Chapter 53
Rosarito Beach, MX
December 20, 8:00 a.m.
Natalia jumped down from her horse, patted its bony, sweat-stained haunches, and led it toward a weathered shack with a sign: “Establos de Playa.” She tied its reins to a post in front. Spotting a rusty bucket of water beside the shack, she hauled it over. The horse plunged its head into the bucket and sucked noisily.
Phil rode over on his dappled-gray horse. She watched as he dismounted awkwardly, as if he’d never done it before. “Are you okay?” she asked. He nodded.
“Gringo cocksuckers!”
The old Mexican man on the donkey caught up with them. “You kill my horses!”
Natalia’s emotions were in turmoil: She felt rage at Vaclav and a creeping despair over the loss of her dream of true love. But she also felt jubilant from her unexpected, exhilarating escape on horseback.
“C’mon, your horses had as much fun as we did! How much do we owe you?”
The Mexican seemed surprised that she was eager to pay. “$60! Double cuz you kill my horses!”
She turned to Phil. “I’m afraid FLOTUS doesn’t carry cash.”
Phil dipped into his backpack, pulled out his wallet, and checked inside. “I’ve only got a twenty.”
“No problem.” She snatched the bill from him and walked over to the Mexican. He dismounted slowly, groaning, as if every bone in his body ached. “Señor?” She handed him the money. He looked at it and frowned. “Do you have a mobile phone?” she asked.
“Que?”
“A cell phone? A mobile phone with a camera?” She mimed taking a photo. “I will take a selfie with you.”
Wrinkling his brow in confusion, the Mexican pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his dusty jeans. Natalia grabbed it and set it to take a selfie. She held the phone out at arm’s length, slung her other arm around the man, and gave him an affectionate squeeze. He flinched, surprised. She checked the framing. “You’re not smiling,” she said to him. “Smile!” He managed a toothless grin.
Natalia snapped a few selfies and handed him the phone. “Show your amigos. One of them will know who I am. You can sell the picture for mucho dinero!”
She walked back over to her horse and patted him. “You did good. Thank you,” she said. With a wave to Phil, she walked toward a gravel road that wound through the sand dunes.
“Wait!” He ran to catch up with her. They walked along for a few minutes in silence. She stepped over a dead rattlesnake that had been flattened by a tire. The glare of the morning sun bore down on her fuzz-covered head. She put her hand over it, feeling more vulnerable than ever.
“Here.” Phil rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a battered blue L.A. Dodgers baseball cap. “You need this.”
“That, and a lot more,” she said. From his blank expression, she gathered that he didn’t get her irony. She put on the hat. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
They continued walking on the dusty road.
“So, Phil, why did you do that?”
“Give you the hat?”
“No. Why did you rescue me?”
He stopped to think about it, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him. “I was a Boy Scout?” He said it tentatively, as if unsure whether that explained it or not. Natalia remembered when her brother, Franc, joined the Boy Scouts in Slovakia. “Do a Good Turn Daily,” was their slogan. Franc didn’t do a “good turn” even once. They kicked him out.
“How did you know I was in Baja?”
Phil lowered his eyes, gazing shyly at the ground. “I’ve taken a lot of pictures of you, Madame First Lady.”
“I know that.”
“It makes me feel that I know you at least a little bit, Madame First Lady.”
“Please don’t call me Madame First Lady. It makes me sound like a dictator’s wife.” She chuckled. “Which I guess, in a way, I am. Anyway, my name’s Natalia.”
“I know, er, Natalia.”
“So, okay, you take pictures of me. How did that lead you to find me?”
“Well, I studied my photos of you and your hairdresser leaving the White House.”
“How did you know that was me? Do you work for the CIA?”
He smiled nervously, as if unsure if she was joking. “Then, on the beach this morning, it looked like your, er, boyfriend, or whatever, like he was trying to make you do something you didn’t want to. I mean, I was far away, but I have this very long telephoto lens. I could see your face like I was right next to you. You sure were angry!”
“You got that right!”
“So that Mexican guy was walking his horses on the beach—”
“And you borrowed a couple?”
“Yeah, I borrowed them.”
“First time on a horse?”
“You got that right!”
“Fun, right? Yee-haw!”
He nodded. “Yee-haw!”
“I’m glad you did it. Thank you.”
Natalia spotted a bus stop across the street and hurried toward it. He kept up with her. She frowned. “So what are you going to do now? Sell your best shots of me and my boyfriend to the National Enquirer? Make enough money to put your kids through college?”
“I don’t have kids. I don’t have a family, except for my mom in Pasadena.”
She sat down on the bus-stop bench. “Can I see the pictures you took of me?” She snatched his backpack and rummaged inside it.
He sat down beside her. “The pictures are on my laptop and in my camera.”
“Really?” She pulled out a file folder. “What’s in here?” She opened it and looked through the photos of Pasadena’s famous buildings and landmarks. “These are nice! Beautiful! How come you don’t take serious photos, like these? I mean, what kind of life is it lurking around the White House for a chance to get one cheap shot of me?” She put the folder back in the backpack. “No money in historic buildings, right?”
He hesitated, unsure what to say next. “Y’know, I’m sorry I took all those pictures of you and…that guy,” he said softly. “I mean, I could see how much he meant to you and that stuff you did together last night was pretty private.”
“You took pictures of us last night?”
He nodded guiltily. “And of you fighting on the beach today. It must be hard for you. I can only imagine how you feel.”
“I feel like hovno, like shit, Phil. And disappointed. I’m sad it didn’t work out with the man I thought was my true love. Most of all, I’m angry at myself for being so goddamned hlúpy, stupid!” She fought back tears.
A horn blasted. Natalia looked up, expecting a bus. Instead, a dusty Range Rover screeched up. Two brawny Mexicans barreled out of it. They pointed pistols at them. “Vamanos!”
Natalia’s heart jumped. Phil raised his hands. “Don’t hurt us, please!”
One thug opened the rear door to the Range Rover and motioned for them to climb in. The last thing Natalia saw before a gunnysack was shoved over her head was a striking Mexican teenager in cutoffs in the back seat. Clutching the plastic Target shopping bag that Natalia had lost on the beach, she was smiling broadly, as if she had just won the lottery.
Chapter 54
The White House
December 20, 12:00 p.m.
Repulsive. The President of the United States is repulsive, thought Moon.
Across from where she sat primly on a sofa in the Oval Office, a smile pasted on her First Lady face, Funck was hunched forward in an armchair. He was holding a coffee cup, his legs spread wide, his gut lolling over his belt, his long red tie dangling below his crotch like a wayward testicle. Cookie crumbs flew out of his mouth as he pontificated to his honored guests from Bangladesh about the future of the planet. Amazing how Rex can avoid the use of words like “global warming” and “climate change” when talking to statesmen from a country that will be underwater in ten years, she thought. Not one of the three short, dark-skinned Bangladeshi men could get a word in edgewise. But Moon had quick
ly learned that this was how it always went during diplomatic meet-and-greets with the President.
Her only job was to sit still, nod politely, and say nothing more than, “Pleased to meet you,” and “So happy you could join us” in her best Natalia voice. No more visits to hospitals for this First Lady. Gretchen had decreed that Moon was only allowed to join meetings and events within the White House, where she, Sally-Ann, and Special Agent Pricker could keep a close eye on her. Sally-Ann sat in a chair behind Moon, hugging her Tory Burch tote bag as if it were a lap dog. Moon had dubbed her “Sally-Ann the Minder.”
At least Gretchen had allowed Moon to buy a few items of designer clothing for her First Lady public appearances. It kept her from going stir-crazy. She smoothed down the bodice of the $3,000 yellow Victoria Beckham maxi-dress that she had selected for today’s Oval Office meeting. It fit in with the yellow-and-cream-striped upholstered sofa.
Tuning out Funck’s monologue, Moon fantasized about lying in bed this afternoon and googling “expensive designer women’s clothing” on the heavily monitored iPad that Gretchen had given her. Suddenly, the First Daughter walked into the Oval Office. Teetering in her five-inch-high Manolo stilettos, she rushed over to the President.
“You all know the First Daughter and future President,” he said proudly, putting his arm around her. “What is it, baby?” Moon cringed that he called his thirty-six-year-old daughter “baby” and fondled her in public. Gretchen whispered into his ear. Handing off his coffee cup to her, he lurched to his feet. “Everyone out!” He clapped his hands, as if his distinguished foreign guests were the hired help. “President Popovich is calling on Skype!”
The Bangladeshis bowed low as they backed out of the Oval Office, as if Rex were the king of England. Moon stayed put, hoping that Gretchen wouldn’t notice her. Rex never did. She was curious to watch a call between these two world leaders. She wondered which was worse? Funck or Popovich?
Rex walked over and sat down behind his antique mahogany desk, putting his feet up. Moon noticed flattened lavender bubble gum on the sole of his left shoe. She wondered if he had fucked a teeny-bopper at the Funck Hotel last night. Who else would chew lavender bubble gum?
Rex fiddled with the computer on his desk. “How the hell do you get Skype?”
“Oh, Daddy. You’re so silly!” Gretchen walked over, grabbed the mouse, and deftly clicked on Skype. She stood behind her father, her face out of range of his Skype video camera. Moon stealthily stepped around the side of Rex’s desk so that she could watch without being noticed. Sally-Ann quietly parked her tote bag on the chair and followed.
Boris Popovich’s pale, haggard face filled the computer screen.
“Hey, how’s it going, Boris?” said Rex. “I’m hoping you can come spend a weekend with us at Beau Rivage in Palm Beach!” Eying his own small video image in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, Rex smoothed down his comb-over and checked his teeth for gunk. “We’ll play some golf, hang out in the sauna. I want to talk to you about this deal that’s great for Russia, great for the U.S. You’re gonna love it.” He came out with it, flashing a pitchman smile: “How about building a Funck International Hotel in Kiev?”
“Kiev is in Ukraine, not in Russia,” said Popovich.
“Oh. Well, I bet Kiev won’t always be in Ukraine, not if you have your way, right, Boris?” On-screen, Popovich didn’t move a muscle. “Anyway, Natalia and I would love to get you down to Beau Rivage. How about this weekend?”
A sly smile crept across the Russian President’s face. “Natalia will be back in U.S. by then?”
“Huh?”
“You did not know? Natalia is in Rosarito Beach, Mexico.”
“What?”
“My sources spotted your First Lady on the beach. Want to see?” Popovich showed a screen beside him that projected a photo taken from a helicopter: a fuzzy-headed Natalia galloping across the sand on a skinny brown horse, her Mexican peasant skirt flapping in the wind. “Natalia is good rider,” he said. “I will take her riding at my dacha sometime. She will ride Cossack stallion!”
Tongue-tied, Rex glanced over his shoulder at Gretchen. She whispered in his ear. “Yeah, Natalia loves to ride,” he said to Popovich, doing his best to recover. “That’s why she went to Mexico. She’s on a little horseback-riding vacation.”
“Really? With this guy?” Popovich pushed a button and a selfie flashed on his screen: a handsome Slavic-looking man with a ponytail sitting on a bed beside a sleeping Natalia. They were both naked.
Holy shit, thought Moon. That must be Vaclav.
“Okay, Popovich, what do you want?” Rex’s eyes narrowed, his mouth forming that fish “O” that reminded Moon of a big fleshy koi. “How about I build you that Funck International Hotel in Kiev at my own expense?”
“I told you: Kiev is not in Russia. How about you cancel the economic sanctions you slapped on my Russian colleagues, especially our mutual friends Igor, Arkady, and Oleg? You play golf with them, no? How could you do that to golf—?”
“I had to do sanctions on them. The press was up my ass, saying you fucked around with our Presidential election.”
“You think you’d be sitting where you are right now if we hadn’t?”
“That’s fake news!”
“Whatever you say.” Popovich’s face hardened. “So you ‘had to do sanctions?’” He flashed another selfie on his screen: Vaclav beaming at the camera while making love to Natalia from behind, her face to the wall. “I ‘had to do’ pretty pictures.”
Moon saw that Rex was sweating profusely and his face was turning red, warning signs of a stroke. She tensed, her RN persona kicking in.
“You motherfucker!” yelled Rex. “I’m not taking this shit from you, Popovich! Who do you think you’re fucking talking to?” He looked around on the computer for a button to turn off Skype. He was clueless. As if ready to explode, he stood up from his desk and stormed across the room. “Go fuck yourself!” he shouted. “You and your fucking oligarchs!”
On Skype, Moon saw Popovich reach for the button to turn off his own computer. Before he could, Gretchen slipped into Rex’s desk chair and smiled. “President Popovich? Hi, I’m Gretchen Funck. We met at the summit meeting, remember?” Popovich didn’t respond.
Moon heard a ffft and glanced over at Rex. Guzzling from a newly opened can of Diet Coke, he slumped down onto a sofa. He grabbed the remote and aimed it at the TV: FOX News clicked on.
“Anyway, I want you to know I just talked to Daddy,” continued Gretchen. “Good news! He’s more than happy to lift the economic sanctions against your distinguished Russian colleagues.”
“Yes?” Popovich was scowling, unconvinced.
“Absolutely! Consider it done! So, like, can you kill any fake news about the First Lady being in Mexico? And, I mean, can Daddy trust you to burn those photos?”
“He doesn’t trust President of Russia?”
“Of course he does. It’s just, y’know… Okay, the truth? It’s really me, President Popovich. I’m pretty new at this politics thing, so I just need, like, your reassurance.”
Popovich narrowed his eyes into slits. “I hear someday you are running for President of United States.”
“I sure hope so, President Popovich! And I bet you’ll still be ruling Russia when I do!”
“You can count on that!” Offscreen, an aide handed him a shot glass brimming with a clear liquid that Moon guessed was vodka. “And you can trust me.” He lifted his glass. “Na zdorovye!” He chugged the shot.
“Cheers to you, too, President Popovich! And thanks so much! I hope we’ll see you down at Beau Rivage soon!” Gretchen clicked on the Skype “Off” button. Popovich’s face disappeared.
With a sigh of relief, she sank back in her father’s chair. “I hope that bastard is still in office when I’m President! I’ll nuke his ass!” Rex didn’t respond, allowing FOX News to wash over him.
Her iPhone buzzed, throbbing on top of Rex’s desk. She looked at the screen
to see who was calling. “Fuck.” She scooped up the phone and punched the “On” button. “Conner? This better be good!” She listened. “You saw Natalia riding a horse on the—?” She listened another beat. “She disappeared?”
“Tell Conner his ass is fired!” Rex shouted from the sofa.
“No, Conner, you are definitely not fired,” Gretchen said into her phone. “Daddy was overreacting. He does that sometimes, don’t you? In fact, Daddy is promoting you to special agent! Is that cool, or what?” She listened again. “Of course you can drive the Beast in the Presidential motorcade. President Funck would love that!” She listened again. “You’re welcome, but Conner, there is only one caveat.” She listened, rolling her eyes. “What’s a ‘caveat?’ It’s, like, a thing, a condition. You only get to drive the Beast if you do it.” She listened again. “You can’t guess the ‘thing,’ Conner? The ‘condition?’ Well, then listen to me and listen good: If you tell anyone, and I mean anyone, the fake news about the First Lady in Mexico, you will not be driving the fucking Beast. I will personally throw you under the fucking Beast! Now get your ass back to Washington!”
She pressed the “Off” button and threw the phone onto the desk. “Fuck me,” she murmured. Then, with a sudden sweep of her arm, she knocked the phone onto the floor and put her head on the desk, face-first. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me!” she mumbled into the burnished mahogany.
Moon and Sally-Ann stealthily returned to the sofa across from the President’s. Moon didn’t know what amazed her more: that the conversations she had just heard actually took place, or that neither the President nor the First Daughter realized she was in the room.
Chapter 55
Helicopter over Baja, MX
December 20, 1:00 p.m.
Phil sat in the rear of the cramped four-seat helicopter, shoulder-to-shoulder with Natalia. He glanced down at the mountainous desert landscape far below them. He was relieved that before the helicopter had lifted off, the Mexican teenager in the Range Rover removed the gunnysacks from their heads and the ropes binding their wrists. “I’m Rosa,” she said. “I wanna make sure you catch the awesome view. Baja at its best!”
The First Lady Escapes Page 25