Executive Privilege (4 page)

Dana felt light-headed and began to shake. Her flashbacks weren’t memories. They were more like a dream in which what you dreamt seemed real. Dana could smell the dank odor of mold on the basement walls and the foul water that pooled against them. Worse still, she could smell the sweat coming off the men who had held her captive.

Whenever the flashbacks occurred, Dana forced herself to take deep breaths. She did that now because she could not afford to be paralyzed by fear. The deep breathing distracted her long enough for the guard to disappear from view. Dana panicked as she scanned the forest. The man reappeared, closer now and definitely stalking her position. When he moved behind another tree, she inched away. The guard dashed toward the spot where she’d been sitting moments before and stopped, shocked that she was gone.

Dana ran, zigzagging through the underbrush to give the guard as difficult a target as possible. The guard raced toward the sounds Dana made in retreat. She knew he’d catch her soon or get close enough to take a shot, so she slid behind a tree, hoping that the guard’s heavy breathing would mask the fact that she wasn’t making any more noise. When the guard ran past her tree Dana smashed the flashlight across the back of his skull. He dropped to his knees and the gun discharged, spraying tree trunks and bushes. She wrenched it away and hurled it into the woods. The guard struggled to his knees, and she hit him again. He collapsed just as snapping branches, crackling leaves, and muted gasps from the base of the hill told Dana that the other guards had heard the shots and were speeding toward her.

Dana broke out of the trees and vaulted the fence. She’d guessed where her car was and she was only off by a few yards. She wrenched open the driver’s door, threw the camera and flashlight onto the passenger seat, and started the engine. As she peeled out of the side road she looked in the rearview mirror and saw the redheaded guard vault the fence. Dana floored the accelerator, and the souped-up engine did what it was built to do. She swerved back and forth, sending up clouds of dust in the hope that they would make it more difficult for the guard to get off a good shot, but he held his fire. When she looked in her rearview mirror again he was writing something in a notebook. If it was her license plate number she was screwed. She was miles from home. If an APB was broadcast there was a good chance she’d be stopped while driving or find the police waiting for her at her apartment.

Dana tapped into her GPS and took side streets until she reached a large housing development. When she was certain that no one was following her, she parked on a side street. She’d had some time to think and she made a decision. Dana dialed the mystery client and heard the familiar generic voice tell her to leave a message.

“This is me again,” she said after the beep. “I was just chased through the woods by a man with a gun. I had to slug him to get away. Being chased by armed men was not in the job description I was given. This definitely isn’t what I signed on for, so this is my last report.

“The subject looked pretty upset when she left. I’m guessing she’s headed back to her car in the mall and she’ll probably go home after that, so I don’t expect there’ll be much more to report today anyway. I’ll get the photos I took to your lawyer and he can give them to you.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I have no idea who you are so I can’t give you up. The attorney-client privilege should protect you, too, so you don’t have to worry about anyone discovering your identity. Your lawyer should be able to find someone else to carry on the surveillance.”

Dana couldn’t think of anything more to say so she ended the call. Then she sat in the car and tried to figure out a plan that wouldn’t involve her going to jail for assault and trespass, but she was too wound up to think straight. Dana closed her eyes and saw an image of the man Charlotte Walsh had met. Why did she feel she’d seen him before? He had to be someone important or he wouldn’t have had all those guards. Who was he? Was he someone famous? Had she seen him on TV?

Dana got an idea. She put away the cell phone Dale Perry had given her, turned on her own, and made a call to Andy Zipay.

“Zip, it’s Dana. Do you know someone who can run some license plates for me?”

“Is this for the Perry thing?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a cop who’ll do it for me, but I don’t like to use him too much.”

“It’s important.”

“Give me the numbers,” Zipay said.

Dana told him the license number of the Ford that had taken Walsh to the house, the number of the Lincoln sedan that was parked at the house, and she threw in Walsh’s license plate for good measure. Maybe Walsh’s car was registered in her parents’ name and she’d get a clue to why Walsh was so important. She knew she was done with the case but she was still curious to know what was going on.

“How soon do you need this?” Zipay asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Dana ended the call and thought about what she’d do next. It had been dark when she escaped and she’d stirred up all that dust. Maybe the redheaded guard hadn’t gotten her license plate number or maybe he’d written it down incorrectly. She’d find out soon enough, but she didn’t want to find out tonight. The natural choice for a place to sleep was Jake’s, since she was house-sitting anyway. Dana started the car and headed there, glad to be rid of Dale Perry’s assignment.

The light from dozens of crystal chandeliers illuminated the tuxedo-and-evening-gown-clad elite who filled the grand ballroom of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel in downtown Washington. Every inch of the huge ballroom was covered with circular tables draped with white tablecloths and decorated with elegant floral arrangements. For $1,000 a seat or $10,000 to sponsor a table, the contributors to Christopher Farrington’s campaign had been served a dinner of chicken or salmon, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. No one came to these fund-raisers for the food. Many of the attendees paid hard cash for rubber chicken because they expected the party to remember them fondly in the future. And if Farrington didn’t prevail, more than one of those in attendance had hedged his bet by contributing to Maureen Gaylord’s campaign chest, too.

Some of those in the crowd were ardent supporters of Christopher Farrington and were actually there to hear the president. They had been disappointed when it was announced that affairs of state had kept him from attending, but the mood changed quickly when the first lady began to speak. Claire Farrington had been funny and forceful, and the highlight of her speech had been her discussion of the president’s education policy, which she’d led into by voicing her concerns about America’s schools as a mother
and
a mother-to-be. Thunderous applause had greeted the announcement of her pregnancy and an equally raucous round of handclapping signaled the crowd’s approval when her speech ended.

“You knocked their socks off,” Charles Hawkins told Claire as he escorted her off the dais. Hawkins was six two, lean, and hard muscled and he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a buzz cut. He’d been an army Ranger before a knee injury suffered on a combat mission forced him to retire from the service. Except for a barely noticeable limp he still looked like he was on patrol in enemy territory. His hard eyes were always scanning the terrain for threats to the first family, and he was ready to strike at anyone who threatened Claire Farrington or her husband.

“You really think I did okay?” Claire asked.

“You had them eating out of your hand, and breaking the news that you’re going to be a mother again was a stroke of genius. That’s going to be the lead story in every newspaper in the country tomorrow.”

“I certainly hope so,” Claire said as her six-person Secret Service detail surrounded her and guided her through a corridor behind the kitchen. “Poor Maureen, she’s giving a major speech outlining her foreign policy at Georgetown, tonight. I bet it’ll be buried somewhere on page six.”

At the end of the back hall was the elevator that would take her to an elegantly appointed meeting room on the second floor of the hotel where she was scheduled to have her picture taken with a small group of major contributors. They had almost arrived at the elevator bank when Claire grimaced and her hand went to her stomach.

“Is anything wrong?” Hawkins asked, alarmed.

“I’d forgotten that morning sickness doesn’t just happen in the morning. Let’s make this quick, Chuck.”

“I’ll call off the photo op if you give me the word. Everyone will understand.”

“How many photos will I have to sit for?”

“I think there are twenty-five, but they’re all more interested in access to Chris than another photo for the mantel. We’ll promise them a private photo shoot at the White House.”

Claire put her hand on Hawkins’s forearm. “No, I’ll be okay. If it gets really bad I’ll tell you. I’ve got the suite so I can lie down if I get exhausted.”

“You’re certain you want to do this?”

“I’m fine,” she assured Hawkins. “Just move the line along and tell the photographer not to dawdle.”

“Ray,” she said, turning to Ray Cinnegar, the head of the Secret Service detail. “Can you take me to a restroom? I need a few minutes.”

“Sure thing. Maxine,” he called to the woman who was point leader for the detail and had checked out the route earlier. “Mrs. F. needs to make a restroom stop.”

“There’s one coming up at the next turn. I’ll scope it out.”

“Go.”

By the time Claire made the turn, Maxine was inside the restroom. Cinnegar kept the first lady outside until Maxine assured him that the restroom was secure. Claire sighed with relief.

When they arrived at the Theodore Roosevelt Meeting Room Hawkins ushered the first lady inside. The spacious room was furnished with original pieces that President Roosevelt had brought with him to the White House from Sagamore Hill, his family home. A line of men and women stood between the wall and a red velvet rope supported by brass stanchions. The line ended near the hotel’s most famous antique, a grandfather’s clock that had stood in a sitting room in the White House and graced the cover of the hotel’s brochure. The photographer was waiting in front of the clock, which rang nine times moments after the first lady entered.

Most of the men and women on the line were powerful attorneys, wealthy financiers, corporate executives and their spouses, but many of them looked like anxious children waiting to climb on Santa’s knee. Claire was amused. She’d experienced this phenomenon many times during her White House years—rich and powerful men and women reduced to gawking tourists at a celebrity sighting.

Several other people were milling around the room sipping champagne or eating the hors d’oeuvres that had been set out for the upscale crowd. One of the men had just stuffed a piece of caviar-smeared toast into his mouth. When he saw the first lady he wiped his hands on a napkin and swallowed quickly before walking over to her.

“Dale!” she said when she saw the lawyer.

“Just thought I’d give you a heads up,” Perry said. “The fifth guy in line is Herman Kava, an industrialist from Ohio and a client. Treat him nice.”

“Treat him nice” was code for a big contribution alert. Claire smiled.

“Thank you, Dale.”

“Glad to be of service. Hey, Chuck.”

Hawkins nodded before leading the first lady to her position in front of the clock.

Roughly forty minutes later, Claire thanked the last person in the line. As soon as an aide led the contributor out of the room she sagged with relief.

“How are you feeling?” Hawkins asked.

“Exhausted. Let me sit down.”

“Are you okay?” Dale Perry asked when Claire collapsed onto a chair.

“Oh, Dale, I thought you’d left.”

“I did, but I wanted to tell you the good news. Kava will be writing a check and he says Chris will be very pleased.”

“Good,” she answered as she rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

Hawkins was about to say something when his cell phone rang. He looked conflicted, but Perry waved him away.

“Take the call. I’ll look after Claire.”

Hawkins pressed the phone to his ear then he cursed. “There’s no reception in here. I have to go outside.”

“Its okay, Chuck,” Claire assured him. “Dale will get me upstairs.”

Hawkins hurried out and Claire struggled to her feet.

“What’s upstairs?” asked Ray Cinnegar.

“I had Chuck book a suite for me in case I got sick or exhausted.”

Cinnegar scowled. “This is the first I’ve heard about a suite.”

“I’m sorry. I did it at the last moment and I forgot to tell you.”

“You’re supposed to clear this type of thing with us so we can check it out in advance.”

“I know, Ray. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think I can let you go up. We don’t know who’s in the adjoining suite, we haven’t checked the room for explosives…”

“Chuck also booked the adjoining suite and no one expected me to stay at the hotel. Check out the suite but do it quickly. I’m really not feeling well.”

“You’re certain you don’t want to go back to the White House?” Cinnegar asked.

“I’m positive. I need to rest now.”

“Where is it?” Cinnegar asked. She told Cinnegar and he gave instructions to one of his men.

“Let me help you,” Dale Perry said as he offered her his arm. Claire headed for the door and the Secret Service detail closed around her. Cinnegar asked Claire if she was able to climb one flight of stairs. When she said she could, they walked up to the next floor. As soon as Cinnegar checked the hall the agent led them past the door to the suite across from the stairwell and around the corner to the suite the hotel had reserved for the first lady. Cinnegar had obtained a master key for the hotel the day before the fund-raiser and he opened the door. Two agents went into Claire’s suite to check it. Two more agents were about to check the adjoining suite when the door opened and Chuck Hawkins stepped out.

“Where’s the first lady?” Hawkins asked.

“Around the corner.”

Hawkins walked around the corner and found Claire and Dale Perry waiting for the agents to finish examining the suite.

“Claire, I have to go. Is that okay?”

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re certain?”

“Go,” Claire said just as the agents gave the okay for her to go inside.

Hawkins disappeared moments before the team that had swept the adjoining suite gave their okay.

The front door to Claire’s suite opened on a sitting room outfitted with a couch, an armoire that held a television, several armchairs, and a writing desk. Claire ignored this room and walked into the bedroom, which contained a king-size bed. She took off her shoes and jacket and sat down heavily on the bed.

“Dale, can you clear everyone out and make sure all of the lights are out. I want to crash. Tell Ray I’ll let him know when I’m ready to go back to the White House.”

“You got it. And congratulations on the baby.”

Claire smiled. “Thanks, Dale. Now get everyone out so I can sleep.”

“Sure thing,” Dale said before walking into the sitting room where Cinnegar and a female agent were waiting.

“Mrs. F wants everyone out so she can nap,” Claire heard Dale say as she stripped off her clothes. The front door closed a moment after she turned off the lights in the bedroom and closed the shades.