The Committee (19 page)

“Always remember, in order to get what you want, you have to give up something you love,” Gillette said.

Camille struck the match on the side of the box, and the sudden flare splashed shadows of the two women and Louie onto the faded floral wallpaper. She lifted the fire to the wick which exploded into a dancing flurry of yellow, red, and blue, then simmered to a gently waving burn.

Gillette picked up the card and said, “I want you to picture Sheridan in the flame. Can you see him?”

“Yes.”

Gillette moved the tip of the sentimental card to the flame, lit it afire, and placed it burning onto the silver tray. The picture came next.

“Do you still see him in the flame?”

“Yes,” Camille replied simply.

“Good. Now, you take the hairs and sprinkle them over the flame.”

Camille stood from the table and opened the pillbox.

“Go ahead. Don't be afraid. Pour them over the flame.”

Camille saw Sheridan's face clearly in the fire. She searched her heart, but found no mercy. There was only growing contempt. She poured the hairs into her palm and placed it over the fire. Her hand slowly turned and a shower of stubble rained down over the blaze.

Sparks suddenly erupted like fireworks. Camille quickly jerked her hand away and watched the sensational, yet brief, display.

“You did well, Camille,” Gillette said from her seat. “It is and so we let it be.”

 

 

Tony sat alone in his office at city hall. His office was directly across the hall from Camille's and the second largest in the entire building. An efficient assistant guarded his door like a sphinx at the entrance of a king's tomb. His world was reduced to the space between these four walls ever since the call from Lazarus Hearst.

“Hold all my calls,” was his morning command to the assistant. “Cancel all my meetings for the day.”

The plan had been risky but elegant in its simplicity. Serve as Sheridan's eyes and ears at city hall, and in return, receive 30 percent of the profits from real estate deals between KeyCorp Development and the city. Sheridan had transferred the first million into Tony's account in the middle of the night two years earlier. It all seemed too easy and too good to be true. He went to sleep with $50,000 in credit card debt—and woke the next morning a millionaire.

Tony respected, and even admired Camille. A black woman who was one of the rare people in the world who actually was the smartest person in every room she entered. Ivy League education, beautiful, and a future even brighter than her past. He never met a person, be it a man, woman, black, or white in his hometown, Dowagiac, Michigan, or at Harvard or anywhere else, like Camille. But the thing he admired most about her was Sheridan.

On the first day he met Sheridan, their eyes communicated more than their benign words of “Very nice to meet you. Camille's told me very nice things about you.” The mutual subtext to their exchange was more along the lines of, “Camille does like to surround herself with beautiful things.”

The next stages of their relationship were well orchestrated by Sheridan. Political chats in the hallowed halls while waiting for Camille to wrap up a council meeting. The, “It looks like she's going to be awhile. Are you hungry? Let's grab some dinner,” whispered during one of Camille's more contentious Planning Commission hearings. And finally, “Camille has decided to not go to Chicago for the convention. Would you mind if I shared your room with you? It's silly to waste taxpayer dollars on two rooms.”

The night in the Chicago hotel room was the typical “straight man meets straight man” story. Camille wanted to attend the mayors convention in Chicago and asked Sheridan and Tony to accompany her. As they were preparing to leave, a mob of protesters descended on city hall outraged and fed up by the greed exhibited by Americans occupying the top tier of economic wealth.

Her advisors strongly suggested not leaving the city at such a volatile time. “It will appear you left to avoid a confrontation,” they said.

“Darling,” she said as Sheridan packed his bags, “they're concerned the protests could turn into riots. Would you mind going to the convention without me? I need you to represent me. Tony will be there. He'll hold your hand the entire weekend.”

During that weekend, Sheridan made sure Tony held much more than his hand.

“I didn't have time to request two beds,” Tony said when he and Sheridan entered their suite at Waldorf Astoria in Chicago. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

“Nonsense,” Sheridan snapped. “The bed is big enough for both of us. I promise I won't try anything,” he said with a manly chuckle.

The evening ended early after an evening of dinner at the Tavern on the Green and drinks in the hotel bar.

“I hope you don't mind,” Sheridan said as he removed his shirt preparing for bed. “I have to sleep in my boxers. Didn't pack pajamas. Thought it was going to be Camille and me. Consider yourself lucky though, I usually sleep buck naked.”

Even at twenty-nine, Tony was naïve about the subtleties of latent male sexuality. He innocently replied, “Not at all. Same here.”

As the night progressed, chuckles and overt exhibits of masculinity evolved into the accidental bumping of knees under the duvet, and then the gentle placing of Sheridan's hand on Tony's firm thigh. When there was no sign of resistance or repulsion from Tony, Sheridan closed the chasm of silk and cotton separating them in the bed and kissed Tony on the lips.

Neither spoke for fear of breaking the spell Chicago and Camille had cast. Male bonding quickly turned into passionate lovemaking. The noble gesture of saving taxpayers the cost of separate hotel rooms ended with Tony's orifices being stretched beyond their normal limits by Sheridan's fingers, tongue, and blood-engorged member.

Tony stared out the window of his office onto the city below. Specks of suits, cartoon lunch boxes, homeless shopping carts and hats scampered on the ground like ants. He felt trapped in the office. Trapped in the city. This wouldn't be happening if only he hadn't succumbed to Sheridan's charm and the promise of quick money.

He heard the phone in his pocket ring as he pined over the horrible turn his once-promising life had taken. Tony quickly retrieved the phone and threw it onto the desk. It stopped ringing, and he released a sigh of relief. Then it rang again causing him to jump. He picked it up and held it to his ear.

“I told you to answer on the first ring,” Lazarus Hearst said tersely. “I am a very busy man, and I don't have time to wait for you to decide whether you are too afraid to speak to me. Do you understand?”

Tony slumped into the chair and said weakly, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now what information do you have for me?”

“Nothing,” Tony said honestly. “There has been nothing unusual happening. She came in this morning at 7:30 and has been in meetings ever since.”

“Why aren't you in the meetings with her?”

“They were all pretty routine,” he lied nervously. “Mainly disgruntled constituents. Nothing important.”

“In the future, Mr. Christopoulos, you let me decide what is and is not important.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. That's it.”

“Don't lie to me, Tony,” the yell was accompanied by a loud pounding on wood. “I can tell by your voice there is something else you're not telling me. What is it? I don't have all day!”

“Gideon Truman knows about KeyCorp,” Tony blurted. “He knows Sheridan is Michael Kenigrant.”

There was silence on the phone. Then, “How do you know this?” Lazarus asked calmly.

“He came here and asked if I knew about it.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Tony whispered nervously. “I denied I knew anything about it.”

“Then what did he say?”

“He said if I didn't tell him, he would ask Camille.”

“That arrogant shit works for one of my companies,” Lazarus said angrily. “I never liked him but the viewers, for some unknown goddamn reason, love him.”

Tony did not respond.

“Now you listen closely, Tony. Keep Gideon Truman away from Camille. Don't let her accept any requests for meetings with him.”

“But I have no control over her schedule,” Tony weakly protested. “There are scheduling secretaries for that.”

“Well, you better get fucking control of her schedule,” Lazarus said angrily. “At least for the next few days. I need some time to take care of this.”

The limousine stopped in front of the Beverly Wilshire Four Seasons Hotel. Black-and-white awnings dotted the front of the Italian Renaissance building. A red-vested valet immediately trotted to the car and opened the rear door. Camille stepped out and said, “Good afternoon,” as if it was his vote that made her mayor.

“Good afternoon, Mayor Hardaway,” the young man said. “We've been expecting you. Your party is waiting for you in the restaurant.”

“Thank you,” she said and walked into the hotel.

The bustling lobby was filled with clothes and faces of those who could afford the one thousand-dollar-a-night rooms. The beautiful and well-heeled walked in circles as if they had no other places to be on the sunny afternoon. All eyes were drawn to her as she walked across the lavish lobby directly to the restaurant in the far corner.

The Cut was Beverly Hill's very own five-star eatery. Camille had no desire to be there, considering all she'd been through in the last few days, but the meeting was arranged weeks earlier.

“Good afternoon, Mayor Hardaway,” the woman behind the podium said. “Welcome to The Cut. Mr. Irvin is waiting for you in the private dining room. If you would follow me, please.”

The two women wove through the restaurant, stopping twice for Camille to accept well wishes and “You're doing an excellent job,” from other patrons.

The private dining room was dimly lit, with a single extravagantly appointed table in the center. A waiter stood at-the-ready in the corner of the room. Robert Irvin immediately stood when she entered.

When Robert Irvin, head of the Democratic National Committee, requested a meeting, the recipient did not haggle over the schedule or question why. The recipient simply said, “Yes, sir,” and kissed his ring if he or she wanted a future in politics. It was his job to promote the Democratic political platform, as well as coordinate fundraising, election strategies, and select future candidates for key offices around the country.

“Camille,” he said with a peck on her cheek. “So good to see you again.”

“Good to see you as well, Robert. It's been almost a year.”

“Yes, the last time was at the convention. People are still talking about the electrifying speech you gave.”

The maître d' waited patiently for the standing exchange to run its course, and then pulled out a chair for Camille. “Your waiter today will be Jonathon,” she said, pointing to the almost invisible man in the corner. “Please enjoy your meal.” She said, and exited the room.

“Jonathon,” Robert said kindly to the eager waiter, “would you mind leaving us alone for a moment? We'll let you know when we're ready to order.”

The two sat alone in the room. Robert poured Camille a glass of white wine from a bottle sitting on the table.

“Camille, thank you for meeting with me. I know this is a busy time for you, with the stadium and all, but I'm only in town for the day and wanted to spend some time with you.”

“It's always my pleasure. Although, you were a bit mysterious about what you wanted to discuss.”

“First things first. Tell me about the stadium. How's that going?”

“We've had a few bumps up until now, but as of yesterday, everything is back on track. I anticipate it will be completed by the end of my term.”

“That's great news,” he said with a satisfied smile. “This project is a major milestone in your career.”

Robert poured more wine into his glass. “So,” he said coyly, “what are your plans after your term ends?”

“I haven't given it much serious thought yet.”

“Camille, Camille,” he said with a warm smile, “I'm not the press. This is just two old friends talking over lunch. Now, be honest. Do you plan on running for governor?”

Camille saw no point in being coy with the most powerful man in the Democratic Party. “Yes, I'm running.”

“That's great news!” he said, accentuated with a clap of his hands. “Just what I hoped you'd say.”

“I'm glad you're pleased.”

His smile disappeared suddenly. “Oh, I am
more
than pleased. We are committed to ensuring you become governor.”

“We?” she asked curiously.

“Yes,
we
. The Committee.”

Camille froze when she heard the words. “You mean the DNC?”

Robert looked at her with a knowing eye and said, “No, Camille.
The Committee.
”

She picked up the wineglass and leaned back in the chair. “I'm not sure I know what you're talking about.”

“You've spoken to Lazarus and Isadore. Is that correct?”

Camille did not respond.

“And you've met Gillette.”

She looked at him intently, but still did not speak.

“You visited Headquarters.”

“You're a member of The Committee?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I imagine you've gathered by now The Committee is where the real power in this county is concentrated. We make the decisions, Camille, and we've decided you will be the governor of California, and, if all goes well, the president of the United States.”

“What about the Republican National Committee?” she said stalling for time to absorb the grenade he dropped on the table. “I imagine they are having a similar conversation with their choice for California's governor.”

Robert laughed heartily. “The head of the RNC is also a member of The Committee. Our choices are always the same. You see, Camille, at this level of politics in America, there are no Democrats or Republicans; there's only one party. And, that is, The Committee. Now,” he said clapping his hands again, “let's get Jonathon back in here and order lunch. I'm starving.”

 

 

“Nelson!” Karen Peters called up the mahogany staircase. “Honey, come on! You're going to be late for your game!”

“Mom!” Nelson called back, “I can't find my jersey!”

“It's in the top drawer!” she yelled.

“Winnie,” Karen said to the little girl playing with a black Barbie doll in the sunroom just off the foyer, “why aren't you wearing your ballet slippers?”

“They hurt my feet,” the curly haired girl replied. “They're in my bag, Mommy.”

“We'll buy new ones tomorrow. Now go to the car. Your brother is almost ready.”

Fairfax Station, Virginia, was home to many of Washington's power brokers. A Supreme Court justice lived to Karen's right, and the ambassador to Denmark to the left. The secluded enclave was a series of towering sugar maples, winding sidewalkless streets, brick mansions, and an endless parade of black secret service SUVs. Karen's husband of ten years, Simeon Peters, was head of Homeland Security and the love of her life. They met while he attended Princeton and she West Point and married exactly one month after graduating.

Karen was the model Washington soccer mom. Her uniform of choice was khakis, a Polo shirt, and comfortable Vans with crisp white shoelaces. By day, she shuttled eight-year-old Nelson and five-year-old Winnie between Sidwell Friends School, where they studied the three R's alongside the children of the president and other Washington spawn, and participated in soccer, ballet, and ten other extracurricular activities designed to make her children leaders, not followers. By night, Karen attended parties in Georgetown and at the White House, wearing designer gowns and discussing the most perplexing issues facing the nation while sipping American-made wines from American-blown crystal glasses.

Nelson bolted down the stairs toting a gym bag on his shoulder and a soccer ball under his arm. “I'm ready,” he said skipping the last three steps. “I need ten dollars. Coach is taking us for pizza after the game.”

“I'll give it to you in the car,” she said hurriedly.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Peters,” a middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform said, appearing in the foyer, “will you and Mr. Peters be dining in tonight?”

“No, Consuela,” Karen said, reaching for her keys on a consul in the entry hall. “We're having dinner with Senator Cunningham and his wife at The Inn in Little Washington, and Nelson is going for pizza after the game. So, it's only Winnie tonight. She asked for a hamburger and fries, but please make it a turkey burger.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Remember, my mother and father are flying in tomorrow and we will be dining in,” Karen said while shoveling her wallet, cell phone, and a container of mace into her purse. “My mother is allergic to wheat, so please, no wheat-based products. My father only drinks domestic wine, and he hates anything French, including bread and fries.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“The party planner is coming tomorrow at 1:00 to discuss the president of Ghana's reception when he visits next month, so please tell the cook I want him to meet with us.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And one last thing before I forget,” Karen said, checking her bangs in a massive gold-gilded mirror hanging in the hall, and tightening the black scrunchie around her ponytail.

“Mom,” Nelson called anxiously from the front door, “we're going to be late. Let's go.”

“I'm coming, honey!” Karen shouted. “I'm sorry, Consuelo, what was I saying?”

“You said there is one more thing you wanted to tell me.”

“Yes, right. Winnie has a dentist appointment tomorrow, at the same time as Nelson's last game of the season. I'll need either you or Rosa to take her.”

“Yes, ma'am. One of us will take her.”

“Thank you, Consuela,” Karen called out over her shoulder as she sprinted out door. “I don't know what I would do without you.”

“Is everyone buckled in?” Karen asked, looking at Winnie in the backseat, and then to Nelson in the passenger seat of the white Suburban.

“Yes,” the children replied in unison.

Just as she turned the ignition, the cell phone in her purse rang. Rule number 14 in the
Washington Wife Handbook:
Always determine the identity of a caller before deciding to ignore them. Karen pulled the phone from her purse and saw the encrypted code on the screen. A code she hadn't seen in three months.

“I'm sorry, darlings,” she said unbuckling her seat belt. “I have to take this.”

“Mom, no!” Nelson whined. “Coach is going to kill me if I'm late.”

“I'll only be a minute. I promise.”

Karen got out and walked a safe distance away from the house and car in the circular driveway. She checked over her shoulder to make sure the children hadn't exited the SUV.

“Yes,” she said into the phone.

“Hello, my dear,” Lazarus Hearst said. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“How's my favorite soccer player? Did he get the soccer ball I had Beckham sign for him?” Lazarus asked warmly.

“He did. Thank you.”

“And your daughter? She must almost be as tall as you by now.”

“Almost. She's doing well. As a matter of fact, I was just leaving to take her to ballet class.”

“Then I won't keep you,” Lazarus said with the understanding tone of a dad who in his life had juggled similarly demanding schedules. “I have your next assignment. Gideon Truman.”

Karen Peters was one of the most gifted hired assassins in the world, and she only had one client: The Committee. In addition to marksmanship, her training at West Point included camouflage, infiltration, reconnaissance and observation, surveillance and target acquisition.

She ranked number three for the most confirmed kills in American military history at the end of her second tour of duty in the Middle East. She neutralized 243 insurgents, six high-ranking members of terrorist organizations, and three foreign officials who posed threats to United States' interests abroad. Her record for the longest distance sniper kill, when she killed two insurgents within three seconds from over one and a half miles away, had yet to be broken.

The government purged her entire military record for her protection . . . and theirs. There was no evidence of her ever having served in the armed forces. In the subsequent years, Karen honed the fine arts of death by “natural causes,” accidental drownings, suicides, and her favorite, autoerotic asphyxiation. The only two people in the world who knew her distinguished credentials were Lazarus Hearst and Gillette Lemaitre, who referred to her as, “The Surgeon.”

“The reporter?” Karen asked.

“Yes. I won't bore you with the details because I know you're in a hurry, but we need him neutralized.”

“I don't need the particulars,” Karen said, again looking over her shoulder to the wriggling kids in the Suburban. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Karen protested. “My son's last game of the season is tomorrow. My parents are flying in from North Carolina.”

“Mom!” Nelson called out from the car.

“I'm coming, darling,” Karen called back.

“I apologize for the short notice, but I'm afraid it's unavoidable,” Lazarus pressed on. “The jet will be waiting for you midnight tonight and will fly you into my hanger in Long Beach. The pilot will remain at-the-ready the entire time you are on the ground and fly out of the city the moment you step back onto the plane. You'll be back home in plenty of time to catch the game and to have dinner with your parents.”

“Any preference on how it's done?”

“I'll leave that up to you. No need for anything fancy. I've sent you his entire file. Bank accounts, passport, sexual proclivities, his routines. . . the works. He swims in his pool every morning at exactly 6:00 a.m. He orders Chinese food every Thursday night from Yang Chow's on Sunset, and he goes to the gym on Mondays and Wednesdays after work. Take your pick. There's plenty of opportunities for you.”