“I had a one-night stand after a campaign rally when I was running for state senate in Vermont years ago,” Dorn continued. “It was just a heat-of-the-moment thing with some nobody volunteer in Montpelier. It was nothing.”
“Does the First Lady know?”
Dorn shook his head. “I mean, would this really be that bad for me politically if it got out?” he asked, finally looking up.
Incredible, Baxter thought to himself, marveling at the man’s ability to regroup. But would that continue when he heard the rest? Or would the president go to pieces?
“I could say I had no idea,” Dorn went on. “The First Lady will forgive me, at least publicly. It’s not like we’re that close anymore anyway. I’ll say I didn’t even know the baby girl was conceived. I’ll say her mother never told me. The First Lady won’t want this thing to blow up. She’ll want it to go away as fast as I do. We were married when I had that one-night stand. It would make the First Lady look worse than me. She couldn’t keep me satisfied. I was just being a man. And let me tell you, Stewart, that woman in Montpelier was very attractive. Men won’t blame me when they see a picture of this woman all those years ago, no matter what she might look like now. It’ll be just like with Clinton. Nobody blamed him for cheating on Hillary, not really.”
Baxter had known many narcissists in Washington. But Dorn had quickly risen to the top of the list.
“The individual who contacted my aide claims he has proof that you’ve tried to contact your daughter, Shannon, several times over the years,” Baxter explained. “The caller claims that you’ve kept in contact with the mother as well. The person also claims you know that your daughter was in Nashville using the alias Leigh-Ann Goodyear. And that she was doing very well with her singing career.”
“Was?”
“Does Shannon know she’s the daughter of the president?”
Dorn shrugged. “I’m not sure. I never told her. And her mother swore she never did, but how do I really know? Stewart, what did you mean by—”
“Shannon was kidnapped earlier tonight outside the club in Nashville where she was performing.”
“Oh, no,” Dorn whispered.
“It happened right in front of her two backup singers when they were outside on a break.”
“Who could be responsible for this?” Dorn asked in a low voice. “Who could know that Shannon was my daughter?”
“It’s obvious to me, sir. There’s only one legitimate possibility.”
Dorn winced. “Red Cell Seven?”
“Absolutely,” Baxter agreed. “I thought I knew everything about you, sir. That was our agreement when I came aboard, that you would tell me everything. But I still dug deep to make sure you had. I did my own diligence. I guess I didn’t dig deep enough. Apparently, RC7 did.”
Dorn raised a hand and pointed threateningly at Baxter. “Don’t start—”
“It would be best not to take that tack with me,” Baxter snapped. “You’re in no position to do that right now,” he warned. “It will be much better for both of us if we work together on this, sir. If word gets out, I’ll be pulled into it as well. And that’s the last thing I need. So let’s approach this crisis as partners, the same way we do everything else.”
Dorn nodded. “I’m sorry, Stewart, you’re right.”
Baxter had never seen the president so shaken, evidenced by the apology and the tail-between-the-legs posture. Dorn rarely apologized, and not sincerely for anything. But he had just then. He certainly didn’t look like the floor model at this moment — far from it.
“What was the idea you came up with while I was gone earlier this evening?” Baxter asked. “The idea that would negate our need to influence Justice Espinosa.”
Dorn took a deep breath, trying to shake off the shocking news Baxter had just delivered. “For the moment, what I’m about to say cannot go any farther than this room, Stewart. I won’t allow that to happen without consequences. Even with this situation regarding my daughter.”
Baxter recognized the seriousness of the warning he’d just received. Leaking what he was about to hear to anyone would mean immediate termination, irrespective of the consequences to the office of the president or specifically to the man occupying the Oval Office. A chill snaked up his spine. This was as important as it got.
“Of course, sir.”
President Dorn took several more deep breaths, and once again, Baxter was struck by the gravity of the moment. Dorn was still gathering himself, still unsure of whether or not to breathe a word of what he was thinking.
“War,” Dorn finally murmured. “Civil war.”
“Sir?”
“I intend to do the same thing President Nixon did in 1973. I intend to create my own Red Cell Seven, funded by private interests. And their first mission will be to take out all agents of RC7.”
Another chill snaked up Baxter’s spine, but this one crisscrossed his back, too. It was genius, pure genius, and he had to admire the president’s creativity. It seemed that Dorn could always find an answer, as risky as this one was.
The president would wage war on a secret cell with another secret cell. There would be no money trails and only heavily cloaked reporting. The president’s cell would be as invisible as RC7. If Dorn couldn’t be linked to the cell, then he couldn’t be linked to the order to destroy Red Cell Seven.
“I will, of course, take care of the private funding aspect of it all,” Baxter volunteered immediately. “And I think I have the perfect person to lead the operational effort.”
“Oh?”
Baxter had heard the cynicism. He’d whiffed on Shane Maddux, but he wouldn’t whiff this time. “Trust me on this, Mr. President. You’ll understand when you meet the person.”
“I’ll meet with the person. But that’s all I can promise right now, Stewart.”
“I’ll arrange for that meeting to take place as soon as possible. Once you’ve met, I’m sure you’ll agree that this person is uniquely qualified for the mission.” Baxter’s expression softened and his eyes took on a distant gaze, as if he was looking at something on a far-off horizon. “She has a certain quality to her that is… well… quite compelling. It’s hard to explain, and I know how that sounds, Mr. President. But you’ll understand when you meet her.”
“Her?”
“Yes, Mr. President, her.”
As Sophia moved up and down, Sterling massaged her large breasts, tweaking her dark nipples gently, which brought forth loud, passionate moans of pleasure from her full lips. She was so soft but so tight around him, and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could hold off. He’d exploded three times during the two-hour orgy back at the compound, but he was ready again. He was always ready. The payload might not be as significant as the first time, not nearly, but the pleasure would be even more intense. That had always been true for him, ever since he’d learned to get himself off when he was eleven.
He didn’t understand much Spanish, but it didn’t matter. Her deep, guttural tone told him all he needed to know. Sophia was very close to orgasm.
As she shut her eyes, lifted her chin, and began to scream in ecstasy, Sterling hurled her onto her back on the blanket in the jungle, reentered her quickly, and began to thrust harder and harder. She gazed up at him and smiled devilishly, then shut her eyes again and once more began to scream her pleasure. He’d delayed her orgasm, but only momentarily.
As she shouted in ecstasy, he brought his hands to her slender neck even as he continued to thrust relentlessly. He closed his fingers around her like a vise and pushed his thumbs violently into her throat, snapping her windpipe just as she climaxed.