Fatal Conceit (15 page)

Blair felt her face burning. The fat man seemed to be choosing his words carefully but letting her know that essentially all he was saying was “thanks for being a whore.” Even Shimon had not made her feel as cheap.

“Thank you,” she said icily. “I've met some very interesting people.”

Fauhomme smiled, not a very pleasant expression on his face, and his eyes didn't smile with his mouth. “Yes, you have.” He pointed at the couch in Lee's living room. “Let's have a seat.”

When they were settled, he looked at her intently and then asked, “Have you heard of a man named Sam Allen?”

Blair looked surprised. “The general? Of course, I read about him in the
Times.
He was in Afghanistan and a hero. I think I saw that the president is putting him in charge of the CIA?”

“I see you're well read, that's good, that's very good,” Fauhomme said. “Yes, he's currently on the short list. If the president nominates him, his name will be submitted to Congress for approval. That may not happen until after the election in November.”

“I see,” Blair said. “So what does this have to do with me?”

“Right to the point, I like that, pretty and smart. I suppose then that you're aware that the former CIA director left under a cloud?”

“He was a child molester, right?”

“Looks that way,” Fauhomme said. “Unfortunately, the president appointed him, so that sort of thing comes back as egg on his face.”

“I should imagine.”

“Yes. Anyway, so when the president was looking for his replacement, he wanted to be extra careful to choose someone who would be above reproach. Someone with no skeletons in his closet, and that brings me to General Allen. Everything we know about him suggests that he is that sort of man. Distinguished. Heroic. Upstanding. . . . But of course we thought that about his predecessor,
which goes to show you never know what a man might be hiding.”

Blair suddenly realized where the conversation was headed and was shocked. Not by Fauhomme so much, as she knew he lacked any morals, but that the president had such men working for him. She liked the president; she was young and idealistic, and wanted to believe what he said about the country going forward “together.” The other major party didn't appeal to her, nor did it seem to want to; its members appeared content to just be portrayed as angry, wealthy white people, rednecks, religious fundamentalists, and bigots. She felt that for whatever reason, racists and misogynists gravitated to the other party, though she recognized that it was unfair to paint the whole party with the same brush.

The media seemed to favor the president, and she assumed that was because they knew what they were talking about. But looking at the fat man, she wondered if it was all a lie. “You want me to spy on the guy who might someday be the director of the CIA by going to bed with him?”

Fauhomme studied her for a moment as he rattled the ice cubes around in his glass. “I'm trying to protect the president. The director of the CIA is a very important position in a dangerous world; a mistake like the last guy makes us look foolish to our friends overseas and weak to our enemies. At home, it reflects on the president's decision-making. We're getting to the backstretch of this election campaign and the president can't afford to look foolish, weak, or inept.”

“The article I read said General Allen was happily married,” Blair noted. “If he's this fine, upstanding man that you say he is, wouldn't it be a red flag if he's willing to have an affair with a little floozy like me?”

Fauhomme chuckled. “Very astute, but it's not necessarily a deal-killer. I have it on good information that the general's marriage is on the rocks and has been for a long time. I suppose you could attribute that to the long deployments overseas and the
stresses of his job. And I don't know if you've seen photographs of Mrs. Allen, but she hasn't exactly worked at staying youthful and attractive. The general's young for his age, and after all the pressure he's been under . . . and what he's going through now in his personal and professional life . . . he could use a diversion, so long as it didn't get into the media. And we're all discreet adults here.”

“Wow,” Blair said. “You people have a lot of words for it; first I was a goodwill ambassador, now I'm a diversion.” She shook her head. “How did I ever get into this? Passed around like a cheap bottle of whiskey so that you know what these men are talking about in bed. I admit, I've had a good time; most of these men would be fun to date even if I wasn't being paid. But I don't know, this is different . . .”

“You'll be paid one hundred thousand dollars . . .”

Blair gasped. “What did you say?”

“Fifty thousand now,” he said. “Fifty thousand after the election, win or lose.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“It's an important task, and it's not like he's ‘looking' for a woman, not like the other men you've met; you may find it tougher to . . . seduce him. But I need you to try. I cannot risk another bad choice for such an important position. It would be absolutely deadly at the polls. I'm asking you on behalf of the president.”

“He knows?” Blair asked.

“What the president does or doesn't know is none of your business,” Fauhomme said. “It's my job to get him elected.”

Blair thought about it. A hundred thousand dollars would ensure the law degree and give her a nest egg when she left the business of sleeping with Fauhomme's targets. “So how would I meet him?”

Fauhomme grinned and got up to pour himself another scotch. “I'm having some people over to my place at my beach house on Long Island for the long Fourth of July weekend. Should be about ten couples. The general will be there by himself, and Connie will
make the introductions. There should be plenty of opportunities to use your feminine wiles.”

“What if he doesn't like me? At least not like that?”

“You still get fifty thousand, but I'm expecting nothing less than your best.”

“What do you want me to find out?”

“The usual,” Fauhomme said, sitting back down on the couch next to her. “Anything we might not have been able to find out about him through the usual ways. You know, any weird sexual preferences, a gambling problem, uses heroin. But we also need to know that he's a team player.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is the general has a reputation for not being interested in politics, which is fine,” Fauhomme said. “But we need to know that he'll back the president when push comes to shove and will keep his opinions to himself if he disagrees with the administration.”

“So how will I know that?”

“You don't need to know,” Fauhomme said. “Just tell us anything that comes up and we'll make the judgment call. Does he talk behind the president's back? Is he in line with our foreign policy goals? That sort of thing. Anything you can imagine damaging this administration if it was to come out in the press. Just keep good notes and tell us everything; you never know what offhand comment might mean something combined with other information.”

Fauhomme leaned toward her until all she could see was his fat face and intense eyes. “So do we have a deal?” It was framed as a question but it sounded like a demand.

Blair felt a twinge, but she wasn't sure if it was fear or conscience. Whatever it was, it didn't stand a chance against a hundred thousand dollars. “I'll come to the party and meet him and see where it goes from there.”

The fat man leaned back with a wide grin. The intensity in his eyes was replaced with a cheerful twinkle. “That a girl,” he
exulted. “Connie will see that the money is deposited in your account by the evening. And we'll see you, and that cute little tush of yours, in Long Island.”

The weekend of the Fourth rolled around and Blair was met outside her apartment building by a limousine that took her to an enormous Cape Cod–style home set on several acres of prime Long Island beach property. There were several other smaller cottages—“for guests,” the driver said—on either side of the main house, all on the ocean. She was taken to one, where she found a fruit basket along with a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice and a note that read, “Cocktails at 6, main house. Dress up! Good luck. Connie and Rod.”

At 6:10, having wiggled into a tight black silk dress that showed off her cleavage and her round butt, Blair wandered over to the main house, where she found the other guests chatting over cocktails in a large room off the back deck. A black man in a white tuxedo was playing the grand piano over in a corner and singing Cole Porter when she walked in. She would never forget how her eyes went immediately to the general, who was talking to two couples and Connie near the bar. He wasn't the tallest man in the room, maybe a shade over six foot; nor was he the most expensively tailored, though he was no slouch, and she suspected he would have made a blazer straight off the rack at Macy's look good. But something else she would always remember about him was how other men seemed to shrink, or fade, in his presence.

It took her a moment to realize that Lee was trying to get her attention. Her friend waved her over. “Oh, Jenna, there you are,” she gushed. “Everyone, this is my friend Jenna Blair, a future attorney, fabulous actress, and Xtreme sports athlete—guys, do not try to compete with this girl, she's an animal. We're like best friends forever. Jenna, this is Senator and Mrs. Harry Dodd, and this wild man is Barnabas Radcliff and his . . . fiancée, am I right? . . . Lydia, and I'm sorry, Lydia, but I didn't get your last name? Swales? Lydia Swales.”

“Barney to you, lovely lady,” Radcliff said, taking and kissing her hand.

“Barney is the senior partner in a big law firm on Fifth Avenue,” Connie said. “And a very good friend of the president, as well as of me and Rod.”

Radcliff smiled at the introduction. He was good-looking, wearing a small ransom in jewelry, including a Louis Vuitton watch, and in his sixties. His fiancée, Lydia Swales, appeared to be Blair's age and smiled humorlessly as he fawned over her. Blair wondered if Swales was also working for Fauhomme as a “goodwill ambassador.” Lydia's obvious displeasure didn't dissuade her beau. “When you get out of law school do come see me,” he said. “We're always looking for good young talent . . . in the firm, that is.”

Everybody laughed at his little innuendo. Everyone but Swales and the man Connie turned to now. “And this hunk is General Sam Allen, though I'm sure you recognize that handsome face.”

Allen hadn't laughed at the lawyer's sleazy intimation. Instead, he held out his hand, a nice hand—not too soft, but not dry and calloused, a man's hand, and that of a man who knew how to grip a woman's hand without crushing hers or being condescendingly light. “Nice to meet you, Miss Blair,” he said. “But ‘Sam' is quite enough.”

“Only if you'll call me Jenna, or Jen,” she replied with a smile.

“Agreed.”

Of course it had been arranged so that they sat next to each other for dinner. That, too, was a night she'd never forget. She'd been around some attractive, self-assured men over the past four years since Ariel Shimon, but Allen was a cut above any of them. He was as handsome as any movie star, though much more real, and had a voice that sounded like deep musical tones when he spoke. He smiled often with his perfect white teeth and laughed in a way that never sounded strained or faked. And not once—at least not that she caught—had his eyes drifted to her chest.

He at least acted as if he was genuinely interested in her life and her observations. He'd been to the Rockies and liked mountain
biking, rock climbing, and skiing—her three greatest outdoor passions—as well as surfing and, as he joked, “jumping out of perfectly good airplanes.” He didn't talk down to her, or brag about himself, or make any sexual comments.

In fact, he excused himself early from the after-dinner gathering. Blair found herself disappointed, not because of the additional fifty thousand dollars that depended on seducing him, but because she really enjoyed his company.

“How'd it go?” Lee asked after Allen left the room.

Blair shrugged. “Okay, I guess. But I don't think you need me. If that guy's got skeletons in the closet, they're the good kind. We didn't talk about the CIA much but he did say he's excited about the job and appreciates the president choosing him.”

“That's all good, but keep trying. You'd be surprised what some men can hide from everyone,” Lee said, as if she knew. “Rod said to tell you that Sam runs on the beach at 6:00 a.m. I take it you brought your running shoes?”

The next morning, Blair was on the beach in her running clothes and was stretching between two dunes when she saw the general come out of his guest house and head for the harder sand at the water line. He didn't see her as he ran past, and she took a moment to note the trim torso and finely muscled legs.

She ran after him, and though she was in good shape and he seemed to be running effortlessly, she had to work hard to catch up. “Good morning,” she panted as she drew alongside him.

Allen looked over and smiled. “Good morning, Jenna. You're up early.” He wasn't even breathing hard.

“You know what they say about running being good for hangovers?”

He looked puzzled. “No, what do they say?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I was hoping you did.”

Allen laughed. “I've had my share of hangovers, and done quite a bit of running. But I try never to combine the two. You are much braver than I am.”

They settled into a pace, and she was sure he slowed down for her. As they ran, he seemed to be in the mood to talk. He talked about his two sons; Billy, who was in West Point, and Roger, who had just graduated high school and was going to be a freshman in the fall at Cornell. “He wants to be a doctor.”