“Don’t you ever touch me again,” Warner hissed, his nose four inches from hers. An agent handed the president a tissue. Warner stepped back, and pressed it against the scratch. “She is not allowed past the outer office. Do you understand me?”
“But she’s-”
“I don’t give a fuck who she is. She isn’t allowed in the Oval Office again. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tears stung Carolyn’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Head held high, she spun on her heel and left the Oval Office with all the dignity she could muster.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
April 23, 2001 – Washington, DC.
Carolyn shivered as she sat quietly in a private waiting room of the hospital. She wished she’d worn a sweater. Why, she wondered, did hospitals always feel so drafty and cold?
Secret Service agents stood outside the door, giving her privacy, but their thoughtful consideration felt more like solitary confinement. Carolyn clasped her hands in her lap. There was nothing to do but wait.
She hated being there, but protocol demanded her attendance as soon as she’d been notified, especially since Warner was delayed on Air Force One.
An hour and a half later, Warner sauntered into the room. A Secret Service agent shut the door to the waiting room, intensifying the trapped feeling that threatened to overwhelm her. A current of animosity surged between them.
“Worried about the love of your life?” Warner asked as he sat across from her.
“He’s your father,” she responded, surprised that he’d even speak to her.
“But he was your lover.” Anger flecked with pain sparked from his eyes.
Carolyn froze. “Warner-” What could she say? she wondered. Nothing, she finally realized. Absolutely nothing. The truth she’d always feared had come back to haunt her. She slumped in her seat, the weight she’d been carrying for so many years finally crushing her.
Warner leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest. “Come off it, Carolyn. Edmund told me everything. The affair, his baby – you remember – the reason you had the abortion. All of it.” he ground out through an obvious wall of hurt.
Now, she understood his hatred, his reason for striking out so cruelly time and again. She stared at her hands. “When did he tell you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Warner said, shrugging. “I don’t give a damn, anyway. You’ve served your purpose.”
The emotion in his voice betrayed his words. giving evidence of how much he really did care, of how much these facts had destroyed him. That realization hit her like a clenched fist to the temple. Her head throbbed violently. “It was before I knew you.” Why was she bothering to defend herself? Nothing she could say or do would repair the chasm between them.
“Not according to Edmund,” Warner laughed. “Of course, that bastard’s about to burn in hell with the rest of them. He served his purpose as well. His time was up.” He leaned toward her. “This is a lesson you should take to heart Carolyn. No one tries to control me.”
Her eyes met his. “Warner, tell me you didn’t cause this-”
Warner glared back. “This what? Heart attack? Don’t be naive.”
“My God, he’s your father.”
Warner’s eyes narrowed. “That son of a bitch is not my father!”
“What are you talking about?”
“My mother had an affair. Seems to be a recurring theme.” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“So you see, I’m really a bastard. I’ve never been anything to Edmund other than the bane of his existence. A reminder of my mother’s failure. An imperfection in his life that he tried to dress up for his own gain.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“All along, I’ve been Edmund’s pawn. If not me, it would have been someone else. I was simply convenient.”
“I’m sure he loved you in his own way.”
Warner laughed, the sound bitter and harsh. “Don’t kid yourself.”
“I understand your hatred of me. But I don’t understand-”
“You understand perfectly. You said it yourself. Carolyn, politics is war. Edmund will be joining all the other casualties of battle.”
“Casualties? You act like you’ve had a hand in this.”
Warner’s lips drew back into a thin line. He gave her a knowing look. Then he said. “And you’re acting like a novice. You need to catch up, Carolyn. Stupidity doesn’t become you.”
“How many have you killed?” Her voice was a whisper.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never killed anyone.”
Carolyn knew he deliberately meant to hide behind semantics. Of course, he’d never personally killed anyone, but he didn’t deny issuing the orders. He wanted her to know the truth. “Your precious Council is a pit of vipers. You even turn on one another.”
“Politics is survival of the fittest. It eventually had to come to this, him or me. And it wasn’t going to be me.” Warner laughed. “Your problem, Carolyn, is that you’re too fucking naive, too fucking innocent.”
“Go to hell,” she said.
He ignored her response as he rose and opened the door. “Can I get some company in here?” he asked the agents who guarded the door.
***
The sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside the waiting room.
Warner nodded toward the door, then said to the agent reading a magazine beside him, “It’s show time.”
Moments later, the doctor walked into the room. “They told me you’d arrived, Mr. President.” He extended his hand to Warner. “I’m Dr. Jacobs.”
He turned to Carolyn. “Mrs. Lane.” She accepted the doctor’s handshake.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your father has passed away. Once he started having problems, it was like a chain reaction. All of his vital organs began to shut down, and we were unable to stop it. Finally, his heart gave out.”
“Do you know what caused his organs to fail?” Carolyn asked. Only she could see the hostility in Warner’s gaze that her question evoked.
“No, unfortunately, we have no idea. We can order an autopsy if you’d like.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said.
Warner shook his head as he turned to the doctor. “No, that won’t be necessary. My father lived a full life. It was his time. My wife’s just upset.” His expression was the epitome of grief.
Only Carolyn recognized the light of satisfaction in Warner’s eyes.
SEVENTY-NINE
Katherine met Carolyn at the entrance to the White House. “How’s Warner’s father?”
Carolyn felt out of sorts, confused and numb. Lately, she felt as though she existed in a continuous state of shock. She forced herself to focus on Katherine’s question. “He’s gone.”
“I’m sorry.” Katherine said.
“Thank you.”
“What can I do?”
Carolyn shook her head. “I just need to rest. To be alone for a few minutes. Please ask the Navy mess steward to bring me a cup of almond tea in the Garden Room.”
“Certainly.”
Carolyn walked to the elevator and rode it up to the Garden Room of the White House. Nothing was as it seemed. She’d been duped. The men in her life had made a career out of using her and others for personal gain. At least, Warner had the balls to be blatant about it.
It was Mark who shocked and hurt her most. He’d double-crossed her for years, using her as a stepping stone to his own career, yet pretending to love her. She’d deal with him later, she decided. Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to align herself with another powerful player.
The Navy steward appeared almost immediately, carrying her tea on a tray. “Sugar or cream today, ma’am?” he asked, setting down the tray and then pouring her a cup.
“No, thank you. Plain is fine,” she responded.
He handed the beverage to her, then turned smartly and left.
Carolyn took a sip, then sat, putting her feet up on a wicker stool. Sun streamed t
hrough the windows, warming her body but evading her soul.
She heard a door open. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“It’s only me.” He walked in, taking a seat across from her.
“I’m so glad you’re back from your trip. Edmund has died.”
“I know.” He leaned forward. “I came to see how you’re holding up. Was everything all right with Warner?”
Carolyn set her teacup down. “It couldn’t have been any uglier.”
“I’m sorry.” He took her hands in his.
“He, Edmund, and Mark Dailey made a career out of eliminating any opposition.” Her voice was flat. “I’ve been set up. Mark Dailey screwed me royally. He’s been working with Warner all along.”
“I suspected as much.” His gaze held hers. “How did you find out?”
“Jack Rudly. He told Katherine that a man met him late one night at the Golden Gate Bridge and gave him my E-mail information. She, in turn, returned it to me along with Jack’s suspicions that the man was Mark. It was a short hop in deductive reasoning to figure it out. Dailey’s the only one who had access to my E-mail and password. Shit. I gave it to him myself. Warner confirmed it all.”
“I can no longer ignore what they’ve done to you, to me, to so many good men, and to our country. It’s time to act.”
Carolyn hesitated. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Do you trust me?”
Her eyes searched his. Then she nodded.
“That’s all you need to know.”
EIGHTY
May 9, 2001 – White House, Washington, DC.
Mark Dailey nursed a scotch while surveying the Roosevelt Room. The reception was small, but the guest list distinguished. From his vantage point he witnessed many powerful people in quiet, but intense conversations. He realized that no one really noticed him. His position in the White House, despite his title of senior adviser, was a known joke. Even his assistant filled in at other offices because there was virtually nothing to do at his.
Mark took a swallow of Glenlivet. He was sick of the backstabbing bullshit. Sick of what he’d done to facilitate this administration. And quite frankly, he was sick of himself.
The approach of Vice President Richard Young interrupted his sour thoughts.
“Mark, great to see you.” Richard shook his hand and patted him on the back.
“Mr. Vice President.” Mark said with a nod.
Richard pulled him outside onto the balcony. “Enough of that Mr. V.P. crap. We’ve known each other far too long.”
Mark took another sip of his scotch.
“I’m concerned about you, buddy. I understand Warner’s got you wasting away in the basement of the West Wing.”
Mark grunted in disgust.
Richard lowered his voice. “Don’t feel alone. He’s not treating me much better. But I plan on correcting the situation. First off, I’ve got you hooked up to fly to California with Warner to consult on his speaking tour. This will give you a chance to get out of the basement and back into the limelight.”
Mark raised his glass to Richard. “Thanks. I really appreciate having you in my corner. I won’t forget this.”
“Actually, it was Carolyn’s idea.”
Mark smiled. “Tell her thank you for me.”
“Be happy to. In the meantime. I need a favor from you.”
“Sure,” Mark said. “What’s on the agenda?”
“First, let Cain know it’s time to take his South American vacation, then deliver this for me.” Richard pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket and discreetly passed it to Mark.
“What’s in it?”
“A bank account in the Caymans.”
“What are we paying for?”
“We’re paying for a remedy to our problem.”
“Usual spot? Asian woman?” Mark asked.
Richard smiled.
EIGHTY-ONE
May 11, 2001 – Santa Clara, California
The sun glistened off the water in the San Francisco Bay as President Warner Hamilton Lane and his entourage, including senior adviser Mark Dailey, arrived in Silicon Valley forty-five minutes late. Lane stepped out of the helicopter followed by Dailey. They were greeted by four corporate executives at the landing pad on the office building rooftop and then were escorted to an elevator, which took them one floor down.
Lane turned to the corporation’s vice president of operations. “If I understand correctly, not only is your company recycling chemicals for further use, but you’re also doing it in the safest, most efficient way.”
“That’s correct, sir. We’re very proud of our operation here. As one of the largest chemical repackaging companies on the West Coast, we employ over five hundred people.”
Warner nodded as they walked into a private conference room with a large oval mahogany table, plush leather chairs, and aerial photographs of the corporate campus lining the walls.
He had insisted that his tour include a state-of-the-art chemical recycling facility because he knew it was the wave of the future. Visiting this high-profile plant at the end of his trip had been a brilliant move, he thought. The polls showed a public outcry for political support of environmental issues. The hell with Carolyn’s war on drugs. He intended to be the poster-boy for the environment.
Dailey approached Lane. “It’s all set up. Mr. President. After the guided tour, you’ll address the employees with full media coverage. Are you ready, Sir?”
“I am. Let’s get this show on the road.” Lane’s voice rose in excitement. Taking on environmental issues would ensure his place in history. He stood taller, enjoying the feel of control and power.
After a brief presentation, given by the corporate executives, about the facility that Lane was about to visit, the tour began in the main offices.
The president was photographed shaking hands with workers.
Media representatives lined the walls with cameras, microphones, and tape recorders.
Warner smiled when an Asian woman with long dark hair stepped forward to present him with a single red rose.
“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” he said. “Just like you.”
She bowed.
Progressing into the manufacturing portion of the plant, they all put on hard hats and goggles. Four Secret Service agents, three corporate executives, and two media people accompanied Dailey and the president.
They advanced through an inventory area and up onto a walkway in order to view the entire facility from above. As they stood over large tanks containing volatile chemicals, the plant engineer explained how the processes worked and most important, how the chemicals were treated and recycled after use.
As they stood above the vaults, the journalist and cameraman recorded the presentation on air circulation. The plant engineer explained that most of the chemicals were toxic and that fresh air had to be constantly replenished in the facility to protect the workers.
“How fast does the air circulate?” the president asked.
“The air in this room is completely turned over every three minutes.”
“And when you say ‘toxic,’ will these chemicals make you ill or worse?”
“After a matter of mere seconds of exposure, disorientation takes place and then rapid death. That is why compliance with OSHA is critical.”
When they moved to the next room, where the reprocessing was done, the engineer said. “At this time we ask that the media stop filming, because this process is a proprietary trade secret.” The engineer pointed to the next walkway. “Step right this way, and we’ll move on to a filmable portion of the tour.”
As President Lane reached the middle of the pathway, a small beeping alarm sounded.
The Secret Service agents looked around, trying to determine the origin of the beep.
Wide-eyed, the plant engineer spun to face them.
Warner took a hesitant step unsure of whether to continue. Then, he regained his confidence. He was Warner “Fucking” Lane, President of
the United States. What did he have to fear? Nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Dailey asked.
“My vapor sensor’s going off. Get the president out of here.”
Immediately, Warner felt his eyes begin to water and his chest grow tight. His pulse throbbed in his neck.
“Mr. Pres-” The plant engineer tried to speak, but a coughing fit choked off his words.
Two Secret Service agents grabbed the president under the arms, knocking the hardhat from his head, as they pulled him backward toward an exit.
A few steps later, they dropped him. Hands to their mouths, the agents collapsed, coughing blood.
Dailey folded to the ground, curling into a ball at the president’s feet.
Warner tried to scream, but lacked the oxygen to form the sound.
He tore the goggles from his face. A vacuum devoured the oxygen from every pore in his body. His muscles jumped and twitched.
Throat aflame, he reached for the railing. He clung to the metal, mouthing a silent plea. Then he slid to the deck of the catwalk. He seized convulsively.
Warner sucked desperately for air, fully aware that he was suffocating. He clawed at his face and throat, frantic to relieve the pressure building in his head. His eyes bulged, feeling as if they were going to explode. Noxious fumes seared his nostrils and dehydrated his lungs, prohibiting the oxygen from penetrating the delicate mucous membrane tissue.
He writhed in agony. Blood trickled from his nose, and ran down the back of his throat.
Next to him, a third Secret Service agent dropped to his knees, then fell forward in a spasm.
A high-pitched ringing began in Warner’s ears. It escalated to a thunder in his head.
He felt a pull on his arm. Someone dragged him toward the exit.
Blackness obscured his vision. His body burned for oxygen. His mind begged for relief. Even death. Anything to stop the pain.
Suddenly alarms pierced the air.
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