by James Bruno
As she fetched herself a Coke, she caught snatches of conversation, though Tulliver had his back to her. He gave a rundown on the consultations, then asked what was happening at the other end.
“Fennimore? Wants to see me? I said goodbye to the poor slob already—. He’s angry? Well, that’s tough shit. The son-of-a-bitch should’ve…Wants to tell me what? Aww, Dan! I leave town for a couple of days and you start going soft on me. Fennimore’s history and I have you to thank for it. Tell Marge to take the calls but otherwise to be non-committal. He’s in therapy, right? Have Marge send him a get well card from me. That’s the last I ever want to hear about that loser.
“McHenry. Hah! I didn’t know he’d come out of his coma,” Tulliver said sarcastically. Dan, I’m looking to you to make sure he’s shut out on this thing. I don’t care if he does complain to the President. Send him over some anodyne horseshit. Make something up. I’ll deal with him when I get back. Meantime, you keep State tied up in knots, doing what they’re good at: wiping each other’s asses.”
Tulliver snorted gleefully and gulped his Martini.
“Goldman tried to do himself in? How? Jesus. What is it with these guys anyway? I told you they were all weak characters. The house cleaning came none too soon. Kaiser’s just the guy we need over at State. A kick-ass-and-take-name Marine.”
For the first time, Lisa got a glimpse of the real Tulliver, shorn of his official veneer. And she didn’t like what she saw and heard. As she sipped her Coke, she pondered whether the absence of humaneness in her professional life came with the territory or emanated from this lone, power-driven figure. And what a contrast Buckwheat Thompson was in this sterile, testosterone-overdrive environment.
Tulliver stiffened. He looked around furtively, then cupped the phone receiver’s mouthpiece with one hand and hunched like a beast over a fresh kill; the bold statements turned to muffled conversation. Lisa heard “First Lady” but nothing else. After a minute, he raised his voice again to issue last instructions, said a hasty goodbye and hung up.
Tulliver lowered himself into the reproduction Louis XIV desk chair and commenced to scribble notes, not acknowledging the presence of another human being in the room. Lisa felt uneasy. After several awkward moments, she rose quietly, took her purse and began to tip-toe toward the door.
“Lisa.” Tulliver pronounced her name in the same stretched-out tone that her mother used when, as a little girl, she sought clandestinely to filch a cookie from a jar. Tulliver continued his writing, did not lift his gaze. “I’d like you to do something.”
“Yes, Mr. Tulliver.”
“John.”
“Yes…John.”
“Have a seat.”
Lisa reseated herself on the sofa.
“I want you to write up the results of our meetings with the British. Make it ‘Eyes Only - for the President.’”
“Right. By when do you need it?”
“You can draft it on the plane tomorrow. Give it to my secretary to put in final. I want the President to have it right after we put into Andrews. I don’t want it transmitted electronically. No one is to see it besides the two of us. No one. Understand?”
Lisa nodded.
Tulliver finished his scribbling. He placed his notes into a large envelope. Finally, he looked up at Lisa. A slight grin formed; his eyes fairly sparkled over the half-lenses of his reading glasses. He appeared as if the not-inconsiderable weight of the work of state had magically lifted.
He went to the bar and replenished his Martini. He turned to Lisa and raised his eyebrows to solicit her drink preference.
“Oh. I’ve got a Coke,” she murmured.
“Ever been to Cuba, Lisa?”
“Why, no. Not exactly a vacation mecca for Americans these days.”
“They make a splendid refreshment called Mojito. It was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite. The best is still served at one of his old watering holes in Old Havana, La Bodeguita.” Tulliver expertly threw together dark rum, lime juice and ice in a mixer, shook the concoction and poured it into a glass with seltzer which he garnished with a mint sprig. He handed it to Lisa. “Salud!” He extended his glass.
Lisa took the drink, clinked glasses and sipped the Mojito. The ice-cold tartness went down well. She hated to admit it to herself, but it was just what she needed on the heels of non-stop work amid impossible deadlines and a cardiac-inducing crisis atmosphere.
“You know, Lisa, we’re very happy with your performance. A woman so young who has such a firm grasp on things is a rarity.”
Lisa smiled at him.
“I’m convinced that you have squelched more criticism of the Administration on the Bosnia situation than otherwise might have been the case.” He refilled her glass.
She’d been thinking long and hard about the punishing work pressure and her yearning to free herself from it. For weeks she had been rehearsing a request for lighter duties to deliver to Tulliver or Haley when the opportunity presented itself.
“The work is great, but I—”
“Sshhh,” a clearly tipsy Tulliver expressed with one finger to his lips. “I propose a toast.” He stood up and offered his replenished glass. “To peace in the Balkans.”
Ever alert, Lisa rose instantly, though the rum had already affected her sense of balance, causing her to waver. She lifted her half-empty glass, which Tulliver wasted not a second in filling.
They again clinked glasses and drank. Hers was full yet again before her dulled brain could sense the action.
“And to the foreign policy successes of the President,” Tulliver added.
They toasted and drank again.
Lisa fell back onto the sofa and let out a very deep breath. She took a long draw of her Mojito, which, on an empty stomach, shot like a comet to her benumbed brain. With her eyes shut tight, all of her senses seemed to concentrate on the tingling burn of the ice-cold Mojito wending its way effortlessly down her willing gullet. She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. They were unfeeling.
By the time she sensed Tulliver’s body next to hers, she had no idea whether it was a minute, five minutes or fifteen minutes later.
“And here’s to another four years of President Merriman,” he slurred.
To Lisa’s unwarranted surprise, her glass was again filled, this time topped with a fresh sprig of mint. Without a care, she slugged it back.
“To…to peace in our time!” Lisa squealed as she rose uncertainly, raised her glass, took a swig, and dropped like a rock back onto the sofa.
Tulliver reciprocated and fell back with her, one arm around her shoulders.
The beneficent smile on Lisa’s face would not go away. She hadn’t felt so carefree since…since Craig and she went on the greatest erotic camping trip of all time in the Adirondacks. Her mind launched her back two years. Her eyes again shut tight, the vision of her and Craig making love, gloriously naked, shamelessly, for all of God’s nature to witness, on the bank of a small lake returned to her, a long-dormant memory now uncovered, like a lost treasure.
The hand on her breast was not gentle like Craig’s, but coarse and hurting. Through the mental light-years of Mojito-induced mellowness, her mind was vaguely aware that a male was partaking sexually of her body. She felt a warmness between her legs.
With effort, she opened her eyes to see the President’s National Security Adviser nuzzling her left breast, one hand petting her inner thighs.
From deep inside her came a command. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! This was not Craig. This was not love. This was not right. She ordered her brain to come to.
“No!!” She stood erect just as Tulliver was unzipping his pants. Her drink spilled onto the reproduction tapestry carpet depicting the martyrdom of St. Anne. The room spun. She caught herself from falling right onto the man who was trying to bed her. She placed one hand just over her brow and struggled with all her might to stay conscious.
Warm lips moved along her neck. She opened her eyes and turned her head to see Tulliver, naked from
the waist down, caressing her from behind, tugging her unbuttoned blouse off. His erection pressed against her. She was not in control of herself mentally nor, in this man’s grip, physically. The more she resisted, the tighter he held her.
“I’ve…I’ve got to…to go,” she mumbled. “Please…”
Tulliver’s tongue licked her left ear. The resultant tingle combined with the Mojito buzz to make her feel weaker still.
“Lisa. Be with me. Live for this moment. It is our moment. To be together, alone. We’ve earned this pleasure,” Tulliver breathed between kisses.
A flaming arrow of alertness shot through Lisa’s core. She opened her eyes wide and went rigid.
“NNOOOOOO! Ayeeeeee!! H-e-l-p!!!” she screamed with all the force of which she was capable. Both elbows jolted backward, catching Tulliver in the solar plexus and right kidney.
The 195-pound Tulliver went flying backward and down onto the marble floor. He clutched his mid-section and turned crimson with pain. He couldn’t breathe.
Lisa held her own breath as she feared she had caused Tulliver to have a heart attack or some other lethal reaction. Adrenaline having overcome alcohol, she felt that she should panic, but didn’t know how and remained frozen in place.
“Insane…bitch,” Tulliver finally coughed.
Rather than feeling further threatened or even insulted, Lisa felt relief — that her boss was not having cardiac arrest after all — followed by shame. Then the ridiculous sight of the President’s top foreign policy adviser writhing on the floor with his pants down, hair tousled and stunned expression on his face was almost clownish, but Lisa did not laugh. Instead she readjusted her bra, buttoned her blouse and looked for the exit.
Firm knocking came from the entrance door.
Lisa and Tulliver looked at each other. The knocking became louder, followed seconds later by the metallic sound of a key entering the lock.
“Who is it?” Tulliver yelled with effort.
“Hotel security, sir,” a male voice shot back.
With the second-nature speed of an Olympic athlete, Tulliver had his pants back on and dashed down the walkway to the door. He pushed his hair back, then opened it.
A mustached gentleman clad in tweed greeted Tulliver deferentially, but tilted his head to view inside the suite. “Pardon, sir. But there was a scream.”
“Yeah, right. It’s my…my assistant here. She, um, dropped a vase on her foot. She was moving it.” Tulliver kept the door half-closed.
“I see,” the other man said doubtfully. “Shall I call for medical help?” he offered. He leaned further to catch a glance. “May I come in?”
Before Tulliver could respond, Lisa strode up, paused for an instant for Tulliver to let her by and stepped out into the hotel corridor graced with this sentinel of safety. She kept her eyes straight ahead.
“Yes, it’s nothing. My foot is fine. And so is the vase.” With long, deliberate strides, Lisa Valko gave herself as much distance as she could that night away from John Tulliver.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lisa liked Chez Nous for its genuineness. The close-in, cozy French bistro remained at the same Georgetown location for twenty years, having undergone little remodelling during that time, a rarity in Washington’s trendiest area. It was where she used to go with student friends when they wanted to splurge.
To Mike Gallatin, it was a nook in a world apart. For a man at home in gritty Shaughnigan’s and familial Nostri Amici, a French bistro would take some getting used to, but not much. Its clientele consisting of the burnished Washington professional set, Chez Nous was, nonetheless, unpretentious, the service informal.
Lisa ordered a Kir. Gallatin took a draft beer. The waiter, young, clean-cut and fit, lingered nearby after serving the drinks.
“Come here often?” Gallatin began in an effort to break the ice.
Lisa took the place in with a slow sweep of her eyes. “Not any more. I used to before I— my life changed.”
“So, how have you, or, rather, has your life changed?” He looked at her intently and took a sip of beer.
Images of old friends sitting around cozily comparing job prospects, boys and dreams of the future flashed through her memory, followed alternately by the excitement and interminable work at the White House; her family’s pride in her. Then the scene of her near-rape at the Dorchester ripped through her brain, causing her to jerk involuntarily. She spilled half of her Kir into her lap.
Gallatin jumped forward and patted her stained dress with his napkin. “If you get it to the cleaners this afternoon, you might be able to save it,” he said.
The waiter came over with more napkins and some water. He said nothing. Again, he stepped back and acted busy with some paperwork near the cash register.
“It’s okay,” Lisa answered resignedly. “It’s a goner. I just don’t have the time.”
“I must’ve hit a sensitive nerve. “
“You did. I mean I was thinking of something else. Rather it’s like—,” Lisa braced each hand against the sides of her head and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, lowered her hands, opened her eyes and looked straight at Gallatin. “So, Mr. Gallatin, it’s your nickel,” she stated stiffly. She was all business.
Gallatin said nothing.
She followed his eyes as they took in every inch of her from her limp hair to her fidgety hands. His deep-blue eyes were sympathetic, gentle. The still-boyish face, topped by a shock of thick, light brown hair, put her at ease. His manner was one of frankness and concern.
“I’m Mike, remember? Not ‘Mr. Gallatin.’ Maybe it’s not my place, but you look like you could use six months of vacation and some serious self-indulgence.”
Lisa regretted her initial formality. She desperately did not want to be thought of as “ballbuster.”
She finished what was left of her Kir with a long gulp. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, uh, Mike. I need more than a vacation. I need a new life.” She forced a laugh which made her appear that much more strained. His soft, searching gaze eased her a bit. How long had it been since a man had looked at her so benignly and with so much understanding? With such gorgeous eyes?
“But you’ve come all the way from Columbus.”
“Cleveland.”
“Right. Cleveland. So, it must be important.” She leaned forward on her elbows, challenged him with her eyes, smiled.
“It’s like I said on the phone,” he blurted; then restrained himself. “Look, I’m sorry if I came on a little strong when I called last week.”
“Apology accepted.”
“I’m not a nut. Really. Somebody burned down the house of an immigrant family. While my daughter was inside. She’s in shock. Her best friend is covered with burns. The girl’s parents are dead. The police have no leads. I’m a trained investigator. Does that paint a clear enough picture in twenty brush strokes or less?”
“Yes,” Lisa said in a low voice. She was carried by his intensity.
“So, to recap: Two Croatians named Branko, formerly Brankovic, firebombed the house, ran off to Minnesota — but only after shoving an assault rifle up my nose. They burnt down another house in Minneapolis, with the occupants inside, after torturing them. The big mystery is this: they were brought to this country bypassing the usual immigration procedures. Why? After they went on their rampage, they were hunted down and terminated. Why? Who? If you ask me, it wasn’t Fedex, or American Express, or—”
“Get to the point, Mike.”
“It was the United States government. I think I know some of the who’s, the what’s, and the where’s. What I can’t figure out is the why’s.”
A piping hot Alsatian bean and sausage cassoulet warmed Lisa’s insides. Almost immediately, a rush of energy permeated her limbs and brain. Her body, deprived of proper nutrition for so long, seemed to be telling her that it liked three square meals a day.
“Win Ferret knows all about the Brankos. I was trying to get hold of him again when…well, you know.”
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“He’s nuts,” Lisa countered. “He butchered his entire family. Not exactly a reliable source, if you ask me.”
“How can you be sure that he did it?” There was an edge to Gallatin’s voice.
“Did what?”
“Kill his family.”
Lisa opened her eyes and mouth wide in astonishment, as if she had just heard that Ralph Reed had replaced Jerry Garcia in the Grateful Dead.
“Just hear me out,” Gallatin continued. He pointed an index finger at Lisa. His etoufee de boeuf bourguignon sat steaming and untouched.
“Say you’ve got some guys in the government who are operating outside the law. They’re bringing in a bunch of war criminals for whatever reason. Those who buck their control are eliminated. Professionally. To keep the lid on. National security and all that. Meanwhile, one of the cogs in the wheel of this covert program starts to act strange, threatens the whole enchilada. They go after him, but the operation gets botched. They miss him and kill, let’s say the mother. Other members of the family are witnesses. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that the witnesses also must be eliminated.”
“You can’t be serious.” Lisa laughed contemptuously.
“I’m as serious as Ollie North. I’m as serious as G. Gordon Liddy—”
“I get the point, Mike. Occasionally, things, people, get out of kilter, but—”
“But what? Everything is hunky-dory in the Land of Oz now? Maybe it goes further than that. Maybe they were out to frame him. Kill the man’s family. Pin it on him. He gets the death penalty.”