The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale Page 16

  In fact, when she hears Wendell call out my name, she looks up and scans the newsroom until we lock eyes. When I smile, she rises and walks over with Wendell.

  Other than a bullet to the head, in my line of business the best offense is a compliment. I hold out my hand to her. “Ms. Conkling? I remember seeing you on our initial interviews. Bravo on breaking the story about the president’s travails.”

  Politely, she says, “Your Moscow piece was a great bit of reportage, too.”

  I shrug. “It wasn’t a historical investigative scoop, like yours! It was only what the Kremlin wanted us to see, and to believe, about its capabilities.”

  Her eyes widen. “You doubt Putin’s scientists can create the technology?”

  “His slideshow was impressive enough. But let’s face it: the latest Marvel Comics movie has better CGI graphics,” I counter. “It’s in the math. Russia spent seventy-billion last year on its military. That is only eleven percent of the United States’ defense budget. Putin will need more money to pull it off, and his economy doesn’t come close to supporting that level of funding, especially with the way he and his ministers siphon from the till.”

  “His little show certainly ruffled NATO’s feathers,” Jeanette points out. “Berlin is a very tense city right now.”

  “As it should be. With its latest shenanigans, we should all be alert. But democracy dies in darkness,” I reply.

  Wendell chuckles. “Not so loud, old girl! Bandying about the competition’s motto may topple you from this lofty perch.” His arm sweeps toward the window, toward the shorter building of Hart’s biggest competitor, the Washington Post, across from us on K Street.

  The White House can also be seen easily from the fiftieth floor of the Hart News Tower.

  Wendell follows my gaze. “Imposing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I declare.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” Jeanette says as she heads back to her cubicle. “Perhaps Chiffray will say something so astounding that you’ll be renowned for the ‘get of the year.’”

  Not funny. “You mean, like admitting he knew about the account?”

  Jeanette nods. “Anything is possible. And we both know that everyone has something to hide. Otherwise, what would we write about?”

  At that moment, a woman taps me on my shoulder. “Gwendolyn, I’m Polly Bernard. I’m your producer.”

  We shake hands.

  “I’m sure, like me, you want to prep for the interview. To start with, we’ll also be accompanied by three camera people. Security has already cleared us for entry.” She hands me a manifest stamped with the White House’s official seal. “Just be sure to bring your Hart Media photo I.D. and your driver’s license.”

  I glance through the manifest, which includes the names, company photos, cell phone numbers and occupations of our party. One of the camera persons is a woman. I’m relieved to see that ‘Arvin Rahbar’ is included among the names of the two men.

  Thank goodness Abu will be there too! Should Lee suddenly shout out my real name and the interview blows up in my face, he’ll know how to doctor the footage before Hart Media shows me the door.

  “The interview with the president is scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow,” Polly continues. “Talk about a great lead-in to the evening news!” She looks at Wendell. “And we’ve already lined up expert legal commentary to join you on the regular news broadcast.”

  “Brilliant!” Wendell proclaims.

  “Although it’s to be aired live, it will be transmitted by a remote feed because the President’s people insist that it take place in the Oval Office,” Polly adds. “The Administration requests that it does not exceed forty-five minutes, so do arrive promptly.”

  “The president’s people have also agreed that no subject is out of bounds,” Wendell adds. “With that in mind, perhaps we should go over the questions your producers and Mr. Hart himself have chosen.”

  My heart sinks as Wendell holds up one of Hart Media’s infamous cheat sheets.

  The last thing Lee needs is to be used as a conduit for relaying covert messages to terrorists or unfriendly country’s agents.

  This broadcast will be watched by tens of millions of Americans. Afterward, they will parse every word that came out of Lee’s mouth.

  Blake Reynolds and his prosecutorial team will be doing the same thing.

  For Blake, Lee’s head is the target and I’ll have pulled the trigger if, even unwittingly, Lee makes a statement on national television that incriminates him.

  I’d hate to have that on my conscience.

  Polly thoroughly understands my desire to take the afternoon off to move a few things into my new digs and get to bed early.

  Harold’s penthouse is well-appointed but the style is stark. It’s not a home; it’s a rich person’s flophouse.

  The number of condom wrappers on the bedside table in the master bedroom bears this out.

  If I had any doubts, the dildos kept in the lower vanity drawer of a second bedroom confirms it.

  I’ve made up my mind to sleep in the third bedroom, despite its two twin beds.

  But before I do, I call home.

  “It’s gone viral!” Mary squeals. “The school’s YouTube account has over two hundred thousand hits in just one day! And over a million on Facebook, half a million on Twitter, and a quarter-mil on Instagram!”

  “Oh…Congratulations, honey.” Poor Lee.

  Jeff comes on the line, having grabbed the phone from his sister. “Mom, Mary promised to mention the name of the boutique where she got her dress for the interview, but she forgot. I’m glad, because that would be crass. Now the owner wants us to tack on a commercial. I say no, but Mary says we have to do something. What do you think?”

  I think my head is going to explode, but I know that’s not the answer he wants to hear. So instead, I say, “Type in the name of the shop with a credit line for the dress.”

  “Yeah…okay, that’ll work,” Jeff concedes.

  I ask, “Hey, is Trisha around?”

  I hear Jeff clomp upstairs with the phone. He muffles it while he knocks on his younger sister’s door. Finally, I hear Trisha whisper, “Hello, Mom.”

  Something isn’t right.

  “I miss you, sweetheart,” I say softly.

  Her response is a sob.

  My heart sinks. “Honey, what happened?”

  It takes Trisha a moment to speak again. “Madison stole Janie from me.”

  I think that one through. “What do you mean?”

  “Today, when Janie came for her tour, I introduced them. Madison was really nice to her, but at the same time she was really mean to me. then the other girls started being mean to me too! And when Janie saw how they were, she played along.”

  “Janie was mean to you too?”

  “She had to be. Or they wouldn’t accept her.”

  “I see.” I then tell her what she already knows, but what she needs to hear again if she’s to believe in it: “Friends aren’t mean to each other.”

  “Then I guess…Janie isn’t my friend.” Her cries are muffled. She must have covered the phone with her hand so I can’t hear her crying.

  “It’s time to make new friends, honey.”

  “I…I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because most of them are too afraid to speak to me! They think I’m a snob.”

  This surprises me. “How did they get that impression?”

  “Because I was a snob…when Madison liked me.” Trisha sighs. “Madison was only nice to me because she wanted to get close to Janie for whenever she showed up in Hilldale. She and her girls couldn’t care less about me.”

  “If what you say is true, it’s their loss, not yours,” I declare. “Trisha, you’re smart. You’re beautiful. And you’re fun to be around! Of course people like you.”

  “Mom, every parent says that to their kid. And every kid finds out the hard way that it’s B.S.” Trisha is crying very hard now. “I know you mean wel
l, but this is my life right now! And I’m not even in middle school yet!”

  She hangs up.

  I curl up into a ball and throw the covers over my head.

  Every now then, a parent wishes she could take the place of her child; to share her years of learned adult wisdom with the young soul who will find out soon enough about heartbreak.

  But no, we can’t pass knowledge forward. All we can do is be there to hug them when they need it most.

  Trisha needs me now, and I am a continent away.

  I am such a bad mommy.

  When the Hart News interview team arrives at the Oval Office, Lee’s assistant, Eve, welcomes Polly, Abu, and the other two camera people with handshakes before turning to me. “And this must be Ms. Durant...” She squints as she tries to place me. Finally, she shrugs off the notion that I’m anything more than a familiar face from her television set. “I’ve allotted fifteen extra minutes for setting up prior to the president joining you.”

  “Thank you for being so considerate,” I say primly.

  “Please follow me.”

  She leads us into the oval office. “Ms. Durant, let me suggest that you and the president take the armchairs flanking the fireplace.”

  It’s a sound recommendation. A portrait of George Washington hangs over the fireplace. Honesty and integrity is the subliminal message.

  One camera will catch me in close-up while another will be trained solely on Lee. The third will pull out to get the two-shot.

  Knowing Abu, he’s figured out a way to feed all three cameras to Acme’s secure cloud.

  Polly chooses the left chair for me. After I’m mic’d by the camera woman, the other cameraman places lights aimed at the empty chair and me. It takes some finagling before he achieves a warm skin tone.

  While Polly touches up my makeup, I notice that Lee is standing just within my peripheral vision. I feel my lip quiver. Polly notices it too and pauses, lip brush in hand. “Did I press down too hard?” she asks.

  “No..I…Everything is fine.” I thank her, but then I wave her off to stand and greet our Commander-in-Chief.

  When ours eyes meet, he smiles. “Gwendolyn, pleased to finally meet you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President, but the pleasure is all mine.” I’m shocked that my accent doesn’t waver in his presence.

  After we shake hands, Eve calls in the official White House photographer to take pictures. Not only is there a group picture, Lee is gracious enough to take photos with Polly and the rest of the crew.

  When it’s my turn for a picture alone with him, he moves in close enough for me to feel his breath on my cheek. Even as he inches toward me, he manages to keep his hand on the small of my back.

  “You’re not smiling,” he murmurs.

  He’s right, so I force my lips into a slight grin.

  After the last camera click, he adds, “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.”

  I laugh out loud at that.

  Then Polly hands me the note cards.

  Oh hell.

  The opening remarks on the cheat sheet are gentle enough. “Thank you, Mr. President, for allowing me to sit down with you here in the Oval Office for an honest and open conversation. Doing so allows the American people to assess for themselves if the Justice Department’s appointment of a Special Counsel is warranted, or if it’s politically motivated.”

  I speak the words slowly, all the while wondering which word or phrase is a call-to-arms for some foreign agent, either abroad or on American soil.

  Lee leans forward in his chair. He makes sure that he’s got my full attention then says, “Gwendolyn, I have nothing to hide. Ask away.”

  I believe that Lee will tell me the truth.

  Will the viewing audience believe it too?

  Even if he does, nothing will stop Blake Reynolds from doing his civic duty for which he pledged under oath.

  Lee would want it that way.

  I, too, must do what is best for our country. It’s why I make the decision to flip over the cards with Hart’s handpicked questions and raise honest concerns that need truthful answers.

  “Sir, there is a lot of controversy about a fund held in your blind trust. Can you state, unequivocally, that the trust is blind to you?”

  “Yes,” Lee says without hesitation.

  “Have you any knowledge of any offshore bank accounts held in your name, or by any of your companies?”

  “No,” he states firmly.

  “Mr. President, where is the financial manager who handled your frozen assets?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What can you tell us about Helen Drake?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Noting the shocked look on my face, he adds, “Ms. Drake came with the highest recommendation of…of a close, personal friend. I assumed the references I was shown were real; that she was beyond reproach.” Lee frowns, as if annoyed with himself for his own stupidity.

  “You never met Ms. Drake?”

  “No. We corresponded only by email, and only up until the day of my inauguration.”

  “The Special Counsel has yet to issue subpoenas to those who handle your business affairs. If such an account comes to light, how will you explain it?”

  Lee leans back in his chair. He opens his hands wide “Gwendolyn, I can’t explain something that I have had no knowledge of. That is the essence—the purpose —of a blind trust.”

  “Did you sign the documents that opened the account?”

  “No. At least not that I’m aware of.”

  “And if your signature is on such documents?”

  Lee shakes his head. Grinning, he retorts, “Then, Gwendolyn, I guess I, or someone, will have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Sad but true.

  Eve gives the high sign that our time is up.

  I close out the interview by saying, “Mr. President, thank you for taking the time to clarify this subject for the American public.”

  “You’re welcome, Gwendolyn. It is my honor and privilege to do so. I am their servant and yours.”

  I let the pause sit until Polly calls, “Cut! We’re off the air.”

  For a moment, the stress of my situation exhausts me. For a few seconds I close my eyes.

  When I open them again, I see Lee watching, concerned.

  I smile wanly and rise. “I think you did well.”

  He grins. “So did you—Donna.”

  Oh…shit.

  Lee stands up and walks over to the crew, who are packing up the network’s gear. Calling each of them by their names, he says goodbye and walks out of the room.

  Polly’s phone buzzes with feedback from Twitter and Facebook, where the network has been live-streaming the interview.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “The numbers are through the roof!”

  That’s great for the network. Depending on what the Special Counsel has in store for Lee, it could mean a lot of people who feel betrayed.

  Polly keeps scrolling through her texts. “Everyone at the network is ecstatic at how smoothly it went.”

  I wonder if that means Harold too.

  By the time we fight traffic back to the office, Wendell is only halfway through his broadcast.

  He’s left a note on my desk:

  Care to go out for a cocktail when I get off the air? Perhaps the Metropolitan Club? The cliché is true: membership has its privileges.

  —WE

  As much as I’d like to say yes, I write below it:

  Rain check tomorrow? Am exhausted by the heady experience! ’Til tomorrow!

  —GD

  The key and information on Harold’s penthouse condominium was in the employee welcome packet given to me by Human Resources when I signed in this morning. The condo is on M Street near Logan Circle, a mere six-block stroll from the office. And since it’s a beautiful evening for a walk, why not?

  My mind turns to Jack and the children. When I called yesterday, he didn’t ask to be put on the phone. Today he’s in New York
. Still no call.

  I miss him terribly.

  I pick up one of the free copies of Hart Media’s daily D.C. newspaper, the Washington Tribune. It’s folded into quarters and it fits in my valise. It’ll give me something to read when I get to Harold’s apartment.

  I’m only a block from the office when I see them: the men-in-black-cars, creating a subtle but defensive wedge on all three lanes of K Street.

  Slowly this mini-motorcade pulls over next to me. Lurch gets out of the front seat passenger side of the Cadillac Escalade.

  Okay, yeah, I should have expected this.

  Slowly, I make my way to the car. When I reach it, Lurch asks, “Where are you headed?”

  I give him the address.

  He opens the back passenger door.

  Yes, I get in.

  And no, I’m not surprised Lee is sitting there.

  He waits until we’re rolling before he declares, “Really, Donna? You thought you could fool me?”

  Lee looks out the big picture window in Harold’s penthouse, which faces west. It is twilight, the Potomac is a green glistening snake coiling its way through the city.

  Lee allowed his Secret Service detail to precede us in order to secure the building. But they were commanded stay in the lobby when we took the elevator to the penthouse.

  To his credit, Harold has a decent wine cellar. I open a nice Chilean pinot noir and pour us both a glassful.

  Lee sniffs and sips. Then he gets serious: “Tell me what this is all about.”

  So, I do.

  Sort of.

  “You must already know that Acme provided the intel that tied Wagner Klein to the Russians, and to Hart Media.”

  Lee nods.

  “My mission team has four agents who have infiltrated Hart Media, following through on the CIA directive to investigate links between Randall Hart and the Russians.”

  Lee’s right brow arches. “And it was Hart that broke the news on my blind trust.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And now it’s a race to see if this bullshit indiscretion ends my presidency before the CIA gets the answers it needs,” he reasons.