“You’re correct, Mr. Hoyt.”
“Sure I’m right. I don’t know Albert Greer, but I know his firm. Lockney, Trace, Fulton and Smith. Big DC firm, does a lot of work, both public and private. Back when I was VP of operations at Global Strategic Solutions, we tossed a lot of business their way. I even let Mr. Lockney beat me a few times at golf over at Burning Tree. So he and his firm owe me a number of favors.”
I look to the President, to see what he thinks of all of this, but he’s staring over my shoulders, looking at a painting of a sailing ship over on the opposite curved wall.
“You’re a piece of shit,” I say, surprising even myself.
“No, not a piece,” he replies calmly. “Just the biggest chunk in all of DC … so let’s make this clear, so there’s no misunderstanding. You do what your President wants you to do, and we’ll give you everything you need … all the backup and information necessary, so long as it’s kept quiet and under the radar.”
A pause for effect, no doubt. He goes on, his tone sharper. “But if you leave here without saying yes, then you’re going to find out that your tentative divorce settlement is going off the rails. There’ll be lots more motions … hearings … expensive delays … and you can expect a final divorce when your pretty little girl is about ready to enter college … if she still has it together to go on beyond high school and if you have any money left for tuition bills.”
I’m breathing and staying conscious, but just barely. I stare at the chief of staff, and he doesn’t flinch or flicker, giving it right back to me. I say, “I see how you’ve gotten so far.”
“All those nasty rumors about me?” he says. “They’re true. We’re wasting time. What’s your answer?”
A small part of me wants the President to intervene, to make it all right, to make the bad man go away, but the President isn’t going to help me today.
I get up.
“Two answers,” I say. “The first one is yes.”
I walk away from the couch with the two men sitting there, one of whom I had once admired.
“And the second answer is go to hell.”
I exit the Oval Office and then remember something else important.
Because of its design, it’s impossible to slam the door in anger.
CHAPTER 12
IN THE OFF the Record bar at the luxurious Hay-Adams Hotel in downtown Washington, practically across the street from the White House, Marsha Gray laughs at the dumb joke her late morning date has just told her, and she reaches under the table to give his upper thigh a tender squeeze.
“Really?” she asks, softening her voice. “That’s really why the chicken crossed the road? All these years and I never knew that.”
Her date’s face flushes. He’s a sweet young fellow, maybe a few years older than she is, and he’s wearing a nice Savile Row gray suit with matching red necktie and pocket square. He’s from one of the “stan” countries that popped up after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and he has a first and last name made up mostly of consonants—but she calls him Carl, and he thinks that’s adorable.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice betraying only the slightest of accents. His skin is light brown, and his eyes and carefully groomed hair are both ebony. “I always thought … well, that’s one of the oldest jokes in the world.”
She gives his thigh another slight squeeze. “Oh, Carl, it is … but just the way you say it … well, it made me laugh.”
His eyes crinkle as he smiles in return, and she slowly withdraws her hand and says, “What time is that reception of yours?”
Carl looks at his TAG Heuer watch. “In … two hours. It’s a lunch meeting.”
She smiles, leans forward so she is nearly popping out of her low-cut, little black cocktail dress. “Then let’s go up to your room.”
He smiles back. “I … I don’t think there will be enough time.”
“Oh, Carl …,” she says, her voice dripping with disappointment. The Off the Record bar—one of the most famous watering holes in the District—is a busy place this late morning, which is perfect. Marsha leans over and kisses his ear, runs her tongue gently around the lobe, and whispers, “That thing you’ve always wanted to do … I’ll let you do it to me now. Honest.”
She leans back and already he’s fumbling at his napkin with one hand, signing the check with the other, and she picks up her little black leather purse and he’s smiling like some teen boy finally getting his driver’s license. In his sweet, low voice, he says, “You … you’re a green-eyed djinni, you are. The way you make me do what you want.”
Marsha waits for him to come around the small table, then stands up and crooks her arm. He slides his arm into hers, and they walk out of the bar, into the grand and posh lobby of the Hay-Adams Hotel, which is made of columns, high ceilings, polished wood, and quietly efficient staff.
Three bulky men in ill-fitting suits are sitting in comfortable chairs, eyeing the two of them as they walk by, and Marsha just keeps the smile on her face. The elevator is quick, silent, and in the few seconds they are in there, she turns her head and buries her face into his neck, gently nibbling and licking. He tastes of vanilla. She continues to taste him, ensuring her face isn’t seen on the elevator’s surveillance cameras.
Down the hallway and poor Carl’s hand is practically trembling as he tries to use the keycard once, twice, and then on the third attempt, he gets the door open. Marsha sees the front of his trousers is bulging out.
Inside, he waves her in, and again she takes just the slightest breath at the expense and expanse of the suite that Carl has been living in these past two weeks. There’s old-style furniture, a sitting area, a gorgeous and well-designed bedroom, and windows actually overlooking the White House.
She turns and kisses him ravenously, holding him tight, rubbing a black-stocking-covered thigh against his crotch, and he moans with lust and anticipation, and she breaks away, breathing heavily. “Carl … just a moment … all right?”
“Yes … my djinni … anything you want.”
Marsha goes across the room, thinking that even a one-night stay in the smallest room in this hotel costs more than a month’s pay when she was in the Corps, and she draws the curtains closed so the White House is no longer visible, in the process hiding the room’s interior from any Secret Service spotters on the White House’s roof. She opens up her small purse, fumbles inside for something, and then walks back to Carl, smiling widely, reaching back to unzip her dress.
Carl is way ahead of her, his coat and tie off, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a dark and hairy chest, and he’s working at his belt with his shaking hands as Marsha comes forward and kisses him, gives him one last hug, and then kills him.
CHAPTER 13
THE PRESIDENT OF the United States sits in silence with his chief of staff for a minute after the very angry and very determined head of his Presidential Protective Division has left the Oval Office. He gets up from the couch and walks over to his wooden desk, Resolute, a gift to the nation from Queen Victoria. Harrison sits down behind the small and ornate desk, the same one used by JFK and Bill Clinton, reflecting that they too had women problems—just like him, just like now.