Executive Privilege (5 page)

As soon as Charlotte Walsh was in the backseat of the Ford she pressed against the door, wrapped her arms around her body, and started to cry. Her chest felt tight but she was hollow inside. He had never loved her. He’d just used her to spy for him then he’d used her like a whore. How could she have ever believed anything he’d said? In her dreams, he’d left his wife for her, but they were only pipe dreams, a ridiculous fantasy. She was ridiculous. She could see that now.

“Are you okay?” the driver asked.

She hadn’t realized she was crying loud enough for him to hear.

“I’m all right,” she managed to choke out as she ran a forearm across her eyes.

“Do you need some water? I’ve got a bottle up here.”

“No, that’s okay.”

Charlotte took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. She’d never seen it coming. She’d been so proud of herself for getting the records of Gaylord’s secret slush fund that she’d preened like a peacock when the president praised her. She’d suspected nothing when they’d made love; although, in retrospect, calling what they’d done lovemaking was a joke.

Charlotte had been stunned when Farrington told her that this was the last time they could be together because his wife was pregnant. He’d assured her that he loved her but asked her to understand that he couldn’t leave Claire, now that she was carrying his child. What rot! She felt like a fool. No, she was a fool, a child. How could she have possibly believed that someone that powerful would throw everything away for a schoolgirl? She was an idiot, a self-deluded idiot.

Charlotte thought back to Chicago. Chuck Hawkins had told her that the president had been impressed with her when they’d met in the D.C. campaign headquarters and he wanted her to fly to Chicago to talk about a special project. Only a fool would have bought that line—the president had spoken to her for less than a minute—but she’d believed what she wanted to believe.

Hawkins had explained the necessity of sneaking her in the employees’ entrance to the hotel. He’d said that her cover would be blown if anyone from Gaylord’s camp saw her. What a chump she’d been to believe his story. It was clear now that Hawkins had been acting as Farrington’s pimp, but she was so excited by the prospect of her important, secret mission that she wasn’t thinking straight.

The president had met with her alone in his suite. He’d asked her to tell him all about herself and he’d listened intently to her every word while refilling her glass with the liquor she didn’t want to drink but was embarrassed to reject. The heady thrill of being the confidante to a president as handsome as Christopher Farrington, her secret mission, and the alcohol had made it easy for him to seduce her. Hell, she wanted to be seduced. The seduction had been no challenge at all.

Charlotte took some deep breaths and they helped. So did the anger she was starting to feel. The Monica Lewinsky scandal flashed in her brain. It had almost destroyed Clinton. And there’d been Watergate before Lewinsky, a president covering up a burglary. What would happen to Mr. Family Values if the press learned that he’d slept with a teenage campaign volunteer to get her to steal secret documents from his opponent’s campaign headquarters?

There were no tears now, just a white-hot rage that sharpened Charlotte’s mind. She could ruin Farrington if she wanted to, but would it be worth it? Lewinsky had become a pariah, a laughingstock, and the subject of cheap jokes on late-night television. Did she want everyone in the world to know about her pathetic sex life? And there was the possibility of criminal charges. She had stolen campaign documents. That must be a crime. Once she went to the press the president would do everything in his power to discredit and destroy her.

The thought of going to prison and the notoriety she would receive sobered Walsh. Her life would be ruined if she told what she knew. Charlotte closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. She was wrung out emotionally, and she almost fell asleep, but the car braked for a stoplight and she opened her eyes. They were in the village they’d driven through a little while before turning onto the road to the farm.

Charlotte looked out the window at the darkened storefronts. The town looked so peaceful at night. She sighed. She was angry but maybe she shouldn’t be. She’d had an adventure. Someday she would tell someone close about the brief period when she’d been the mistress of the president of the United States. She smiled. It was her dirty little secret, and right now she bet Farrington was wondering if she would keep it. Her smile widened as she realized that Christopher Farrington had a hell of a lot more to worry about than she did.

She stopped smiling. What had she said when she was yelling at him? Had she made any threats? She was certain she had. Suddenly, she was fearful, then she shook her head. Clearly she was too emotional to think straight. She had to relax so she could decide what she should do. Probably nothing, she concluded bitterly. Farrington had used her but it would cost her too much to fight back. She tried to think of what had happened to her as being no worse than being dumped by any other guy. Sure it hurt for a while, but she’d get over it.

“We’re back,” the driver announced. Charlotte had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t realized that they had returned to the mall.

The driver turned in his seat and studied Walsh. He looked forty. His face was lean but there was gray in his hair and lines on his face. He seemed concerned.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she said, and she felt that she might be after a little while. It was never fun to be discarded, and she’d been so excited about being the confidante of a president, but she should have known that it wouldn’t last.

Charlotte got out and shut the back door. The driver waited until Charlotte was in her car before driving off.

Charlotte sat in the car and tried to pull herself together. It was late and she was exhausted. She would think more clearly in the morning, but she was certain she’d come to the same conclusion. She should put this behind her and get on with her life. The sex had been okay and she’d had her fifteen minutes of fame, although no one would ever know about it. She sighed and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. She tried again but the engine wouldn’t start.

Oh, great, she thought. Then she laughed. What else could go wrong?

She was bending toward her purse to get her cell phone when the driver’s door was ripped open.

When he arrived at the farm, Charles Hawkins was escorted to the library. Two walls were filled with books that actually appeared to have been read. A stone fireplace dominated another wall. Someone had built a fire. A picture window that looked out on a wide back lawn took up the fourth wall. An unusual aspect of the room was the bulletproof glass in the picture window.

“What took you so long?” Farrington asked as soon as Hawkins walked into the library. He was holding a glass half filled with scotch and Hawkins suspected it wasn’t his first.

“I don’t have wings, Chris,” Hawkins answered calmly. He was used to Farrington’s moods.

“I’m sorry,” Farrington said. “I’m upset.”

Hawkins dropped onto a sofa and studied his friend carefully. Farrington looked exhausted, his jacket was off, his tie was askew, and his hair was mussed, as if the president had been running his fingers through it a lot.

“Tell me why I’m here,” Hawkins said.

“It’s that girl, Walsh. You know we talked about the records for Maureen’s slush fund?”

“She was going to get them for us.”

“Yeah, well she called. She said she could get the records tonight. I told her to come here.”

“Where did she call?”

“The White House.”

“How did she get through to you?”

“I gave her my cell.”

“Jesus, Chris. That line’s not secure.”

“Don’t worry. She didn’t use her real name.”

“I thought we’d agreed I was going to handle this.”

Farrington looked down at the floor.

“You screwed her, didn’t you?” Hawkins said.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“You didn’t screw her in Chicago, too, did you?”

Farrington didn’t answer.

“Goddamn it, Chris, you swore to me that you didn’t touch her. You were only supposed to convince her to be our eyes and ears in Maureen’s campaign headquarters.”

“I know, I know.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t pull this shit anymore.”

“I broke it off,” Farrington answered. Hawkins noticed that the president still couldn’t look him in the eye.

“So you let her steal for you, you screwed her, then you said, ‘By the way, we’re through.’”

“I was going to tell her that we had to stop seeing each other when she got here but she’s so beautiful.”

Hawkins sighed. Getting mad at Farrington was useless; he’d always been ruled by his penis, and short of castration Hawkins knew that there was no way to change him.

“Claire is pregnant, Chris,” Hawkins said patiently. “She announced this little fact at the fund-raiser, tonight. It’s going to be a major story in every newspaper and on every television news show in the country. Do you know what will happen if the voters find out that you’re cheating on your pregnant wife?”

“I’m sorry. I know it was stupid.”

Hawkins counted to ten. “How did Walsh take it?” he asked.

“Not well. She threatened to go public.”

“Fuck.”

“I don’t know if she’ll go through with the threat.”

“Yeah, well you’d better hope she doesn’t or you’ll be back in Portland chasing ambulances. Where is she now?”

“I don’t know, but she left her car at the Dulles Towne Center mall. And there’s something else.”

“You didn’t hit her?” Hawkins asked, alarmed by the possibility that Farrington had been violent.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” The president paused. “There was someone in the woods.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone was taking pictures.”

“Jesus Christ! Do you realize how bad this is? Pictures of you and Walsh would sell for thousands to a tabloid or they can be used for blackmail.”

Farrington’s head snapped up. He was angry. “I’m not stupid, Chuck. I know exactly how ugly this can get. That’s why I need you to fix it.”

“How do you know someone was taking pictures?”

“One of the Secret Service agents spotted her.”

“It was a woman?”

“We think so.”

“Why just ‘think’?”

“One of the guards spotted someone on the hill taking pictures. She ran, so he never got real close, and it was dark. Then she hit him on the head and stunned him. But he thought the photographer was a woman.

“The other guards heard a commotion and ran up to check on what was happening. One of them chased the intruder. When he got to the road a car was driving away. He thinks he got the license number but it was dark and the car kicked up a lot of dust. The plate we ran belongs to a Dana Cutler. She’s an ex-D.C. cop who works as a private detective, which would fit with her doing surveillance and taking pictures.”

“That’s a lot of ifs.”

“It’s what we have. Can’t you do something?”

“About what?”

“Both problems, Charlotte and the P.I.”

Hawkins knew exactly what Farrington wanted him to do. He stood up.

“It’s late. If we’re lucky neither woman will do anything until the morning. That gives me a few hours.”

“Thank you, Chuck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Hawkins didn’t answer. He was too angry. Instead he shook his head in disgust and walked out of the room. As soon as he was certain he wouldn’t be overheard, Hawkins took out his cell phone and made a call.

Christopher Farrington had been anxious when his misadventure began, but he felt confident that Chuck would fix everything. He always did. And while he may have had twinges of fear and moments of doubt, the president never felt guilty about the way he’d used Charlotte Walsh; guilt was an emotion alien to him.

Farrington returned to the White House a little before 2
A.M.
He took a quick shower and tiptoed into bed, feeling much better now that he was clean, as if the hot water had washed away his sins along with the grime. Everything would turn out well, he told himself. Farrington was smiling when he slipped beneath the fresh sheets.

“How did your meeting go?” Claire asked in a voice heavy with sleep.

Farrington rolled toward her and rested a hand on her backside. He really did love her. The other women served to alleviate a physical need, but Claire was his strength, his helpmate. He’d be lost without her.

“I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried to be quiet.”

Claire kissed him. “Don’t worry. I wanted to be awake when you got back but I must have drifted off.”

“Did your speech go okay?”

“Didn’t Chuck tell you?”

“I’m sorry, but I was so wrapped up in what we were doing I forgot to ask.”

Claire touched his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. I know the pressure you’re under. But just so you know, I knocked ’em dead. They didn’t even miss you.”

Farrington smiled. “I’m glad you’re not running against me. I wouldn’t get a single vote.”

“You’d get mine,” Claire whispered, and the president felt familiar fingers snake through the fly of his pajamas and caress him.

He laughed. “I thought pregnancy lowered a woman’s sex drive.”

“Then you don’t remember the last time I was pregnant. Now do something about my itch or I’ll go on TV and tell Barbara Walters you’re impotent.”

“What a bitch,” he whispered as he moved back far enough so he could pull down his pajama bottoms.

Jake Teeny had an exciting job that took him to the most exotic and dangerous places in the world, but he lived in a boring ranch house in the Maryland suburbs, preferring—he’d told Dana—a mundane, risk-free existence when he wasn’t braving the dangers of a war zone or enduring the extreme heat of Africa or bitter Arctic nights. Weekends when he was home, Jake puttered in his garden, watched the NBA and NFL, and lived the life suburban.

Dana parked down the street from Jake’s place as a precaution in case there was an APB out for her car. She was exhausted but she had work to do so she went into the kitchen and made a cup of instant coffee. She was carrying her mug downstairs to Jake’s office when her cell phone rang. Dana placed the mug on a step and answered it.

“What’s going on, Dana?” Andy Zipay asked. He sounded nervous.

“What do you mean?”

“My guy ran those plates. One of them belongs to Charlotte Walsh and another is registered to Monarch Electronics, an outfit in Landover, Maryland, but the third car is registered to the Secret Service. And that electronics firm is the type of place the Service would use as a cover for the cars they don’t use on protection details.”

Dana felt a chill. “Which license is for the Secret Service car?”

Zipay read back the license number of the dark blue Lincoln sedan that had been parked at the farmhouse. Now Dana knew why the man Charlotte Walsh had harangued looked familiar.

“Thanks, Zip,” she said automatically as her brain raced along to the only conclusion logic was suggesting.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re interested in the Secret Service?”

“You don’t want to know, okay?”

“Whatever you say, but this better not come back on me.”

“It won’t.”

Dana ended the call and made her way down the rest of the stairs as quickly as possible. She flipped on the light in Jake’s office and booted up his computer. While she waited, she glanced at the walls of the cramped room. They were covered by photos that had won awards or were Jake’s favorites. The photos were so striking they drew her eye even though she’d seen them several times: a naked child drinking water from a puddle on a war-torn street in Somalia, a terrified bride and groom moments after a suicide bomber struck at their wedding in Fallujah, a blind climber on the summit of Everest.

The computer beeped, signaling that it was ready to go to work. Dana swiveled back to the keyboard and typed in some commands. After downloading the images from her camera she burned a DVD for Perry to give to his client then she went through the pictures. She took a sip from her mug as she reviewed the shots from the Thai restaurant. The close-ups were good, and she only had to zoom in on a few to get better details. The shots at the mall were also good even though it had been dark and she had a clear picture of the license plate of the car that had taken Walsh to the farmhouse.

Her first shots at the farmhouse were okay, but the pictures she’d taken through the second-floor window hadn’t come out as well. Dana moved through the pictures quickly until she came to the photos she’d taken when Walsh stormed out of the farmhouse. When she got to the shot she’d taken just before she ran she leaned forward and squinted at the monitor. The mystery man was looking at the departing Ford, and his face was framed in the shot, but he was too far away to see clearly without enhancement. Dana zoomed in. The man’s features sharpened. She enlarged the shot some more and sat back in her chair, her heart beating rapidly. Dana had no doubt about the identity of the man Walsh had met at the farmhouse. President Farrington’s face was in the newspaper every day and on television every night. What had Perry gotten her into?

Dana tried to take a sip of her coffee but her hand shook and a wave of hot liquid slopped over onto her wrist and scalded her.

“Shit!”

She wiped her hand on her shirt and shook it to cool it off. She’d have a lot more to worry about than a burn if the people watching Farrington had her license number.

Dana stood up and started to pace. Could she get Perry to intercede for her? He was connected. Hell, he was a personal friend of the Farringtons. Then it occurred to her that Perry couldn’t intercede on her behalf. If he did, he’d have to tell the president that he’d hired someone to spy on him. Perry would deny any connection to her and the surveillance and there was no way she could prove he was lying. Perry had met her where no one knew them. The waitress was the only witness, and she’d never be able to ID Dale. He’d been wearing shades and that baseball cap. And there was no paper trail. He’d paid her in cash. She was screwed.

Another idea occurred to her as soon as she calmed down enough to think. Maybe she could work this fiasco to her advantage. If Christopher Farrington was having an affair with Charlotte Walsh the photographs she’d taken were worth a lot of money. Farrington was always spouting off about family values. Proof he was having sex with a teenager would send the media into a feeding frenzy. A tabloid like
Exposed
would give her a fortune for the shots. And there were the right-wing television stations. She bet they’d come across.

Of course, the money wouldn’t do her any good if she was in prison for attacking the guard or dead. Maybe she could use the pictures as a bargaining chip to stay out of jail or to get Farrington to leave her alone. Maybe she could get some money for them from Farrington
and
use the pictures as an insurance policy. Dana decided that she should put a copy of the photos in a safe place, maybe give them to a lawyer or lock them up in a safety-deposit box. But did she need a bargaining chip? She would if the Secret Service knew who she was, but she still wasn’t certain that they had her license number. There was only one way to find out. She’d have to go to her apartment and see if it was under surveillance. She couldn’t drive her car because it would be recognized. Jake’s Harley was available, but she didn’t want to get him in trouble. In the end, Dana decided to take the motorcycle.

Dana put a DVD with the photos and a cover letter in an envelope with Jake’s name on it and left it on his desk. Jake would know how to exploit the pictures if something happened to her. She addressed another envelope with a second copy of the DVD to a lawyer who’d given her legal advice when she was deciding whether to quit the force. She dropped the envelope for the lawyer in a mailbox on her way to her apartment, which was on the third floor of a three-story brick apartment house on Wisconsin Avenue, a short haul from the National Cathedral. The bottom floor was occupied by a Greek restaurant and the entrance was between the restaurant and a dry cleaner. Dana cruised by her building slowly, taking in both sides of the street. At this hour, there wasn’t much traffic and it should have been easy to spot a stakeout. As far as Dana could tell, the cars on both sides of her block were unoccupied and she didn’t see any suspicious-looking vans.

Dana waited on a side street for fifteen minutes before circling the block and cruising back on the opposite side of the street. Nothing she saw raised her antennae. If someone was watching her apartment they weren’t doing it from the street, but the surveillance could be from any of the apartments across the street. She tried to spot some suspicious activity in one of them but she couldn’t see into the darkened interiors.

After making sure that the back wasn’t being watched, Dana parked the Harley in the rear of her building and entered it through a metal door that opened into the basement. Maybe she was going to be okay. Maybe she’d been lucky and it had been too dark to make out her license plate.

Dana took the stairs and paused on the landing that ran in front of her door. The cheap linoleum floor was dimly lit by a few low-watt bulbs spaced along the water-stained ceiling. The linoleum would squeak when she walked along it, so she moved as quietly as she could. The hall doors were made of thin wood and provided little privacy. If she was in the hall, Dana could hear televisions playing and domestic quarrels. She pressed her ear to the door to her apartment for a minute and used her key when she didn’t hear any sounds coming from inside.

Dana flipped on the light and stared down the narrow hallway that led from the front door to the bedroom at the back of the apartment. The kitchen was through the first doorway on the left and the entrance to a small living room was next to the kitchen door. Dana closed and locked the front door and listened for sounds in the apartment. When she heard nothing she breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the kitchen.

The blow to her solar plexus took her breath away, and Dana sat down hard. A large hand grabbed her by the throat and hoisted her to her feet while she tried to suck in air.

“Where are the camera and the pictures, bitch?” asked a large man in a black T-shirt. He pushed his face into hers. He had a broken nose and dull, blue eyes. His breath was stale, and she could see the dark bristles on his cheeks.

Dana wanted to answer but she couldn’t catch her breath. The man threw her to the floor and kicked her in the side. Her motorcycle jacket absorbed some of the blow but not enough to prevent pain from shooting through her ribs.

“We’re not fucking around. Give us the camera and all of the pictures, now, or I’ll rape you before I kick you to death.”

Dana’s mind played tricks on her and she thought her attacker sounded like one of the men who had chained her to the wall in the basement. She scuttled backward down the hall like a crab until she was pressed against the front door. Then she curled into a fetal ball. Her attacker looked over his shoulder at a second man, who was dressed in a light gray jacket, jeans, and running shoes. His blond hair almost touched his shoulders and his beard was neatly trimmed.

“I think she’s holding out because she wants us to fuck her,” said the man who’d hit her. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t hear the young lady tell us where the pictures are, did you?”

“No, siree. I do believe she wants it.” Her attacker grabbed his crotch and pulled up. “Mmm, mmm, she’s gonna taste sweet.”

Dana was terrified but she was also armed. Ever since her ordeal she had carried an assortment of weapons, and the one that was easiest to reach in a fetal position was the gun that was secured to her ankle.

Her attacker watched wide-eyed as Dana fired. The bullet bored through his thigh, and he screamed and crumpled to the floor. The explosion and scream in the confined space paralyzed the second man. By the time he was able to move, Dana was on her feet, her gun pointed at his heart. She looked homicidal.

“Take it easy,” the second man begged, his voice unsteady and his hands, which he’d raised in supplication, shaking badly.

A red tide washed through Dana’s brain and insane voices urged her to kill. Only the lessons learned in months of therapy stopped her from shooting the man, or doing something much worse.

“Easy?” she screamed. “It didn’t sound like you were going to take it easy.”

Dana’s hand was trembling and the intruder’s eyes were glued on her twitching trigger finger. He held his hands out toward her.

“You don’t want to shoot me by mistake. Calm down.”

“Tell me to calm down one more time and I’ll gut shoot you.”

The man turned pale. “Look, we weren’t really going to rape you,” he said, his voice shaking as badly as Dana’s. “We’re federal agents. We were trying to frighten you.”

The man who’d hit her had grabbed his thigh with both hands and was rolling back and forth on the floor, moaning in pain. Dana kicked him in the face.

“Shut the fuck up,” she yelled so she could be heard above his cries of pain. Blood spurted from his nose and he collapsed on his back.

The second man used Dana’s momentary inattention to go for a weapon, but her gun was back on target before he was halfway. He hesitated before raising his hands again.

“Don’t shoot. We’re really Feds. Let me get my ID from my pocket.”

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. But you’re sure not dressed like J. Edgar Hoover. You’re dressed like a burglar-rapist and I’d be acting in self-defense if I shot your balls off.”

“Be smart. Kill us and you’ll have every law enforcement agency in the country hunting you down.”

“They’re doing that already.”

Dana cocked the gun.

“Please, don’t. I’m married. I have kids.”

“You think I care?”

Dana heard sirens. Someone had heard the gunshots and the screams and called the cops. She made a decision.

“Do you have handcuffs?”

“Yeah.”

“Take them out slowly then get down on the floor and cuff yourself to this asshole.”

The second man was only too happy to comply. As soon as the two agents were hooked up Dana backed out of the apartment and sprinted down the stairs. She’d been tempted to kill her attackers but she didn’t need any more ghosts in her nightmares.

As soon as she straddled the Harley Dana sped off, making random left and right turns until she was miles away from her place. She tried to remember how much money she had in her wallet. She’d used an ATM recently and she thought she had $150. If she used an ATM again the cops would know it but she had no choice. She needed as much cash as she could get her hands on. She would not be able to use her credit cards from now on.

Dana found a bank on the outskirts of Chevy Chase and got the maximum amount of cash from the ATM. Then she sped off with no plan. She was living the ultimate nightmare. The president of the United States was out to get her and he had the resources of the FBI, CIA, NSA, and every other letter in the alphabet at his disposal. Dana had $372.40, a .38 Special with four bullets, and a borrowed Harley with three-quarters of a tank of gas.