Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“You’re certain you don’t want to go back to the White House?” Cinnegar asked.

“I’m positive. I need to rest now.”

“Where is it?” Cinnegar asked. She told Cinnegar and he gave instructions to one of his men.

“Let me help you,” Dale Perry said as he offered her his arm. Claire headed for the door and the Secret Service detail closed around her. Cinnegar asked Claire if she was able to climb one flight of stairs. When she said she could, they walked up to the next floor. As soon as Cinnegar checked the hall the agent led them past the door to the suite across from the stairwell and around the corner to the suite the hotel had reserved for the first lady. Cinnegar had obtained a master key for the hotel the day before the fund-raiser and he opened the door. Two agents went into Claire’s suite to check it. Two more agents were about to check the adjoining suite when the door opened and Chuck Hawkins stepped out.

“Where’s the first lady?” Hawkins asked.

“Around the corner.”

Hawkins walked around the corner and found Claire and Dale Perry waiting for the agents to finish examining the suite.

“Claire, I have to go. Is that okay?”

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re certain?”

“Go,” Claire said just as the agents gave the okay for her to go inside.

Hawkins disappeared moments before the team that had swept the adjoining suite gave their okay.

The front door to Claire’s suite opened on a sitting room outfitted with a couch, an armoire that held a television, several armchairs, and a writing desk. Claire ignored this room and walked into the bedroom, which contained a king-size bed. She took off her shoes and jacket and sat down heavily on the bed.

“Dale, can you clear everyone out and make sure all of the lights are out. I want to crash. Tell Ray I’ll let him know when I’m ready to go back to the White House.”

“You got it. And congratulations on the baby.”

Claire smiled. “Thanks, Dale. Now get everyone out so I can sleep.”

“Sure thing,” Dale said before walking into the sitting room where Cinnegar and a female agent were waiting.

“Mrs. F wants everyone out so she can nap,” Claire heard Dale say as she stripped off her clothes. The front door closed a moment after she turned off the lights in the bedroom and closed the shades.

As soon as Charlotte Walsh was in the backseat of the Ford she pressed against the door, wrapped her arms around her body, and started to cry. Her chest felt tight but she was hollow inside. He had never loved her. He’d just used her to spy for him then he’d used her like a whore. How could she have ever believed anything he’d said? In her dreams, he’d left his wife for her, but they were only pipe dreams, a ridiculous fantasy. She was ridiculous. She could see that now.

“Are you okay?” the driver asked.

She hadn’t realized she was crying loud enough for him to hear.

“I’m all right,” she managed to choke out as she ran a forearm across her eyes.

“Do you need some water? I’ve got a bottle up here.”

“No, that’s okay.”

Charlotte took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. She’d never seen it coming. She’d been so proud of herself for getting the records of Gaylord’s secret slush fund that she’d preened like a peacock when the president praised her. She’d suspected nothing when they’d made love; although, in retrospect, calling what they’d done lovemaking was a joke.

Charlotte had been stunned when Farrington told her that this was the last time they could be together because his wife was pregnant. He’d assured her that he loved her but asked her to understand that he couldn’t leave Claire, now that she was carrying his child. What rot! She felt like a fool. No, she was a fool, a child. How could she have possibly believed that someone that powerful would throw everything away for a schoolgirl? She was an idiot, a self-deluded idiot.

Charlotte thought back to Chicago. Chuck Hawkins had told her that the president had been impressed with her when they’d met in the D.C. campaign headquarters and he wanted her to fly to Chicago to talk about a special project. Only a fool would have bought that line-the president had spoken to her for less than a minute-but she’d believed what she wanted to believe.

Hawkins had explained the necessity of sneaking her in the employees’ entrance to the hotel. He’d said that her cover would be blown if anyone from Gaylord’s camp saw her. What a chump she’d been to believe his story. It was clear now that Hawkins had been acting as Farrington’s pimp, but she was so excited by the prospect of her important, secret mission that she wasn’t thinking straight.

The president had met with her alone in his suite. He’d asked her to tell him all about herself and he’d listened intently to her every word while refilling her glass with the liquor she didn’t want to drink but was embarrassed to reject. The heady thrill of being the confidante to a president as handsome as Christopher Farrington, her secret mission, and the alcohol had made it easy for him to seduce her. Hell, she wanted to be seduced. The seduction had been no challenge at all.

Charlotte took some deep breaths and they helped. So did the anger she was starting to feel. The Monica Lewinsky scandal flashed in her brain. It had almost destroyed Clinton. And there’d been Watergate before Lewinsky, a president covering up a burglary. What would happen to Mr. Family Values if the press learned that he’d slept with a teenage campaign volunteer to get her to steal secret documents from his opponent’s campaign headquarters?

There were no tears now, just a white-hot rage that sharpened Charlotte ’s mind. She could ruin Farrington if she wanted to, but would it be worth it? Lewinsky had become a pariah, a laughingstock, and the subject of cheap jokes on late-night television. Did she want everyone in the world to know about her pathetic sex life? And there was the possibility of criminal charges. She had stolen campaign documents. That must be a crime. Once she went to the press the president would do everything in his power to discredit and destroy her.

The thought of going to prison and the notoriety she would receive sobered Walsh. Her life would be ruined if she told what she knew. Charlotte closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. She was wrung out emotionally, and she almost fell asleep, but the car braked for a stoplight and she opened her eyes. They were in the village they’d driven through a little while before turning onto the road to the farm.

Charlotte looked out the window at the darkened storefronts. The town looked so peaceful at night. She sighed. She was angry but maybe she shouldn’t be. She’d had an adventure. Someday she would tell someone close about the brief period when she’d been the mistress of the president of the United States. She smiled. It was her dirty little secret, and right now she bet Farrington was wondering if she would keep it. Her smile widened as she realized that Christopher Farrington had a hell of a lot more to worry about than she did.

She stopped smiling. What had she said when she was yelling at him? Had she made any threats? She was certain she had. Suddenly, she was fearful, then she shook her head. Clearly she was too emotional to think straight. She had to relax so she could decide what she should do. Probably nothing, she concluded bitterly. Farrington had used her but it would cost her too much to fight back. She tried to think of what had happened to her as being no worse than being dumped by any other guy. Sure it hurt for a while, but she’d get over it.

“We’re back,” the driver announced. Charlotte had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t realized that they had returned to the mall.