and Tammy gets a hand into her purse, finds a twenty-dollar bill, and she shoves the bill over Jamal’s shoulder. It falls next to him on the seat, and she says, “Another twenty … just get me through the gate!”
A sharp turn to the left and there’s a black wrought-iron gate with a key-card reader in a center median. A bronze sign with raised lettering says ARLINGTON ACRES in the center of the gate, along with NO TRESPASSING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
“Pull up, pull up,” she says, as she lowers the window. Microphones are shoved in her direction, like spears or daggers, and she flashes her key card at the reader.
The gate doesn’t move.
She moves closer, tries one more time.
Success.
The gate slides to the left and she sits back, still keeping her head away from the flashes, the microphones, the yells and shouts, and then Jamal mutters something and the Washington Flyer cab slowly moves through.
“My God,” she whispers.
The gate reverses itself, and she sits back in the seat in relief.
Okay. Another minute or two and she’ll be safe at home, and—
“What?” She leans forward, looking ahead, and she can’t believe what she sees.
This is a private, gated community, with only residents or invited guests allowed inside, and holy God, there’s another knot of news media in front of her condo.
Her home!
Her cabdriver sees the smaller crowd and turns to her. “No worries, missy. I’ll take care of you. Stay with me, all right?”
Before Tammy can answer, he stops the cab, jumps out, reaches for her carry-on bag, and sprints around to her door. She releases the seat belt and Jamal opens her door, and turning, with her bag held up to his chest like a battering ram, he pushes his way through the mess of reporters. She follows right behind him, like a ship following an icebreaker, opening the way, and she ignores all the shouts.
Then she’s in the foyer of her condo, breathing hard, front door closed, ignoring the ringing bell and the pounding on the door. Jamal smiles. She’s not sure of the fare and just hands him a wad of bills, and he nods, scribbles a receipt on the back of a business card, and then, shyly, asks her, “Excuse me, have I seen you before?”
Tammy says, “No.”
When he leaves she turns and starts up the carpeted stairs. Her unit is on the second floor, and after going up three steps, she’s had it. She lets go of her carry-on bag and it tumbles to the tile floor. To hell with it. It’s too heavy and she’ll get it later. She needs a bath, a glass of wine, some ibuprofen, and as she unlocks the front door and walks in, something else is seriously wrong.
Smoke.
Is something burning?
Is her condo on fire?
Tammy goes through the entryway, now realizes she’s smelling burnt tobacco, and someone is here, someone has broken in, and this person is smoking!
In her home!
She walks into her living room, and something heavy seems to hammer against her back.
An older woman is sitting in one of her comfortable chairs, a lit cigarette in one hand, her fingernails painted bright red, wearing a short black skirt, an ivory blouse, and a black jacket with pearls around her neck. Her face is perfectly made up and she has a prominent nose, with short bright-red hair.
“Well?”
Tammy stands still, breathing hard. This woman is Amanda Price, one of the partners in her lobbying firm, and her boss.
“How … how did you get in?”
Amanda smiles with her sharp white teeth. “Don’t ever underestimate my negotiating skills, Tammy. Your property manager … he’s an easy mark.”
Tammy tries to think of what to say, and Amanda taps the ash from her cigarette into one of her prized teacups, part of a set that once belonged to a distant aunt when she had been on the embassy staff in Beijing in the early 1980s.
“So you’re screwing the President,” Amanda says. “Care to tell me what that’s all about?”
CHAPTER 22
SNEAKING THROUGH A forest once more in her life, Marsha Gray moves quietly and efficiently through the woods—which are part of this prestigious and oh-so-precious horse farm in Virginia—a rucksack over her back, dispatched by Parker Hoyt, heading to where she’s sure the Secret Service unit looking for the First Lady has been going.
She had spotted a black Chevrolet Suburban going out of a parking area and into the woods, and she had trotted along past the trees and low brush, hearing the growl of