“Higher!” Dasha commanded. She was setting the shot for the interview and adjusted a key light right into Natalie’s eyes. “Sit up! She is much taller than you.” Natalie straightened to do as Dasha ordered.
“And stop playing with your hair,” Matt said. “You look great. You’re going to be great. Don’t be nervous.”
Watching them, Natalie held back a smile. Both of them had called in sick to be here, risking Bibb’s ire. They’d scored the camera gear from Andrea. “She said it’s the least she can do to make up for the rehab debacle,” Matt had explained, then added, “And this interview will piss off Bibb, so for her, it’s a twofer.”
As Dasha tweaked the light, Natalie’s mind jumped ahead to her plan for the interview and to any holes. She knew that whatever had prompted FLOTUS to leave the White House related to the pipeline and the ships in Venezuela and had nothing to do with the mystery man in the video. Which meant that everything ATN had reported about the affair had been wrong.
Natalie’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Matt’s ringing phone.
“Go for Matt,” he barked into the speakerphone.
“Okay, all parties are primed and ready.” It was Andrea. Natalie could hear the sounds of the ATN newsroom behind her. “I tipped off the AP and they’re about to move three alerts. They know FLOTUS is coming out of hiding, giving an interview, and it’ll be streamed on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. I also tipped CNN that Natalie Savage has the big exclusive, and they’ll carry it live. Once it’s on CNN, everyone’ll grab it.”
“Good plan.” Dasha nodded. “Everyone copy CNN.”
Beeping noises started blaring over the speaker of Matt’s iPhone. It was the sound of the Associated Press moving an urgent story, chiming on newsroom computers all around Andrea. “Here we go,” Andrea said as the beeps turned into a chorus and then became a roar of alarms, layered with people shouting.
Natalie imagined the scene: producers running toward TVs or printers or each other’s desks, yelling, “FLOTUS interview!” People picking up phones and screaming into them for no reason at all.
“Jesus, it looks like a preschool recess in here. Either that or a prison break.” Andrea whistled over the line. “Does that make me a guard? Or an inmate?” There was a pause and then Andrea whispered, “Oh boy, here she comes. Stay quiet, guys.”
Natalie knew the next voice would be Bibb’s. “MSNBC is reporting that the New York Times says that a reporter got an interview with FLOTUS. Someone tells me CNN has the livestream. We need that NOW!”
There was silence and Natalie wondered if the call had dropped. But then she heard the sound of CNN’s breaking news music and Wolf Blitzer saying in his trademark placid way, “Stand by for a livestream of the First Lady of the United States, who is about to emerge from roughly two weeks of seclusion. She will be doing her first interview with Washington reporter Natalie Savage, most recently of ATN.”
“Nice!” Matt pumped his fist in the air.
Over the phone there was more silence, and Natalie imagined heads turning, wide-eyed, to measure Bibb’s reaction. She envisioned Bibb looking calm, suppressing any regret, rage, or remorse she might feel. That would be 80 percent Botox, Natalie estimated, and 20 percent calculation. She’d spent enough time with the woman to know that at this very moment Bibb’s mind was doing the math at super speed, testing all the angles. If there was a way she could benefit from this, a way to bring the kill home, take the credit—
“Wolf needs to check his facts. Natalie is with ATN,” Natalie heard Bibb declare, to her utter surprise. “Call CNN and let them know to credit ATN for this interview. This is part of our new digital-first strategy. I am so proud of my girl for landing this scoop.” Then with a yell that could clear a jungle, Bibb ordered, “Get ready to get that interview on air NOW!”
“Guys, I better hop off the line,” Andrea whispered into the phone. “Good luck.” And she hung up.
The phone went dead. Natalie looked from Dasha to Matt, feeling elation mingled with anticipation. There was no going back now. Matt dug into his pocket and pulled out a little blue pill. “For the nerves?”
Natalie considered it and then noted how calm her mind felt. It was so different from the jumpy uncertainty she’d felt that first day at the White House briefing room, and every day on the FLOTUS story. She thought about all that energy she’d wasted wondering what would rate with the Demo, how she’d compare to Ryan, what about her hair, her cleavage, her style Bibb and the Chief would deem lacking.
“I don’t need it,” she said, shaking her head no. “I think I’m good. I—”
She stopped midsentence because a blond woman dressed in a black suit with an earpiece strode into the room and stood by the doorway like a sentry. Secret Service. Behind the woman came two more agents.
A flash of electric delight rocketed through Natalie as she stood, swallowing hard and straightened out her skirt and blouse. On instinct she glanced back to check that the camera was ready, and found Dasha two feet behind her already rolling tape. Knowing Dasha had her back, Natalie turned with confidence to find herself face-to-face with First Lady Anita Crusoe. The woman was striking. At least five foot ten in heels, she had flawless olive skin set against a yellow blouse, with perfect posture and soft, almost sad, eyes.
Next to her was a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair she recognized instantly. Anthony Cantrell.
He’s here?
Suddenly everything seemed off center as Natalie felt a sharp sting of doubt. The First Lady didn’t leave because of the pipeline? My god. It was just an affair after all.
* * *
Sitting opposite Anita Crusoe and Anthony Cantrell, Natalie had no typed-out questions and no need to check her plan with anyone. She knew the material. She was ready to go.
“Thank you for sitting down with me, Mrs. Crusoe,” Natalie said.
“Thank you, Natalie,” the First Lady replied in a controlled voice without a hint of an accent. “There have been so many rumors and false reports, I wanted to correct the record.”
“Let’s start with the man by your side, Mrs. Crusoe, Anthony Cantrell. There has been a great deal of speculation about your relationship. Are you lovers?”
A flash of irritation crossed the First Lady’s face, but it dissolved quickly. “No. I have never betrayed my husband. This is Anthony. He is my sober companion,” the First Lady said, indicating Anthony.
Not a sex scandal, Natalie thought, feeling a new swell of anticipation.
FLOTUS continued, glancing at the man beside her. “I have been sober for most of my adult life, but as a younger woman I had a drinking problem. At times it’s still a struggle. So that part of your story was right, Natalie. I am a recovering alcoholic.”
Natalie winced. She was struck by how awkward it felt to sit opposite the person she’d been covering as a “character” in a TV narrative. How strange that she, Natalie, had been one of this woman’s tormenters.
“The pressures of the White House have recently begun to take their toll, and Anthony is helping me through.” The First Lady turned and smiled at Anthony. “He is a steady presence in my life and a consummate mental health professional. He keeps me on the path when I need him. I’m deeply grateful to him.”
Anthony nodded and said, “It is important that everyone suffering addiction understands it’s okay to ask for help. I’m here to be that support for Anita. We all need support in our lives.”
That explained all the photographs of Anthony with heiresses and wealthy wives—they’d paid him to be their sober companion. Natalie felt relieved that, on this, she’d been right not to make assumptions. Now they could get to the real story.
“Why did you leave the White House, Mrs. Crusoe? Why are you here?”
“When my husband betrayed me, I had to leave.” She spoke with a hint of defiance in her voice.
“Respectfully, is the president is having an affair?”
“No, I don’t believe he is,” Anita Crusoe said, which was the answer Natalie had expected. “There are other forms of betrayal. Some more difficult to get over than sexual infidelity.”
Natalie dropped her hand behind her back and did a circling motion with her index finger, indicating to Dasha she should push to crop Anthony out of the shot. Viewers would now see only Natalie and FLOTUS one-on-one.
“You said another form of betrayal,” Natalie said. “You mean asking someone to betray their people? Asking you to betray your country?”
“Smart girl. Yes.” A sad smile played at the corners of the First Lady’s eyes. “Most of your colleagues seem to think the regional troubles are about a boy hiding out in the embassy.” She shook her head. “But no. This is about economic interests. Money.”
“Oil,” Natalie said.
“Yes, oil. After years of violence and chaos, my country is finally beginning to sprout the green shoots of democracy. Members of my family lost their lives fighting for this democracy. My husband knows this and he claims to stand for democratic values. Yet he is prepared to destroy all that now. I can’t abide it.”
Natalie gestured to Matt, who handed her a photograph of one of the satellite images. She handed the photo to the First Lady. “Mrs. Crusoe, you’ll see in this image US warships assembled off the coast of Venezuela. A former Pentagon official confirms to me that the US is prepared for an assault on Venezuela. The goal—to seize Venezuela’s oil pipeline and hand control to the Colombians.”
She paused to let the First Lady react to the bombshell, but Mrs. Crusoe remained still, almost frozen, staring down at the photos.
“Mrs. Crusoe, attacking Venezuela will destabilize the international oil market, give the Lystra family a stranglehold over the US and Latin America, and destroy the young democracy in Venezuela,” Natalie continued. “Tell us, why is your husband starting this war?”
“You know my husband is a very rich man.” A flash of anger crossed the First Lady’s face. “My husband got rich on minerals and oil in Latin America. The Colombians were invested in these companies.”
“You mean the Lystras. He owes them?”
“He doesn’t just owe them. He is owned by them,” the First Lady replied, leaning forward. Now the words came from her in a rush. “The Colombians are the source of my husband’s wealth. Years ago his mines failed. His oil exploration wasn’t such a success. But the Colombians kept investing. When his businesses were deeply in debt, the Lystras took them off his hands at very high valuations. No questions asked.”
“Your husband owned a company called Sallee LLC. He sold it to the Lystras—”
“For almost a billion dollars,” the First Lady interrupted. “He’s told the American people that he earned his money honestly. Then he refused to release his taxes, and the people accepted it.”
“He used Lystra money to self-fund his campaigns. First for governor, now president,” Natalie offered. “In a way, the Lystras bought him the Oval Office.”
“Yes.” The First Lady leaned back, eyes glistening. “And now they are calling it in.”
For a moment Natalie thought of Ryan live, in front of the Colombian embassy obsessing over the rape charges and Rigo’s hideout upstairs—while the real story was taking place downstairs in the embassy’s official offices. Developing plans to invade a neighbor. As payback to the president’s debt-holder.
“The rape charge, with Rigo, was that meant as a distraction, to keep the press from covering the campaign against Venezuela?” Natalie pressed.
“Perhaps, in part. It was also my husband’s way of vilifying Venezuela. How could he get the Americans to support another war for oil?” The First Lady let a sad smile play on her lips. “Imagine using a sex scandal as the match to light the conflict. It almost worked, didn’t it?”
“What was your part in this meant to be?”
“My husband is not a popular man. I would have been pressed into service, to help build the case against Venezuela. Call Sonia Barbaro a liar, accuse the government of an historic provocation that threatens stability in the region.”
“You felt pressured to use your position to endorse a war against your country. So you left.”
“So I left.”
“And the leaks,” Natalie said. “Who do you think is leaking all this information about you? The video of you with Anthony and the stories about you in the Caribbean?”
“I assume my husband’s team put out that doctored photograph of me with BamBam. Or maybe the Colombians did. I imagine they leaked the video of Anthony with me at the estate. They could access security video.” She sighed, “And that story about me in rehab? I’m sure my husband’s team suspected you were on the trail. It was just a matter of time until you connected the dots. They wanted to discredit you first.”
Embarrassed, Natalie said nothing.
“But the story about the yacht in St. Tropez, that was me, and it was a mistake.” The First Lady looked down at her hands. “I was feeling hunted. You had video of me, here at the house—”
“You leaked that story about the yacht?” Natalie asked, disbelieving.
The First Lady gestured to the room and her voice took on a higher pitch. “I came here for privacy, and it was as though the whole world was closing in on us. I just wanted everyone to look away.”
Natalie tried to remember how that story had leaked.
“I had someone go to a coffee shop and talk too loudly on the phone,” the First Lady answered before she could ask the question. “And you all went scurrying. I didn’t believe it would be so easy. But a man was shot and I deeply regret it. I’d like that cameraman to know, I’m very sorry.”
Natalie shook her head. There was a piece of the First Lady’s story that didn’t add up. “Mrs. Crusoe, why wait to reveal all this? Why not shout this from the rooftops? There’s a paper trail. A history of payments. Reports of the oil field and the pipeline. There are interests in the US who would want to stop this, to say nothing of the Persian Gulf.” She paused, “Respectfully, what’s taken you so long?”
The First Lady looked at Anthony and reached for his hand. “Because this is a personal story, too.”
Natalie glanced back at Dasha who, she could tell, was already zooming out to bring Anthony back into the shot.
“There are parts of my past about which I am not proud. If I had spoken out, the White House would have exposed my family and I was hoping to avoid that.”
“This isn’t necessary, Anita,” Anthony said. “You don’t need to do this.”
“I do,” she said. Pulling her hand back, she straightened up and looked at Natalie. “They will tell you this story to discredit me. So I will tell you first.
“When I was young in Venezuela, I had a sister named Eva.” Her voice dropped when she said the name. “When we were growing up, my mother was an opposition leader, and my father was a judge who dared to stand for the rule of law. The Chavez government sentenced them both to fifteen years for political incitement. When they went to prison, my sister was nineteen. I was twenty-three.” The First Lady paused, seemingly lost in a memory.
“We were old enough to take care of ourselves, but still young. The conditions in prison, the stories that reached us—they were awful. We worried that we would learn our parents had died in prison from mysterious causes.”
She gathered her calm before continuing.
“The head of the police force knew us. He’d visit. He’d say it was for our protection.” There was a deep inhale. “He liked Eva better. He’d come at night, stay too long, get drunk. Then one night I came home to find them on the floor of the living room. He was forcing her, using her like an animal. It was disgusting. It was—” Her voice broke. “He bragged about it to his friends. We wanted to go to the police, but he was police! We didn’t k
now what to do.”
Now she leaned toward Natalie as if begging for her absolution. “You have to understand I was afraid. He was powerful. If we took it to higher authorities, surely our parents would be killed. I thought that speaking out was wrong. It wouldn’t make the rape go away, but it could cost us our family.”
She turned and looked out the windows, tears wet on her face.
Part of Natalie wanted to stop the interview, let the First Lady have some relief. She glanced at Matt, who was making a “go on” gesture with his hands.
Right.
She wasn’t here to be a friend. She was here to get the truth.
“What happened?” Natalie asked quietly.
“A deal was cut. Eva’s silence for our parents’ freedom. They were released weeks later.”
“And your parents were fine?”
“We stayed quiet. My father passed away seven years ago. My mother is in a home with dementia. None of us has spoken of this.”
“What about your sister? I’ve never read about her. Where is Eva?”
The First Lady cleared her throat. “Eva killed herself a year after my parent’s release. I found her hanging in the bathroom.”
Now Natalie felt like a voyeur.
“It wasn’t the assault that killed her,” Anita Crusoe continued quietly. “It was the silence. I took away her voice. I wouldn’t let her speak.”
“How is it that we’ve never heard this story before?” Natalie asked,softly.
The First Lady sat up straight and wiped away the wetness under her eyes. “Patrick buried it well, didn’t he? Wouldn’t do for the future First Lady to have such a sordid past. Rape. Prison. Suicide. Addiction.” She exhaled. “I loved my husband. I did. But I’ve made endless compromises for him. We’ve hidden so many things. I buried my family. Renounced my history, made myself over in an image of what he wanted me to be. Of what he believes the American people want me to be.”
“What will you do now?” Natalie asked.
“My marriage is over. I’m done with politics. I need to go back to what I’m good at, where I can really help people. Maybe I’ll return to my career. I was an engineer when I came to the US. I had a scholarship. Believe it or not, I was a good at the work I was doing.”
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