Recipes for Disaster (27 page)

Inauguration Day takes place on a frigidly cold and stormy day. Despite the initial shock and awe over Catherine’s deed and the media circus surrounding her arrest and murder indictment, the crowd seems enthusiastic that a self-made tech baron is to be sworn in as the next President of the United States.

The American public’s love affairs are fickle, and memories are short.

Babette insisted that we bring Trisha “to keep Janie company,” quickly adding, “Don’t worry! Hard to believe, but the West Wing has access to the best babysitters in the world.” Not to mention a few Secret Service agents.

I’m looking forward to other such gems from Babette throughout Lee’s presidency.

Admittedly, she kept it together when sitting knee-to-knee with Oprah on the celebrity interviewer’s infamous sofa. By that I mean she sat silently, staring up adoringly at her husband while he did most of the talking.

In his inaugural speech, the crowd gets snippets of the same theme: how “the American people deserve the best government in the world. The amount they pay in taxes assures that.” And that “Fate has put our paths together. On this journey, I will pilot you to safety, but only with the support and wise guidance of you, the American people, as my co-pilot. Your guidance will keep me on the right course.” 

However, the platitude that gets him the most applause, but concerns me to no end is the one that suggests, “The world we live in is a beautiful, wonderful place. But there are too many very dangerous people out there, who wish to take away our joys and our freedoms. We can’t let them. We won’t let them. Will we have to make sacrifices in order to stop them? Sadly, yes. But we will never sacrifice what we cherish most: our civil liberties.”

This comes from a man whose primary business before the election was government contracts for data management and storage, as well as encryption and ciphering. 

Two years from now, I’d like to take a peek at his blind trust. I’m sure it’ll be an eye-opening experience.

We’ve been given tickets to both the Inaugural Ball, and the Commander-in-Chief’s Ball, to which Armed Forces personnel are invited.

The first one we hit is the CIC. Jack served in the Marine Corps, but I know he must feel strange holding a ticket that says, “Carl Stone,” identifying him as a Navy Seal. 

He’s uncomfortable anyway. He still can’t reconcile the series of events that led to a complete upheaval of the presidential race: the implosion of the frontrunners of both parties; Catherine’s out-of-the-blue choice of Lee as her running mate; and the timing of her tragic downfall, leaving a total political novice as our Commander in Chief.

Considering the shenanigans in the elections that have come before it—such as the rumor that Chicago’s first Mayor Daley stuffed the ballot boxes with votes from the dearly departed in Kennedy’s election, not to mention the ignominious “hanging chad” ballots in GW Bush’s first election—I’d say this one is the biggest head scratcher of them all. 

If the GOP had run a closer race, maybe it would be putting up a bigger fight. As it is, all is unusually quiet on the conservative front. I suppose that Lee’s Stock Exchange cred has a lot to do with that. No one doubts he will be business-friendly. If anything it’s the Dems who are waiting anxiously to see if their dark horse will show stripes that differentiate him from their herd.

In any case, I’m just happy waltzing around the room in Jack’s arms. For just one evening, I want to forget that things aren’t always as they seem.

 When we come off the dance floor, he murmurs, “I guess I should rustle us up a couple of drinks from the bar.” He’s being gallant. I know he’d much rather hang out with some of his old Corps buddies, most of whom have made names for themselves within the heady corridors of the Pentagon. 

I shake my head, and point to the table, where they’ve congregated … “Let me play barmaid. Go reminisce about your war stories with the other guys.”

He pulls me in for a kiss. 

When his lips are on mine, I know I’m home.

The closest bar is at the far end of the room. Unfortunately, the line winds halfway around the floor. Isn’t there another bar around here? Ah yes, I remember where I saw it—on the mezzanine level. 

I’d rather save my feet for dancing so, I make a beeline for the elevator.

When it opens, it’s empty. The doors are about to shut when I hear someone call out, “Hold the elevator please.”

The doors are already closing when I push the OPEN DOOR button. They hesitate, then part again—

I am facing 
Carl
.

He’s…alive?

And apparently still horny. Before I sidestep him and duck back through the closing elevator doors, he presses the button to the mezzanine with one hand, while shoving me against the back wall of the elevator with the other.

I open my mouth to protest, but he shoves his tongue down my throat.

So I bite down—hard.  He howls in pain then slaps me—hard.

I taste blood, but I stand my ground, backhanding him with all my might.  

His head snaps back with the force of my slap. Smiling, he lifts his hand to the red whelp that shadows his face. “You always did love it when I played rough.” 

I’m so shocked that all I can think about is to say the obvious. “But … back in Cabo, you fell into the bay! I thought you’d died!” 

“You know what they say. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. I’m at the top of my game now, dear wifey, at everything. At hating. At wanting it all—especially you and my sweet little family.” As one hand holds me against the wall by my shoulders, the other clutches my gown and inches up my leg. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to get you alone like this.” Realizing that I’ve gone commando, he winks and murmurs, “That's my girl. Nice! You don't know how long I’ve waited for this moment.”

I don’t think his fantasy included me kneeing him in the groin.

He groans as he doubles over. I run toward the elevator door and pound on it hard, but it won’t open. Frantically, I smack every button in sight.

He straightens up and chuckles—hard to do when you’re gasping for air. “Almost didn’t recognize me, eh?” He strikes a bodybuilder’s pose. “I’m broader in the shoulders. Can you tell? I tell you, Gitmo has a great workout facility. It’s the only thing I miss about the joint. But I found a workout routine that will serve me for a lifetime.”

“With the price on your head, you won’t live long enough to find out.”

“You’re wrong. Since I’ve seen you last, I’ve taken out a couple of insurance policies.”

“Such as?”

“For one, I ensured Catherine’s nomination with a sympathetic nation.”

Now I have the answer to my question. “You were Robert’s shooter.”

He laughs. “I was disappointed you didn’t realize it at the time. That voice changer software is a technological marvel, don’t you think?” He smiles. “You know how much it turns me on when you’re so helpless. It was doubly sweet to find out he was your first love.”

“You’ll fry for what you did to him!”

“Nah. Don’t think so.” He turns to me. “Not now that my second insurance policy has kicked in.”

“Oh yeah? What would that be?”

With the help of the elevator’s mirrored door, he’s able to straighten his bowtie. "Take a wild guess who's being nominated as the Director of National Intelligence.”

When I don’t answer, he grins at me through the mirror. “
C’est moi, mon cher
.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “But you’re a terrorist—a fugitive from justice!”

“Not anymore. I was pardoned just this afternoon—by our new president.” He nods proudly. “What are friends for, anyway?”

“Lee Chiffray … is your friend?” 

“Why mince words? We’re the best of bros! And I’ve promised him that there will be a lot of changes in how our spy networks will be run. For example, all the recent scandals with our black ops contractors will be a thing of the past because we’re taking our business in-house. In fact, we’ll be conducting a thorough audit of all contractor activities, to determine if any of them have been taking advantage of the country’s goodwill. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that a contractor like, say, Acme, has been double-dealing with our enemies. Hey, here’s a thought: maybe Acme made up the Quorum-you know, created a shadow organization, just to hang on the tit as long as possible. That’s fraud, and that’s jail time for our friend, Ryan—and of course Acme’s agents, too. No one can say they were ‘only following orders.’” He makes a Nazi salute. “In any event, it’s goodbye Acme. How do you think Jack will fare in prison? Anyone who doesn’t like your slick boyfriend could pay an inmate to bury a shiv where the sun don’t shine.” 

Suddenly I feel ill.

“You look a bit queasy. Maybe you should put your head between your legs. Better yet, put it between mine. That’ll make us both feel much better.”

In his dreams. To make that point clear to him, I raise my knee to his groin again—

But he blocks it with his own knee, and the next thing I know he’s slammed me up against the back elevator wall again.

He gazes down at me, as if I’m dessert. “You wouldn’t dare,” I growl.

"Who’s going to stop me?” He laughs raucously. “Look at me, Ma! I’m king of the world! Your world, anyway, my little honeypot. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

His lips loom down over mine—

But I’m saved by the bell.

As the elevator chimes our ascent onto the mezzanine level, a group of tipsy revelers bound in; Carl pulls me close and whispers in my ear, “Wish we had more time, my dear wife. But we’ll soon meet again.”

The thought roils my stomach.

When the doors open again on the first floor, I dart out between two barrel-chested sailors in full dress uniforms adorned with chest candy.

“Was it something I said?” Carl shouts out after me.

The elevator crowd laughs, as if the joke is on me.

Wait until they learn that it’s on all of us—and it’s far from funny.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Jack presumes he’s joking until I pull him aside and hiss, “I did—Carl. He’s here.”

Any joy Jack felt is now a thing of the past. He takes my hand and pulls me with him, out of the ballroom and into the lobby, so that we can hear each other over the band.

“Lee pardoned him, just this afternoon.” I try not to be hysterical, but I feel cold panic surging through my veins.  “Not only that, Lee is choosing him as the new director of the CIA.”

“He can nominate the pope, if he wants. That doesn’t mean the Senate Intelligence Committee is going to agree to let a known terrorist and assassin head up the CIA. Talk about a public relations disaster.”

“You’re right. It’ll be interesting to see if Carl can leap that hurdle, and how Lee will help him do it.” I hold his hand tightly. “And more to the point, you were right all along, about Lee Chiffray. Despite his squeaky clean paper trail, I guess he was Quorum all along.”

He smiles. “A man always loves it when the woman he loves declares he’s right, about anything, but talk about a pyrrhic victory.”

Suddenly, I don’t feel the urge to party. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You mean, go to the White House?” He rolls his eyes. “Our gear is stowed in the Lincoln bedroom. Remember?”

“What? Not on your life. I don’t want to be anywhere near Lee Chiffray! Let’s grab Trisha and take the next plane home.”

“The last flight left DC for the West Coast at least an hour ago. We’d have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Then let’s get a hotel room somewhere.”

“With the Inauguration going on? That’s impossible. Look Donna, I know the news that Carl is alive is upsetting, but he’s not going to hurt us now—not if he truly wants to go straight. Let’s just go on and live our lives.” He takes my face between his hands. “And guess what? We’ve got the best room in town.”

Hell yeah, we do. 

I grab his hand and start for the coat room.