Bert set aside the box that he was working on and picked up Erin’s and his cups for coffee refills.
He was back in five minutes. He towered over her and her desk when he said, “I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer this advice to you: Keep your suspicions and thoughts to yourself. If you insist on flaunting that I’m-a-woman thing, your task force is going to go after you, and since you’re the only one who knows any of the vigilantes, your goose will be cooked. That’s four against you and me. Who do you think the director is going to look at and believe?”
Erin felt her stomach muscles start to cramp up. “That almost sounds like a threat, Bert.”
“No, it’s not a threat. I know those guys. I know you think Charlie and Pete are the stable ones, and they are, but all those guys are brothers under the skin. All of them are good agents, and all have good records. Just so you know, Erin, I am not going to be your stool pigeon. I don’t play those games. I’m here to do a job, and I’ll do it to the best of my ability.”
Erin knew Bert Navarro had just drawn his line in the sand. If she chose to cross it, it would be at her own peril. She made a mental note to pull Bert’s jacket before she left at the end of the day. Bathtub reading for the evening.
“Thanks for the coffee,” was all she said.
“No problem.”
Chapter 6
The winds this Halloween evening were brisk on top of Big Pine Mountain, carrying the scent of the pungent pine that swept over the women walking the compound. It was their nightly routine: eat one of Charles’s scrumptious dinners, then walk off the calories.
It was late, the waning moon was still high in the sky. Bright, shiny stars twinkled downward, bathing the compound in a beaming golden light. The candles in the cutout pumpkins flickered on the steps, lighting the way to the wide-planked porch. It was eerie, yet at the same time evoked memories of the carefree times of childhood.
At once the women all started to babble, sharing memories of trick-or-treating, wearing goblin and fairy-tale costumes as children as they tried to bamboozle neighborhood adults into giving them more candy rather than having tricks played on them.
“It’s a different time today,” Myra said sadly. “The papers are full of monsters who try to entice children into their webs, put razors in apples, and poison them with drugs in candies. This world is not one that I approve of.”
“And that’s why we do what we do,” Nikki said gently as she remembered one particular Halloween when she and Barbara dressed up as clowns in costumes that Myra had sewn herself. They’d had so much fun that night. Somewhere, in an old trunk back in McLean, she had the costume packed away in tissue paper. She was saving it in case the day ever came when she had a little boy or girl to dress up for Halloween. Tears burned her eyes at the memory. Myra was right, this was a totally different time.
They reminisced then because somehow it made the loneliness that much easier to bear. Finally, when they ran out of memories to share, Annie stood up, and said, “Enough already, it’s time to get down to work.”
Together they circled the five-acre compound one last time, then walked back to the Big House to join Charles for what he fondly called a late-night meeting of the minds.
“You decided to take on the mission?” It was more a statement than a question. The women nodded as one.
However, Nikki voiced a question, and the others waited expectantly for a response from Charles. “Where is the proof we asked for in regard to the pardon?”
“My contacts assure me that at the completion of the mission, it will be yours. Do I believe them? Not really. I see that you all have serious doubts, too, and that’s a good thing. So, this would be my thinking…Build in a resolution if it doesn’t come to pass. Put those seven fine, not to mention devious, minds to work, and figure out what you can do to even the score if the pardon doesn’t come through.”
“That’s pretty iffy, Charles,” Kathryn said. “We’ll not only be walking a tightrope, we’ll be ticking time bombs when it’s time to split. We never have minutes to spare. We’re always right down to the wire. Are you telling us we should go into this mission assuming the pardon is not going to come through? That doesn’t make sense. Why should we help them at all if we know full well we’re going to get stiffed in the end?” she objected.
“Think it all the way through, ladies,” Charles said.
“We did think it through, Charles,” Isabelle said. “That’s all we talked about all day long. Obviously, we’re missing something, so enlighten us.”
“Well, for starters,” Kathryn said, not allowing Charles time to respond, “there are way too many players in this gig to suit me. While there are seven of us, we work as a team. There are, as far as you’ve enlightened us, as many as six or seven…Possible clients. That cuts down our productivity, so to speak. Even with Jack, Harry, and Bert watching our backs, it’s too uncertain.”
The others nodded.
“There is that,” Charles said blandly.
“How can we even it up, girls?” Alexis asked.
“Until we know exactly who and what we’re up against, all we can do is study the profiles Charles gathered for us,” Myra said as she opened her folder.
Charles clicked the remote control in his hand, and the plasma screen that took up one entire wall of the room came to life. A picture of an attractive woman appeared on the screen. “Meet Pamela Lock. Ms. Lock is her candidate’s secret weapon as far as fund-raising goes. Since men are the primary donors, Ms. Lock, and no pun intended, has a lock on donations. It’s said she can get money out of a turnip. Not only is she heading up the front-runner’s fund-raising operation, she is a personal friend of Martine Connor, the woman who is almost a shoo-in to be running as the Democratic nominee for president against the incumbent. They went to Sarah Lawrence together and have remained friends.
“I’m sure her fellow alumna promised Ms. Lock a prestigious job in the new administration if she wins. This is my own personal thought, but it wouldn’t surprise me one bit to hear she would be the new president’s chief of staff if Martine Connor wins the election. And once Connor becomes the nominee of her party, Ms. Lock will undoubtedly become the head of the DNC’s fund-raising operation.
“Ms. Lock comes from a well-to-do family that is heavily involved in politics. She’s never married, has had many lovers. Her trust fund is robust. She likes to entertain. Lavishly. She knows just about everyone—politicians, movie stars, tradesmen, the little people. Her public persona is that she’s friendly, warm, outgoing, always willing to do a favor as long as she gets something in return.
“In private, according to people who were once close to her—and that includes those of her former lovers who were willing to talk—she’s nothing like the person the public sees. She’s a skinflint, a tightwad, counts the paper napkins, nickel-and-dimes the help. She makes everyone she’s involved with sign a confidentiality agreement. She’s a very litigious person. She also makes her lovers sign the same sort of agreement. One rather adventuresome young man, seven years her junior, decided to write a book about her. The iron hand came down, the guy disappeared, and Washington has not seen or heard from him since. That was two years ago.”
“Does she have a weakness?” Annie asked.
“If she does, I haven’t found it.”
“Did Mitch Riley,” Myra asked, “have a file on her? He had one on just about everyone in town. I can’t see someone like Ms. Lock being the exception.”
“Oh, he had a file on her all right. A sexual file. He had a seven-month affair with her a few years ago. She bought him a Rolex and other sundry gifts. Once a week she’d send him bottles of Cristal Champagne. He listed the hideaways they used to visit. But that’s about it. There were a few…uh…compromising pictures. Polaroids. I think it’s safe to say all of the lady’s…assets…are her own.”
“If the compromising pictures were blown up to, say, poster size, how would they look?” Yoko asked.
Charles looked
flustered.
“That good, eh?” Kathryn asked, tongue-in-cheek.
“I’m writing this down, Kathryn,” Annie said. “That’s item one. We blow up the pictures. Multiple copies. Just in case we decide to go that route.”
“Anything else, Charles?”
“One other thing. Ms. Lock owns many properties. She has a getaway in South Carolina. She usually arrives at night after dark and leaves the same way. It seems to be her favorite getaway place. She owns an impressive piece of property in Tahoe, and an ocean villa in Maui, but she rarely if ever goes to either. She doesn’t like flying, and the time in the air dries out her skin, or so says People magazine. When she goes to South Carolina, she drives.
“I found this next tidbit a little strange. It seems that Ms. Lock owns a rustic cabin in North Carolina. Around the bend from her cabin is another cabin that is owned by the RNC guy in charge of their fund-raising. His name is Baron Russell. He’s forty-seven. We’ll get to him in a bit.”
Myra clucked her tongue like a mother hen. “Obviously, Ms. Lock has been a naughty girl.”
Annie gasped. “Myra! Myra! Myra! I think it means she was shacked up with the RNC guy, which means they were screwing their tails off in one of those rustic cabins. That takes it beyond naughty, doncha think?”
Myra’s face turned pink. “Thank you for pointing that out, Annie.”
“By the way, Ms. Lock is forty-four. And before you can ask, yes, she has an impressive Rolodex that she guards with her life.”
“If she guards the Rolodex with her life, how did someone get her list of donors?” Nikki asked.
“I can’t answer that, Nikki. There’s every possibility she’s part of the scam. Right now, according to my sources, she’s extremely upset, as she values her reputation above all else. You also have to consider that the RNC was also hit. Which then raises the question of whether Russell and Lock are in it together. It is also possible that the third party, whoever that might be, is trying to pit one against the other. In Washington, as you know, a scandal of any kind has major repercussions. You will have to sort it out and figure out how best to handle things,” Charles said.
“Do we know who had access to their donor lists?” Myra asked.
“Supposedly, no one. Which in itself is suspicious,” Charles replied.
Nikki’s tone was sour when she spoke. “If that’s true, where does that leave us? Who are we supposed to go after? Are there suspects? Where were these lists kept? In their homes? In a safe at the office? Are they only on paper or are there computer records, too? Which donors are making the most noise, and why are they agreeing to keep quiet? Having your identity stolen would have most people screaming at the top of their lungs. Give us something to go on, Charles. I’m not keen on going into the District blind and trying to wing it. We need some meat here; otherwise, I want no part of this.”
The others agreed with Nikki.
“Let’s not forget that your old childhood friend is heading up a task force to take us down,” Kathryn said. “A dedicated FBI agent with her own agenda gives me a lot of concern. If it were a man heading up the task force, I would be a lot less worried. Ms. Powell is trying to prove something to her peers. She’s going to be on this 24/7. I don’t relish getting caught in the cross fire. Has Bert checked in yet?”
Charles smiled. “Yes, I agree, Kathryn, Ms. Powell is going to test your mettle. Bert will check in before retiring. Can we move along now?”
“Absolutely, dear,” Myra said.
Charles clicked the remote. A picture of a tall, distinguished-looking man appeared on the screen. He was dressed casually and held a pipe in his hand. There were leather patches on the elbows of his tweed jacket. He was smiling for the camera, his pearly whites lighting up the screen.
“He looks like a country squire. I assume that was the look he was going for, right?” Alexis asked.
Charles ignored her sarcasm. “Mr. Russell is a bit of a rogue. He was married in his youth but was unable to remain faithful—to his wife’s dismay. There were no children when they divorced two years later. He was engaged three more times to various socialites, but never managed to get to the altar a second time. He’s gun-shy, according to the tabloids. He’s every socialite’s dream dinner guest. And the man loves it.
“He’s wealthy, thanks to an indulgent grandparent who left him a small fortune. He does not squander his money and has a blue chip portfolio. He’s the perfect man to raise money. He has charisma billowing out his ears. It’s said the president invites him to the White House just to chat about football.
“Mr. Russell played football for Notre Dame during his college years and is a huge football fan. At the time he was often called a stallion on the field. He maintains a condo in the District, but the place he really calls home is North Carolina. Actually, it isn’t far from where we sit at the moment. He goes there every chance he gets.”
Charles pressed the remote, and the picture on the plasma TV changed. The women looked at a palatial home nestled in a grove of evergreens.
Annie jerked her finger toward the picture. “That takes log cabins to a whole new level.”
“The house sits on five acres, is seven thousand square feet. It has all the amenities one could want. Indoor pool, not included in the square footage, outdoor pool, tennis court, stable that houses two horses. Russell loves to ride. The house boasts an indoor sauna and steam room, a gourmet kitchen. Russell likes to cook and is an accomplished chef—if you believe his PR.
“Strangely, he never takes women to his second home. He entertains friends, who drive to North Carolina for the weekend. Usually married couples. Once he was overheard saying he goes there to wash the stink of Washington off him. He calls his little getaway Stallion Springs.”
The women guffawed at Charles’s words.
“Is Russell involved with anyone right now?” Isabelle asked.
“There’s nothing in his dossier to indicate any kind of a relationship.”
“How about Ms. Lock? Is she involved with anyone at the moment?” Isabelle pursued.
“Likewise, there’s nothing to indicate any sort of relationship. Both Russell and Lock are putting in some serious man-hours, if you’ll pardon the expression. It’s rare for them to leave their respective offices before ten at night. All indications are that they order take-out, go home to bed. They get up and do the same thing all over again the next day. That’s the sum total of what I’ve been able to gather on both of them.”
“Okay. We need a list of the office staff and any information you have on them. We’ll want copies of their phone records and cell phone records, and let’s get someone to hack into their office computers and their home computers. And I don’t want to hear about privacy laws, Charles,” Nikki said.
“It’s being done as we speak, Nikki,” Charles said.
“Just out of curiosity, dear,” Myra asked, “what are the pundits in D.C. saying about Martine Connor’s chance of making the White House her new home, assuming she gets the nomination? I’m afraid I haven’t been keeping up with politics of late.”
“Ms. Connor’s chances are very good. With the sitting president’s approval ratings hovering in the low twenties, any Democrat is an odds-on favorite to unseat him, and he knows it. Several members of his staff have been overheard making comments. Worried comments. They want four more years. More and more it looks like it would take a miracle for the Republicans to hold on to the White House.”
Annie leaned forward. “If that miracle happens, Charles, what does it mean for us?”
“Big trouble, Annie. Very big trouble.”
“Not if I own the Post,” Annie said.
Charles allowed himself a wide smile. “Yes, Annie, if you own the Post, you can call the political shots. You can sweep Ms. Connor right into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue after you help to make her the Democrats’ nominee.”
It was Nikki’s turn to lean across the table. “I think we might like to see everything there is to see
on one Martine Connor. Everything, Charles.”
This time Charles laughed out loud as he slid a bright purple folder across the table. A very, very thick purple folder. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 7
Harry Wong snapped his cell phone shut and resumed tying his sneakers. His mind raced as he tried to come to terms with what Bert had just told him on the phone; the bottom line being: don’t fight it, go with the flow.
He knew someone was in the building, not because the intruder made a sound, he didn’t. He smelled the man’s scent, sensed his wariness, which Harry decided was a good thing. The shadows outside the workout room afforded him all the cover he needed.
The intruder was well versed in stealth, something at which Harry also excelled. He waited until he saw the man’s shadow crossing the narrow space near the kitchen. Harry counted silently, one, two, three, and the intruder was flat on his back, Harry’s foot on his neck choking off his air supply. The man’s arms flailed as his feet tried to go in all directions, to no avail.
Harry looked over his shoulder to make sure the hidden camera was working. The tiny light that was shining brightly between the fronds of a hanging plant reassured him. As Bert said, when dealing with the fibbies, the name of the game was CYA. Covering his ass was always paramount to what went on in his dojo, but he had thanked the agent for that bit of insight.
Harry eased the pressure on the intruder’s neck for a second, just enough for the man to take a strangled breath. Then he clamped down his foot again. “Breaking and entering is against the law unless you have a warrant. Do you have a warrant? Blink once for yes, two for no.” The man blinked furiously. “If you try to talk, you’ll crush your larynx. Do you understand? Blink once for yes, two for no.” The intruder blinked again. Harry eased up the pressure on the man’s neck. “Don’t move. I’m going to search you. If you move, my foot will be the last thing you ever see in this lifetime. Do you understand me? Blink once for yes, two for no.” The intruder’s eyelids blinked. “I like it when a guest follows instructions.”
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