Capital Offense

It was Mark who shocked and hurt her most. He’d double-crossed her for years, using her as a stepping stone to his own career, yet pretending to love her. She’d deal with him later, she decided. Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to align herself with another powerful player.

The Navy steward appeared almost immediately, carrying her tea on a tray. “Sugar or cream today, ma’am?” he asked, setting down the tray and then pouring her a cup.

“No, thank you. Plain is fine,” she responded.

He handed the beverage to her, then turned smartly and left.

Carolyn took a sip, then sat, putting her feet up on a wicker stool. Sun streamed through the windows, warming her body but evading her soul.

She heard a door open. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“It’s only me.” He walked in, taking a seat across from her.

“I’m so glad you’re back from your trip. Edmund has died.”

“I know.” He leaned forward. “I came to see how you’re holding up. Was everything all right with Warner?”

Carolyn set her teacup down. “It couldn’t have been any uglier.”

“I’m sorry.” He took her hands in his.

“He, Edmund, and Mark Dailey made a career out of eliminating any opposition.” Her voice was flat. “I’ve been set up. Mark Dailey screwed me royally. He’s been working with Warner all along.”

“I suspected as much.” His gaze held hers. “How did you find out?”

“Jack Rudly. He told Katherine that a man met him late one night at the Golden Gate Bridge and gave him my E-mail information. She, in turn, returned it to me along with Jack’s suspicions that the man was Mark. It was a short hop in deductive reasoning to figure it out. Dailey’s the only one who had access to my E-mail and password. Shit. I gave it to him myself. Warner confirmed it all.”

“I can no longer ignore what they’ve done to you, to me, to so many good men, and to our country. It’s time to act.”

Carolyn hesitated. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do you trust me?”

Her eyes searched his. Then she nodded.

“That’s all you need to know.”

EIGHTY

May 9, 2001 – White House, Washington, DC.

Mark Dailey nursed a scotch while surveying the Roosevelt Room. The reception was small, but the guest list distinguished. From his vantage point he witnessed many powerful people in quiet, but intense conversations. He realized that no one really noticed him. His position in the White House, despite his title of senior adviser, was a known joke. Even his assistant filled in at other offices because there was virtually nothing to do at his.

Mark took a swallow of Glenlivet. He was sick of the backstabbing bullshit. Sick of what he’d done to facilitate this administration. And quite frankly, he was sick of himself.

The approach of Vice President Richard Young interrupted his sour thoughts.

“Mark, great to see you.” Richard shook his hand and patted him on the back.

“Mr. Vice President.” Mark said with a nod.

Richard pulled him outside onto the balcony. “Enough of that Mr. V.P. crap. We’ve known each other far too long.”

Mark took another sip of his scotch.

“I’m concerned about you, buddy. I understand Warner’s got you wasting away in the basement of the West Wing.”

Mark grunted in disgust.

Richard lowered his voice. “Don’t feel alone. He’s not treating me much better. But I plan on correcting the situation. First off, I’ve got you hooked up to fly to California with Warner to consult on his speaking tour. This will give you a chance to get out of the basement and back into the limelight.”

Mark raised his glass to Richard. “Thanks. I really appreciate having you in my corner. I won’t forget this.”

“Actually, it was Carolyn’s idea.”

Mark smiled. “Tell her thank you for me.”

“Be happy to. In the meantime. I need a favor from you.”

“Sure,” Mark said. “What’s on the agenda?”

“First, let Cain know it’s time to take his South American vacation, then deliver this for me.” Richard pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket and discreetly passed it to Mark.

“What’s in it?”

“A bank account in the Caymans.”

“What are we paying for?”

“We’re paying for a remedy to our problem.”

“Usual spot? Asian woman?” Mark asked.

Richard smiled.

EIGHTY-ONE

May 11, 2001 – Santa Clara, California

The sun glistened off the water in the San Francisco Bay as President Warner Hamilton Lane and his entourage, including senior adviser Mark Dailey, arrived in Silicon Valley forty-five minutes late. Lane stepped out of the helicopter followed by Dailey. They were greeted by four corporate executives at the landing pad on the office building rooftop and then were escorted to an elevator, which took them one floor down.

Lane turned to the corporation’s vice president of operations. “If I understand correctly, not only is your company recycling chemicals for further use, but you’re also doing it in the safest, most efficient way.”

“That’s correct, sir. We’re very proud of our operation here. As one of the largest chemical repackaging companies on the West Coast, we employ over five hundred people.”