David Baldacci - First Family

Hanging the lantern handle over the doorknob so her work area would be lit, Willa inserted the pen clasp, which served as her tension tool, into the bottom of the lock's opening. She turned it as if she were manipulating a key in a lock, applying enough pressure to keep the interior lock pins from falling back into place. She slid the pick tool into the upper part of the lock using her other hand. She was applying so much force that a bead of sweat appeared on her forehead despite the chill of the room. She pushed up with the pick, trying to rake the pins into their sheer alignment. Once her hand slipped and the tension tool came loose.

She reinserted it and tried again. She had practiced this many times at home, but found that she could never tell how long it would take her. She wasn't an expert and lacked the feel of the pins' touch against the pick. It could be minutes or hours. She prayed it was the former.

Willa froze as she heard footsteps coming toward her. She angled her wrist up and checked her watch. Only twenty minutes had passed. Was the man coming to see her? The old man who talked softly and yet she could sense the danger, the anger he possessed. No, it wasn't his tread. It was one of the other men. She pulled the pick and tension tool out and was starting to flee back to her cot when the footsteps receded. She waited a bit more, just to be sure.

The tools went back in and her concentration redoubled. Now she could feel the pins glancing off the pick. One by one she lifted them to the sheer line, all the while holding the tension tool so rigidly that her forearm and wrist started to ache.

The last pin fell into place and she pulled the pick out and turned the tension tool like a key. The dead bolt vanished into the door. She drew a deep breath and mouthed a prayer. Turning the lantern down to its lowest level, she listened intently and then swung the door open.

Willa waited a few moments and then slowly moved out into the darkness.

SEAN SIPPED HIS COFFEE and watched the gate of the condo building through his camera's zoom lens. It was in the mid-eighties in Jacksonville and he'd taken off his jacket and thrown it on the passenger seat of his Avis rental and had the air cranked up. The parking lot of the condo building was in full view behind a fence of imposingly scrolled wrought iron.

A minute later he sat up and put the car in gear. His target had just walked out the sliding glass front doors and taken a moment to slide on her Maui Jims against the bright sun. He noted that she was loaded for bear in a pleated miniskirt, high heels, bare, tanned legs, and a tank-top blouse that showed off cleavage so deep a man could easily get lost.

She pointed her key fob, there was the ubiquitous chirp, and she climbed in her car. The combination of the low chassis of her Mercedes convertible and a sneaky breeze caused her skirt to lift enough to where the slim line of the white thong underneath was momentarily revealed along with her tanned upper thigh. She smacked a button on the console and the metal top mechanically hinged up and slid back into its receptacle.

Her car whipped through the automatic gates and sped off with the ocean gusts sending her hair straight back. The sight would've made a lovely car commercial for the Germans. Sean eased after her.

Her first two stops were dry cleaning pick up and a pharmacy run. Maybe birth control pills, thought Sean as he watched from the opposite curb.

He just had to smile though because the woman knew how to work it. Wherever she walked-and the lady definitely knew how to walk -men gawked. When she climbed in and out of her car, the woman seemed to do so in slow motion, displaying for an astonishingly long moment in time all the things that made men sweat at night and fantasize during the day. And when she slowed all the men seemed to slow with her. And then they would finally freeze in place until the tanned legs, perfect butt, and titillating cleavage disappeared in a Mercedes-Benz burst of power.

Her next destination, an exclusive residential neighborhood, was more promising. Sean watched her pull into the driveway of a magnificent and beautiful stucco and red tile house with palm trees out front. Using his zoom lens on the camera, Sean was able to see the person who answered the door. The gent was tall, distinguished, with thick graying hair and dressed in slacks and a polo shirt with a blue blazer.

Sean snapped several shots of them before they went into the house.

Sean noticed the mail truck working its way down the street. After it deposited the mail in the mailbox of the house, he waited until the truck had turned the corner before driving his car over to the box, flipping open the lid, and checking the mail there.

"Greg Dawson," he read off one envelope. He kept going through the stack. Another letter caught his eye. It was obviously a solicitation sent out to anyone on a database tied to a business. "Greg Dawson, Vice President, Science Matters, Ltd."

This was getting more and more interesting.

He put the mail back, drove down to the end of the street, and did a quick recon of the area. He saw an avenue of opportunity, a vacant tree-filled lot two doors down from Dawson's. He slipped out of his car and, camera in hand, walked through the vacant lot, jumped a small wall, skittered through the backyard of the house next to Dawson's, and peered over a stucco wall separating the properties. The coast clear, he scaled the wall and dropped down at the rear of the lot and crouched behind a grouping of bushes.

The backyard was lushly and professionally landscaped. He eyed the large pool, waterfall, and the pool house that matched the materials used on the main house. Dawson definitely had money. There was a table next to the pool. A pitcher of lemonade and two plates were laid out there. He focused his camera and waited. An Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform came out with a tray of food, laid it out, and then went back inside.

Dawson and Cassandra came out a few minutes later. Dawson held out the chair for Cassandra and they sat down to eat. Cassandra had a smile on her face as she looked around at the luxurious surroundings. Sean could easily discern the lady's thoughts. She could get used to this lifestyle real fast.

When Dawson pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across to Cassandra, Sean managed to get shots of this too. Dawson said something, but Sean couldn't hear over the sound of the waterfall. She opened the envelope and Sean saw the edges of cash as she slid some out. He got shots of this too.

A bit later Cassandra kicked off one of her stilettos, stretched a long leg out, and boldly planted her foot squarely in her lunch companion's crotch. The lady wasn't subtle, thought Sean. However, the man scowled at her and said something. Sean couldn't hear, but the lady looked severely put off as she hastily slipped her high heel back on.

He didn't know Dawson, but Sean applauded the guy's ability to so rebuff Cassandra, Queen of the Sluts.

After lunch, Cassandra drove back home. When she got there Sean dropped his tail and called David Hilal. Without telling him what he'd just learned he asked about Science Matters, Ltd.

"They're one of our competitors on the contract."

"You know a Greg Dawson?"

"He's heading up the entire biodefense bid for Science. Cagey as hell and not above doing whatever it takes to nail a win. Why?"

"Just running a theory down. So you're counting on Cassandra's ties to DHS to win you the contract?"

"Well, we feel our proposal and technology is superior to Dawson's team, but having Cassandra really helps. She knows the project, the players, and the government side cold. Other things being equal, if it's a toss-up, the tie will probably go to us."