The Value Of Valor - KJ3

by Lynn Ames

  “Okay,” Trystan said softly. “Anything you want.”

  They walked the short distance back to Terri’s small cottage without saying a word. When they were on the front step, Trystan leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Alexa’s cheek. “Thank you for today, Alexa. I had a marvelous time.”

  “Me too, Trystan. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

  Trystan watched as Alexa practically ran inside the house. She knew she was completely smitten with the woman and fought with herself not to follow her inside. “Slowly, Trystan. You’ve got to move very slowly with her.” But she wasn’t sure if her heart or her body would obey.

  She returned to her own house, unable to keep thoughts and visions of Alexa at bay. With a sigh, she lay down on her bed. Lazily, she turned over in her mind again the feeling of carrying Alexa to the bed the day the man had come asking questions about her, the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, and the beauty of her smile.

  Without conscious thought, Trystan began running her fingers up the insides of her thighs, seeing herself in her mind’s eye lost in a passionate embrace with Alexa, their mouths questing, bodies quivering with desire, hands exploring each other with unbridled need.

  Trystan’s hand reached her own center, and she dipped two fingers in the wetness she’d known she would find there. Reluctantly, she gave in and allowed her imagination to run wild.

  There was Alexa, leaning over her, her sea green eyes gone black with desire. Trystan moaned as she imagined feeling soft, pliant breasts brushing against hers. She brought a hand up and smoothed a palm over her hardening nipple. “Oh, Alexa.”

  Trystan’s eyes closed, and a vision of Alexa kissing her way down her body turned her liquid center to a river of lava. She squeezed her clitoris, picturing Alexa’s mouth hot and hungry on her. She stroked her center, and it was Alexa’s fingers she imagined. “Oh, God. Oh, Alexa.

  Oh.” The words burst forth like a prayer as Trystan came hard.

  As her breathing slowed and evened out, Trystan smiled into her pillow. Within seconds, she drifted off to sleep.

  Lynn Ames

  “President Hyland?” Vicky Winston, the president’s personal secretary, stuck her head into the Oval Office. She’d been with him since the early days in New York and knew him better than almost anybody in the White House.

  “Yes, Vicky, what is it?” The president had his nose buried in a stack of papers on his desk, his hair sticking up at odd angles where his hand had been running through it.

  “Vice President Wheeler is here to see you.”

  The president grunted. Alton Wheeler was, in Charles Hyland’s opinion, a pompous blowhard with the intelligence of a hamster, although the comparison would be insulting to the rodent. The former Alabama senator and good ol’ boy had been thrust upon him as a running mate by the chairman of the Democratic National Committee, backed by the more conservative Southern wing of the party. “Well, that’ll make it a perfect end to a perfect day,” the president muttered under his breath.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Send him in, Vicky.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, and don’t forget, Mr. President, you’ve scheduled dinner this evening in the residence with Press Secretary Kyle.”

  “That’s right.” The president’s face brightened. At least he could count on some good conversation over supper.

  A moment later, the door opened and Vicky announced the vice president.

  “Come in, Al.” The president stood, a false smile plastered on his face. “What can I do for you this fine evening?”

  “Evenin’, Mr. President,” Wheeler boomed in his thick Southern drawl. “I was thinking it was about time to discuss my role around here.”

  He held up his hand to forestall the president’s answer. “Now I know we haven’t always been on the same side on a whole bunch of issues, but I expect even you realize you can’t run a government without a vice president.”

  Want to bet, you smug idiot? The president sat back down, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Let me tell you what I know, Al. The American people elected us as a team with the expectation that together we would keep them safe, bring them prosperity, and protect their rights as free citizens.”

  “Amen to that, which is why I’m here. Now I see myself—”

  It was rare that the president lost his temper, but it had been a very long and difficult day. He sprang forward so quickly that his visitor was forced to back away from the desk. “The voters of this great country have selected me to lead this team—not you, Al. Me. There is only one president. That means I set the agenda, I call the shots. Your job will be The Value of Valor

  to reinforce the choices and decisions I make. No surprises from you, no headline-grabbing remarks, no policy statements that haven’t been cleared by me or my chief of staff, and your schedule is vetted by my scheduler. Am I making myself clear?”

  The vice president’s face turned beet red. “I hear you. Now let me give you a little news flash. You wouldn’t be sitting in that fancy chair there without me, Pretty Boy. I suggest you remember that.”

  “I wish I had the time to sit here and debate the matter with you, Mr.

  Vice President,” he said the title with disgust, “but I have important matters to attend to. I’m sure you can find your way out.”

  The door slammed with sufficient force to rattle the pictures on the walls.

  “Well,” the president said to the blissfully empty room, “that was pleasant. This ought to be a fun-filled four years.” He turned his attention back to the large pile of papers in the center of his desk.

  DNC Chairman Hawthorne swiveled in his chair, a small key in his hand. With it, he unlocked a hidden drawer in his desk and removed the contents: a single manila file folder. Typed neatly on the label was the name Alton Franklin Wheeler; on the face of the folder in large, red capital letters was the word “CONFIDENTIAL.”

  Hawthorne opened the file to the first page and began to read.

  “Investigation of the Mobile, Alabama, Police Department—June 28, 1941. In re: the death of three-year-old Bobbi Christina Wheeler.

  Detectives have determined and coroner has confirmed that the girl was strangled and her body dumped in the family pond to make it appear like a drowning accident. Instrument of strangulation appears to be an athletic sock. Fibers found in the flesh of the victim’s neck contained white cotton and elastic. Interviews of family members revealed inconsistencies in the story of eight-year-old Alton Franklin Wheeler, the girl’s brother.

  Further interrogation of the boy yielded a confession, as follows: I was riding my bike and Bobbi kept following me. I told her to go away, but she wouldn’t. Finally, I told her that if she didn’t leave me alone, I was going to kill her. She wouldn’t listen, so I took off one of my socks and wrapped it around her neck and pulled. She was waving her arms around for a bit, but after a while, she just quit. I panicked, figuring I would get a hiding from mama, so I dragged her to the pond and pushed her in to make it look like she done wandered off and fell in.

  “Case disposition: After extensive discussions with U.S. Senator Franklin Templeton Wheeler, the boy’s father, no charges were filed, and Lynn Ames

  the case was closed. All copies of any reports relating to the investigation have disappeared and are believed to have been destroyed.”

  “All except this one,” Hawthorne smiled evilly. He had paid through the nose to procure the file through an old friend—a retired Mobile detective with whom he had served in the Army. The man, a green rookie on the squad when the child had died, had no trouble at all remembering the hefty sum the senior senator from Alabama had paid to make the case go away. The cop had taken the file as a souvenir of his indoctrination into the less-than-ethical practices of the Mobile police force.

  Hawthorne pushed the button for the intercom. “Janice, has the vice president arrived yet?”

  “Just coming through the door, s
ir.”

  “Good. Please, send him in.”

  Hawthorne stood as Al Wheeler strode confidently into the room.

  “Mr. Vice President, so good of you to come.”

  “I’ve got to tell you, Bob. That damn Yankee needs a good talking to.

  Seems to think he can run the place all on his own and I should be some sort of lap dog. Well, he’s got another thing coming.”

  Hawthorne grinned. This might go better than I anticipated. “I agree with you, Al. That’s why I’ve asked you here. I think you should be playing a larger policy role in this administration.”

  “Damn straight I should. I thought that’s why you wanted me on the ticket.”

  “It is, it is,” Hawthorne mollified the vice president. Or it might have been the bombshell of a skeleton in your closet. “Please, Al, sit down.”

  “Wants me to goddamn run it by him every time I blow my nose, for Christ’s sake.” The big man dropped gracelessly into the chair opposite Hawthorne’s desk.

  “I see you having a major impact on foreign policy, Al. After all, you were the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. You’re an expert.”

  “Yes, sir.” The vice president puffed out his chest.

  “What do you think about democracy in China?”

  The vice president laughed. “Sounds like a fine idea to me, Bob, but I think Deng Xiaoping might object.”

  “No doubt.” Hawthorne leaned forward. “What if we could achieve democracy in China and engineer it so that it looked like an internal rebellion?”

  The vice president narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “Where is this coming from, Bob? And why are you talking to me about it instead of the president?”

  The Value of Valor

  Hawthorne shrugged nonchalantly. “I want to help you make your mark, and Charlie’s vision is limited—he doesn’t have the balls for this one.” He moved in for the kill. “Imagine what your legacy could be, Al, if you could be remembered as the modern-day father of world democracy. You could overshadow the president.” He could see the vice president trying to puzzle through the idea.

  “But if we made it look like an internal revolution, no one would know I was behind it.”

  “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure they know. History will remember you as a great man.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  Hawthorne smiled, pushing a piece of paper across the desk. He had the mechanism he needed in Wheeler, and the covert action was about to be unofficially-officially sanctioned. The Commission would be pleased.

  “Call this number, identify yourself as a tourist interested in seeing Tiananmen Square, and ask if there are guided tours available. The person on the other end will respond that there aren’t any now, but there might be some in a few months. Tell him you’ll look forward to checking back with him then. After that, hang up.”

  “Who will I be talking to?”

  “Our CIA head of operations in China. Your conversation will give him the signal to go ahead with the plan.” The CIA station chief had been in the Commission’s pocket for years, having been caught by them in a compromising position with a foreign agent—a male foreign agent. He’d laid all the ground work to make the rebellion appear to be the work of disgruntled students—all that was necessary was a “go” from someone in the upper echelons of the government.

  “You’ve already got a plan in place?”

  “Yes, it just needs your approval.”

  “Shouldn’t I know more about the details?”

  “Respectfully, Al, it’s better if you don’t at this point. That way if anything goes wrong, you can legitimately disavow any knowledge of the plan.”

  “I don’t know, Bob.”

  Hawthorne was beginning to lose patience. “Al, every great leader delegates. That’s all you’re doing here.”

  The vice president chewed the edge of his moustache. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. You just leave the rest to me.”

  “You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Naturally.”

  When he was gone, Hawthorne breathed a huge sigh of relief. The vice president was so wrapped up in his own ego it hadn’t occurred to Lynn Ames

  him to wonder why the chairman of the DNC, with no government position, would be involved up to his eyeballs in a plan to bring about a pro-democracy revolution all the way across the world. Not only that, but Hawthorne hadn’t even had to use the folder—yet.

  “Come in, Kate.” The president waved her into his private dining room. “No need to stand on ceremony with me, as you well know.”

  Kate could sympathize with her boss’s desire to be less formal in private. Still she couldn’t help but be mindful of the Secret Service agents standing a short, though discreet, distance away and the fact that most of the rooms in the White House, even in the residence, were monitored by recording equipment. “Good evening, sir.”

  He appraised his press secretary critically. It had been close to a month since Jay’s death. Kate’s face looked drawn, and she’d lost weight. She was still one of the most attractive women the president knew, but it was clear that she wasn’t taking care of herself.

  “Kate, it’s good to see you.” He took her hand in both of his, noting that she still wore the diamond and sapphire ring he’d seen Jay slip on her finger at the commitment ceremony.

  “And you, sir.”

  He stared hard into her eyes. “I have to be honest.” He motioned to one of the dining room chairs, pulling it out for Kate. “I’m worried about you.”

  She stopped in mid-motion just as she was about to sit. “Sir, if you’re not pleased with the job I’ve been doing…”

  “No. It isn’t that at all. I’m concerned about how you’re doing personally.”

  “Oh.” She finished seating herself and looked down at the table. “You don’t need to worry about me, sir. I’m fine.”

  “Kate, you and I have known each other for a few years, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, sir, we have.”

  “Have I ever given you a reason to believe that I’m either dense or non-observant?”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Right. So how about if you give me a little credit for being a sensitive guy here and let’s dispense with the need to put up a façade, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now then, Kate, how are you really doing?” He lowered his eyes until he reached her level, forcing her to make eye contact.

  “I’m getting by, sir. Every day is a struggle, but I’m so busy I’m sometimes able to keep thoughts of Jay out of my head.” She paused and The Value of Valor

  took a deep breath. “Every night is unbearable, and I wonder if I’ll make it until morning.”

  “I’m sure.” He patted her hand sympathetically. “Are you getting any sleep at all?”

  Kate shrugged. “Some.”

  “Are you eating? Because it looks to me like you’ve lost some weight.” He held up his hand. “I know that’s not any of my business and maybe it could even be considered inappropriate coming from your boss.

  But I’d like to think our relationship goes beyond that and you consider me a friend. I want you to understand how much I care. Heck, if my wife asks me one more time when I’m going to have you to dinner, I’m going to scream.”

  Kate laughed.

  “She’s sorry, by the way, that she couldn’t be here tonight. She’s off touring an innovative new program for crack babies in New York.”

  “Please tell her I’m sorry I missed her, as well. And no offense taken about the personal questions. I’m proud to call you a friend, sir, and I’m touched by your concern.”

  “I note, Ms. Kyle, that you still haven’t answered the question.”

  “Sir,” she gave him her best ingenuous look, “you pay me to be evasive.”

  The president laughed. �
�Don’t go starting that rumor. I’m paying you to tell the truth—our version of it, to be sure, but the truth nonetheless.”

  “Point taken.”

  There was a pause in the conversation as several servers appeared with trays of food.

  “Have you heard anything from Peter lately?”

  “I talked to him this morning, sir. He’s been working with the boys at Quantico for weeks now, trying to sift through what little evidence there was.”

  The president made a sympathetic noise. He could only imagine how he would feel if it had been his wife in the car and there had been next to nothing left. He shuddered.

  Kate went on, oblivious to the president’s thoughts. “He says he’s come up with something solid, and he’s coming back tomorrow to tell me about it in person.”

  “He wouldn’t tell you over the phone?”

  “No, and believe me, I tried.” The only thing she knew for sure was that whatever it was, it wouldn’t bring Jay back.

  The president silently noted the looked of abject sadness that crossed Kate’s face. “I hope you’ll keep me informed, Kate. I want to know.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will.”

  Lynn Ames

  “Sir, I hate to interrupt…” A Secret Service agent approached and whispered in the president’s ear.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment?” he asked Kate.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The president left the dining room and walked across the hall to his study, accompanied by the agent. “You’re sure he said he was Anton Anobly?”

  “Absolutely, sir. I asked him three times.”

  “Very well, thank you,” the president said absently. The agent backed into the shadows as the president moved to the phone on the desk. He had never expected to hear that code name again. It was one he and his best friend Keith Keniston had made up in college in case they were ever in trouble and needed to be bailed out.

  “President Hyland here.”

  “Charlie? It’s Keith. Sorry for the cloak and dagger routine, but I wanted to be extra careful.”