Blowback

Before he could free one of his arms to parry the blow away, the second security guard had landed a searing kick to his ribs. Harvath thought for a fraction of a second that he might be able to hold it in, but inevitably the air rushed from his lungs. His hammerlock collapsed, and his body crumpled to the floor as it heaved for oxygen. Somewhere off in the distance, he thought he heard Jillian scream as a round was chambered into an MP5 and its muzzle was pressed against the side of his head.

TWENTY-NINE

CAPITOL GRILLE

WASHINGTON, DC

Helen Remington Carmichael weaved her way through the crowded steak house and found DNC chairman Russell Mercer at his usual table behind a large porterhouse and an even larger glass of Archery Summit Pinot Noir. “Helen,” said the portly man as he rose to meet his unexpected guest. “How nice to see you.”

“Cut the crap, Russ. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two goddamn days.”

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“I can see that,” said Carmichael as she looked at the three attractive young women seated with him. “Let me guess. Polling?”

Mercer could smell a showdown coming, and the last thing he wanted was witnesses. “My tab should still be open at the bar, “He said as he stood and politely shooed the women from his booth. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re done here.”

Once they had filed past, Carmichael sat down and snapped her fingers at the nearest waiter. “Kettle One martini up, very dirty with lots of olives. “When the waiter had disappeared, Carmichael focused her ire back on Mercer. “Judging by the looks of your companions, they charge by the hour, so I’ll make this short.”

“I’m not going to even dignify that remark with a response,” replied the DNC chairman.

“Well, let’s see what you will dignify. I heard you had a very candid meeting at the White House with Chuck Anderson.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you told him I wouldn’t be on the Democratic ticket?”

“That’s what I told him.”

“How dare you?” she hissed.

Mercer leaned forward over the table, and his eyes bored right into hers. “Listen to me, Helen, and listen good. Your ball-busting routine might have charmed the voters of Pennsylvania, but you’re in the big leagues now, and we play by a different set of rules here. If you want the party’s nomination, you’ve gotta damn well earn it. You don’t just sashay up to my table, insult my guests, and demand I hand it to you on a silver platter.”

Carmichael was indignant. “And you don’t control the party, Russ. The ticket needs a strong vice-presidential candidate, and there isn’t anyone else out there as strong as I am.”

“You think so?” replied Mercer. “I happen to think Senator Koda of Maine could do a lot to help the ticket.”

“And if assholes had wings, this whole fucking town would be an airport,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Listen, Koda may be good, but I’m better, and you damn well know it.”

“So what? You haven’t earned it.”

“Earned it? How dare you say I haven’t earned it? I’ve busted my ass for the party.”

“And it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“Then how can you say I haven’t earned a spot on the ticket?”

“You haven’t earned your stripes,” replied Mercer as he held out his sleeve and patted his forearm. “Nobody gives a shit what you’ve done for the state of Pennsylvania. If it weren’t for your husband, you wouldn’t have that job in the first place. What’s more, you’ve got a shitty public image. Half of voting Americans, hell, half of your own constituents think you’re a raging bull dyke, and the other half think the only reason you’re in office is to help facilitate your husband’s business deals. It won’t sell. Not where we need it the most.”

Carmichael waited for the waiter to set down her martini and back away from the table before responding. “My own people have been encouraging me to work on my public image, and I’ll admit I’ve been slow to respond, but I can change that. I’ll even bring in outside consultants if I have to. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. You want me to soften things up? Consider it done. Just don’t scratch me off the list of possible contenders for the ticket.”

The woman was amazing. She was an absolute chameleon. One minute she could be the Beltway’s biggest brass-balled bitch, and the next she was turning in a “Please, sir, may I have some more?” performance worthy of the best Dickens novel. Mercer, though, had seen it all before. Political ambition came in a million shapes and styles. If Helen Carmichael wanted the Democratic nomination so bad, she was going to have to work for it, and Mercer knew just how to make her do it. Regardless of whether they put her on the ticket or not, if the DNC kept her focused, Senator Carmichael could broadside the Republicans so bad there was no way President Rutledge’s campaign would be able to bail water fast enough.

Mercer settled back into the booth, reached for his wineglass, and said, “Maybe we can work something out. Tell me, how are your hearings progressing?”

THIRTY

HOTEL GARE DU NORD

PARIS