by Radclyffe
For a moment, he didn’t speak and she knew he was making a decision as to whether he could ultimately trust her or not. Bureaucratic politics superseded even friendship. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and grimaced.
“Think about it. In another six months, Andrew Powell will need to consolidate a reelection platform. He’ll need money and backers and a very high popularity rating or he may not win a bid for reelection. His liberal left of center views haven’t always gone over well—with either party. He’s not a shoe-in to get the nod from his own party.” He shrugged, as if that explained things, but went on to say, “In the days of J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI had dossiers on every important political figure in the country, as well as leaders of industry, civil rights organizers, Hollywood stars—everyone with any conceivable connection to the men who held the reins of power—citizens and criminals alike. They used information as a weapon and bought and sold Presidents at will. Some suggested that if they couldn’t buy them, they killed them. Or at least looked the other way while someone else did.”
“But that was thirty, forty years ago,” Cam protested.
“And you think that couldn’t happen again? Look at the direction the Supreme Court has taken in the last twenty years—they don’t even pretend to be non-partisan. Andrew Powell is a very liberal president, and there are a lot of people in Washington who aren’t happy that he was elected. Right now, my best guess is that some powerful people who want him out are gathering as much ammunition from every quarter that they possibly can. Having an edge on the President’s daughter, having some degree of control over the information flow to and from the quarter, might be parlayed into political leverage at some point.”
“That seems like a stretch to me,” Cam argued.
“Not if someone heading her task force reports directly to the FBI, and not to me.”
Cam stiffened. “If I’m out, Mac Phillips would replace me, and I guarantee he’s not a mole for anyone.”
“It wouldn’t necessarily be Mac Phillips who replaces you,” Carlisle said slowly.
“But that would be up to you. You’ll name my successor.”
He stared at her silently. Her heart began to pound and her throat suddenly felt dry. “Is someone squeezing you on this? Stewart, if you’re in trouble, I’ll help if I can. But not at the expense of Blair Powell’s safety.”
Methodically, he straightened the file folders on his desk and when he looked up, his face was expressionless again. “For the time being, consider yourself notified of a formal inquest. You’ll remain on duty until such time as the panel convenes and makes a determination as to whether suspension is recommended.”
“She’s due to go to Paris in less than a week. It’s a high security agenda, and I intend to lead the team. If you try to take me off before that, you’ll have to put me in jail to do it.”
When he didn’t answer, she got to her feet and walked to his desk, then leaned down with her palms flat on the surface. Her voice was low and strong. “Do whatever it is you have to do as far as I’m concerned, but don’t put her at risk because of it.”
“That will be all, Agent Roberts.”
She continued to look at him for a long moment, then straightened. “Yes, sir.”
When she reached the lobby, she signed the log and retrieved her cell phone. Once outside, she punched in a number and waited until a familiar accentless female voice answered. Then she repeated her anonymous account number and requested an appointment, again using only an identifying code.
“I’m sorry, that employee is not currently available. May I substitute someone with similar qualifications?”
“No, thank you. Please check your priority list and cross-reference this account number, please.”
“Just one moment.”
A minute later, the pleasant tones returned. “I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you. For what time shall I record the appointment?”
“Just relay the request and note this is an open ended appointment for this evening.”
“Certainly. If you would call the following number and note the appointment address.”
Cam memorized the number, thanked her, and rang off. Briefly, she considered calling Blair, and then realized that there was nothing she could tell her that she wanted to say over the phone. She wasn’t certain how much she really wanted to share with her in person because she didn’t know how to make Blair understand what she might need to do.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Blair nodded hello and a murmured brief “Good to see you” as she walked hurriedly through the corridors of the West Wing toward a large office that was about as close to the center of power as you could get without actually being in the Oval Office. She stopped by the desk of a pale, sandy-haired, intense looking young man and asked, “Is she in for me?”
In a flat Midwestern baritone, he replied “Let me check. She was on the phone with the Secretary of State.”
In another minute, she was getting a quick hug and a peck on the cheek from a woman she had known since childhood and who still managed to instill in her a certain amount of awe and temerity the way no one else could.
“I figured I’d save you the quarter for the phone call,” Blair said as she sat down on the leather sofa that bordered one wall in the office of the White House Chief of Staff.
Lucinda Washburn, a statuesque auburn-haired woman in her early fifties, was dressed in a navy dress accented by a minimum of tasteful gold jewelry. She leaned her hips against the front of the wide desk that was covered with thick binders, stacks of memos, and a computer and regarded Blair with an amused smile.
“Must be serious if it got you to the White House voluntarily.”
“I guess that’s for you to tell me.”
Lucinda sighed and her eyes darkened. “Well, I think that depends.”
“On what?”
Lucinda fixed Blair with a look that was known to make the Joint Chiefs sit up straight in their chairs. Blair didn’t flinch. She knew Lucinda’s stare and at least had learned not to let its effect show in her face.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Blair. It depends on who was in the picture with you and whether its something that’s likely to come up again. Aaron Stern has already fielded questions at this morning’s press briefing about the picture. The press and the public want to know why they haven’t heard about this romance of yours before this. Everyone wants details.”
Blair did her best not to bristle, but it took every ounce of her formidable will not to snap back that the public could go screw itself. Instead, she said, “I don’t see why we need to give any explanation whatsoever. This will be yesterday’s news by this time tomorrow.”
“You may very well be right. On the other hand, there’s nothing that the newshounds like better than something juicy involving the First Family to use as filler while waiting for the next meteorological catastrophe or military atrocity.”
“Fine. Tell them it was a date and let it go at that.”
“Oh, come now. A middle of the night assignation on a beach in a city half the mid-West thinks is the reincarnation of Sodom and Gomorrah? Don’t pretend to be naive because I know better. Here in the White House our motto is to be prepared. I don’t like to be blindsided by anything, but particularly not by something that reflects directly on the President’s family.”
Blair was silent, because she knew that already and that was part of the reason she had come to see Lucinda. Finally, she said, “What do you want?”
“If you’re going to embark on a public relationship, then we need to be able to say something about it when asked, and you know damn well we will be asked. So, give me the details now.”
“You can say that I’m seriously involved with another woman. I won’t give you her name.”
Lucinda’s expression didn’t change. Blair assumed that this news was probably not a surprise, because Lucinda was too astute not to have known before this. But there was a world of difference between assumption and know
ledge.
“Well, that will take some handling,” Lucinda answered in a controlled tone. “If you refuse to name her, it will only make people think you have something else to hide. You’ll be hounded to death over it. Is there something I need to know about her—some scandal, some dark hidden past?”
“No.”
“And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to put this affair under wraps until after the President has the party endorsement for reelection?”
“That’s more than a year away.”
“Do you want to tell me that you think one year is too long for you to wait? Or is it her? If the woman has any substance—”
“You’re stepping over the line, Luce.”
Lucinda Washburn’s dark eyes flashed with ire, but she held her breath for a long second, then exhaled slowly. “Blair, your father has only eight years—maximum—to hold the most powerful position in the world. He can accomplish amazing things for this country and for the future of the world during those eight years. Tell me you don’t care about that. Tell me you’re willing to risk that.”
That had always been the issue, of course. Everyone in her fathers inner circle, Lucinda included, had sacrificed their personal life to put him where he was. Some never had time for relationships, and those who did rarely kept them long. As his daughter, it wasn’t as simple as balancing her father’s political ambitions with her own need for an independent, honest life. It was the rightness of placing the personal above the greater good. Looking at it the way Lucinda had put it, her desire for personal happiness seemed selfish. “I’ve been quiet about my life for over ten years. I’ve avoided any kind of public statement or disclosure. I didn’t mean for that photograph to be in the newspaper. I can’t change who I am, even for my father’s benefit.”
“I’m not asking you to change. I am asking you not to advertise.”
“I’ve tried the ‘Don’t ask, Don’t tell’ approach to life. Its a lot like living in a prison.”
For one brief instant, Blair saw sympathy in Lucinda’s face. Then it was gone. “You’re your fathers daughter, Blair. You’ll make the right decision.”
They didn’t embrace as they parted, and as Blair passed the closed door to the Oval Office and the pair of Secret service agents flanking it, she saw Cam’s face and wondered if she had the strength to do the right thing.
———
Shortly before midnight, Cam opened the door to her apartment and ushered Claire inside. Claire was in street clothes with only the barest hint of makeup, and she seemed younger, more vulnerable. Nevertheless, in only a plain white blouse, dark slacks, and low heels, she was still beautiful.
“Are you all right?” Cam asked immediately as the two of them stood facing one another just inside the door.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Claire assured her, although her voice rung hollowly.
“Did you notice anyone following you?”
Claire shook her head and smiled wanly. “No, I don’t think so, but I’m not certain I’d notice if they did. Subterfuge is not something I ordinarily need to employ. The security built into our business is enough to insure everyone’s safety.”
“It probably doesn’t matter at this point. Come sit down.”
Claire laid her purse on the table just inside the door and walked across the living room to the sofa. Cam joined her, and without being asked, handed her a glass of wine.
“Thank you.” She sipped the wine and said quietly, “I called you because there’ve been more questions. I’m apparently on the list now, too.”
“Who approached you—a client?”
“Yes.”
“A man?”
“Not the first time, no.”
Cam didn’t let her surprise show. She’d thought it might have been Doyle. Now she didn’t know what to think.
“Someone you knew?”
“A new client. Apparently referred by an impeccable source, but I don’t know who. I wouldn’t.”
“And she asked about me?”
“Not directly. Just vague questions about how many people from the Hill used the service. Wondering what kind of company she was in nothing very specific, and if I hadn’t known about the others being questioned, I might not have noticed.” She drew a breath, as if steeling herself to continue. “Then a man asked about you.”
“What exactly did he ask?” Cam inquired quietly.
“He didn’t actually use your name. He showed me a photograph and asked me if I knew you.”
“Was he a client, too?”
“He posed as one,” Claire said with just a hint of distaste. “I could tell immediately that something was wrong, because he was uncomfortable.”
Cam raised an eyebrow in question.
“The type of people I’m used to dealing with are not uncomfortable by our transactions.”
“Of course.” They were all civilized and business-like and emotionally remote. Like she had been—at first. When did that change? When we exchanged names?
“At any rate, he wasn’t interested in anything physical. He was clearly stalling—trying to get me to talk about the business. When I didn’t, he resorted to strong-arm tactics.”
“Did he touch you?” Cam stiffened and loosely clasped her fingers over Claire’s forearm.
“No, not like that,” Claire quickly replied, covering Cam’s hand with hers. “He mostly blustered and threatened and suggested that I could go to jail.”
“For what?”
“That’s what I asked him,” Claire said with a dismissive shrug. “This is not some backroom operation with a shady client list. In every sense of the word, this is a high-powered business with even higher-powered clientele. Anyone who tried to expose some of our clients would probably end up in jail themselves.”
“That’s when he showed you the picture?”
She nodded. “Yes. I think at that point he realized he wasn’t going to get anything from me and just decided to see how I would react.”
“Claire,” Cam said gently, placing her hands back on her own thighs. “I don’t want you to protect me. You need to protect yourself, even if that means revealing your association with me.”
Claire turned on the sofa until her knees were touching Cam’s. She rested her hand on Cam’s blue jean clad leg. The touch was intimate but not seductive. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“No matter what happens in the future—if for some reason you have to testify to anything, don’t perjure yourself on my account. There’s nothing illegal about what we’ve done. No one can prove the financial transaction, and even if they could, its debatable whether any crime was involved.”
“You’re right about that. It would be virtually impossible to trace the business’ income to any particular person.”
“What are you going to do?”
Claire smiled sadly. “I’m going to retire.”
They were both silent, because they both knew what that meant. In all likelihood, they would never see one another again.
“Are you leaving DC?” Cam asked softly.
“I don’t know yet. Probably.”
“This whole thing may blow over. I have a feeling it’s just a fishing expedition—probably a small group of people trying to dig up any kind of inflammatory information on anyone they possibly can. There may be no point or direction to this investigation at all.” She rubbed her eyes and grimaced. “Still, I think it’s best if you get out since they’ve clearly identified you as part of the organization.”
“I have a feeling there’s going to be an imminent restructuring of the business. Probably a complete turnover of the escorts, too. At this point, everyone is suspect.”
“If you need anything,” Cam said, “anytime—you know how to find me.”
“Thank you. Part of the reason I was in this business is that it’s been very lucrative. You needn’t worry about anything like that.”
“I just meant—”
Claire placed her fingers gently against Cam’s mouth. “I kn
ow what you meant.”
They were both very still, Claire’s fingers motionless against Cam’s face. Finally she moved her hand to Cam’s neck and held her gaze steadily. In a low voice, her body trembling, she asked, “Is there someone?”
Cam raised her hand and drew Claire’s fingers to her lips again, then kissed them softly before letting them go. “Yes.”
“I thought there must be. These last few months—you’ve been gone.”
“I—”
The sound of the doorbell interrupted her sentence and Cam murmured, “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
Surprised that the doorman had not phoned to announce a visitor, she quickly crossed to the door and glanced through the peephole. Too stunned even to curse, she opened the door to Blair Powell.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What are you doing in DC?” Cam asked incredulously.
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” Blair replied lightly. Hands in the pockets of her jeans, her face was alight with a smile of pleasure she couldn’t hide. When Cam didn’t answer, her smile faded. Then, aware of the consternation on Cam’s face she asked, “What’s wrong?”
Cam stepped into the hall and glanced up and down, pulling the door nearly closed behind her. “Where’s the team?”
“My primary detail is at a hotel. The White House detail thinks I’m asleep.”
“Goddamn it, Blair, I thought we were passed this by now.”
“Listen, Cameron,” Blair said sharply, confused by Cam’s anger even though she had expected her to be annoyed. “I wanted to see you. No, I needed to see you.”
Cam closed her eyes and sighed. When she spoke, her voice was soft, the edge gone. “I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to impress upon you that you can’t be running around the city by yourself.”
“I wasn’t running around. I took a cab.” She brushed her hand over Cam’s chest and bumped Cam’s leg playfully with her hip. “So can I come in?”
“I’m sorry. No.”
Blair stared at her, bewildered. “Why not? Don’t tell me that you’re going to get all huffy about the fact that the team doesn’t know where I am. If it will make you happier, I’ll use my cell phone to call the White House detail commander. I’ve done it before.”
