Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  In almost no time, Dana found herself heading into Virginia on a two-lane highway. It became harder to stay close enough to see the Ford, but luckily there were a few other cars on the road to screen her. Trees soon began to outnumber man-made structures. She made a note of the route on a pad she’d placed on the passenger seat then fiddled with the dial until she found an oldies station playing a Springsteen classic.

  Dana cruised along about a mile farther when the Ford’s brake lights went on. She slowed to a crawl. The Ford turned onto a narrow country road, crossed a railroad track, and drove by the darkened storefronts that lined the main street of a sleepy village. Dana jotted down the name of the town. A few miles past the city limits the Ford took a right onto a dirt road that was barely wide enough for two cars. Dana noted the distance she’d traveled from the village to the turnoff before cutting her lights and following the other car’s taillights.

  After a quarter mile, the Ford’s headlights illuminated a white slat fence and a quarter mile after that the car stopped at a gate. Dana was surprised to see an armed guard. While the guard was concentrating on the occupants of the Ford, she put the Toyota in reverse and backed into a side road. If she had to run she didn’t want to waste time turning around. Dana stuffed the cell phone in her jacket pocket and grabbed a heavy flashlight and the camera. She crouched down, crossed the road, hopped the fence, and ducked into the woods, pushing through the foliage with the flashlight beam held low so it wouldn’t attract attention. After a short hike, she found herself on top of a small hill looking down on a white clapboard house that was about a football field away. The Ford was parked next to the front door but no one was in it. Dana had been surprised that there was an armed guard at the gate and more surprised to find other guards patrolling the grounds.

  It was chilly, and Dana turned up her collar before settling in with her back against a tree. The ground was rocky and she had to shift around before she was comfortable. Nothing happened for several minutes. Dana drew up her knees, balanced the camera lens on them, and passed the time studying the house. The building looked like something from colonial times that had been updated with additions that were almost indistinguishable from the original. The bottom floor was illuminated, but that was all she could tell because the thick curtains on the front windows shielded the interior from view while letting only a little light escape.

  To kill more time, Dana phoned in a whispered report to the client then snapped a few shots of the house, the guards, and the license plate of a dark blue Lincoln sedan that was parked at the side of the house. She jotted down the number of the plate on the sheet where she’d written the number of the car that had taken Walsh to the house. Dana was about to take another shot when a light went on in an upstairs room. She framed the window in her lens. A man stood in it briefly with his back to her, but he moved away before she could snap a shot. Dana peered into the room, but all she could make out from her angle were two shifting shadows on the wall. The shadows separated then came together until there was one flat black mass flowing across it. Moments later, the shadows dropped below the level of the sill and the room went dark.

  Dana leaned back against the tree. She wished she’d had the foresight to bring the thermos along. She also hoped that Walsh wasn’t going to spend the night because camping out wasn’t her thing. She was getting bored so she watched the guards patrol the grounds and tried to figure out their routine. One of the armed men was a redhead with a crew cut. When he reached the point in his patrol that brought him closest to Dana she checked out his arsenal. He appeared to have a Sig Sauer 9-mm handgun in his holster and he was carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5 semiautomatic machine gun. She was trying to get a better look at the guns through the telephoto lens when the lights in the upstairs room came on again. A shadow appeared on the wall seconds before Charlotte Walsh walked in front of the window. Dana couldn’t hear what she was saying but she was waving her arms rapidly and she looked like she was yelling.

  Dana checked her watch. It was nine-thirty. It had taken her a little over an hour to drive from the mall to the farmhouse and Walsh had been upstairs for about a half hour. She finished her calculations just as the front door opened and Walsh stormed out. Dana snapped a few pictures. Walsh turned back to the house and talked to a man who was standing in the doorway. She was bent forward slightly and her fists were clenched. Her anger traveled up the hill on the crisp, night air but Dana was too far away to make out what she was saying.

  Dana shifted the lens to the man in the doorway. She could see his shirtsleeve and part of a pants leg but she couldn’t see his face. One of the guards got into the driver’s side of the car she had followed from the mall and Walsh threw herself into the backseat. As the car drove off, Dana used the cell phone to report that Walsh was probably heading back to the mall. While she talked, she kept an eye on the front door in hopes that the man Walsh had been with would put in an appearance. Just as she was finishing her report the man stepped out of the house. Dana dropped the phone and aimed her camera. The man turned his face in her direction. He was too far away for Dana to make out his features clearly, but something about him was familiar. She snapped off a quick shot and was going to take another when a branch snapped.

  Dana froze for a second before rolling behind the tree against which she’d been leaning. The crackling of more leaves told her that someone was headed her way fast. She guessed it was a guard who was patrolling the woods and felt like a fool for assuming that the only guards were stationed around the house.

  Dana peeked around the tree and spotted a man carrying an MP5 moving toward her. She cursed under her breath and stuffed the cell phone in her pocket as she ran through her choices. She was armed but she wasn’t going to shoot the guard. Under the circumstances, it would be felony assault or cold-blooded murder. She couldn’t run without being seen and he was so close he’d hit her for sure even if he was a lousy shot. When she realized that her choices boiled down to surrender or resistance she flashed back to the basement.

  Dana felt light-headed and began to shake. Her flashbacks weren’t memories. They were more like a dream in which what you dreamt seemed real. Dana could smell the dank odor of mold on the basement walls and the foul water that pooled against them. Worse still, she could smell the sweat coming off the men who had held her captive.

  Whenever the flashbacks occurred, Dana forced herself to take deep breaths. She did that now because she could not afford to be paralyzed by fear. The deep breathing distracted her long enough for the guard to disappear from view. Dana panicked as she scanned the forest. The man reappeared, closer now and definitely stalking her position. When he moved behind another tree, she inched away. The guard dashed toward the spot where she’d been sitting moments before and stopped, shocked that she was gone.

  Dana ran, zigzagging through the underbrush to give the guard as difficult a target as possible. The guard raced toward the sounds Dana made in retreat. She knew he’d catch her soon or get close enough to take a shot, so she slid behind a tree, hoping that the guard’s heavy breathing would mask the fact that she wasn’t making any more noise. When the guard ran past her tree Dana smashed the flashlight across the back of his skull. He dropped to his knees and the gun discharged, spraying tree trunks and bushes. She wrenched it away and hurled it into the woods. The guard struggled to his knees, and she hit him again. He collapsed just as snapping branches, crackling leaves, and muted gasps from the base of the hill told Dana that the other guards had heard the shots and were speeding toward her.

  Dana broke out of the trees and vaulted the fence. She’d guessed where her car was and she was only off by a few yards. She wrenched open the driver’s door, threw the camera and flashlight onto the passenger seat, and started the engine. As she peeled out of the side road she looked in the rearview mirror and saw the redheaded guard vault the fence. Dana floored the accelerator, and the souped-up engine did what it was built to do. She swerved back and forth, sending up clouds of dust
in the hope that they would make it more difficult for the guard to get off a good shot, but he held his fire. When she looked in her rearview mirror again he was writing something in a notebook. If it was her license plate number she was screwed. She was miles from home. If an APB was broadcast there was a good chance she’d be stopped while driving or find the police waiting for her at her apartment.

  Dana tapped into her GPS and took side streets until she reached a large housing development. When she was certain that no one was following her, she parked on a side street. She’d had some time to think and she made a decision. Dana dialed the mystery client and heard the familiar generic voice tell her to leave a message.

  “This is me again,” she said after the beep. “I was just chased through the woods by a man with a gun. I had to slug him to get away. Being chased by armed men was not in the job description I was given. This definitely isn’t what I signed on for, so this is my last report.

  “The subject looked pretty upset when she left. I’m guessing she’s headed back to her car in the mall and she’ll probably go home after that, so I don’t expect there’ll be much more to report today anyway. I’ll get the photos I took to your lawyer and he can give them to you.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I have no idea who you are so I can’t give you up. The attorney-client privilege should protect you, too, so you don’t have to worry about anyone discovering your identity. Your lawyer should be able to find someone else to carry on the surveillance.”

  Dana couldn’t think of anything more to say so she ended the call. Then she sat in the car and tried to figure out a plan that wouldn’t involve her going to jail for assault and trespass, but she was too wound up to think straight. Dana closed her eyes and saw an image of the man Charlotte Walsh had met. Why did she feel she’d seen him before? He had to be someone important or he wouldn’t have had all those guards. Who was he? Was he someone famous? Had she seen him on TV?

  Dana got an idea. She put away the cell phone Dale Perry had given her, turned on her own, and made a call to Andy Zipay.

  “Zip, it’s Dana. Do you know someone who can run some license plates for me?”

  “Is this for the Perry thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a cop who’ll do it for me, but I don’t like to use him too much.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Give me the numbers,” Zipay said.

  Dana told him the license number of the Ford that had taken Walsh to the house, the number of the Lincoln sedan that was parked at the house, and she threw in Walsh’s license plate for good measure. Maybe Walsh’s car was registered in her parents’ name and she’d get a clue to why Walsh was so important. She knew she was done with the case but she was still curious to know what was going on.

  “How soon do you need this?” Zipay asked.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  Dana ended the call and thought about what she’d do next. It had been dark when she escaped and she’d stirred up all that dust. Maybe the redheaded guard hadn’t gotten her license plate number or maybe he’d written it down incorrectly. She’d find out soon enough, but she didn’t want to find out tonight. The natural choice for a place to sleep was Jake’s, since she was house-sitting anyway. Dana started the car and headed there, glad to be rid of Dale Perry’s assignment.

  Chapter Five

  The light from dozens of crystal chandeliers illuminated the tuxedo-and-evening-gown-clad elite who filled the grand ballroom of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel in downtown Washington. Every inch of the huge ballroom was covered with circular tables draped with white tablecloths and decorated with elegant floral arrangements. For $1,000 a seat or $10,000 to sponsor a table, the contributors to Christopher Farrington’s campaign had been served a dinner of chicken or salmon, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. No one came to these fund-raisers for the food. Many of the attendees paid hard cash for rubber chicken because they expected the party to remember them fondly in the future. And if Farrington didn’t prevail, more than one of those in attendance had hedged his bet by contributing to Maureen Gaylord’s campaign chest, too.

  Some of those in the crowd were ardent supporters of Christopher Farrington and were actually there to hear the president. They had been disappointed when it was announced that affairs of state had kept him from attending, but the mood changed quickly when the first lady began to speak. Claire Farrington had been funny and forceful, and the highlight of her speech had been her discussion of the president’s education policy, which she’d led into by voicing her concerns about America ’s schools as a mother and a mother-to-be. Thunderous applause had greeted the announcement of her pregnancy and an equally raucous round of handclapping signaled the crowd’s approval when her speech ended.

  “You knocked their socks off,” Charles Hawkins told Claire as he escorted her off the dais. Hawkins was six two, lean, and hard muscled and he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a buzz cut. He’d been an army Ranger before a knee injury suffered on a combat mission forced him to retire from the service. Except for a barely noticeable limp he still looked like he was on patrol in enemy territory. His hard eyes were always scanning the terrain for threats to the first family, and he was ready to strike at anyone who threatened Claire Farrington or her husband.

  “You really think I did okay?” Claire asked.

  “You had them eating out of your hand, and breaking the news that you’re going to be a mother again was a stroke of genius. That’s going to be the lead story in every newspaper in the country tomorrow.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Claire said as her six-person Secret Service detail surrounded her and guided her through a corridor behind the kitchen. “Poor Maureen, she’s giving a major speech outlining her foreign policy at Georgetown, tonight. I bet it’ll be buried somewhere on page six.”

  At the end of the back hall was the elevator that would take her to an elegantly appointed meeting room on the second floor of the hotel where she was scheduled to have her picture taken with a small group of major contributors. They had almost arrived at the elevator bank when Claire grimaced and her hand went to her stomach.

  “Is anything wrong?” Hawkins asked, alarmed.

  “I’d forgotten that morning sickness doesn’t just happen in the morning. Let’s make this quick, Chuck.”

  “I’ll call off the photo op if you give me the word. Everyone will understand.”

  “How many photos will I have to sit for?”

  “I think there are twenty-five, but they’re all more interested in access to Chris than another photo for the mantel. We’ll promise them a private photo shoot at the White House.”

  Claire put her hand on Hawkins’s forearm. “No, I’ll be okay. If it gets really bad I’ll tell you. I’ve got the suite so I can lie down if I get exhausted.”

  “You’re certain you want to do this?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured Hawkins. “Just move the line along and tell the photographer not to dawdle.”

  “Ray,” she said, turning to Ray Cinnegar, the head of the Secret Service detail. “Can you take me to a restroom? I need a few minutes.”

  “Sure thing. Maxine,” he called to the woman who was point leader for the detail and had checked out the route earlier. “Mrs. F. needs to make a restroom stop.”

  “There’s one coming up at the next turn. I’ll scope it out.”

  “Go.”

  By the time Claire made the turn, Maxine was inside the restroom. Cinnegar kept the first lady outside until Maxine assured him that the restroom was secure. Claire sighed with relief.

  When they arrived at the Theodore Roosevelt Meeting Room Hawkins ushered the first lady inside. The spacious room was furnished with original pieces that President Roosevelt had brought with him to the White House from Sagamore Hill, his family home. A line of men and women stood between the wall and a red velvet rope supported by brass stanchions. The line ended near th
e hotel’s most famous antique, a grandfather’s clock that had stood in a sitting room in the White House and graced the cover of the hotel’s brochure. The photographer was waiting in front of the clock, which rang nine times moments after the first lady entered.

  Most of the men and women on the line were powerful attorneys, wealthy financiers, corporate executives and their spouses, but many of them looked like anxious children waiting to climb on Santa’s knee. Claire was amused. She’d experienced this phenomenon many times during her White House years-rich and powerful men and women reduced to gawking tourists at a celebrity sighting.

  Several other people were milling around the room sipping champagne or eating the hors d’oeuvres that had been set out for the upscale crowd. One of the men had just stuffed a piece of caviar-smeared toast into his mouth. When he saw the first lady he wiped his hands on a napkin and swallowed quickly before walking over to her.

  “Dale!” she said when she saw the lawyer.

  “Just thought I’d give you a heads up,” Perry said. “The fifth guy in line is Herman Kava, an industrialist from Ohio and a client. Treat him nice.”

  “Treat him nice” was code for a big contribution alert. Claire smiled.

  “Thank you, Dale.”

  “Glad to be of service. Hey, Chuck.”

  Hawkins nodded before leading the first lady to her position in front of the clock.

  Roughly forty minutes later, Claire thanked the last person in the line. As soon as an aide led the contributor out of the room she sagged with relief.