Blowback

NINETY-THREE

Just to prove that she could play ball, Helen Carmichael had abandoned her pantsuit in favor of a gray flannel Armani skirt that came just below mid-thigh, a crisp white blouse with French cuffs, black Jimmy Choo alligator heels, and a matching black alligator belt. Feeling not only on top of the world, but also a bit risqué, she had left the top three buttons of her blouse unbuttoned and had given her navel stud a good polishing before putting it in this morning. Today was going to be one of the most important days of her life.

She had sent Neal Monroe personally to Russ Mercer’s office with a peace offering of sorts. Inside the confidential file, which her assistant had been instructed to deliver only to the DNC chairman himself, was but a fraction of the proof she had uncovered, thanks to Brian Turner, that President Jack Rutledge had been running his own private black ops unit. The incendiary file was her ticket to the big leagues. There was no way the party could say no to her being on the ticket, not with what she had been able to uncover.

In addition to tampering with the supposedly “free” and “democratic” elections of several foreign nations, Rutledge had also authorized the assassination of at least half a dozen foreign officials hostile to U.S. policy abroad — and that was only the tip of the iceberg. Rutledge represented all that the world saw was wrong with America, and Helen Carmichael was going to take particular pleasure in watching him burn.

He had also been helping one of his private covert operators, Scot Harvath, avoid service of the subpoena she had prepared demanding he appear before her committee. As if monkeying around with American foreign policy wasn’t enough to incense voters, the fact that Rutledge was subverting the Constitution and flagrantly breaking several federal laws was going to send the populace of the United States into an uproar.

Sitting in the back of her town car as it made its way to the Democratic National Committee Headquarters, she had tried to decide where she should start in dismantling the Rutledge administration. Of course, she’d discuss it with Russ Mercer to show she was a team player, but in reality she’d already made up her mind. The world was still enraged about the senseless beating of the Iraqi fruit merchant by a faceless American GI. That was the most logical place to begin. She’d trot Harvath out in front of the cameras and throw the book and anything else she could get at him. It would go a long way in helping to repair America’s image abroad, and she would be hailed as the woman who broke the case and made it all happen.

Once she had broken Harvath’s back, she could leapfrog right onto Rutledge’s and enjoy the ride down as his career and his presidency crashed and burned. Any designs she had had on slowly leaking the information she’d collected were now a thing of the past. It wasn’t enough to simply weaken him and cream his ticket in the election. They needed to force Rutledge to resign, or better yet to impeach him before the election, so that the Republicans would be forced to throw another candidate in at the last minute. It didn’t matter who they came up with, the American people would be so sick of the Republicans and so distrusting of their party that the Democrats would sail right into the White House. It was so close she could taste it.

As she now sat in Russ Mercer’s outer office, Helen Carmichael paid particular attention to how he had furnished the space and what it said about the DNC and its chairman. While her own office in the Hart Senate Office Building had been decorated with mementos from Pennsylvania in an attempt to make her appear fond of the state she represented, once she was in the White House she could finally do what she pleased. In fact, knowing what terrible taste both her future running mate, Governor Farnsworth of Minnesota, and his wife had, she was already looking ahead to what she could do not only in her office at the White House, but with all the other rooms as well.

She was contemplating several pieces of furniture now housed at the Smithsonian that she thought would be perfect in the vice-presidential residence at the Naval Observatory, when Russ Mercer’s secretary set down her phone and said, “The chairman will see you now, Senator.”

“Here we go,” Carmichael said to herself as she stood and smoothed out her skirt. Walking toward the heavy mahogany door, she wondered how Mercer was going to offer her the VP slot. Hopefully, he would have the class to apologize to her first for how unsupportive he’d been. There was also the issue of his meeting with the president’s chief of staff, Chuck Anderson, and the things he’d said there, but at this point, she was willing to forgive and forget everything. All she wanted to hear were the words The party needs you on the ticket.

As she neared the door, she was suddenly self-conscious and wished she had taken a moment to use the ladies’ room to check her hair and makeup one last time. When she had received the message that Mercer wanted to meet with her and that he had a very important item to discuss, she had spent the whole evening prior trying to decide what to wear. She had also had one of her staffers, the pretty, young Asian girl whose name she was always forgetting, come over that morning to help her do her hair and makeup in a way that would make her appear softer and, as the DNC chairman had put it, less of a raging bull dyke. Knocking on the heavy door, she hoped her efforts wouldn’t be lost on him.

“Good morning, Helen,” said Mercer as Carmichael proudly strode into the room with her head held high and her shoulders back. “Thank you for coming.”

She was about to return his greeting when out of the corner of her eye she spied Charles Anderson standing next to the window and stopped dead in her tracks. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Why don’t you take a seat?” replied Mercer.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” she snapped.

“I warned you this whole thing was going to blow up in your face,” said the president’s chief of staff.

Carmichael ignored him. “Russ, I demand an explanation. What is Chuck Anderson doing in this office?”

“He’s here to help prep you for your press conference,” replied the DNC chairman.

Part of Carmichael wanted to believe that what she was seeing was the ultimate in strange bedfellows, that Anderson had come to help her craft a statement announcing her run for the White House with Minnesota Governor Bob Farnsworth, but deep down, she knew that wasn’t the case. Slowly, it began to dawn on her that Russ Mercer had not asked her here this morning to offer her a chance to be vice president. Though she didn’t know exactly what was going on, she could feel herself being backed into a corner, and she didn’t like it. Her only choice was to play along until she knew what this was all about. “I don’t have any press conference scheduled for this morning.”

“You do now,” replied Anderson. “In a half hour on the steps of the Senate.”

Taking one of the seats in front of Mercer’s desk, she responded, “That’s very interesting. And what exactly is it that I’ll be announcing?”

“Your resignation,” answered the DNC chairman.

“My what?”

“You heard me. Your resignation.”

“I will do no such thing,” said Carmichael.

“You sure as hell will,” replied Mercer, “or you’ll be going to jail for a very long time.”

“Jail? This is preposterous. Jail for what?”

Anderson looked at her and said, “Don’t play coy, Helen. It doesn’t suit you. I warned you that if you didn’t back off, this was going to bite you in the ass, and it has.”

“What is this? Some kind of intimidation tactic?” demanded Carmichael, who then faced Mercer. “What’s your role in all of this, Russ? Are you now a tool of the Republican administration? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’ve really let the party down. You’re a disgrace.”

Russ Mercer was through being polite. “No, Helen, you’re the one who has let the party down, and to tell you the truth, I’m going to be glad to be rid of you.”

Carmichael was shocked, but had no intention of giving in. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this if you want to get rid of me.”

The DNC chairman simply shook his head, picked up the remote control from the corner of his desk, pointed it at the entertainment center on the far wall, and pressed play.

First, Carmichael heard her voice, and then as the TV screen warmed all the way up, she saw herself along with Brian Turner in the eighth-floor suite of the Westin Embassy Row hotel. Immediately, she felt as if she was going to throw up. She sat there frozen, unable to turn away. Thankfully, Mercer turned it off before it got to the most embarrassing part.

“You’ve been under surveillance for some time,” said Anderson.

The senator’s mind was racing. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be a way to save her career and still come out on top. “I know how all of this must look,” she stammered, “but technically, I did nothing wrong. The man in that video was supplying me with information he felt was his patriotic duty to drag into the light of day.”

“Though I’m sure it comes as a total shock, your patriot cum paramour broke a pile of national security laws in obtaining that information.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that the president is dirty, and you can’t stop me from talking. In fact, this meeting is over. I’m leaving,” said Carmichael as she rose from her chair.

“Sit down, Helen,” ordered Mercer, “and shut up. You have no idea how easy you are getting off here.”

Anderson saw the genuinely confused look on the woman’s face and said, “The information Brian Turner provided you with was planted by CIA Director Vaile. They had suspected they had a mole in their ranks and baited a trap for him. As was expected, the bait proved too tempting to pass up.”

“I don’t believe you,” the senator replied. “I don’t know how you got Russ involved in all of this, but for some reason he’s helping you cover up Rutledge’s criminal activities.”

“You ought to be a little more forgiving when it comes to Jack Rutledge. I wanted to see you tried and ridden out of town on a rail for what you’ve done, but the president thought otherwise. He decided to take the high ground and have you resign. As far as he’s concerned, there’s been enough bitterness between our parties in this country, and though nobody outside this room is ever going to know it, he wanted to try to help mend some of that divide.”

Carmichael was silent for several moments before asking, “What’s going to happen to Brian Turner?”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you care,” said Anderson, “but because you asked, I’ll tell you. Him we are throwing the book at. Brian Turner is going to prison for a very, very long time. When he gets out, I don’t think he’ll want anything to do with the worlds of intelligence or politics ever again.”

That was it then. Helen Carmichael had tried to play the game by her own set of rules and had lost. There was nothing else she could do for now but concede defeat. “If I agree to do what you’re asking, do I have your guarantee that no criminal charges will be brought against me?”

Charles Anderson nodded his head. “You have my personal guarantee, and what’s more, you have the president’s.”

“And the tape?”

“Is part of a federal investigation, but as Brian Turner made a full confession, I don’t see why it would need to be entered as evidence at his trial.”

“Will it be destroyed then?” she asked.

“No, we’re going to hang on to it as part of your personal guarantee.”

“Which is?”

“That you’ll graciously retire from politics and never mention any of this, including the name of Scot Harvath or what you believe the president may or may not have done.”

“That’s all?” said Carmichael facetiously.

“Don’t be cute, Helen,” responded Mercer. “This is a hell of a deal they’re offering you.”

“You don’t have to worry, Russ. Cute is something I have never been accused of being.” She then turned to Anderson and said, “So, what will it be? Health problems or the ever-so-popular ‘I’m leaving politics so I can spend more time with my family’?”