Executive Privilege

Washington, D.C.

Two and a Half Months Earlier

Chapter One

Dana Cutler’s cell phone rang moments after Jake Teeny’s pickup disappeared around the corner and seconds after she closed the door of Jake’s house, where she was house-sitting while he was away on an assignment.

“Cutler?” a raspy voice asked as soon as Dana flipped open the phone.

“What’s up, Andy?” she asked.

Andy Zipay was an ex-cop who’d left the D.C. police force under a cloud a year before Dana had resigned for far different reasons. Dana had been one of the few cops who hadn’t shunned Zipay, and she’d sent business his way when he’d set up shop as a private investigator. Six months after her release from the hospital, Dana had told him that she wouldn’t mind working private if he had some overflow and the jobs were quiet. Zipay gave her assignments when he could, and she appreciated the fact that he had never asked her what had happened at the farm.

“You up for another job for Dale Perry?”

“Perry’s a pig.”

“True, but he liked the last job you did for him and he pays well.”

“What’s the deal?”

“A tail. It sounds like easy money. He needs someone right away and I have a full plate. You in or out?”

Dana’s bank account needed an infusion of cash. She sighed.

“Does he want me to come to his office?”

“No.” Zipay told her where to go.

“You’re kidding?”

It was two in the morning when Dana eased Jake Teeny’s Harley into a parking space in front of a twenty-four-hour pancake joint in suburban Maryland. She was wearing a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, and tight jeans, an outfit that made her look tough. Even without the Harley and the outfit as props, people would back off instinctively in Dana’s presence. She was a hard twenty-nine, five ten, lean and muscular, and she always seemed on edge. The intensity in her emerald green eyes was intimidating.

Before entering the Pancake House, Dana removed her helmet and shook out her shoulder-length auburn hair. As soon as she stepped through the door, she spotted Dale Perry in the rear of the restaurant. She ignored the hostess and headed to his booth. The lawyer was in his late forties, short, overweight, balding, and working on his third divorce. His fat face reminded Dana of a bulldog, but she was certain that Perry didn’t see what others saw when he looked in the mirror, because he came on to every halfway attractive woman he met. Perry had made a pass at her the last time she’d done a job for him. She’d deflected it deftly and had even dropped hints that she was a lesbian to dissuade him, but that only seemed to create a challenge for the lascivious lawyer.

Dana rarely smiled, but her lips momentarily curled upward in amusement when she considered the spot that Dale Perry had selected for their meeting and the way he was dressed. Perry, a senior partner in a big D.C. firm, was a close friend of the president and very influential behind the scenes in national politics. He was the type who dressed in three-thousand-dollar power suits and conducted business in the bar at the Hay-Adams hotel, where Washington’s power brokers decided the fate of the world while sipping twenty-five-year-old, single malt scotch. Tonight, the lawyer was cradling a chipped mug filled with bad Pancake House coffee and wearing jeans, a Washington Redskins jacket, dark glasses, and a Washington Nationals baseball cap with the brim pulled low.

“Qué pasa?” Dana asked as she slipped into the booth across from Perry and deposited her motorcycle helmet on the cracked vinyl.

“It’s about time,” Perry growled. Dana didn’t react. She was used to Perry pulling rank. He was a macho pig who loved dumping on underlings. Dana didn’t consider herself an underling, but there was no profit in letting Perry know how she felt. She never let her ego get in the way of making a buck.

“So, Mr. Perry, what’s the problem?” Dana asked as she took off her jacket.

A waitress appeared and Dana ordered coffee. When the waitress was out of earshot, the lawyer resumed their conversation. Even though there were no other customers in their vicinity, he lowered his voice and leaned forward.

“Remember that job you did for me last year?”

“Tailing the guy who worked for the senator?”

Perry nodded.

“How’d that work out?” Dana asked.

Perry smiled. “Very nicely. I played him the tape. He threatened to sue, have me arrested, blah, blah, blah. But, in the end, he caved.”

“Glad to hear it worked out.”

“You do good work.”

Now it was Dana’s turn to nod. She did do excellent work. Private investigation suited her. She could stay in the shadows a good part of the time when she was working at jobs that Perry’s firm would never assign to their in-house investigators, and the pay for assignments that weren’t completely kosher was higher than most hourly wages. They were also tax free because she was always paid off the books and in cash.

The waitress returned with Dana’s coffee. When she left, Perry dug into a manila envelope that was lying on the seat next to him. He pushed a color photograph of a young woman across the table.

“Her name is Charlotte Walsh. She’s nineteen, a student at American University. I’ll give you her address and some other information before you leave.”

Dana studied the photograph. The girl was pretty. No, more than pretty. She had a sweet, fresh-faced look, like the good girl in movies about teens in high school, blue eyes, soft blond hair. Dana bet she’d been a cheerleader.

“My client wants her followed everywhere she goes.” Perry handed Dana a cell phone. “The client also wants a running account of everything Walsh does.” Perry slid a piece of notepaper with a phone number across the table. “Leave voice mail messages anytime she makes a move with details about what she’s doing. Pictures, too. You’ll give me everything you’ve got. Don’t keep any copies.”

Dana frowned. “This kid’s just a student?”

“Sophomore studying poli-sci.”

Dana’s brow furrowed. “Who’s the client, her parents, worried about their little girl?”

“You don’t need to know that. Just do your job.”

“Sure, Mr. Perry.”

The lawyer took a thick envelope stuffed with bills off the seat and handed it to Dana.

“Will that do?”

Dana lowered the envelope beneath the tabletop and counted the cash. When she was done, she nodded. Perry handed her the manila envelope from which he’d taken Walsh’s photograph.

“There’s more information about the subject in here. Get rid of everything after you’ve read it.”

“Do you want any reports?” she asked.

“No, just the photographs. I don’t want anything on paper. Keep me out of it unless there’s a problem.”

“Sure thing.” Dana stood up, leaving three-quarters of the coffee in her mug. She put on her jacket, stuffed the money in a pocket, and zipped the pocket shut. Perry didn’t say good-bye.

Dana reviewed the meeting on the ride back to Jake Teeny’s house. The job seemed easy enough, but she knew there was more to this assignment than figuring out how a cute coed spent her days. The money Perry had given her was more than a simple tail merited, and there was no way Perry would want to meet at two in the morning in a bad pancake restaurant in the suburbs if this was an ordinary assignment. If she needed more proof that something was up, Perry hadn’t hit on her. Still, the money was good, and tailing a college kid should be easy. Dana forgot about the job, goosed the Harley, and gave herself over to the ride.

Chapter Two

Charlotte Walsh looked up from the economic report she had been pretending to read and glanced around the campaign headquarters of the Senator Gaylord for President Committee. It was five-thirty and most of the volunteers and employees were either at dinner or headed home, leaving only a skeleton staff. When she was certain that no one was near the office of Reggie Styles, Senator Maureen Gaylord’s campaign coordinator, Walsh took a deep breath and crossed the room. Styles was out of the office at a meeting and the desks near his office were deserted for the moment, but that could change in a heartbeat. The suite was usually filled with noisy volunteers.

The only reason Walsh had the economic report was because it was a thick stack of loose pages. She carried the report into Styles’s office. If she was caught, she would say she was leaving it for him. She felt light-headed and a little nauseated. She also felt guilty. She had never meant to be a spy when she volunteered for President Farrington’s reelection campaign, but Chuck Hawkins, the president’s top aide, had asked her to infiltrate Gaylord’s headquarters as a personal favor to the president. There had been a promise of a job at the White House as a reward. And then there had been the private meeting with President Farrington in Chicago.

Walsh swallowed hard as she remembered that midnight meeting in the president’s hotel suite. Then she forced herself to concentrate. She had seen Styles put the spreadsheets for the secret slush fund into the lower right drawer of his desk. Walsh looked over her shoulder. When she was certain no one was looking, she used the key she’d copied and took the five sheets out of the desk. When she’d slipped them randomly between the pages of the economic report she hurried to the copying machine and started feeding the sheaf of papers into it. When the copy was finished she would take it with her after returning the originals of the purloined material to Styles’s desk.

“Working late?”

Charlotte jumped. She’d been so focused she had not heard Tim Moultrie slip up behind her. Moultrie was a junior at Georgetown who was an avid supporter of Senator Gaylord. He also had the hots for Charlotte and had hit on her as soon as she started working as a volunteer. Moultrie wasn’t bad-looking, and he was awfully smart, but he was just a college boy, and boys her age didn’t interest Charlotte anymore.

“Hi, Tim,” she answered, unable to keep a tremor out of her voice.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, laughing. “I guess I just have that effect on women.”

Charlotte managed a weak smile. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the pages collating in the plastic tray attached to the copier.

“What are you up to?” Tim asked.

“Just copying a report on the Asian trade deficit. Senator Gaylord wants to hammer Farrington on his trade policy.”

“That should be easy. Farrington’s trade policies have been a disaster. If he gets elected we’ll be a Chinese territory before his term is through.”

“I agree completely,” Charlotte said, egging Tim on in the hopes that he’d be so busy expounding his theories that he wouldn’t pay any attention to the papers she was copying.

The ploy worked, and the last page shot out of the machine halfway through Tim’s tirade against the evils of the subsidy Japan was giving to one of its industries.

“I’m glad you’re around to explain this economic stuff to me,” said Charlotte, who’d aced her course in international economic theory.

“Not a problem,” Tim answered as Charlotte stacked the original and the copy in two neat piles.

“Say, it’s almost dinnertime. Want to grab a bite?” he asked.

Charlotte glanced at the wall clock. It was only a little after six and she had a few hours to kill before her meeting.

“Gee, I’d love to. Where do you want to go?”

Tim named a Thai restaurant a few blocks from campaign headquarters.

“Thai sounds great. Give me a few minutes to straighten my desk and do a few odds and ends. Can I meet you in the lobby?”

“Sure thing.” Tim beamed.

Charlotte stalled for time in the copy room by leafing through one of the paper piles. As soon as Tim was out of sight, she extracted the five stolen pages from the stack of originals and returned to Reggie Styles’s office. She had just finished putting them back in the lower drawer when Tim walked up.

“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding suspicious this time.

“God, Tim! You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me. You’ll give me a heart attack. Instead of having dinner with you, I’ll be in the hospital.”

Tim’s face cleared and he smiled. “Wouldn’t want that to happen,” he said.

Charlotte placed the economic report in a stack of papers in Styles’s in-box and carried the copy with the list of slush fund contributors to her desk.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” she said as she slipped the documents into her backpack and began straightening papers in a way that made her look as if she were actually doing something.

“See you in the lobby.”

The door closed behind Tim. Charlotte sagged with relief. She’d done it. Of course, she’d have to fake enjoying dinner with Tim. She couldn’t think of a way to get out of it without raising his suspicions, but that was a small sacrifice. Her adventure in political espionage had made her ravenously hungry anyway, and she was sure Tim would insist on paying for the meal. A narrow escape and a free meal; not a bad evening so far, she reckoned, and it would only get better in a few hours.

Chapter Three

Early in his presidency, Christopher Farrington had felt like a fraud, and he’d wondered how many other presidents had felt this way. Farrington was certain that every person who went into politics harbored a secret dream of one day being the president of the United States, but once the chosen few achieved their dream, he wondered if holding the office felt as surreal to them as his ascension to the presidency felt to him.

In his case the dreamlike quality of his presidency had been heightened by the fact that there had been no election, only an early morning visit from a Secret Service agent telling him that President Nolan had suffered a fatal heart attack and he was now the commander in chief. One minute he was serving in the relative anonymity of the vice presidency and the next minute he was the Leader of the Free World.

No one watching Christopher Farrington walk down the hall to his son’s room would have guessed that he harbored doubts about his ability to lead the nation. Farrington looked presidential. He was tall and broad shouldered, his full head of glossy black hair had enough gray to give a simultaneous impression of vigor and maturity, and his welcoming smile told you that he might have risen to the heights, but he was still a guy with whom you could share a cup of coffee at your kitchen table. Tonight, as he stood in the doorway watching his wife tuck in the covers around Patrick, their six-year-old son, he also looked like any proud parent. His chest swelled with pride when Claire leaned over and kissed Patrick’s forehead.

President Farrington’s son would have none of the childhood memories the president had. Chris had grown up poor in rural Oregon with only a dim recollection of the father who’d deserted him, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. Most evenings, his mother had been too tired from working two jobs to tuck in Chris or his siblings. On the occasions when she’d bothered, her breath had been a mixture of mint and cheap liquor.

Sports had saved Farrington’s life. He was six five and had a good enough jump shot to corral a scholarship at Oregon State, where he’d guided OSU to two appearances in the NCAA tournament. He was no slouch in the classroom either and his grades and financial need had earned him a full ride to law school in Oregon. There was a good chance that he could have gotten into one of the nation’s elite law schools, but political office had been Christopher Farrington’s goal since being elected class president in high school. A degree from Harvard or Yale didn’t appeal to him as much as the possibility of making influential contacts during his three years in law school, and at this he succeeded. Powerful backers and his notoriety as a sports hero helped him win a spot in the state senate on his first try. He’d risen to the position of majority leader when he decided to take on an incumbent governor, who was brought low by a financial scandal uncovered by an intrepid reporter two months before the election. Farrington’s closest friend and top aide, Charles Hawkins, had learned about the governor’s peccadilloes before advising his boss to make the run and had fed the information about them to the reporter when the time was right.

Claire lowered the shade in Patrick’s room, and the spotlighted Washington Monument disappeared from view. She turned toward the doorway and smiled.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked when they were in the hall.

“A few seconds,” Farrington answered as he closed the door quietly behind them.

The hall outside the family bedrooms reminded the Farringtons of a floor in a colonial inn. A plush blue carpet went well with the old-fashioned, off-white wallpaper that President Nolan’s wife had selected. A few oil paintings from the 1800s depicting rural America in all its glory were interspersed with portraits of some of the lesser-known presidents. Freestanding lamps and a few small chandeliers lit their way. The Farringtons didn’t care much about interior decorating so there had been no change in the décor since Christopher had ascended to the presidency.

The president was dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe business suit. The first lady was dressed in a powder blue pants suit and a cream-colored silk blouse. As they strolled down the hall Farrington wrapped his arm around Claire’s shoulder. It was easy to do, since Claire was only a few inches shorter than her husband.

The first lady was a powerfully built woman who had gone to Oregon State on a volleyball scholarship and ended up as a third team all-American in her senior year. Her shoulder-length brown hair was curly, her nose was a little too large, and her blue eyes were a tad small for her face. She had a high forehead and flat cheekbones. Though not plain, she was certainly not girlishly pretty, but she was charismatic, and her size and intellect dominated any gathering. She had been the captain of her high school and college volleyball teams, captain of her high school basketball team, valedictorian of her high school, and an honors student in college and medical school.

Chris and Claire had married while Claire was in medical school in Portland and Christopher was on the verge of his first run for office. Claire had cut back on her practice when Patrick was born and had given it up when the family moved to Washington, D.C., after Christopher was elected vice president.

“You could have come in and kissed Patrick good night,” Claire said.

“You two seemed so at peace that I didn’t want to spoil the moment.”

The president kissed his wife on the forehead. “Have I ever told you what a great mother you are?”

“From time to time,” Claire responded with a sly smile, “and you’re going to get many more chances.”

Farrington looked confused, and Claire laughed. “I’m pregnant.”

Farrington stopped short. He looked stunned.

“You’re serious?”

Claire stopped smiling. “You’re not sorry, are you?”

“No, no, it’s just…I thought you were on the pill.”

“I decided to stop taking it two months ago.” She put her hands on Chris’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Are you mad?”

A mix of emotions swept across the president’s face but the words he spoke were the right ones.

“We always wanted more kids. I just thought another pregnancy would be tough with everything you have to do as first lady.”

“Don’t worry about me. Being pregnant didn’t slow me down during the gubernatorial campaign.”

“True. It was actually a plus, if I recall.”

“And it will be a plus this time. The women will applaud your family values and the men will be in awe of your virility.”

Farrington laughed. Then he hugged Claire.

“You’re a treasure.” He stepped back until they were at arm’s length. “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“I’ll be fine. My speech is short and it will be nice going out in public before I start looking like a whale.”

“You don’t feel sick?”

“I’ve had a little morning sickness, but I’m okay now. Chuck called ahead to the hotel and booked a suite in case I need to rest.”

“I love you,” Farrington said, hugging her again. “You know I wouldn’t have dumped this on you at the last minute if this meeting wasn’t important, but Gaylord’s pulling out all the stops. Chuck says she’s raising a lot of money.”

Farrington sounded worried. Claire laid her palm against his cheek. It was warm, and the touch calmed him.

“Maureen is going to shit bullets when we announce I’m pregnant. Let’s see her claim the family values high ground now.”

“I’m going to send Chuck with you.”

“Won’t he be needed at the meeting?”

“I want him by your side, Claire. I want to know you’re protected.”

Claire kissed her husband’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me, and definitely don’t worry about Maureen Gaylord.”

Chapter Four

Dana Cutler was bored out of her skull. After three days of following Charlotte Walsh to class, the supermarket, restaurants, and her apartment, she was ready to shoot herself. This girl’s life was so dull that Dana couldn’t imagine why anyone was interested in it. She would have quit if the job didn’t pay so well.

A little after 6 P.M., Dana had left a phone message for her mystery client at the number Dale Perry had given her, explaining that Walsh had walked out of Senator Gaylord’s campaign headquarters in the company of a white male, approximately six feet tall with wavy blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The subject and her escort had proceeded to the House of Thai where they were currently sharing what appeared to be pad thai, spring rolls, and some type of curry. Cutler was able to give this detailed report because she was seated in her car in a disabled parking spot viewing the couple through the lens of the Leica M8 digital camera that belonged to Jake Teeny. The disabled parking permit on her dashboard was courtesy of an acquaintance at the Department of Motor Vehicles who sold fake driver’s licenses, disabled permits, and other DMV goodies to supplement her income. If anyone ever asked, Dana would claim she was recovering from hip-replacement surgery and she had a letter from a quack who was on her acquaintance’s payroll to back her up.

Dana had taken a chance and peed in another restaurant two doors down from the Thai place as soon as Walsh and her buddy ordered. Now, an hour later, she was free of the call of nature, but her stomach was rumbling. Dana grabbed a doughnut from the box on her passenger seat and was taking a bite when Walsh stood up. She stopped in midbite. Walsh had grabbed her backpack and headed for the door. Dana dropped the camera next to the box of doughnuts and started the engine of her inconspicuous, brown Toyota. The car looked like a piece of crap but Dana had installed an engine that would have made a NASCAR driver envious. Her father had owned a garage and raced cars when he was younger. Dana loved speed and learned how a car worked almost as soon as she learned her ABC's. Her dad had died of a stroke before she’d finished working on the engine and she’d always been sad that she hadn’t been able to take him for a spin in her jalopy.

Thinking about her dad brought back memories of her childhood. She was certain that her memories were far different from those of Charlotte Walsh. Dana’s mother had walked out on the family in Dana’s sophomore year in high school. They talked occasionally, but Dana had never forgiven her for deserting the family. Walsh probably had great Thanksgivings and Christmases with loving parents and bright, overachieving siblings.

Dana’s folks hadn’t been poor, but there was never any money for frills. Dana had to work during high school if she wanted spending money. Long nights as a waitress had paid her tuition to a community college, and Dana had been an underachiever until she joined the police force. Being a cop was something she was good at, but her days on the force were behind her now and she’d never get them back.

Walsh headed back toward Gaylord campaign headquarters on K Street. A lot of the people who worked on K Street were lawyers, lobbyists, and employees of think tanks, and many of them had returned to the suburbs for dinner. The cafés where Washington ’s elite met for power lunches were closed and a lot of the windows in the high-rise office buildings were dark. Few pedestrians walked the streets, and the street vendors who hawked flowers and knockoffs of Rolex watches and Prada purses had closed up shop. Dana guessed that her quarry was going to the garage where she’d parked a few hours ago. Sure enough, Walsh disappeared into the garage and drove out a few minutes later.

There weren’t many cars on the road so Dana hung back, speeding up anytime she felt in danger of losing sight of Walsh’s taillights. She hoped Walsh was going home to bed so she could get some sleep, too. The Toyota hit a pothole and the camera bounced on the passenger seat. When she thought about the camera, she automatically thought about Jake Teeny. He was a photojournalist Dana had met when he’d been assigned to take the photos for an article on policewomen. When she left the force, he’d helped her through her hardest days.

It wasn’t unusual for Jake to be away for weeks at a time in some exotic locale or war zone. When he was in D.C. and they both felt like it, Dana stayed at Jake’s house, which was roomier than the small apartment she called home. They’d been friends and off-and-on lovers for years, but neither of them wanted anything permanent and the relationship was convenient for both of them. Jake was the only person to whom she’d opened up about what had happened at the farm, though she hadn’t come close to telling him the whole story. She couldn’t risk losing him, something that could very well happen if he learned everything she’d done.

When Walsh turned onto the E Street expressway Dana knew that her quarry wasn’t headed back to her apartment. Her dream of an early night disappeared and she turned on the radio. A newscast was just ending with a story about the latest victim of the D.C. Ripper, a serial killer who’d been murdering women in the D.C. area. The announcer was explaining that the police appeared to be stymied when Dana turned the dial to DC101. After she left the hospital, Dana found that she had trouble listening to stories about violence to women. When she’d been a cop, she’d dealt with victims’ tales of rape, wife beating, and the like with a professional detachment she could no longer summon up.

“Highway to Hell” by AC/DC started playing just as the city gave way to a tree-lined roadway when she merged onto 66-west. Walsh took the exit for the Dulles Toll Road and drove along VA-267, exiting fifteen miles later onto Sully Road. After they passed a few illuminated construction sites and half-built subdivisions the Dulles Towne Center suddenly appeared in the distance. Dana groaned when she realized that the mall was Walsh’s destination.

It was late, so most of the sprawling lot was free of cars. Dana expected Walsh to park near the well-lit mall entrance where the vehicles of those still shopping congregated, but she surprised Dana by driving past JCPenney and Old Navy to a remote section of the lot where the glow from the Sears and Nordstrom signs did not reach. Dana drove away from Walsh, turned off her lights, and circled back to a spot many rows away that gave her an unobstructed view of the driver’s side of the student’s car.

As soon as she parked, Dana checked her watch. It was seven-forty-five, so it had taken almost forty-five minutes to drive to the mall from K Street. She took a few shots of the car before phoning her client to report where they were and where Walsh had parked in the lot. Then she took a drink of coffee from her thermos to help her stay awake and grabbed the doughnut she’d started outside the Thai restaurant. She finished the doughnut and perked up when she noticed that Walsh was still sitting in her car. This was the first interesting thing that had happened during her surveillance. If Walsh wasn’t at the mall to shop she was probably waiting for someone. If she was meeting this someone in a dark and remote part of the mall parking lot instead of the interior of the mall she didn’t want anyone to see the meeting. Maybe there was a reason to watch the coed after all.

Dana focused Teeny’s camera on Walsh’s car and was about to take a few more shots when movement in her peripheral vision caused her to look right. A dark blue Ford drove into Walsh’s row and parked a space away from her. Teeny’s camera lens had a 3.4 f-stop so Dana could see the license plate. From farther away, she wouldn’t have been able to read the license, but she could take a picture of it and blow up the picture on her laptop. Dana jotted down the Ford’s license plate number. A moment later, Walsh got out of her car, looked around nervously, and got into the Ford’s backseat. The Ford drove off with Dana in pursuit, far enough back so, hopefully, her lights wouldn’t give her away.

In almost no time, Dana found herself heading into Virginia on a two-lane highway. It became harder to stay close enough to see the Ford, but luckily there were a few other cars on the road to screen her. Trees soon began to outnumber man-made structures. She made a note of the route on a pad she’d placed on the passenger seat then fiddled with the dial until she found an oldies station playing a Springsteen classic.

Dana cruised along about a mile farther when the Ford’s brake lights went on. She slowed to a crawl. The Ford turned onto a narrow country road, crossed a railroad track, and drove by the darkened storefronts that lined the main street of a sleepy village. Dana jotted down the name of the town. A few miles past the city limits the Ford took a right onto a dirt road that was barely wide enough for two cars. Dana noted the distance she’d traveled from the village to the turnoff before cutting her lights and following the other car’s taillights.

After a quarter mile, the Ford’s headlights illuminated a white slat fence and a quarter mile after that the car stopped at a gate. Dana was surprised to see an armed guard. While the guard was concentrating on the occupants of the Ford, she put the Toyota in reverse and backed into a side road. If she had to run she didn’t want to waste time turning around. Dana stuffed the cell phone in her jacket pocket and grabbed a heavy flashlight and the camera. She crouched down, crossed the road, hopped the fence, and ducked into the woods, pushing through the foliage with the flashlight beam held low so it wouldn’t attract attention. After a short hike, she found herself on top of a small hill looking down on a white clapboard house that was about a football field away. The Ford was parked next to the front door but no one was in it. Dana had been surprised that there was an armed guard at the gate and more surprised to find other guards patrolling the grounds.

It was chilly, and Dana turned up her collar before settling in with her back against a tree. The ground was rocky and she had to shift around before she was comfortable. Nothing happened for several minutes. Dana drew up her knees, balanced the camera lens on them, and passed the time studying the house. The building looked like something from colonial times that had been updated with additions that were almost indistinguishable from the original. The bottom floor was illuminated, but that was all she could tell because the thick curtains on the front windows shielded the interior from view while letting only a little light escape.

To kill more time, Dana phoned in a whispered report to the client then snapped a few shots of the house, the guards, and the license plate of a dark blue Lincoln sedan that was parked at the side of the house. She jotted down the number of the plate on the sheet where she’d written the number of the car that had taken Walsh to the house. Dana was about to take another shot when a light went on in an upstairs room. She framed the window in her lens. A man stood in it briefly with his back to her, but he moved away before she could snap a shot. Dana peered into the room, but all she could make out from her angle were two shifting shadows on the wall. The shadows separated then came together until there was one flat black mass flowing across it. Moments later, the shadows dropped below the level of the sill and the room went dark.

Dana leaned back against the tree. She wished she’d had the foresight to bring the thermos along. She also hoped that Walsh wasn’t going to spend the night because camping out wasn’t her thing. She was getting bored so she watched the guards patrol the grounds and tried to figure out their routine. One of the armed men was a redhead with a crew cut. When he reached the point in his patrol that brought him closest to Dana she checked out his arsenal. He appeared to have a Sig Sauer 9-mm handgun in his holster and he was carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5 semiautomatic machine gun. She was trying to get a better look at the guns through the telephoto lens when the lights in the upstairs room came on again. A shadow appeared on the wall seconds before Charlotte Walsh walked in front of the window. Dana couldn’t hear what she was saying but she was waving her arms rapidly and she looked like she was yelling.

Dana checked her watch. It was nine-thirty. It had taken her a little over an hour to drive from the mall to the farmhouse and Walsh had been upstairs for about a half hour. She finished her calculations just as the front door opened and Walsh stormed out. Dana snapped a few pictures. Walsh turned back to the house and talked to a man who was standing in the doorway. She was bent forward slightly and her fists were clenched. Her anger traveled up the hill on the crisp, night air but Dana was too far away to make out what she was saying.

Dana shifted the lens to the man in the doorway. She could see his shirtsleeve and part of a pants leg but she couldn’t see his face. One of the guards got into the driver’s side of the car she had followed from the mall and Walsh threw herself into the backseat. As the car drove off, Dana used the cell phone to report that Walsh was probably heading back to the mall. While she talked, she kept an eye on the front door in hopes that the man Walsh had been with would put in an appearance. Just as she was finishing her report the man stepped out of the house. Dana dropped the phone and aimed her camera. The man turned his face in her direction. He was too far away for Dana to make out his features clearly, but something about him was familiar. She snapped off a quick shot and was going to take another when a branch snapped.

Dana froze for a second before rolling behind the tree against which she’d been leaning. The crackling of more leaves told her that someone was headed her way fast. She guessed it was a guard who was patrolling the woods and felt like a fool for assuming that the only guards were stationed around the house.

Dana peeked around the tree and spotted a man carrying an MP5 moving toward her. She cursed under her breath and stuffed the cell phone in her pocket as she ran through her choices. She was armed but she wasn’t going to shoot the guard. Under the circumstances, it would be felony assault or cold-blooded murder. She couldn’t run without being seen and he was so close he’d hit her for sure even if he was a lousy shot. When she realized that her choices boiled down to surrender or resistance she flashed back to the basement.

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.

Chapter Five

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.

Chapter Six

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.

Chapter Seven

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.

Chapter Eight

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.