“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. T
hey 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
Executive Privilege Page 4