by Radclyffe
"Blair..."
Abruptly, Blair turned and walked directly across the lobby and into the open elevator. Stark followed her in and the doors closed soundlessly behind them.
Turning to Davis and the others, Cam said bitingly, "I'll be on my pager."
"Roger," Felicia Davis replied, her expression carefully neutral.
Cam turned without another word, pushed through the double doors, and was quickly lost to the dark.
C hapter S ixteen
Cam hesitated briefly on the sidewalk. It was two o'clock in the morning. She glanced up and diagonally across the block-wide oasis of trees that comprised Gramercy Park to the building where she lived when in New York City on assignment. The prospect of pacing for several sleepless hours in her utilitarian apartment held little appeal. The prospect of tossing in her solitary bed trying to forget the way Blair had looked walking away from her held even less. Quickly, she walked to the southeast corner of the square and flagged a cab. She gave the cabbie an intersection in the East Village.
Traffic was light in the small hours of the morning in Manhattan, even though there was more activity there at any hour than in any other American city. When she paid the driver and stepped out, there were still people strolling on the sidewalks, and here and there music wafted from the open doors of taverns and all-night restaurants. It was a short walk to her destination, and less than a half an hour after leaving Blair's building, she was seated on a corner barstool in a small, neighborhood bar. The bartender, a hard-bodied, hard-eyed brunette came over almost immediately. The muscles in her well-developed shoulders and upper arms strained the fabric of the tight white T-shirt she wore tucked into faded blue jeans.
"How you doin'?"
"Fine," Cam said. "Glenlivet. Double--straight up."
"Sure thing."
A minute later, Cam was sipping the aged, single malt scotch and trying to make sense of the last few hours.
Hell, the last few days.
She turned the glass aimlessly on the bar top and tried to make sense of a puzzle from which too many pieces were missing. It had started with the debriefing in Washington and Stewart Carlisle's odd capitulation to Doyles bullying threats of an investigation and had culminated with the night's oblique threat to Blair. And then, of course, there was Claire.
She sighed wearily. “Claire.
From beside her, a voice softly questioned, "Girlfriend?"
Cam jumped, startled, and that in itself spoke volumes about her muddled state of mind. Or perhaps just her persistent state of fatigue. She turned her eyes to the redhead who had slipped onto the barstool beside her without her even noticing. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, but might be a decade older. Her green eyes were wide and liquid with invitation, and her high, full breasts--shown off to their full advantage in a scoop-necked tank top that exposed plenty of cleavage in addition to the sharp prominences of her nipples--were ripe with promise.
"Has to be a woman to make you look that down," the woman remarked again.
"No." Cam shook her head. "Just thinking."
"If there's something--or someone--you'd like to forget for a few hours, I can think of a couple of interesting ways to help you out."
"No, thanks," Cam said, smiling slightly. "What I need is to think, not forget."
"It never pays to think alone," the redhead said, leaning closer, her fingers pressing lightly on the top of Cam's right hand.
"I'm not alone," Cam said softly.
The woman studied her silently for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll let you get back to whatever is keeping you up tonight."
With that she moved away and Cam returned to studying her drink. The touch of the stranger's hand had made her think of Claire.
Claire. Is she a part of this?
Until a few days ago, she had thought that chapter of her life closed.
After she hung up the phone, Cam hurriedly crossed to the bedroom, stripped off the robe, and grabbed for the first thing that was handy. She was just buttoning the fly of her jeans when the doorbell rang. Quickly, she pulled on the T-shirt and opened the door.
“ Hello, Claire.
"I'm sorry," the woman in the hallway began. "I know I shouldn't have come --"
"No. It's all right." Cam extended her hand, and Claire took it. "Come inside."
Claire was dressed as she often was--tasteful evening dress and matching heels, her blond hair in a French twist, her makeup flawless, and her jewelry expensive. She hesitated just inside the door, then dropped her purse onto the mail table in the small foyer. "You look tired. It's late, isnt it? God, I should go."
"Come into the living room. Can I get you a drink?"
"Wine, if you have it."
Several minutes later, Cam joined Claire on the sofa in front of the windows where less than thirty minutes before she had been sitting speaking to her lover. She forced the image of Blair from her mind and handed the glass of cabernet to the woman who had made love to her countless times. The lines of stress around Claire's eyes were obvious. "What is it?"
"I've been hearing things from my...colleagues...for the last several weeks. Someone has been asking questions."
Cam frowned. "Someone has been trying to get information out of the...escorts?"
Claire smiled, her blue eyes troubled. "First you must understand--with this establishment, confidentiality is absolutely the most critical service we provide. Every one of us is thoroughly screenedthere are background checks to rival the federal governments, known associates are identified, resumes, transcripts--everything ever documented is reviewed. No one gives out information about a client. It just doesn't happen."
"But now you think someone's been talking?"
"I don't know." Claire shook her head. "All I know is that someone, or someones , have certainly been asking questions."
"And why are you telling me?"
"Because they're asking questions about the President."
Cam shrugged. "There have been rumors going around Washington since before he was elected that he uses a...service for his...social needs. That's not news."
"I know," Claire said. "But this is the first time any of us has been approached. For one thing, our names are carefully omitted from any transactions--even on paper. No one has access to our true identities, so it's almost impossible for us to be individually associated with any particular establishment or client. But more than one of us has been questioned about him."
Cam was quiet, considering the information. "Which means that someone may have identified your organization and gotten access to your files."
"Yes. And if that's the case, they might have access to much more than just the escort identities. They may have the client lists."
"Ah, I see." Cam rubbed her forehead with one hand, trying desperately to assuage the pounding headache that was making it difficult for her to think. "Are you here to warn me?"
"Partly, and..."
"What?"
"I know who you are."
"Meaning?" Cam asked quietly.
"Your picture has been on television."
"Yes," Cam acknowledged with a sigh. "I suppose you've known for a long time."
Claire rested her hand on Cam's thigh. It was the first time she had touched her in almost six months. "It's my business not to know who you are. My only responsibility is to know what you need."
The touch of Claire's hand stirred a visceral memory that was as automatic as the awakening of hunger stirred by a familiar smell. For months after Janet's death, Cam had wanted nothing more than the few hours of dreamless sleep that the satisfaction of Claire's caress had given her. Her body had grown used to the stroke of Claires fingers. Cams nerve endings remembered, too, and her breath quickened. Ignoring the sweet stab of unbidden desire, she asked, "Has anyone asked about me specifically?"
"Not that I know of, but I've only heard these rumors from a few people. There may be other things I don't know about yet."
"I'm not sure what
I can do with this information, or what I can do about it," Cam said.
"I don't know that there's anything to do, especially if we're as compromised as it seems. But I don't want to see anyone hurt--especially not the President." She lifted her eyes to Cam's, resting her fingers lightly now against her cheek. Her lips were very close to Cam's when she whispered, "Or you."
Cam jerked, as if feeling the warmth of Claire's fingers again. That was a memory she could not afford to ponder. She rubbed her eyes, then quickly downed the rest of her scotch. Tomorrow, she would be with Claire. Then, perhaps, she would find some answers.
*****
Blair turned over in bed and looked at the clock. The red numerals showed it to be shortly after 1:00 a.m. With a sigh, she threw back the light sheet and swung her legs to the floor. Naked, she walked through the moonlit loft and stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park below. From her vantage point she could see Cam's building, and she knew which were her windows. Her lover's apartment was dark. She knew she shouldn't wake her, because by now, she recognized the subtle signs of pain that Cam would never speak of. The faint deepening of the lines around her eyes and the slight, nearly imperceptible tightening of her shoulders as she shifted her position in a chair. What Cam needed now was to sleep and to heal.
Finally, Blair returned to her bed and sat on the edge, watching flickers of unearthly light dance across the hardwood floor, caught between reason and desire. A very long time ago, she had taught herself not to need the solace of a woman's body in the dark. She never spent the night with anyone she made love to; she never sought the sound of another's voice to console her pain or assuage her fears. She slept alone and she bore her uncertainty and disappointment and loneliness in silence.
Everything had changed when Cam had come into her life.
Almost against her will, she reached for the phone. A minute later, after listening to it ring unanswered, she laid the receiver carefully into its cradle. Then she stretched out on the bed, rolled onto her side, and closed her eyes. It was a long time before her breathing eased into the steady, quiet cadence of sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Cam shook her head groggily as the alarm droned beside her. She wasn't certain how long it had been buzzing as she slowly emerged from a dreamless sleep to the insistent sound. Stifling another groan, she reached out with one arm and blindly swatted in the direction of the clock. Finally, she succeeded in silencing the din. After another minute, she forced herself upright and headed for the bathroom. With the shower set more to cold than warm, she stepped in and turned her face to the pinpricks of water. It was early, and she wondered if Blair was still asleep. In that one unguarded moment, loneliness crested on a swift stab of pain. Then, just as quickly, she forced it from her consciousness.
****
At precisely 0730, Cam walked into the conference room on the seventh floor of Blair's apartment building, the level directly below Blairs and entirely occupied by the Secret Service team. The major portion of the floor was a large open space subdivided by shoulder-high walls into workstations and monitoring areas. In the far corner past a warren of cramped desks was the glass enclosed area which served as the meeting room for Cam and her agents. At the moment, most of the team was present, since the night shift was present to report before going off-duty and the day shift had just arrived to take over the watch. Usually there were one or more swing agents available as well to cover unexpected events or supply double coverage on short notice if needed.
This was the first time the team had convened at Command Central since the night the operation to apprehend Loverboy had nearly ended in disaster. Ellen Grant's absence was conspicuous.
Almost everyone had coffee in some form in front of them, carryout cups from nearby delis a subtle indictment of the office brew that was often hours old. Cam strode to the head of the table and nodded to the men and women facing her. Without preamble, she began.
"I presume all of you have seen the newspaper article from last night. Obviously, we can anticipate increased media attention whenever Egret leaves the building. There's a camera crew on the northeast corner of the square right now."
That statement was met with several groans and a few unflattering comments as to the nature of the Fourth estate.
"That means we can also expect close approach from the press--singly and in groups. Be alert for press credentials and have a very low threshold for containing or diverting anyone who is without the appropriate identification or who encroaches on her personal perimeter. If at all possible, move her quickly from the vehicle to any public venue. Well go to high security status today. We have no reason at this point to think they know about the gym or any of her private appointments. Nevertheless, don't make any assumptions."
Everyone nodded. Then Cam looked to Mac. "I'll be meeting with Egret per usual at 1100 hours. Hopefully, I'll be able to update the weekly schedule with her and pass along that information to you for a more concrete itinerary." Surveying the group again, she added, "Mac will have your schedule assignments then."
"What are we going to do about finding the slimeball who took that picture?" Paula Stark questioned. The righteous indignation in her voice was obvious.
Briefly, Cam wondered how many of her agents knew that she was the person depicted in the photograph kissing the President's daughter.
"For now, nothing," Cam responded bluntly. She almost smiled at the expressions of outrage on the faces of her agents. The fact that they were all ferociously dedicated to Blair pleased her. She raised a hand to stem the questions that were sure to be forthcoming. "I need to brief first with DC. I can tell you this--we're not going to take this lying down."
That statement prompted an assortment of good, for sure and damn rights .
"In addition to routine matters, we need to gear up for the trans-Atlantic trip. I want status reports on my desk by this afternoon as to who will be our liaison in Paris, the itinerary, the report from the security chief at the hotel, an update on all terrorist cells known to be operating in France, with particular emphasis on Paris and its environs, and dossiers on the French security members assigned to every function at which Egret will be present."
"Were on that, Commander," Mac assured her. "I'll collate the material we have for you this afternoon."
"Very good." Cam shrugged her shoulders to ease some of the stiffness in her neck and back. "Mac, I'd like to see you, please. The rest of you, carry on."
Once the room had cleared, Cam sat down across from her second in command and briefly rubbed her eyes. Then, she leaned forward and met his steady gaze. "I want to know where that photograph came from. Make some inquiries to the wire services, contact the managing editor of the Post, and dig around at the Intel Ops center in DC. Be discrete if you can, but pull rank if you have to."
Mac, a scrupulous detail man, was conspicuously not taking notes. What she was asking was outside the Agency chain of command, because strictly speaking, someone in DC should coordinate this kind of intelligence gathering with the FBI. But then, the Secret Service did not share intelligence with the FBI, nor ask them for any. "What do we know about specifics--time frame, location?"
For a moment, Cam was silent. Mac would have no reason to know the circumstances under which the image had been captured, and she could keep her part in it under wraps--at least for now. As a Secret Service agent, she was indoctrinated in the policy of silence. One did not discuss a protectee; one did not discuss Agency business with other departments; one did not discuss procedure. Solitary since childhood, circumspect with her own emotional pain--unable and unwilling to add to her mother's agony with her own seemingly inconsequential anguish after the death of her father, she had learned to keep her own counsel. The habits of a lifetime compounded by the requirements of her profession made it difficult for her to disclose anything to anyone, no matter how much she trustedor loved--them. The silence in the room grew, a silence during which Mac sat quietly, simply waiting.
"The photograph was taken at approximately 0130 three nights ago on the waterfront in San Francisco."
One blond eyebrow raised, his only sign of surprise, whether at the information or the fact that she knew it, Cam couldn't tell.
"I never got a report that we'd lost her at anytime in San Francisco," he said.
"We didn't."
"Then how did she manage to get away from us long enough for anyone to get that shot?"
His confusion was evident, and she made a decision that in all probability would alter the course of her career forever.
"She didn't leave our sight. The person in the photograph with her is me."
His reaction was not precisely what she had expected.
"Well then, where the fuck were the rest of our people? How in the hell did they let anyone get that close to her. Jesus, talk about a security failure."
Cam shrugged, a rueful grin on her face. "She and I were not directly in their sight line, although they should have had an excellent perimeter view. One thought I hadafter the fact unfortunately--is that he was on one of the nearby piers with a night scope. He could have gotten fairly close to us but probably wouldn't have raised any particular suspicion from the team. They were most likely focusing on foot traffic on the beach."
"Commander, may I speak freely?" Mac asked softly.
"Go ahead, Mac."
He held her eyes as he said firmly, "I consider it my responsibility--the responsibility of the entire team--to protect her not just physically, but from this kind of invasion as well. I know it's not completely possible to deny the press access to her, but dammit, this is something personal. The public has no right to know this. I don't want it to happen again."
"I don't know that we can stop it, Mac," Cam replied. Frustrated, she strafed her hair with a hand. "I'm not even sure I know how to stop it. But someone released this photograph, and I want to know who they are and how they got it. I want to know--" she hesitated, because the next words came hard. Harder than almost anything she had ever said. "I need to know if it came from one of us."