Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

“The press conference went well, don’t you think?” She could feel him thinking it through. He was fairly transparent. Without the sunglasses they all were, she felt.

“As long as they don’t find out what really happened.”

She turned to face him, traced her finger along his neck, making a V against his smooth chest. Richmond’s chest had been hairy, some of the tufts turning gray, curling at the edges. Collin’s was like a baby’s bottom, but she could feel the hard muscle beneath the skin. He could break her neck with no more than a passing motion. She wondered, briefly, how that would feel.

“You know we have a problem.”

Collin almost laughed out loud. “Yeah, we’ve got some guy out there with the President’s and a dead woman’s prints and blood on a knife. That qualifies as a big problem I’d say.”

“Why do you think he hasn’t come forward?”

Collin shrugged. If he were the guy he would’ve disappeared. Taken the stash and gone. Millions of dollars. As loyal as Collin was, what he could do with that kind of money. He would disappear too. For a while. He looked at her. With that kind of money would she condescend to go with him? Then he turned his thoughts back to the discussion at hand. Maybe the guy was a member of the President’s political party, maybe he had voted for him. In any event why bring yourself that kind of trouble.

“Probably scared to,” he finally replied.

“There are ways of doing it anonymously.”

“Maybe the guy’s not that sophisticated. Or maybe there’s no profit in that. Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit. Take your pick. If he was going to come forward, he probably would have. If he does, we’ll sure know soon enough.”

She sat up in bed.

“Tim, I’m really worried about this.” The edge in her voice made him sit up too. “I made the decision to keep that letter opener as is. If the President were to find out...” She looked at him. He read the message in her eyes and stroked her hair and then cupped her cheek with his hand.

“He’s not going to find out from me.”

She smiled. “I know that, Tim, I really believe that. But if he, this person, were to somehow try to communicate with the President directly.”

Collin looked puzzled. “Why would he do that?”

Russell shifted to the side of the bed, let her feet dangle several inches from the floor. For the first time Collin noticed the small reddish oval birthmark, half the size of a penny, at the base of her neck. Next he noticed that she was shivering, even though the room was warm.

“Why would he do that, Gloria?” Collin edged closer.

She spoke to the bedroom wall. “Has it occurred to you that that letter opener represents one of the most valuable objects in the world?” She turned to him, rubbed his hair, smiled at the vacant expression that was slowly coming to a conclusion.

“Blackmail?”

She nodded at him.

“How do you blackmail the goddamned President?”

She got up, threw a loose robe around her shoulders and poured another drink from the almost-empty decanter.

“Being President doesn’t make you immune from blackmail attempts, Tim. Hell, it just gives you that much more to lose... or gain.”

She slowly stirred her drink, sat down on a couch and tipped her glass back, the liquid warm and soothing going down. She had been drinking much more than usual lately. Not that her performance had been impaired, but she would have to watch it, especially at this level, at this critical point. But she decided she would watch it tomorrow. Tonight, with the weight of political disaster lurking above her shoulders, and a young, handsome man in her bed, she would drink. She felt fifteen years younger. Every passing moment with him made her feel more beautiful. She would not forget her primary goal, but who was to say she couldn’t enjoy herself?

“What do you want me to do?” Collin looked at her.

Russell had been waiting for that. Her young, handsome Secret Service agent. A modern white knight like the kind she read about as a wide-eyed girl. She looked at him as the drink dangled from her fingers. She used her other hand to slowly pull off her robe and let it drop to the floor. There was time enough, especially for a thirty-seven-year-old woman who had never had a serious relationship with a man. Time enough for everything. The drink soothed away her fear, her paranoia. And with it her cautiousness. All of which she needed in abundance. But not tonight.

“There is something you can do for me. But I’ll tell you in the morning.” She smiled, lay back on the couch and put out her hand. Obediently he rose and went to her. A few moments later the only sounds were intermingled groans and the persistent squeaks of the overwrought couch.

A half-block down the street from Russell’s home, Bill Burton sat in his wife’s nondescript Bonneville and cradled a can of Diet Coke between his knees. Occasionally he would glance at the house that he had observed his partner entering at 12:14 a.m. and where he’d caught a glimpse of the Chief of Staff in attire that didn’t indicate the visit was a business one. With his long-range lens he had gotten two pictures of that particular scene that Russell would have killed to get her hands on. The lights in the house had moved progressively from room to room until they reached the east side of the place, when all lights were dramatically extinguished.

Burton looked at the dormant taillights of his partner’s car. The kid had made a mistake. Being here. This was a career ender, maybe for both him and Russell. Burton thought back to that night. Collin racing back to the house. Russell white as a sheet. Why? In all the confusion Burton had forgotten to ask. And then they were smashing through cornfields after someone who shouldn’t have been there but sure as hell had been.

But Collin had gone back in that house for a reason. And Burton decided it was time he found out what that reason was. He had a dim feeling of a conspiracy slowly evolving. Since he had been excluded from participating, he naturally concluded that he was probably not intended to benefit from that conspiracy. Not for one moment did he believe that Russell was interested solely in what was behind his partner’s zipper. She was not that type, not by a long shot. Everything she did had a purpose, an important purpose. A good fuck from a young buck was not nearly important enough.

Another two hours passed. Burton looked at his watch and then stiffened as he saw Collin open the front door, move slowly down the walk and get in his car. As he drove by, Burton ducked down in his seat, feeling slightly guilty at this surveillance of a fellow agent. He watched the wink of a turn signal as the Ford made its way out of the high-priced area.

Burton looked back up at the house. A light came on in what probably was the living room. It was late, but apparently the lady of the house was still going strong. Her stamina was legendary around the White House. Burton briefly wondered if she exhibited that same endurance between the sheets. Two minutes later the street was empty. The light in the house remained on.

The plane landed and thundered to a stop on the short strip of tarmac constituting National Airport’s main runway, hit an immediate left a few hundred yards from the tiny inlet that accessed the Potomac for the swarms of weekend boat enthusiasts, and taxied to gate number nine. An airport security officer was answering questions from a group of anxious, camera-toting tourists and did not observe the man walking rapidly past him. Not that identification was going to be made anyway.

Luther’s return trip had followed the circuity of his exit. A stopover in Miami, and then Dallas/Fort Worth.