“I don’t have to, but I want to.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dr. Cantwell.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll talk again when I have the tests set up.”
“I want them done right away,” the president told Claire when they went into the hall and he’d waved back the handful of staff so they could speak privately. “Today, if possible.”
“I’ll make the calls this morning.”
“She’s the most important person in my life, Dr. Cantwell.” His Adam’s apple worked. “Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, I’ll do it to give her a normal, happy childhood. Even if it means resigning.”
“I’m confident it won’t come to that.”
“I hope not!” He thrust a hand through his hair. “But the stress of this job is unimaginable. Far more than I’d anticipated, even with my years as a governor. And the complete lack of privacy. You’re surrounded, every minute of the day. If that’s what’s giving Stacy these nightmares…” His voice took on a gruff edge. “If that’s what’s making her so scared…”
“We don’t know that’s the root cause. There are many other possibilities. Including,” she added, “an inherited tendency. May I ask, sir, do you dream?”
“If I do, I don’t remember the details after waking up.”
“What about Stacy’s mom? Did she have nightmares?”
“Occasionally, now that I think about it.” His forehead furrowed. “But Teo’s dreams were never like this.”
“Teo?”
Like the rest of America, Claire had read numerous articles during the long campaign that touched on John Andrews’s deceased wife. None of those articles had referred to her by anything other than Anne Elizabeth Andrews.
“Teodora was her confirmation name,” the president explained. “She got it from her grandfather on her mother’s side.”
A brief smile flitted across his face, easing the lines of stress. For a moment he looked like the boyishly handsome president who’d taken office just months ago.
“Teodore Cernak was one of the toughest old coots I’ve ever met,” he told Claire. “He was just sixteen when the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia in ’38. They conscripted him into the navy, but he deserted a year later and stowed away in the hold of a cargo ship. He snuck into this country with less than five dollars in his pocket. Twenty years later, the man owned and operated nineteen dry-cleaning shops and still cussed like a sailor.”
“He must have passed some of that toughness to Stacy. She’s a remarkable young woman, Mr. President. Together, we’ll get her through this rough patch.”
Dawn streaked the ink-black sky when Claire drove down her quiet Alexandria street. As she neared her town house she saw the sleek sports car Luis drove when not on official embassy duties still parked at the curb.
Deep in thought, she hit the garage remote. In the rush to get to the White House, Luis’s suggestion that it might be time to renegotiate their agreed-upon boundaries had slipped to the back of her mind. She hadn’t had time to reflect on it, much less formulate a response.
She wasn’t up to tackling that kind of discussion now, however. Their two deliciously exhausting sessions between the sheets and the hours she’d spent at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had her running on reserve.
Luis, thank goodness, recognized that immediately. He was in the kitchen, settled comfortably at the island counter with the early edition of the Washington Post and a mug of coffee. He’d showered, Claire saw from the dampness glistening in his black hair. And shaved. The prickly stubble that scraped her inner thighs last night was gone.
“How is Stacy?” he asked.
“Shaken.”
That’s all Claire would say, despite his very direct involvement in the situation. He understood and accepted the concise reply with a nod.
“I hope you can help her.”
“I’m certainly going to try.”
When she shrugged off her shoulder bag and dropped it on the counter, he skimmed a discerning eye over her face.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Shall I make you breakfast? Eggs scrambled with sausage and salsa?”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll pass. What I need right now is a shower, followed by a power nap. Then I have to hit the phones.”
“I understand.”
When he eased off the stool and crossed the room, his scent enveloped her. Claire succumbed to a moment of weakness. Sliding her arms around his waist, she leaned against his chest.
“God, you smell good.”
“Do you think so?” One jet-black eyebrow arched. “My staff will no doubt smirk when I arrive home smelling of your perfumed soap. I must bring my own next time. And a shaving kit to leave here.” He scraped a palm across his chin. “Your plastic razor does not do the job on my bristles.”
“Boundaries,” she murmured. “We’ll talk about them later. When we’re not so tired.”
He curled a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face to his. “Yes, querida. We will.”
His mouth brushed hers. The kiss was whisper light, yet made Claire rethink her immediate priorities.
“Now go,” he instructed, “take your nap. I’ll let myself out.”
Why was she resisting?
Her face raised to the pulsing shower stream, Claire let the water needle into her skin.
Why not take her relationship with Luis to the next level? He was intelligent, charming and a fascinating companion. Not to mention an incredibly skilled lover. Claire hadn’t enjoyed such fantastic sex since…since…
Her thoughts stumbled. It took an effort of will to articulate the emotion pinging at her. Guilt, tinged with a nagging sense of disloyalty.
The truth was, she’d never experienced such incredible sex. Dave had been as thoughtful and considerate and fun in bed as he was out of it. Yet, after those first heady years of courtship and marriage, they’d settled into what Claire now recognized as a comfortable sexual routine.
She leaned against the wet tiles and tried to imagine Luis Esteban settling into any kind of a routine, comfortable or otherwise. The man had held a host of military, governmental and diplomatic positions, each one more responsible than the last. He moved with the same confidence among kings and presidents as he had with the troops he’d once commanded. What’s more, he was at his lethal best in tight, dangerous situations. Claire could personally attest to that.
A closer relationship would require significant compromise on her part. And a considerable attitude adjustment on his. The colonel retained just enough chauvinism under that handsome, sophisticated exterior to make Claire wary. The beast was subdued, but not tamed.
Sighing, she pushed the Luis question aside for later reflection and lathered up. Mere moments later, she set the internal alarm clock she’d relied on more than once in the field and fell facedown into the pillows.
Her inner alarm didn’t fail her. She woke a little more than an hour later feeling invigorated. It was still too early to make calls, so she brewed a fresh pot of coffee and breakfasted on a toasted bagel.
She took the second cup to her office. The bits Stacy had related about the clothing of the people in the nightmares kept nagging at her. Kerchiefs and aprons? A wooden pitchfork? That didn’t sound like Cartoza. Luis’s country was one of the more progressive and economically advanced in Central America.
It did, however, sound like clothing and utensils used by farmers and country dwellers seventy-five or eighty years ago. About the time Stacy’s great-grandfather would have stowed away on a ship bound for the States.
Following a hunch, Claire powered up her laptop to continue the research Luis had interrupted last night. Only, this time she focused on case studies relating to nightmares experienced by individuals of Slavic descent.
She found several. One examined the violent dreams of people who’d survived Stalin’s brutal regime. Another looked at dream differentiation between western, eastern and southern Slavs. The third’
s title was in a foreign language, but the English translation beneath snagged Claire’s instant interest: A Theological Treatise on Skeletal Apparitions Recurring in Dreams of the People in Central Bohemia.
The study was more than six decades old and had been authored by a Father Josef Tuma. Intrigued, Claire clicked back to Google to pinpoint Bohemia’s location. She thought it had been part of the old Hapsburg empire, broken up after Germany lost WWI. She also knew the word Bohemian referred to the unconventional, Gypsy-like lifestyle adopted by artists, writers and actors during the nineteenth century. Beyond that, she had no clue.
A quick online search revealed the Eastern European region known as Bohemia had been variously populated or controlled by Celts, Slavs, Romans, Magyars, Hussites, Hungarians, Germans, Czechoslovakians and Soviets. In 1993, Bohemia became part of the newly established Czech Republic.
Claire’s pulse kicked up. She had no proof as yet that Stacy’s nightmares stemmed from an inherited tendency. But it certainly wouldn’t hurt to ask the president exactly what part of the country formerly known as Czechoslovakia his wife’s grandfather had emigrated from.
Her excitement turned to disappointment when she clicked on the link to Father Tuma’s study and discovered the Web page no longer existed. Frowning, she picked up the phone. A three-digit code connected her directly to OMEGA’s control center and identified her immediately to the agent on duty.
“Hey, Cyrene. What’s up?”
Her code name was now as familiar to her as the second skin she slid into during her missions for OMEGA. She’d chosen it when she first started with the agency years ago. She certainly couldn’t claim the physical strength of the mythical Cyrene, who’d wrestled the lion that attacked her father’s sheep, and in the process, caught Apollo’s admiring, amorous eye. But Claire had discovered an inner core of strength she hadn’t known she possessed after Dave’s brutal murder.
“Hi, Rigger,” she replied. “I need to get my hands on a document I found on the Internet. When I click on its link, though, I get a message indicating the page no longer exists.”
“E-mail me the link. I’ll have our folks work it.”
“The document is written in Czech.”
That didn’t faze Joe Devlin, code name Rigger. Oklahoma born and bred, he took his code name from the rigs he’d worked on prior to joining OMEGA. Like those rigs, he was as tough as steel beneath his easygoing exterior.
“No problem,” he said in his lazy drawl. “If we can retrieve the document, I’ll send it to the Czech embassy and get it translated.”
“Thanks. I also need to give Lightning an update on the situation with the president’s daughter. Would you ask him to contact me when he comes in?”
“He’s already hard at it downstairs. Hang on, I’ll patch you through to his office.”
Her boss’s early arrival shouldn’t have surprised Claire. A former operative himself, Nick Jensen took his responsibilities as OMEGA’s director seriously.
“I have Cyrene on the line,” Rigger informed him. “She has an update for you. Go ahead, Cyrene.”
Claire provided a succinct account of her middle-of-the-night call and second session with Stacy Andrews. She also relayed the president’s deep-seated concern—and his blunt declaration that he’d resign his office if necessary to protect his child.
Lightning muttered an oath. “Be a shame to lose the first president in a long time who’s not afraid to take on powerful lobbies and entrenched congressional interests. Stay on this, Cyrene. Whatever assets or support you need, you’ve got.”
Claire understood that without being told. The ramifications of President Andrews’s resignation so soon into his term would impact every facet of government operations.
“Keep me posted,” her boss instructed.
“I will.”
The next three days whizzed by in a frenzy of activity.
The White House physician orchestrated a complete physical workup on Stacy. Between those tests, Claire administered a series of psychological measurements.
Miraculously, Tom Fogarty somehow managed to keep those activities off the media’s radar. Claire could only imagine Stacy’s embarrassment if word leaked about her nightmares and she saw them splashed across the headlines, or discussed ad nauseam by the talking heads on TV news shows.
To the profound relief of both the president and his daughter, every physical and psychological test indicated she was a happy, well-balanced, healthy teen. The results of the sleep study conducted at Georgetown University Hospital were similarly reassuring.
Measurement of Stacy’s rapid eye movement during sleep fell well within the normal range. Her AHI—Apnea-Hypopnea Index—indicated a very low frequency per hour of respiratory events. That obviated Claire’s worry the girl might routinely stop breathing for short periods during sleep, thus reducing the oxygen supply to the brain and possibly causing the fractured thoughts that wove into bad dreams.
It may have been the test results, or simply the reassurance that her nightmares didn’t presage imminent death. Whatever the reason, Stacy slept undisturbed for several nights in a row. Everyone concerned was just beginning to breathe easy when she woke screaming and drenched in sweat again.
Claire spent another dawn at the White House, talking the girl down from her terror. Afterward, she met with the president and Tom Fogarty in the Oval Office. The vice president sat in on this meeting as well.
Silver-haired and shrewd, the VP had served six terms in the Senate and one as Secretary of Defense. He’d brought the Washington insider experience to the ticket that John Jefferson Andrews lacked. If the rumor mill was right, he was now drawing extensively on that experience, to soothe the feathers Andrews ruffled right and left with his clean-sweep policies.
Daniel Molineaux’s presence reinforced the gravity of the situation. Claire knew the vice president wouldn’t be there if Andrews hadn’t tipped him off to the possibility he might resign.
“I’m beginning to suspect these nightmares may be genetic,” she told the three men. “We’ve ruled out everything else. Do you know the region your wife’s grandfather emigrated from?” she asked the president.
“I’m not sure of the exact region.” Wearily, the president scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It was somewhere in what used to be Czechoslovakia. Bohemia, I think. Why?”
Claire’s pulse tripped. Maybe, just maybe, she’d stumbled on a possible link.
“I found a brief synopsis of a treatise written by a priest in Bohemia more than a half century ago. The study describes nightmares startlingly similar to the ones Stacy has experienced. I’ve tried to track down a copy, hoping it would help me pinpoint the root cause of Stacy’s dreams, but it’s proved hard to come by.”
To her disappointment, the computer wizards at OMEGA hadn’t been able to trace the broken link. Yet. OMEGA’s guru of all things electronic—who also happened to be Lightning’s wife, Mackenzie—had taken that one on as a personal challenge.
Nor had the Czech embassy been able to locate a copy. They had, however, located its author. Father Josef Tuma was now Cardinal Tuma, and served as the Archbishop of Prague. Claire had tried to contact him, but the cardinal was in his late eighties and increasingly frail. According to his assistant, his eminence’s bad days now outnumbered the good, and he would soon retire and retreat from public life.
“Do you need additional resources to work the problem?” the president asked tersely.
“I’ll advise if I do. In the meantime…”
She had little additional advice to offer, besides what she’d given Stacy during their first session. An exercise session at least five hours before bed, soothing baths, relaxing music on the iPod she was never without, and as normal a routine as possible.
The vice president walked Claire to the security checkpoint. Daniel Molineaux had conducted a hard-fought primary campaign against John Andrews. In the way of politics, the once-bitter rivals had joined forces after the primary. Th
eir combined ticket of youthful charisma and decades of experience had proved irresistible to voters. As a result, the longtime Washington insider many thought had a lock on the office of the president now served as an outsider determined to shake things up.
Molineaux had to find his new role as arbiter between John Andrews and the Washington establishment a challenge, yet he seemed to be carrying it off. Not that Claire was privy to the closed-door sessions and private deals that formed the stuff of life in D.C. Still, the general impression was that the vice president was doing his best to support a president whose views he’d vigorously opposed during the primary.
That could all change now, though, depending on what happened with Stacy Andrews. The man who’d fought so hard to win the Oval Office was once again within striking distance. The prospect put a deep crease between his thick, snowy brows.
“How confident are you that you’ll find the root cause of Stacy’s nightmares, Dr. Cantwell?”
She was more hopeful than confident at this point.
“I’ll keep working the problem until I find some way to help her.”
Nodding, he echoed the president’s grim assurances. “All the assets of the White House are at your disposal. Just ask, and we’ll supply whatever you need.”
“I will,” she promised.
Another case claimed Claire’s attention for most of the following day.
A battered wife and mother she’d counseled for several years took a brutal beating from her ex-cop husband. The hospital contacted Claire. She spent hours with the distraught, utterly despairing woman. More hours arranging shelter for her and her children.
At the wife’s urgent request, she accompanied the shattered family to the shelter and saw them settled before meeting Luis for a late dinner at their favorite Asian restaurant in Old Town. He listened gravely while she related some of the details of her troubling day. Only later, as they left the restaurant, did she bring up the other case weighing heavily on her mind.
“I may have to fly to Prague.”
Arm in arm, they strolled through the spring night. The restaurant was only a few blocks from Claire’s condo. Too close to drive, even if the night hadn’t been so warm and balmy. Besides, she knew Luis would take advantage of the open air to light up. The tip of his thin cigar glowed in the dusk as he gave her a questioning glance.
Seduced by the Operative Page 4