The door to her office was locked, of course. He glanced at James.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the young agent said, “I don’t have the key.”
“No worries,” Barron muttered. He pulled Jayne’s ID badge out of his pocket and held it to the card reader. The door gave a soft beep and unlocked with a faint click.
As Barron entered the vacant office, James stood guard outside the door. The President decided to take a moment to familiarize himself with Jayne's office.
The first thing he noticed was her overpowering presence. The room was saturated with the seductive power of her fragrance. For a moment, his eyes glazed over and he felt a ripple of gooseflesh crawl down the backs of his legs. The long-abused pleasure centers of his brain began to fire at random. His vision blurred.
It was her. The room began to spin. It was full of her: her scent, her essence, her being. He took a few deep breaths to force the air from his lungs, then held it. His vision began to clear even as his heart thundered in his chest. He took a deep, slow breath through his mouth and quailed at what little strength that had flowed back into his legs evaporated. He closed his eyes and exhaled again. When he opened them, his vision cleared once more.
So, it’s her perfume—I knew it! It smelled as if she had bathed in her perfume in the office. He tried to take a step forward and kicked something out of sight. Looking down, he saw an empty bottle of perfume on the floor. It had created a spill that was quickly soaking into the office’s Berber carpeting.
She had propped the bottle of perfume behind the door, so that when someone other than her opened it, the door would knock the little glass bottle over, spilling its contents on the floor. It wouldn’t affect anyone else, but it had nearly incapacitated him.
Taking shallow breaths to avoid sucking in more of the drug-laced aroma, the President pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth. It had little effect, but it was enough. He had to concentrate and completely focus his mind on the task at hand, but he was able to function. Leaning against the door, he looked around for something—anything—to use to clean up the mess. An uncluttered, simple wooden desk sat in the middle of the windowless cube of a room. On the desk sat a computer monitor, a phone, a nameplate, and a box of tissues. Not even a single pen. There were no adornments or artwork on the walls. No diplomas, no graduation pictures, no photos of past presidents shaking hands with foreign dignitaries. Nothing.
He took a few shambling steps to her desk and with trembling hands, picked up the box of tissues. He quickly pulled out as many as he could and placed them across the spill on the floor. It took almost 10 minutes, but at last the Bunker’s air filtration system was able to clean the air in the room. He was able to lower himself into her chair and clear his mind.
The President fumbled beneath Jayne’s desk until he found her computer. He opened the keyboard drawer and found one, along with a wireless mouse, which he gripped with a shaky hand. He began searching through her files.
He had to pause more than once to wipe the sweat from his brow as he clicked through folders and sub-menus on her computer. There was nothing obvious—he would have almost been disappointed had there been a document labeled “Reginald” on the desktop.
Instead, he looked at random for anything that might give him ammunition against her. It was a long shot, he knew—Jayne was far too professional at what she did, and Reginald was a complete unknown factor… But he wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing he hadn't checked the most obvious place. He glanced at the perfume bottle in the corner of the room. Besides, she wouldn’t have set that up if there wasn't something in here to hide. She knew eventually he would come here. Why the booby trap?
Because the bunker is sealed off electronically. Everything that was on these computers is locked in here until I give the order to return topside. Only the War Room has outside data connections.
He glanced through the file structure on her computer. Official paperwork, Presidential letterhead…none of it was useful to him. He sat back and sighed, staring at the screen. Everything he’d found were things one would expect to find on the computer of the President’s Chief of Staff.
His eyes wandered from the screen and he found himself staring at the ceiling. He traced the pattern of the ceiling tiles above Jayne’s desk, trying to figure out where else he might look for incriminating evidence. Then he saw it—one of the tiles in the corner of the office was slightly ajar.
The President rose from the desk and moved over to stand under the tile. It was definitely out of place. He reached up and moved the lightweight material, feeling around in the dark cavity. He was about to put the tile back in place when his fingers brushed something hard and rectangular. Something small. He pulled out a dusty USB jump drive and smiled.
Once plugged in to her computer, he clicked on the only folder on the drive, labeled ‘One’. He rolled his eyes at the lack of creativity. The folder was stuffed full of emails and pictures of Jayne at various state functions over the past year.
Barron shook his head, amazed at his find. He spotted himself in the background of many of the pictures. Jayne was always nearby, posing with some foreign dignitary or member of Congress. There she was with the Speaker of the House, there she was with the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, there she was with the Chairman of the—
His eyes swung back to the picture of her with the Speaker of the House. Harris. The man who had proclaimed himself President. The man anointed by that fool, Denton. And there was Jayne, the plunging neckline of her evening gown clearly keeping the Senator’s attention.
A twinge of jealousy flared inside the President. Here she was canoodling—in public no less—with the Speaker of the House of Representatives. A Republican!
He saw himself in the background, chatting up some Senator who was hidden behind the Speaker. He checked the date stamp: six months ago. He hadn't even known she’d been in Washington then.
Jayne's got her fingers wrapped around Harris. If Jayne was with Harris, then Reginald has contacts with Harris…
The President leaned back in the chair and scratched his chin. Now that's interesting. Reginald’s playing both sides. He frowned at Jayne’s golden smile. "You certainly get around, don't you, my dear?"
A lopsided smirk crinkled his face. Looking at the picture, he was even more pleased with himself at how rough he had been with her last night. Bitch deserved it.
Spread before him now were all her dirty little secrets—all the proof he needed. Not only was Jayne trying to blackmail him and control the presidency, but she and Reginald were trying to control just about every level of the federal government. It was disgusting.
He pulled a blank USB drive from his pocket, slipped it into an open slot on her computer and began to copy the entire contents of her hidden jump drive.
The pictures were a start, but he needed more. They were scandalous, to be sure, but at the end of the day they were mere pictures. No hard evidence, nothing he could really use to bring Jayne and Reginald to heel. There had to be something else. As the computer began to copy files, he clicked back to the main directory on the secret jump drive. He stared at the screen and rubbed his temples.
He could barely detect the odor of her perfume in the office anymore, but the effects were long-lasting. He gritted his teeth in the face of a throbbing headache and continued to search. There had to be something… He just wasn't looking in the right spot.
Scanning down the list of folders, the President saw different names, each one a member of Congress. At the top of the list was Harris. Barron continued to scan through the files. Speeches the members of Congress had made, memos on where they went, who they met, what they had for lunch on a particular day. Family members, friends, names and addresses for just about everyone connected to the public servants. The background information Jayne had on this computer would be a treasure trove to any international terrorist organization.
His eyes opened wide when he found Congressional
schedules. These things were updated on a weekly basis. How the hell could she manage all of this? How deep did this rabbit hole go? He copied it all to his USB drive.
He glanced at his watch as the computer hummed to itself. It was almost 6 o'clock. Too slow, dammit, too slow. He couldn't imagine Jayne would stay in bed much longer. If he was going to find something he had to do it fast.
Then he saw it. A folder with the name ‘Breckinridge’.
Breckinridge? He searched through the foggy depths of his mind. Don’t know anyone by that name. It must be a code. The perfume still made his thoughts sluggish and hard to grasp. What was so familiar about the name Breckinridge? He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. There was no one in Congress named Breckinridge—well, no one of importance, at least. Was it an agency head? No… Breckinridge… Why is that name familiar?
He snapped his head up with understanding. John C. Breckinridge, the youngest Vice President ever elected. The grim-faced young man from the 19th century flashed before the President’s eyes—his portrait hung in the Vice President’s office at the Naval Observatory.
He remembered himself raising a glass of Scotch in honor of his long-dead predecessor and saying ‘alea jacta est’. That was the day he'd accepted Reginald's proposal to become President.
He blinked and the memory was gone. He opened the Breckinridge folder as fast as he could and began to scan the documents inside. Yes, it was exactly what he needed. Everything was about him. His friends, relatives, addresses, favorite foods, and favorite movies, favorite activities…there was even a file about favorite sexual positions…
"Good Lord. Why would you keep something like this? Why the hell would you need something like this? You already own me…"
In the Breckinridge folder, he found another folder named ‘Vitruvius’. His curiosity piqued, he clicked the mouse and opened it. It was a empty.
Harold Barron had never been accused of being computer savvy, nor would he be the first politician to admit that he wasn’t sure how to download an app to his smartphone. But, he did know how to hide files—Jayne had taught him that much.
Moving the cursor up to the preferences button, he double-clicked and brought up a menu that had an option to show hidden files and images. He clicked that, then clicked ‘apply’ and when the dialog box disappeared, the screen was filled with files and images.
He quickly scanned through a few of them, satisfied that indeed the entire folder was full of information about him. There were pictures of him in a sequence, showing the various stages of his decay. Horrified, he watched himself withering away under the effects Jayne's drugs. The first picture showed him as a healthy, robust man in his prime on the campaign trail. New Hampshire—before he’d met Jayne.
The next few images were pictures of him unconscious in various hotel beds. One of them even had Jayne's naked leg gracing the bottom of the picture.
Son of a bitch! She sat there next to me and took pictures while I slept.
He copied everything in the folder and put it on his USB drive. While he waited for the files to transfer, he began to ponder how he could use this information against Jayne, and ultimately Reginald. He checked his watch again. Time was slipping away—fast.
If nothing else, he swore to himself he would seek justice for the people of Atlanta. All those innocent Americans. Despite his lust for power, and his willingness to do just about anything to attain it, at heart Harold Barron knew he was an American. He had no qualms about killing innocents—as long as it served his purpose and as long as they weren't Americans. Some Third World shit-hole of a country infested with fleas and sand worms? Sure, no problem.
Atlanta? No way in hell.
"Oh, Reginald, you're going to pay for this…" he muttered to himself. The progress bar on the screen displayed 56% and counting. Come on, come on…
The phone on Jayne's desk rang. His hand instinctively reached to grab the receiver, if nothing more than to silence the damn thing. He stopped, his hand just above the hard plastic handle. Why was he afraid? He was the President of the United States. If someone heard the phone ringing and tried to get into the office, they would find it locked. The Secret Service were loyal to him. No one would give a damn about why he was in the Chief of Staff's office. Hell, he’d already turned over executive power to her in front of the Joint Chiefs. He all but had sex with her in some of those meetings. Why should anybody care that he was in her office?
He was so wrapped up in trying to convince himself to not be afraid that he failed to realize that the phone had stopped ringing. Good. He checked his watch. Not good.
He looked at the progress bar the computer. 70% complete.
His chest began to vibrate. He pulled out the cell phone from his coat pocket and looked at the displayed number. Reginald. Surely that had to be a coincidence…
"Hello?" he asked in a sleepy sounding voice.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Mr. President?" cooed Reginald's voice.
"What are you talking about?" The President feigned a stretch. "I'm just waking up—it’s…" He glanced at his watch mid-stretch. "Good Lord, man, it's only 6:15. What the hell do you want?"
"Really, Mr. President? Why are you in Jayne's office trying to copy her files? What possible benefit do you think you can derive from this deception?"
Barron’s blood ran cold. Cameras. He’d forgotten about the cameras in the Vice Presidential Emergency Operations Center. Reginald had seen him react to the destruction of Atlanta. He had watched him find Jayne’s hidden jump drive…
"I can see by the expression on your face that you are angry with yourself for not thinking of the cameras. Yes, of course I had Jayne's office rigged with surveillance equipment." Reginald laughed, that infuriatingly polite European laugh. "It was only prudent. Besides, she is so very easy on the eyes, is she not?"
The President cleared his throat, seeking time to gather his thoughts.
"Although," said Reginald, "I that you were not nearly so easy on her last night, were you?"
The President felt the heat rush into his cheeks. "You had no right—"
"I had every right," hissed Reginald. "If nothing else I'm keeping tabs on my investment. Any good banker would do the same. So, I ask you once again, what exactly do you think you're doing?"
"Research."
"Research into what? Come now, Mr. President, do you really think Jayne would be stupid enough to leave incriminating documents on her office computer—not 30 paces down the hall from yours?" Reginald laughed. "Your government’s computer system is full of holes—it's one of the least-secure operations on the planet. Only a fool would leave something—"
"What do you want, Reginald?" The President snapped. The file transfer was nearly complete. Just keep him talking…get the files…come on…
"I want you to remember who is in charge here."
The President was surprised to see a new dialog box appear on the screen:
!!:>>File transfer canceled:
Remote host authorization VXF7A//G14Z3.
Before he could move the mouse, a third dialog box flashed onto the screen.
!!>>Format external drive?
Barron opened his mouth to speak but the
In seconds, all the data on the USB drive that he had copied was gone. Completely erased. The dialog boxes begin to disappear one at a time until he could see the main Breckinridge folder full of all the documents about himself. One by one they began to disappear. Reginald’s voice chuckled over the phone as all the incriminating files were erased before Barron’s eyes.
The deletion picked up speed and in a few seconds, Jayne’s entire jump drive was wiped clean. Then the computer displayed a new dialog box:
!!>>This session has timed out<
Enter password to continue:
Barron’s hands moved to the keyboard and the computer shut off.
"I told you, I'm in cha
rge.” Reginald sighed theatrically. “Now, unfortunately, we have some things to discuss. You may as well leave her office—I know what that perfume does to you. I need your head to be clear."
The President closed his eyes in frustration and clenched his fist on the desktop. So damn close!
"Oh, come now, Mr. President. I’ll not have you pouting. It’s unbecoming for a man of your position, don’t you think? Best we get on. Look, you tried to put your hand in the cookie jar and I caught you. No shame in that. Water under the bridge and all that.
“Once you step into the hallway, your senses will clear and you’ll feel right as rain. We'll put all this unpleasantness behind us and move forward with the plan to save your country, shall we?"
The President slowly got to his feet. Bested by a voice on a phone. Without those files on Jayne’s hidden drive, he was back to square one. He opened the door to Jayne's office and felt the waft of fresh air from the hallway brush off the aftereffects of her perfume. James, his ever watchful keeper, snapped to attention beside the door.
“Are you okay, sir?”
The President rubbed his head and tried to get past the bitter taste of failure in his mouth. His head ached. His body felt like he’d just finished a marathon. His undershirt stuck to his chest with sweat. He felt clammy all over.
"I don't feel so good…" he said. He turned and glanced at the darkened computer screen. He’d been so close.
“Should I get the doctor?” asked James. His wrist was already moving toward his mouth.
“Ah, no…no, thank you, James,” said the President. His voice wavered, but held. “I think it’s just a touch of light-headedness. Must’ve got up from the chair to fast.”
“You look like you could use some more sleep, sir,” said James. “My mom used to say a good night’s sleep can cure a lot of things.”
The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga Page 8