Sympathy for the Devil (21 page)

He pulled out his radio. "Three-six, this is one-six. Do you copy? Over." Three-six was one of the two agents who had taken Stark to the hospital to be checked out, and treated if necessary.

A couple of seconds later, he heard a familiar voice in his ear. Bryan Knapp was the newest agent on the detail, having finished training about six months earlier. "This is three-six. Got you loud and clear. Over."

"What's your twenty? Over."

There was a brief pause. "We're back at the hotel. Over."

Masterson frowned. Stark must have been gotten through the hospital ER in record time, even for a U.S. Senator. "You've got Kingfish? Over."

"Uh, affirmative," Knapp said. "Attila, also. Over."

"What's Kingfish's condition? Over." Masterson asked.

"I would, uh, assess that as a '9.' Over." In Service code, '10' meant 'in perfect health,' and 'zero' was a number no agent ever wanted to have to report.

"What's the ER situation? Was Kingfish not injured, or was he treated and released, or what? Over." Masterson was starting to get impatient with the newbie.

"Negative, one-six. He, uh, refused to go. Over."

"Say again? Over." Masterson was hoping he had misheard.

"Kingfish refused to let us take him to the hospital. He insisted we bring him back here. Over."

Masterson struggled to keep his voice even. "That's not his decision to make, three-six. You
are
familiar with the SOP following any kind of security incident? Over."

Masterson thought he could hear Knapp swallow. "That's affirmative, one-six. I know the procedure. Over."

Masterson took a couple of deep breaths. Yelling over the radio was considered unprofessional.

"All right, three-six. We'll be returning to the hotel shortly. When I get there, you and me and your partner going to have us a conversation. Over."

"Roger that," Knapp said miserably. "Three-six out."

Masterson broke contact and turned to the other three agents, who were dismantling the temporary command post. "Get this shit packed up and in the car! I wanna be at the fucking hotel five minutes ago. Move it!"

From the
Wall Street Journal
editorial page:

It is troubling to consider the apparent ethical lapses attributed to Massachusetts Governor Randall Lunsford, which have recently come to light. The earlier incident - a clear case of academic plagiarism, which is just another word for stealing - might be passed off as the poor judgment of an immature, 22-year-old college student. But the second case is much more recent, and consequently of greater concern to those of us who have heretofore viewed Governor Lunsford as a viable candidate for the highest office in the land.

The Governor's admission that dishonesty was committed in the earlier case is welcome. He has taken full responsibility for his ethical lapse as an Amherst undergraduate, although some members of his campaign have been using phrases like 'ancient history' when referring to the matter off the record.

But Governor Lunsford's claim that the reason his announcement speech last summer contained several passages identical (or nearly so) with one given years ago by British Liberal M.P. (and former actress) Glenda Jackson is due to the careless work of a staffer do not hold water, and are unworthy of him.

In an interview with
Newsweek
magazine last December, the question of who is responsible for his speeches was asked - and answered unequivocally. "I write all my own stuff," the Governor is quoted as saying. "Sure, I run ideas past members of my staff, and I often invite their comments on early drafts, but I don't have a speechwriter. I'm my own speechwriter, for better or worse."

It is perhaps worth mentioning that in the weeks since the
Newsweek
interview appeared, neither Governor Lunsford nor any member of his staff has raised any concerns about its accuracy.

The Governor is a man of high intellect and undeniable ability as a public servant. Neither of these has been called into question by recent events. But the issue of character cannot be ignored, especially when one is choosing a Chief Executive, and it is in this respect that the Governor may have been found wanting. Those who have supported Governor Lunsford's candidacy may well have to consider...

Chapter 20

Peters froze, staring at the door as his heart rate accelerated.

He hadn't ordered anything from room service. The valet service wasn't dropping off any dry cleaning. He hadn't called Housekeeping for extra towels. And he sure hadn't called for the girl yet. There was no reason for anybody to be knocking on his door, he thought, just as the knock came again. Peters felt sweat began to bead on his forehead.

Come on, time to get real. If it's Astaroth, come to drag my sorry ass back to the Bad Place for disobedience, he wouldn't bother to knock. Hell, he wouldn't even use the door - just appear out of nowhere and scare the shit out of me. He likes stuff like that.

Peters' brain could find no fault with the logic. He just wished his central nervous system would get the message and calm the fuck down.

Might as well get it over with, one way or another.

Peters got up and walked to the door on legs that were not quite steady.

He looked through the peephole's fisheye lens, which gave him a view, slightly distorted, of the whole corridor.

A woman. Young. Pretty. Not wearing a maid's outfit, or any other kind of hotel uniform. Somebody got the wrong room?

Feeling his body relax a little, Peters pulled the door open. "Hi, can I help you?"

She tilted her head slightly and looked at him through gray eyes that seemed amused. "Actually, I was thinking that I might be able to help
you
." Her voice reminded him of the young Kathleen Turner.

What the fuck is this? Jehovah's Witness, or something? They don't work hotels, do they? She's not carrying any
Watchtowers
, either.

Peters shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Are you sure you've got the right room?"

She gave him a half-smile. Her voice contained the slightest hint of mockery as she said, "I'm reasonably certain, Mr. Peters. Didn't you say you were interested in some... company this evening?"

Peters stared at her.

Did I call the escort service already and fucking forget? How is that possible? Could I have called them and then fallen asleep, or something? Or am I just losing my fucking mind?

"Uh, yeah. Right. I mean - come in."

He stepped back to give her room. Whatever was going on, it wasn't some pissed-off demon lord sent to drag him back to Hell, so how bad could it possibly be?

She wore a tan, double-breasted topcoat, unbuttoned. It looked like a trench coat, but without the trademark belt made famous in a hundred private eye movies.

"Uh, can I take your coat?" Part of Peters's mind realized that he sounded like a high school nerd trying to make witty conversation with the prom queen, but he couldn't seem to get his bearings. What was she
doing
here?

"Why, yes, thank you." She carried a large black leather bag which she set gently on the floor before slipping the coat off with one graceful motion and handing it to him.

As he hung the garment up in his closet, Peters noticed the distinctive plaid lining that meant Burberry - and
that
meant expensive.

He gestured for her to go first, and she walked before him into the living room of the suite. The woman let her gaze wander the room briefly, then nodded her approval. "Nice place you've got here," she said. "I've always liked the Hay-Adams. They know how to do elegance without being heavy-handed about it."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, as if he had any idea what she was talking about. Now that she was out of the hall and into the well-lit room, Peters took a moment to study her. She was thirty, maybe, and tall. He glanced at her simple black pumps, saw two-inch heels, and calculated her real height as about 5'9". He had always liked tall women, maybe because he was 6'2" himself. Her hair was ash blonde, a color he'd always found attractive, and she wore it in an off-the shoulder style that he bet every woman in town would be asking their hairdressers for, six months from now.

Her simple black dress came down to mid-thigh to reveal dark hose that encased superb legs. Around her throat she wore a single strand of pearls.

It occurred to Peters that if he had been offered the chance to design the perfect female for himself, the result would look something very like the woman who stood before him now, one hand on a slim hip, the other holding the straps of that huge leather bag.

"It seems you know my name," he said, "but I don't know yours."

"You can call me Ashley," she said. Then she parted those red lips and gave him a full wattage smile that Julia Roberts would have traded her soul for. Peters's heart was beating fast again, but for a different reason this time.

"Is that your real name?"

"It might be," she said. "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess it doesn't, but here's something that
does
matter: what are you doing here, Ashley? Unless I'm having blackouts without the booze, I don't remember calling for female company - although if I had, I could hardly have asked for someone more attractive than you."

Another smile. "Awww, flattery." She tossed the bag on his bed, then kicked off her shoes. "It may not get you everywhere, but it could take you a long way. At least, on this occasion."

She walked slowly over to him, not making a big production of it, but he thought she moved like a panther. Maybe it was the black outfit that gave that impression - but maybe not.

She reached up and slowly put her arms around his neck. That put her face about six inches from his. Her perfume smelled of sandalwood.

"You did ask for me, you know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's true you didn't get to call the Elegant Evenings escort service..."

Peter's felt a chill run down his spine, as if she'd just slipped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.

She leaned forward and kissed him, once, briefly, a promise of bliss to come. Then she brought her head back a little, and the large, gray eyes were looking directly into his as she said, "But you
did
tell Astaroth."

"I still think you should go to the hospital, Senator," Bat Masterson said. "Chemical burns are nothing to fool around with."

"It's completely unnecessary," Stark told him. "I'm sure I overreacted - I was startled, rather than hurt. See for yourself."

Standard Operating Procedure for an attack of any sort was go get the protectee to the nearest hospital, fast. The agents who had hustled Stark out of the auditorium and into the car were in the process of doing that very thing when Stark had overruled them - in the strongest possible terms.

As it happened, the guys who were with Stark in the car were the least experienced of the whole detail - Porter had been on the job for just over a year, Knapp for six months. They apparently hadn't yet grasped the idea that in cases like this, the protectee's wishes were of no accord. They should have taken him to the hospital anyway. But Stark, with the able insistence of Ms. Doyle, had bullied them into returning to the hotel, instead.

There, Ms. Doyle had displayed a well-equipped first aid kit, and claimed that she'd had training in its use. She had accompanied Stark into his room, and locked the door behind them, leaving the two young agents in the sitting room, looking at each other in confusion.

Masterson had learned this from Porter and Knapp themselves. Arriving back at the hotel, he had assigned two other agents to the Senator and Mary Margaret Doyle. Then he had taken Porter and Knapp into a quiet room and debriefed them.

In this case, 'debriefed' was a synonym for 'cutting them each a brand new asshole.' Leaving the two young agents to contemplate their futures, Masterson had gone to see the Senator. The conversation with the protectee was not going the way he had intended.

Mary Margaret Doyle was unwrapping the gauze bandage with which she had encased the Senator's right hand.

"Let me be sure I understand what happened," Masterson said. "You were working the crowd, shaking hands. Then you felt something burning your hand? That's why you jumped back?"

"Exactly," Stark said. "I didn't know what was causing it, but I knew it wasn't a sensation I should be having, under those circumstances. Who knew what some nut might be trying to do? So I recoiled, automatically."

Mary Margaret Doyle was taking her time, but the last of the long bandage was almost unraveled.

"It may be that I responded too dramatically," Stark said, with a self-deprecating smile. "In any case, no harm was done. Ms. Doyle's magic salve seems to have done the trick."

The last of the gauze bandage dropped to the floor, and Stark turned his hand so that the open palm faced outward.

Masterson blinked. There was nothing there.

"See Agent Masterson? There was some skin irritation, but that's just about cleared up. A visit to the local hospital's emergency room would just have diverted the staff's attention from people who desperately needed care. Not to mention the distraction that would have been caused by the media people, who'd probably show up, hoping for some melodrama to report on."

The skin covering Stark's palm and fingers was a little pinker than was probably normal, but that was the only sign Masterson could discern that anything might have been amiss. He looked from the hand back to Stark's face. "Any pain when you open and close it?"

Stark flexed his fingers a couple of times. "None at all. In fact, I don't think I even need the bandage any more, do you?"

He turned to Mary Margaret Doyle, who was hovering. "An excellent job of first aid, M.M. Thank you. Get me something to wipe this gunk off with, will you?"

Turning back, Stark said, "See, Agent Masterson? No cause for concern after all."