew he had to keep it together.
 
Exploding now would help nothing.
 

“For you, it’s going back to your sewing circle ladies, who have been waiting patiently for your return, and continuing on with your busy schedule.”

“And what’s the game plan for you?” Gina asked him.

Dutch leaned back, an expression on his face she did not recognize.
 
“The game itself,” he replied.

FOURTEEN

The front door to the luxury apartment opened quietly and the man known around Washington as the Cameraman slipped in.
 
He walked slowly, but deliberately through the apartment, his expensive camera in his hands.
 
All was quiet initially.
 
Not a sound could be heard.
 
But as he continued walking toward the back of the residence, everything changed.
 
The sound was at first muffled, but then as clear as crystal.
 
The sound of the bed squeaking, the groans and the moans.
 
The sound, the Cameraman knew so well, of sex.

He stood outside the bedroom door, prepared his camera’s flashbulb, and waited a second to compose himself.
 
This was a piece of cake for him, he’d done it a thousand times before.
 
But never, not ever, at this level.

The element of surprise had to be there.
 
He didn’t want his subjects to simply cover up in bed, hiding their faces from the glare of his clicks.
 
He needed them to initially think that they were under attack, which would provoke them to jump out of bed rather than hunker down, and then he would get his best pictures.
 
He always did.
 
And he had to, absolutely had to get the best pictures now.

He banged once, loudly, and then slung the door open.
 
And there he was, Jed Brightman, the Speaker of the House of Representatives and the number two man in the line of presidential succession, naked and on top of a girl, banging her.
 
As soon as the door flew open, Brightman did as all those other men in his position often did and jumped from the bed, his nakedness exactly what the photographer ordered.
 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Brightman asked as the camera clicked and clicked and clicked.
 
The young girl, who sat up astounded, pulling the covers around her bare chest, was photographed initially, when Brightman was on top of her, when Brightman jumped off of her, exposing her, but only just then.
 

This was all about Jed.

“What are you doing?” the speaker yelled.
 
“Where’s security?
 
Get the hell out of my home!”
 

“Just a minute, please,” the Cameraman said as if he was simply doing his job, the clicking continuing.
 
He already had a couple dozen photos and counting.
 

“I’ll give you a minute all right,” the speaker said, flustered, and picked up the telephone that sat on his nightstand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a very familiar voice said and Brightman, astonished, turned to the sound.

“Dutch?” he said, quickly hanging back up the phone.
 
His face filled with alarm, concern, and, ultimately, anguish.
 
“What’s going on here?”

Dutch wore a baseball cap, jeans and a jersey.
 
He looked, for all practical purposes, like a well-built, albeit gorgeously appointed, everyman.
 

“Hello, Jed,” he said as he entered.
 
“Put on a robe.
 
You’re showing far more than I care to see.”

It was only then did Brightman look down, see that he was completely naked, his penis, in fact, still wet.
 
He grabbed his pants that had been discarded on the floor, and slipped them on.

“What is this about?”

The Cameraman stopped clicking when the president walked in.
 
The young girl, like Jed, immediately recognized who had walked in.
 
Dutch smiled at her.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“You’re. . . you’re the president,” the young lady said.

“This is a friend of mine,” Dutch said, motioning to the Cameraman.
 
“I need you to go with him.”

The young lady, who was undoubtedly a young prostitute since Brightman favored those kind the most, got out of bed, unashamed of her nakedness, and followed the Cameraman out of the room.
 
Dutch, however, stopped her.

“Come here,” he said.
 
He grabbed Brightman’s dress shirt that had been tossed on the floor, and put it around her.
 
“Where are your clothes?” he asked.

“In the living room,” she said.
 
“We started in there.”

The mere idea of it disgusted Dutch.
 
“Put them on,” he said to her.

She grinned, undoubtedly because the president had placed a shirt on her, and then followed the Cameraman out of the room.